“Within the past year. There was no sign the magic had decayed.”
“This may be a stupid question, but how does someone make a curse? I assume it isn’t an inherent power,” Felipe said.
Shutting the library’s copy ofThe Corpus Arcanum, Turpin removed his glasses and wiped the lenses against his handkerchief with a thoughtful frown. “There are very few stupid questions, inspector, and that is not one of them. Cursesare merely the channeling of magic into an object that is then used as a trap. They fell out of fashion in the Americas around the Revolutionary War when guerilla magic came into vogue because they require a lot of time, energy, and concentration. Usually, one channels their magic into an object while doing a rhythmic activity, like chanting, stirring, or writing, and focusing on what they intend to have happen. Clear intent, sustained effort, and malice are the ingredients needed for a curse.
“In this case, the creator anchored the curse in the front of the book as a linguistic tripwire. That yellow blotch Miss Jones mentioned once contained a rhyme about reading and dying, which was meant to mimic a Medieval book curse. They, then, dragged the magic from the blotch through the rest of the book by tracing over every word, so when the curse was triggered, it pulled the words off the page and attacked the victim. Whoever created it was obviously dedicated to killing with malice or panache. I can think of several far more efficient curses one could create that would still result in death.”
Felipe’s stomach twisted at the realization that the killer had imbued every word inThe Corpus Arcanumwith malice. Killing with a bullet or blade took seconds, and Felipe could understand impulse overriding sense or morals. He couldn’t understand people who took pleasure in killing or hurting others, and whoever created the curse would have had to fantasize about their victim’s gruesome death for hours without regret. That sort of monster scared him far more than demons.
Looking over Turpin’s shoulder, Oliver asked, “So the book is a real copy ofThe Corpus Arcanum? Or it was.”
“I believe so.” Smoothing a hand over the cover of the formerly cursed book, Mr. Turpin added, “When you’re done with your investigation, I would like to attempt to restore the damaged copy.”
Felipe nearly nodded along until the words sunk in. “After all you said about it, you still want to have a second copy?”
“Not for the content, Inspector Galvan. I think it will be useful in teaching the librarians how to restore incunabula or books that have been damaged with magic. It isn’t every day a book like this appears at the society, so we mustn’t be wasteful.”
“One of us will bring it to you when the case is finished.” Even with the curse ripped out, Felipe wasn’t certain he wanted to handle the book more than he had to, especially knowing what was inside it, but Turpin knew what he was doing. “I do have one more question before you go. Do you think a thief would stealThe Corpus Arcanumbecause of its monetary value or for ideological reasons?”
Staring down at the two copies ofThe Corpus Arcanum, Turpin frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think booksellers would pay much for it. It’s only value to the uninitiated is its age and quality. A collector of early books, like incunabula, or occult books might pay handsomely for it, but on its own, no, it isn’t very valuable. The most probable options are that your deceased thief was stealing it for someone who cared about what was in the book or the thief themselves did.”
“I wonder if any other magical books were stolen recently,” Oliver said. “I can’t imagine this was the first time he took to furs and broke into someone’s library.”
Felipe was about to suggest he check the archives for any cat burglar arrests when Turpin snapped to attention. For a second, Felipe thought he might go queer again at the sudden intensity of his stare, but he stayed unsettlingly human.
“Took to furs? The dead thief is a shifter?”
“Yes, sir. He was a bobcat shifter.”
“What does he look like?”
“In his fifties, white, mousy brown hair, thin but sedentary, middling height.”
Turpin’s face fell as he let out a heavy breath. “Let me see him. I think I know who your dead man is.”
Chapter Ten
Conduits
Oliver braced himself as he unlocked the mortuary cabinet. He and Felipe had returned John Doe to the drawer so hastily the day before that he couldn’t remember the state he had been in. Locking eyes over Turpin’s head, Felipe rested his hand on his gun and nodded to Oliver to go on. In one swift motion, he threw open the latch and let out a silent, relieved sigh. At least one of them had the sense to cover him with a shroud before they sealed him away. The deceased man was right where they left him: dead but seemingly free from any additional magic. Behind him, Turpin’s eyes bore into his back as he carefully pulled the drawer out enough that the deceased’s head and shoulders poked out. As Oliver folded back the sheet to reveal the dead man’s face, he watched Mr. Turpin’s reaction. His gaze immediately went to the veins of ink crisscrossing his skin, but when he truly looked at his face, Oliver saw the weight of recognition steal over his features.
“Enoch, you old fool. What have you done?” Mr. Turpin murmured under his breath.
“You know him?” Oliver asked, eyeing Felipe over the older man’s head as he quickly pulled the notebook from his coat pocket.
Somehow, Turpin suddenly looked far older and more fragile than he had a moment before as he nodded with a fullbody sigh. Grabbing the nearest stool, Oliver slid it beside the head librarian, who sank onto it with a murmur of thanks. Oliver had seen Turpin with his walking stick on days where the weather was wet or cold, and he wished he had carried it with him this time or that Oliver had a spare to offer him. Anything to ease his pain.
“Do you want us to give you a moment to say goodbye to him?” Oliver asked softly.
Shaking his head, Turpin motioned for Oliver to cover the deceased man again. “It isn’t like that. His name is—wasEnoch Whitley, and he was one of the few patrons I barred from ever entering the library again.”
“He stole books, I assume,” Felipe said as Oliver rolled the gurney back in and shut the door.
“Many. I know it sounds trivial, but stealing from a library breaks the sacred compact that holds a library together. Everyone using it knows the books are there for all, and they must act in accordance with that knowledge to the best of their ability. Enoch could not handle that responsibility. I let him borrow books, even though he didn’t always bring them back. Scholars are notoriously forgetful, and I am willing to stretch the return window for people I trust. Time got away from me, and after years of leaving Enoch to his own devices, I realized he had borrowed and not returned far too many books. When I asked him about it, he stopped returning to the library all together. I sent Mr. Reynard and Mr. Bisclavret to his residence to ask for the books he borrowed back, but he refused to return them, citing that he was a better steward of the books and that he needed them in his collection for his work. Another attempt was made, but ultimately, I was forced to get the head inspector involved, and the books we could find were returned by force.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two and a half years ago. The last time I saw Enoch was when he tried to come into the library after we took the books back. He was despondent. He had a complete breakdown over the books being returned to us, and it was then that I realized, while he was a thief, that he wasn’t fully in control of his actions. I couldn’t blame his behavior on malice, but I couldn’t trust him to respect the library’s social compact. That’s why I didn’t seek further punishment for the thefts. It didn’t seem fair when it appeared to be a compulsion. Keeping him out of the library was enough.” Mr. Turpin stared down at his thickened and gnarled fingers where they lay curled in his lap. “I can’t help but wonder if I could have done something differently. Perhaps, the healers or someone with better knowledge of the mind could have helped us work around his proclivities. It wouldn’t have stopped him, but it could have potentially prevented what happened to him now. Unfortunately, I suspect he was stealing long before I cast him out. Reynard and Bisclavret reported his house was stuffed to the gills with old books, and Enoch wasn’tthatwell off.”
