But thisknowingis more about energy. And it’s off. There’s an undercurrent, a pulse, like the house itself is hiding a secret. Or a dark master.
Ugh, that’s it. I’m sensing black magic. Evil magic.
I gather my wits and step out of the Momvan, not really sure what I’m walking into. Coffee in hand, I head for the front door. I couldn’t look more innocent, and if I do say so myself, any more cute. As a button, in fact. Who wouldn’t want to spill their guts to me?
No one, I say.
I notice the security cameras on the way to the front door, two of them, watching me. Back in the day, security cameras freaked me out. No surer way to catch a bloodsucker than when said sucker of blood doesn’t show up on CCTV feeds. But I show up on cameras these days, and in mirrors, too. Yay. Now I can actually see my face when doing my hair and makeup.
Mark opens the door before I can knock.
He’s tall, lean, with sandy hair pulled back in a short man-bun. He sports pale skin, sharp eyes with a hint of amber. Uh oh. I know those eyes. I see them every time I look into my honey bunches of oats eyes, but I don’t get a ‘wolf vibe’ from this guy. He isn’t particularly big or hairy, though the man-bun might qualify. He’s wearing a loose sweatshirt and snug jeans. If anything, he looks tired, though I can tell immediately he’s not sick; hell, he’s not even mortal.
“Ms. Moon,” he says smoothly, stepping aside. “Come in.”
I nod, brushing past him, eyes flicking over the tidy front room. Hardwood floors, tasteful decor, shelves lined with books.
“Sorry to impose,” I say, keeping my tone light, “but I figured it was better to meet in person. Mind if I take a look around while we chat?”
He shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”
I wander slowly through the living room, running my fingertips lightly over the back of chairs, along the edge of a bookshelf. My mind reaches out instinctively, but as expected... nothing.
Telepathy bounces right off him. The house is covered with even more security cameras, sophisticated ones, too. Not your basic Simplisafe setups or the many TikTok shop spy cameras. These are hardwired into the house and professional grade. Two in the living room alone, blinking at me from between shelves. Weird spot, but whatever.
He’s immortal, or close enough. Shifters (if that’s what he in fact is) live long lives, but are not truly immortal. Semi-immortal, I’ve heard it said. Either way, his mind is shielded/protected. Would be hella nice to dip in there and get a handle on what’s going on here. Sadly, I’m going to have to investigate my ass off here.
All the casual touching triggers my newest ability: psychometry, a gift that’s come on later and is likely a by-product of all the energy siphoning I’ve been partaking of lately.
“So,” I say casually, “you called in sick on a pretty momentous day.”
He chuckles softly, his man bun bobbing in rhythm. “Yeah, I suppose. But what can you do?”
“You’re not really sick, are you, Mark?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why would you say that, Miss Moon?”
I smile. On the bookshelf next to me, something catches my eye: a book with a thick, cracked leather binding, darkened with age and runes hand-drawn along said spine. I brush my fingersover it; the texture is unmistakable: dry, ancient, human. Yes, human. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen such books in the Occult Reading Room. Like this one, they have a yellowish hue. But I can feel the energy of death around the binding. Someone had been flayed alive.
This is, of course, a book of the darkest of magic.
Blackest of magic.
“Ah, I see you found the books my grandfather left me.”
“Your grandfather was a high wizard?”
“You mean, did he work for the Church of Satan? If so, no. But he was a practitioner in his own right.”
High wizards were, of course, the official title of Satanic wizards, of which there were no more than 10 at any one time on the planet. These are mortal spellcasters with a penchant for getting results. Not true magicians, no real magic. No, just an ability to cast spells with the best of them, so good that they caught the eye of the Church of Satan. Clients came to them to cast spells of wealth, revenge, and power. Pay enough, and a high wizard will cast the spell for you. From what I hear, there is about a 90% chance of the spell working. That was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to clients.
I raise my eyebrows anyway. Few mortals would own such a book. By all rights, it should be in the Occult Reading room and watched over by Max. The book was a menace. Even I could feel that. The grandfather didn’t just dabble in the occult but committed his life to it.
“Are you a practitioner, too?” I ask casually.
“Yes and no. Been around it my whole life. I’ve seen some things, as it were. But do I know what the hell I’m doing? No.”
“Do you want to?” I ask.
