Annie held her crystal across the paper and read an old magical trace that she was sure her father had cast eight years ago. She waved her palm across the paper, and it grew to its full size.
A map of the Cave of Ages!
“What’s that?” Cham asked, surprising her. She hadn’t heard his familiar gait enter.
“Hey.” She explained the map and the cave and the possible connection to the Fraternitatem.
“Okay. And this is related how?” He kissed the top of her head.
“Sorry. I’ve been busy here. The brooch Benaiah wore is a Solomon’s knot, the symbol for the group whose sole purpose is to protect ancient artifacts once belonging to King Solomon.”
“Ah. Now I get it. The ring.” He smiled and pulled up a chair beside her. “You were supposed to rest today.”
“Yeah, yeah. I had planned on it until the elf destroyed the kitchen and pissed off Zola. I had to take him to Windmere.” She rolled her eyes.
Cham glanced around the kitchen and took a whiff. “That explains the clean smell in here,” he said. “So this map of the cave?” He picked up the map and examined it.
“Not sure. Dad came in contact with this group when he was searching for Chintamani Stones that were flooding the black market eight years ago. He only made the smallest mention in the Book of Shadows. Anything I can learn about the Fraternitatem will be helpful. If they’re that powerful, we might not be able to touch them for the murder.”
“And the Chintamani Stones are the same ones that are in the ring?” Cham asked. He reached for the Book of Shadows to verify for himself.
“Yes. Mrs. Cuttlebrink confirmed the stones in the ring were part of these Chintamani Stones.”
Cham skimmed through Jason’s notes. “Rathbone worked for them,” he said.
“Yeah. I can’t believe I might have to look into Dad’s death again,” Annie said. She was sure that wasn’t the direction to take the case. Oftentimes artifacts rotated through the market every few years.
But then, Rathbone had admitted to killing Jason Pearce, and this case was at the same time her father died.
Cham’s eyes crinkled with worry.
“They killed Benaiah for the ring. We need to get the ring out of here,” he said with finality.
Annie had nothing to dissuade him. He and Zola are right.
“So what’s your next step?” Cham asked.
“Mortimer. I think he might have an idea of who Benaiah is. If not, he might know something about the ring or the Fraternitatem.”
“And your arm?”
“It’s fine. I’m working tomorrow. And you—did you get into the market to confirm the shapeshifters are our missing wizards and witches?”
Cham frowned. “Our crystals were useless in the market. There is so much magic they couldn’t read individual spells. And once we took them out, Emerson and I had to leave. The Wizard Guard is being watched.”
“Who’s researching the spell found at the missing persons’ homes?”
“Emerson and Mrs. Cuttlebrink are on it, though they haven’t had much luck. It appears to be an ancient spell, but not a wizard-created one.” Cham wrapped his arm around Annie’s shoulder and kissed her cheek before he softly whispered in her ear. “Feeling okay tonight?”
She pushed him away, but her hand lingered in the middle of his chest. “Just curious. Did you forget to clean the blood lock yesterday?”
He glanced as the cabinet. “I could have forgotten, but I’m pretty sure I cleaned it. Why?”
“It was dirty when I pulled out the book this afternoon.”
“Sorry. I’ll be more careful next time. So how do you feel? Hungry, tired, in pain?” He smirked. She knew what he really wanted.
“Not as stiff as you.” Annie kissed him as he teleported her upstairs.
Chapter 13
The Snake Head Letters was built on the outskirts of Chicago, across the street from the border of Evanston, Illinois. To hide the store in plain sight, and ensure nonmagicals weren’t tempted to patronize the establishment, the building was imbued with heavy magic that changed the store’s façade depending on who walked by. A mother with small children might see a sports bar while a single man might view it as a dollhouse shop.
To Annie, the store was nothing more than an ancient, run-down building with cracked windows that were covered in a thick layer of grime. Before entering, she stood by the window and glanced inside, noting the owner, Archibald Mortimer, in a heated conversation with a witch. Annie’s hand rested on the ancient green trim, which peeled off at her touch. She wiped the lead-based paint chips on her pant leg and pulled the rotting wood door open by its loose knob.
The musty, moldy stench of age overwhelmed her as she stepped onto loose, spongy floor boards. With each step, the supports creaked. She treaded lightly, sidestepping a section of linoleum, that had worn through to the subfloor. The tiny hole exposed a dim light from the basement.
While the voices argued, Annie slid inside one of the packed aisles, hiding herself behind the books and junk. She peered between two books and recognized the witch—she was the one who had noticed Annie and Gibbs when they were forced from the market. Not wanting to be seen, Annie grabbed a book and pretended to read.
The witch’s gravelly voice was rough as if she had a cold or was a constant smoker; she argued and pointed with gnarled hands, accusing Mortimer of cheating.
“No. You miserable witch. That’s the price! You wanna go somewhere else, find it yourself. Go do it. Take it or go!” Mortimer’s normally colorless face was flushed. Annie tried to get a glimpse of the item he was selling, but the witch blocked her view.
Mortimer glanced up, away from his client, and caught Annie’s eyes through a space in the books. She looked back at the words in the tome she held.
“Screw you, Archibald Mortimer. This place ain’t worth the time,” the witch grumbled.
“Try and get it at the black market why dontcha, ya crazy old bat! Or did ya already and that’s why you come to me?” Mortimer cajoled.
The witch examined the item again. With shaking hands, she tossed a wad of cash on the counter and shoved her item inside the large pocket of her cloak. As she exited the store, her cloak swished behind her, and the rickety door rattled shut.
“You can come out now, little girl,” Mortimer grumbled. Still holding the book, Annie joined him at his work counter. The outdated cash register drawer was still open and empty. “Whaddaya want?” Mortimer ran his hand through his gray hair, which stuck up several inches, wiry and wild.
Annie was jittery at the prospect of being alone with the old man. Her arm still hurt, and she wasn’t in the mood to spar with him. The short, gruff shopkeeper might actually be able to do her harm in this condition. Anxious, she tapped her good hand against the nicked wood of the counter. Her fingers found a dent as wide as a knife blade but not very deep. Someone must have shoved an athame into the wood, maybe during an argument. “Well?” Mortimer finally asked. He shifted his weight to his other foot and crossed his arms against his chest. She stopped tapping and took out a picture of Benaiah, slapping it against the table.
“Know who this is?” she asked and shoved the picture closer to Mortimer. His watery blue eyes glanced at the face. In less than a second, he shoved it back to her.
“Never seen ’im.”
“You sure? Take another look.”
Mortimer grabbed the picture examining it. “Nah. Don’t know him. He’s the dead one outside the portal?”
“Yes. Can you tell me anything about his brooch around his cloak?”
Mortimer held the picture to his face. “Stay away from them.” His hand shook when he threw the picture at her.
“Who are they?”
“No, no, girl. You stay away from the Fraternitatem. If they think you’re in the way, they will come after you.”
“The Ring of Solomon.” She watched him carefully. His face turned white, and he looked as though he might pass out. “Mortimer
. That ring is in my possession. This man died with it on his body. What is the Fraternitatem?”
“Leave the ring somewhere they can find it, and get out of the way.” Mortimer slid from behind the counter and headed for his office in the back of the store. The door squeaked open and slammed shut with a bang and a rattle.
Undeterred by his warning, Annie headed to the aisle that housed books on ancient religions. Her fingers traced the spines of antique tomes, atlases, picture books, Bibles, grimoires and Books of Shadows. Annie, a collector of books of all kinds, would have loved to own several of these, but she was only interested in one. She just didn’t know which one yet.
Starting with a general book of ancient mythology—Jewish, Greek, Roman, Sumerian, and Islamic—she perused stories about King Solomon and his temple. Unfortunately, there was no mention of the ring or the djinn Solomon supposedly controlled.
Engrossed in what she read, she didn’t hear the office door swing open or Mortimer’s familiar shuffle grow closer.
“You can learn about the ring, or you can get rid of it. I suggest you pretend you’ve never seen it,” Mortimer said.
“I need to know what it does,” she argued.
“Your life, girl. Stupid girl. Go off, just like your father. Get yourself killed.” He swatted the air beside her and shuffled away.
Through the stacks of books, Mortimer leered at her with the kind of look that warned her to leave. Absently she tapped the book she was holding.
“I’m not like my father!” she said defensively, in that annoying sound she couldn’t control when she was stressed or anxious. Mortimer knew which buttons to push, which angered Annie.
“You have the ring. Makes you a target. I hear you were run outta the market. I hear all Wizards Guards are being run outta the market.”
News traveled quickly in their small magical world, Annie wasn’t surprised that Archibald Mortimer already knew. She caught his gaze. “You have an ear to the ground. What’s really going on at the market?”
Mortimer shrugged and pretended to straighten a pile of books beside him. Bony, wrinkled fingers wrapped around a tome and moved it from one pile to another. Everything here was old, and everything smelled like dust and mildew. Even after ignoring her question, he didn’t leave. He seemed content to play around with the items in front of him, teasing her.
“We know the master is a djinn. We know he hired this Benaiah, a member of the Fraternitatem, to find the ring and bring it to him. Why would a member of the Fraternitatem be willing to sell the ring, let alone give it to a djinn that’s controlled by the ring?”
Fear creeped inside Mortimer’s watery blue eyes, which paled further as he grimaced. “Leave it be. Bad enough you’re asking about the Fraternitatem.”
“What do you know?”
“I know enough to not ask questions.” He was no longer flushed from his encounter with the witch. His jaw tightened.
“There are a lot of animals, domestic animals at market. We think this is the master’s attempt to secure an army, and we think these people are on the missing persons list. The protection spell is breaking down. Snow was blowing in from outside. What do you know about what’s happening at the market?”
“Drop it, girl. Get rid of the ring and move on. Forget you’ve ever heard of the Fraternitatem.”
“Mortimer, you know. I know you know what’s going on at the market,” she pleaded, but Archibald Mortimer stood his ground and glared at her before shuffling away.
*
With Archibald Mortimer afraid of the Fraternitatem and warning her away from them, Annie pulled the ring from her field pack. The Wizard Guard had storage containers throughout the department that opened through blood locks. She stood at one of hers, storage unit 6A, and punctured her finger with the pin. The lock clicked open, and the door swung forward. Inside the storage unit was a metal box that was permanently attached to the unit. To open this safe, Annie cast a spell at the lock, which opened for her magical trace. The lid popped open; she placed the ring inside and slammed the door shut.
Even with the ring safe inside Wizard Hall, Annie knew it wasn’t over. They were still going to come.
When she returned to her desk, she saw the present Bucky had left for her: a new folder with the current information. His note said it all.
Middle East is aware of five members they’ve come in contact with at smaller markets throughout the world. Here are pictures of two members.
As promised, the file was sparse. For fifty years, the Middle East Wizard Guard had had very little contact with the Fraternitatem. It occurred to Annie at that moment her father quite possibly had gotten closer to them than the Wizard Guard had. She closed her eyes and thought back eight years.
I was fifteen years old.
When she was fifteen, she was living away from home and not seeing her father daily. Still, Annie tried to think of any cases he might have told her about on their weekly phone calls. But Jason Pearce didn’t always share what he was working on.
But then, Dad, no one knew what you were working on when you died.
She thought about Wolfgange Rathbone, the man who had engineered the murder of Princess Amelie and Jordan Wellington. After she had been locked in a basement with him for several hours, he had admitted he killed her dad. Everyone at Wizard Hall knew he was evil and worked both sides for his benefit.
Did he work for the Fraternitatem? Did he kill Dad because Dad knew too much?
Without much information about this secret group, Annie realized she had two choices. She could go to the USP Terre Haute Maximum Security Prison where Rathbone would spend the rest of his life to find out what if anything he knew about the Fraternitatem. But with Jack out of town, she would leave that as her last resort.
Instead she chose option two, something she had never done before.
I’ll look into Dad’s old cases.
She felt it in her gut; she knew it as if it were truth: Her dad had known more than anyone about this group. With that knowledge on her mind, she cautiously stepped into the stairwell to the basement. She grew more anxious at the thought of a connection and soon found herself jogging down the steps to the Records Chamber.
The chamber was large, seemingly too large to be under the building because every year it grew exponentially as needed—a perk of magic.
Annie entered. Not having a bin number or a case file, she started with the computers. Like any other company in the United States, Wizard Hall was completely automated and reliant on technology. First, she tried typing in Jason Pearce and pulling up his case files.
The search returned a long list. Annie scrolled through the case file descriptions looking for anything about Chintamani Stones, the Fraternitatem, the Cave of Ages.
It’s here!
She clicked on the file.
RESTRICTED
Reversing out, she tried a different case; again, it appeared that all of Jason’s files were restricted.
That’s weird.
She tried one more time, clicking on the file for the Fraternitatem and marking down the case number. She would have to look for the files the old-fashioned way.
F-12-08-18745 #4. Case 18745, December 2008, four files included.
It was six months before Dad had died. Annie became more certain this case was why he had died.
It can’t be.
She held her breath and readied herself to head back into the stacks to track down the month and year. Blowing out stale air, she pulled out the records drawer where the files should be located. Even though the files were restricted, Annie found them easily. She pulled the first three from the drawer.
Missing one.
She read the labels of every file in this drawer. When she couldn’t find the fourth, she searched the drawers above and below and on either side. The fourth file appeared to be missing.
Odd… or maybe not so odd.
After an hour of trying to track down the missing file, Annie was still unsuccessful. Grabbi
ng the three she had, she left the records chamber for her desk.
The cubicle beside Annie’s belonged to Gibbs. When she knocked on his cubical wall, he was reviewing a large book of spells. She assumed it was to verify the spell found at several locations throughout the city.
He’s still looking for the missing persons.
“Hey, you got a minute?” she asked.
He glanced up, grimaced, and waved her in. As Annie sat down across from him, he shoved the book to the side. “What’s up, girl?”
She plopped the three heavy files on his desk. “We’ve discovered that the design on the brooch belonged to a group called the Fraternitatem of Solomon, self-proclaimed protectors of King Solomon’s artifacts, and they probably murdered Benaiah. The Middle East Wizard Guard doesn’t have much on this group, but I happened upon some information in my Book of Shadows—a case Dad worked on about six months before he died. Dad was chasing several of the same stones that adorn the Ring of Solomon, so I thought I’d look into these to see what dad knew about the Fraternitatem. I get this feeling he knew more than anyone else.” She pointed to the files.
Gibbs processed Annie’s words. His only reaction for a few moments was a downturned lip. Annie couldn’t gauge what that meant until he spoke. “I don’t know that case. How’d you find it?”
“The word Fraternitatem appeared in the Book of Shadows. He took notes about rocks that do the same thing as the ones in the ring. Just a note, Gibbs.”
He pulled down the first folder and perused the first page. “Could be a connection. You need to be careful. This order—they killed for the ring and never found it. They won’t stop with Benaiah.”
“I hid the ring in the Hall. But yeah. That won’t stop them.”
“Six months before he died? Could be what he was working on. Is there a mention of Rathbone in any of these?”
“Yes. He mentioned that Rathbone was the liaison at the market for this Fraternitatem.”
“Annie you need to be careful,” Gibbs whispered.
“That’s why I want to see what Dad knew about them. They’ve stymied the Middle East Wizard Guard unit. There appears to be no information about them or their people. It just seems Dad knew about them. He had contact with them.” She touched the top of the pile and sighed. “The problem is the record number says there should be four files. I only found three.”
Black Market (The Wizard Hall Chronicles Book 2) Page 14
