Maybe the necros cleared it when they came to smudge and retrieve Grammy’s body? Cautiously, I turn forward and continue slowly up the stairs. I crest the landing that leads into the large studio-style apartment, and inhale the scents of my childhood. An updated kitchen sits in the right-hand corner with a large eat-in island and stools.
To the left is the wall-less bedroom. She put waist-high open-backed bookshelves around it to delineate the space, and a queen bed is set in the middle of it all, the white painted brick of the apartment serving as a headboard. Hanging plants above the overflowing bookshelves contain her favorite potions ingredients. And the table next to the bed is overflowing with candles, wax drippings covering the shafts and pooling on the cedarwood finish.
I expect to see the bed mussed from use, but instead I’m greeted by a smooth quilt, throw pillows, and extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. I move in that direction, my Converse thumping against the wood floor, the noise matching the speed of my heart, beat for beat. Yesterday, my grandmother lay down for a nap, never to wake up again. I blink back the emotion that wells in my eyes and try to breathe through my sorrow.
The faint hint of necromancer herbs tickles my nose, and I wonder how many of them came to retrieve the body and how long the ceremonies they do to cleanse and honor it will take.
Should we have a funeral? What rituals would she want at a burial? Or would she rather be cremated and ride the winds for the rest of time? I’ll have to call Aunt Hillen and see what she thinks.
Rogan is silent behind me. I get the impression that he’s trying to be as unimposing as possible, and as much as I don’t like him, I appreciate the reverence with which he moves through my grandmother’s home.
It’s my home now, but I can’t quite wrap my mind around that. I’m also still not comfortable with living where my grandmother just died. The family will tell me to gut it, redo the entire inside so that it doesn’t feel like the same space or carry any remnants of death and sadness, but I’m not there yet. The shop makes sense, because it’s what we’re destined to do, sell our wares and offer readings and guidance as needed, but living in this apartment is a choice, and I’m not ready to commit to it yet.
I search for the small skeleton key that I know fits into the lock of the drawer on the bedside table. With a click, I pull it open, holding my breath as I wait for the grimoire to come into view. Puzzlement flashes through me as I fully open the drawer.
“It’s not here,” I mutter, shocked, turning to Rogan. “The grimoire isn’t here.”
His steps clomp closer to me as he moves to survey the empty velvet-lined drawer that I’m gesturing to like some vacant-eyed game show model.
“Are you sure it should be here? Is there somewhere else she would have put it?”
“No, she was always very careful with it.” I look around the room as though the answers to the missing magical book will be there. My gaze stops on the made bed, just as Rogan holds up a long strand of red hair. I narrow my eyes at the sight and let out an irritated growl. “I know who took it,” I announce, and then I stomp out of the room and head right for the stairs.
If those bitches think I won’t curse them to the ends of this earth just because they’re family, then they’re dumber than I thought. Looks like it’s finally time to play a much anticipated game of whack-a-snob.
6
The tires of my ancient Nissan Pathfinder squeal in objection as I take a turn just a little too fast. I probably just scraped the last of the remaining tread off of them, but it’s for a worthy cause. Rogan reaches up for theoh shithandle to steady himself, and the hand he has wrapped around Hoot in his lap tightens. Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut as I rage-drive us over to my aunt’s house.
I turn my attention back to the road, but I don’t miss the tic of irritation in his jaw. He’s not a fan of this detour. If it were my brother missing, I wouldn’t be either, but without the grimoire, I’m not going to be much help, and Rogan made it clear that I’m his last hope. Or Grammy Ruby was. I’d feel bad, but I just can’t find it in me right now, I’m too pissed.
I’m pissed at the bones and at my entitled family for stealing something that they have no business touching. I’m pissed at Rogan, and most irritating of all...I’m pissed at myself. I never took any of this seriously, and now here I am, chillin’ in a pot of water like a frog that doesn’t know it’s about to be boiled to death. I don’t like feeling stupid, and what’s worse isI’mthe one making myself look stupid.
I pick up my phone and open my contacts, I hit the speaker button as I take another sharp turn, and a shrill ringing fills the car.
“Hey, Lennard, you at the shop? Ma and I were thinking of bringing some lunch over,” Tad tells me distractedly, the sounds of him starting his dryer in the background.
“Osseous family beatdown commencing in T minus ten minutes,” I inform him on a growl, slamming my brakes as the light in front of me blinks from green to yellow to red much too quickly for me to safely shoot through it.
“Oooh, what did they do now?” he asks, eagerly.
“They stole the grimoire.”
“Those rat-faced... Maaaaa! Get in the car, we gotta go!”
I hang up before Tad can say anything else.
“You,” I snap, turning to eye Rogan in the passenger seat. “Tell me what I need to know about your brother and whatever you think happened.”
He holds Hoot a little tighter. “I’ll tell you everything, just watch the road while I do!” he orders, panic ringing in his voice.
I change lanes to pass a slow moving car and wait for Rogan to get to it.
“It started when Elon didn’t show up for a standing monthly appointment we have with a client. He doesn’t do that...ever, so I knew something was wrong. We talk every day. I had spoken to him the night before to have him bring me some things from his garden, and I knew if something had come up that morning, he would have called me.
“I finished up with the appointment as best I could without him and then drove straight to his house. I called, but his phone went right to voicemail every time. When I got there, I punched in his code to the garage, and his car was still there, cold. Clearly, it had been parked there for a while. But when I went inside, things were...wrong.”
“How so?” I ask, flicking my turn signal on and waiting for the green arrow to light up and grant me passage.
