“Yes.”
“Change the meeting to nighttime and then you won’t be alone. We’ll go,” he says, motioning to Thomas. “With the concealment charms on, of course. We’ll pretend to be a couple of chaps visiting from England who wanted to see the nicest hotel in the area.”
“It might not be the nicest, but I think your plan will work. And I know this guy won’t be alone.”
“I highly doubt it considering he knows you have powers,” Hasan says.
“Do you think he has powers?” Gilbert asks.
I shake my head and look at Jacques, who isn’t sure either.
“Don’t you need powers to make a golem?” Thomas asks.
“According to the legend I’m familiar with,” Jacques starts, “you don’t necessarily need powers, but you do need the exact spell.”
“So a regular person with a spell book could be dangerous.”
“Yes.”
I break the chip in half. “That’s the most valuable thing I have right now.”
Thomas slides the salsa in front of him. “The last time this guy lured you out of the house, he came by. Do you think he’s trying to do that again and will go after the book?”
“Maybe.” I bite my lip, thinking. “Gemma will be here, so if anyone stops by she’ll be able to call the cops, but it’ll take too long for someone to get here. I need to hide the book, and I have an idea of where.” I smile and lean in, suddenly afraid that someone is listening to me. “I’m a cop, remember? I have access to places others don’t. I can put the book in the evidence room. And no, it’s not as easy to sneak in and steal evidence as it is on TV. Everything is kept under lock and key. It’ll take a little bit of magic myself to get in without signing anything in or out.”
“If you think it’s safe, then it’s safe.” Gilbert looks at me with a nod and then looks at the clock. It’s almost eight-thirty.
“Or I keep it with me,” I suggest. “Because I don’t like the idea of having to go back into work, using magic to get into the evidence room, and sneaking the book out when demons are attacking us.”
“Right,” Jacques agrees. “Keep it here.”
“I wish you were awake during the day,” I sigh.
“Me too.” Thomas leans back, wings smashed against the chair.
“So, what do I do?” I ask, tapping the screen on my phone. It’s 8:28, and it seems odd to me that he gave me until 8:30. The guys just woke up and we’ve hardly had time to discuss things. A few seconds tick by before anyone speaks.
“You’re not going,” Jacques says, and his protectiveness is as endearing as it is annoying.
“I’m a cop, remember? I can handle myself. And I’ll make my whereabouts known. Hell, I’ll take a selfie with the guy and send it to Gemma. That way, if anything happens, we have photographic proof that asshole was the last one to be seen with me.”
“That doesn’t comfort me, Ace.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” I tell Jac, and I mean it. “I know this is risky and I know this Mr. Trent guy laid out the web and is waving me over to it. But I have to do this, Jac. I have to see what he wants. Hell, I need to make sure he’s human first and foremost.”
“Maybe Gemma should go with you,” Gilbert suggests. “Just to keep an eye on things.”
“They’ve seen her and would recognize her right away.”
“Not if she does a glamour,” Thomas suggests.
I consider it, but shake my head. “I don’t want to put her in danger.” I reach forward and grab another chip. “I wish my fucking aunt filled me in on things before she died,” I huff to no one in particular.
“You should channel her,” Jacques says, surprising us all. “Not summon, but channel. You’re right. If there is anything magical hidden in the walls, she’ll know.”
“And you know how to do this?” Hasan asks skeptically.
“I have a theory,” Jac starts, and Hasan does his best not to roll his eyes and look away. Most of the time, Hasan and Jac get along and agree on things. But Hasan is a doer and Jacques is a thinker. Together, they make a crazy strong team, but of course they’re going to butt heads every now and then.
But before they can get into it, the clock chimes, reminding us that my official RSVP time is up. The world hasn’t imploded or anything, which is a good sign.
“So this theory,” Hasan starts again, but is interrupted when my phone vibrates from a text.
“It’s him,” I say, recognizing the number as the one on the invitation. “It’s Mr. Trent.”
