Trench coat. Plain slacks. Scuffed black boots. A soot-stained paperboy-style cap pulled low over a bald cap. Oh, and a fake mustache so crooked it might be charming if it weren’t so absurd. I look like a chimney sweep from yesteryear. Andyes, I just so happened to have the disguise available. Disguising myself may not be necessary for most cases, but I think it’s needed for this one.
I grin at my reflection. He shouldn’t suspect I’m under this messy getup, no matter how high-tech his security equipment is.
Next, I summon the single flame. When it’s bright and erect, I see within it Mark’s living room, near the bookshelf in question. When the image comes into sharp focus, I mentally step toward as the image moves towards me... and away I go!
A rush of mild heat, silence, and I’m inside Mark’s house... the object of my desire these past few days.
The air smells faintly of burnt sage. The windows are shut tight. A fan hums faintly in another room. The book with the human skin sits on the coffee table, twitching like it’s having a nightmare. Then again, that could just be my imagination. I haven’t slept in five days, after all.
I approach it slowly, then crouch down.
“Easy,” I whisper, taking hold of it. I keep my voice super low, highly aware that cameras and mics are likely all over the place. Even now, Mark has likely been notified of my presence, and might have even turned back from wherever he was going to confront this bizarrely dressed intruder who literally appeared out of thin air.
I slip the book into the canvas bag I brought, then hang the book and bag over one shoulder. I straighten and begin a quick sweep through the house. The kitchen is normal, if not a little messy. Bedroom, empty. Ah, the second bedroom had been converted into what looks like a crude alchemy lab.
Bingo.
A small desk inside is covered in beakers, crushed herbs, a bone mortar and pestle. The air is thick with the scent of dried blood and bone dust. One glass jar sits open, filled with a fine powder—off-white, slightly yellowed. I dip a finger in and sniff.
Bone, ancient, not human.
Dinosaur bone dust? Maybe.
I snap a few pictures. I don’t think the museum is gonna get their bone back, or if it even exists anymore. For all I know, Mark here has been adding bone dust to his morning protein shakes. A piece of paper with a spell on it sits on the desk, next to a cracked geode. The text is written in Latin, but I catch enough of it to understand: it’s a summoning spell, one geared toward transformation magic: I see the word for moon and lycanthropy.
Oh, great.
My inner alarm pings once, twice. Time to go. Either Mark has come back, or he has a nasty surprise waiting for me inside here.
I summon the single flame, see a familiar red door, and make the jump...
Chapter Fifteen
I appear in a dimly lit corridor.
Overhead, flickering ceiling lights cast little light. The floor beneath my shoes is linoleum, old and worn-down by generations of hurried students. Yes, I’m deep inside the Cal State Fullerton library complex, though not the part any normal student would recognize.
The red door next to me is located on the third floor in the center of the southernmost wall. Most students and faculty will never see the door, or even know that one exists.
I raise my hand and knock. Three precise taps. A moment passes, then another. Meanwhile, the book in my bag has taken to shrieking, shuddering, and making a fuss.
“Shush, you!” I intone, not sure if there are guards nearby.
Footsteps sound on the other side of the door, then a sharpclick!
The door creaks inward with a sound like a sigh, revealing the muted room beyond. Rows of bookshelves stretch to the ceiling. The scent of old vellum and something darker hits me—ozone, maybe. Burnt sugar maybe. More screeching from the books from within. I sense that some recognize the book in my bag. Then again, they’re just dumb books.
“Good evening, Sam,” says the familiar warm voice. Max. “Late for even you,”
I step inside. “Sorry, Max. I have something here I’m hoping you can shed light on.”
He tilts his head, as if listening. “A book?”
“But of course.”
“Angry fella, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s like I’m carrying a baby with a poopy-diaper.”
