“Maybe not, but sometimes he gets it right.” I hold up the open pages for her to see.
“Well I’ll be damned,” she mutters, her eyes widening as her gaze locks on the illustration.
It’s almost a perfect representation of what we saw the previous day, a dark-shrouded wraith-like creature hovering above the ground, its face concealed beneath a heavy hood.
“What does the book say?” Dusty inches closer.
I turn the book back toward me and begin to read aloud. “The dark angel will appear to those upon the precipice of transversing the pathway between life and death. It is not to be taken lightly but rather as an ominous portend of great danger, for only those bound for the spirit realms are able to look upon its shadowy countenance without inviting madness. Beware the angel of death if you can see it, you are courting trouble beyond measure.”
“Well, that’s cheery.” Dusty purses her lips thoughtfully. “So what he’s basically saying is, if you see the angel of death you’re screwed… good to know.”
“I’ve seen it twice now,” I say quietly. “In two separate locations, first at Sunrise Care Home, then at Northwold Community Centre, and the only common denominators in both instances are Danny, Delores, and me.”
“Sounds like a cheesy rom-com title.”
“Sounds like trouble, more like.” I frown as I look down at the book. “I haven’t got a clue what to do.”
“I do,” Dusty says suddenly. “We need to go to the bookshop.”
“This is not the time for you to get freaky with Bruce,” I reply dryly.
“No—well, I mean, yes.” She smirks. “I fully intend to do that later, but I mean not right now. Right now, I think there’s only one person we can go to. Evangeline.”
Evangeline Crawshanks not only happens to be the dead great, great… several number of greats grandmother of the current owner of Whitechapel Occult Books, she is also the great-niece of none other than Cornelius Crawshanks himself, author of the book I’m currently holding. Dusty may be right. If there’s anyone who might know something about this, it’s Evangeline.
“Go get dressed. Hold it, are those cornflakes stuck to your t-shirt?” Her eyes narrow on the splattered stain on my chest. “Never mind.” She shakes her head. “We’ll head over to the bookshop as soon as it opens.”
“I can’t,” I argue. “I do have an actual job to go to, you know. I can’t just run around solving mysteries and only showing up to work when I feel like it. This isn’t an episode of Baywatch.”
“I should hope not. You’d catch your death running around in a skimpy little red swimsuit in that draughty old mortuary.”
“I’m serious, Dusty.”
“So am I. Do you know how much waxing it would take to get into one of those swimsuits? They ride up so high, I’m surprised those girls didn’t get haemorrhoids.”
I sigh. “Dusty, focus.”
“Right, sorry.” She shakes her head. “Look, sweetie, I know you’re all responsible and whatever, but this is important.” Her gaze flicks over to Delores. “Somehow, this goes beyond one old lady’s unfinished business. I think there’s something much bigger going on. That you’ve seen that weird thing twice now coupled with the fact that Upstairs Management actually seemed really shocked that you did? I think you need to ask Evangeline about it. After all, she was the one who threw the book at your head last time.”
“Fine… but I really wish people would stop throwing things at me,” I lament sulkily. “I’m going to need a crash helmet soon.”
8
Iyawn again as I raise my cup to my lips, disappointed to find nothing but the cold dregs of my third cup of coffee. Setting the cup down on my desk and trying to avoid the overspilling towers of paperwork, I blink in an effort to focus on the report in front of me, which might as well be written in Sanskrit for all the sense it makes.
I really need some sleep. I had to leave Tristan’s flat late last night and head back to work when all I really wanted to do was crawl into bed with him and hold him. He wouldn’t say what was wrong, but something was definitely up. After he’d rushed out of the community hall so abruptly, I’d caught up with him in the foyer. He was pale and shaky, and his skin when I’d grabbed his hand was cold and clammy.
I’m still not convinced Delores Abernathy hadn’t been poisoned at the community hall. After all, it was the only place she visited frequently, other than the care home where she’d lived. At first I’d been worried that Tris might’ve been exposed to something. I was halfway to taking him to the nearest hospital to be checked out—which, in hindsight, probably would’ve been a bit of an overreaction on my part, but I can’t help it. After that crazy murderer Kaitlin Fletcher kidnapped him at gunpoint last year, I’ve been a little overprotective, but it’s something I’m working on. I love Tristan and I want to build a life with him, a future, and the last thing I want is for him to think I’m some over-possessive boyfriend.
By the time we’d arrived back at his flat, he’d almost returned to normal, although he’d stayed quiet the rest of the evening, lost in his own head. I’d asked what was wrong, but he wouldn’t say, and I don’t want to push him, but I know there’s something bothering him. I feel it in my gut.
“So have you asked him yet?” A denim-clad bottom plonks down on my desk, displacing more errant reports.
I look up at my partner Maddie and see her smiling widely.
“What?” I blink, my brain not quite catching up.
“Uh oh, someone hasn’t had enough coffee yet this morning,” she tuts.
