“Thanks. Keep me posted,” Cham said and headed out.
*
Rebekah knew there was something odd about Anne Pearce; it had gnawed at her for the last eight months. Diligently researching and scraping together an unusual amount of material, the journalist quite by chance had learned more than expected about a world once unknown to her. It had started with the occult section at the local public library. Slowly, over time, she pieced together unfathomable facts that seemed unlikely—and yet they fit. They explained Anne Pearce.
The more entrenched in the strange information and places Rebekah found herself, the more anxiety crawled inside and took hold. Since investigating the crime scene in Busse Woods, that chill in the air and general paranoia became her constant companion, along with the feeling she was being stalked. Her only solaces were her apartment and her work. Unless she was out with a group, the reporter rarely left home.
Leaving the studio at ten in the morning after the morning report, Rebekah passed through the doors to the parking lot just as three people she didn’t recognize entered, their badges hanging from their necks. She observed them stroll down the hall and disappear into the door leading to the stairs. When the door slammed shut, the metallic thud resounded in the empty hallway. The journalist, with a bad feeling at the pit of her stomach, ran to her silver car.
Her heart pounded in her ears, and her hands shook while fumbling with the keys. With a deep breath, Rebekah managed to get the keys in the ignition and turn the car on. The engine hummed softly. She flipped the car into reverse, then into drive, and slammed her foot on the accelerator. The wheels churned, and smoke rose from the tires as she peeled the car out of the lot.
Though it was only mid-morning, traffic moved slowly on her way to her apartment, which was less than ten miles from the studio. It took her an hour to arrive.
Rebekah’s heart still raced as she parallel parked in a spot on her street, bumping into the car behind her. Taking a heavy breath, Rebekah hiccupped, shut off the car, and rested her head against the steering wheel to cry.
The neighborhood bustled with people traversing the sidewalk to and from the bus or train stations a block to the west. One block from her apartment to the east were the shopping district, small stores, drug stores, and other outlets.
After taking another cleansing breath, she opened her door and saw a familiar face heading down the sidewalk. The man, his face so recognizable, glanced at her and smiled before picking up his pace toward the bar at the end of the street.
How do I know him?
Across the street, a familiar-looking couple headed in the opposite direction. They crossed the street at the stop sign, turned once, and smiled at Rebekah before heading on their way.
But I know them too.
Paranoid, Rebekah slammed the car door shut and lunged inside the gate to her apartment building. She flew up the steps, taking them two at a time, until she reached the fourth floor. She entered her apartment and threw the door shut.
“Hello Rebekah,” Graham Lightner said, just before he slammed a jinx on her.
*
Cham landed on the quiet street along with Emerson Donaldson, a Wizard Guard in training. Running with a hunch, he felt their surprise visit to archaeologist Dr. Arden Blakely might be less stressful if he had a female officer with him.
He zipped his coat to his chin as the bitter wind from the lake blew through the street; Emerson held tightly to her hat as the gust descended on them.
Few cars were parked on the city street in the middle of the day, and anyone still home was safely huddled in their houses. Cham and Emerson walked cautiously, verifying each address and scanning the street for wayward folks with an unfortunate need to be outside. Two houses up the street, a woman was bundled in a thick parka so that she resembled a large jelly bean teetering on thin sticks. Only her eyes were exposed. As Cham drew closer, he could see that they watered heavily in the wickedly bitter wind. It didn’t stop her from waiting patiently for the small white terrier to sniff the fire hydrant before lifting its leg and peeing on the already iced-over apparatus.
Even when the dog finished, the woman glanced up at the sky, wiped a tear from her cheek, and let her dog meander to another spot of brown grass. Shivering violently, her dog made no move to return inside and seemed rather content to sniff the ground.
Cham and Emerson realized they were at their location. The woman stood in their way on the chipped, cracked sidewalk to the building. They loitered tolerantly as gusts of wind chilled them. The woman didn’t seem to notice.
Another squall raged down the street; the woman’s hood and scarf flew backwards.
I recognize her.
Arden Blakely stood before them, forty years older than the pictures Cham had found before he arrived. Her crystal-blue eyes were the only feature on her face that hadn’t changed. She ran a finger through her short cropped black-and-white hair, trying to smooth it even in the heavy wind before pulling the hood back over her head and wrapping the wayward scarf around her neck.
The white terrier, no longer interested in the scents littering the grass, spotted the wizard guards. The dog hopped up and down and barked a high-pitched squeak like a rubber toy. Cham squatted down and held his hand out, letting the dog come to him. It wagged a short, stubby tail, sniffed his outstretched hand, and licked his extremely cold fingers.
Cham chuckled as the small, rough tongue tickled his fingers. “Your dog is really cute. Does it have a name?” he asked.
Arden Blakely smiled lightly, bent down and touched her dog’s head. “Sally,” was what Cham thought she said.
“Well, hello, Sally.” Cham scratched behind the dog’s ear. It jumped on his leg.
“Actually, it’s Solly. Short for Solomon.”
Cham and Emerson exchanged glances.
Maybe she’s nuts, or maybe she’ll be interested in speaking with us.
“Named after the Ring of Solomon?” Cham asked casually. Arden grimaced, and her hand holding the leash quivered visibly. Though it could be due to the cold, Cham didn’t believe so.
“Come, Solly.” She yanked on the leash, and the dog yelped as it was dragged away.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Blakely, but I need to ask you about the ring. My girlfriend is being stalked by someone who wants it. I need to protect her.”
She stopped, and Solly used the break to inhale the odd scents in the grass beside him. Finding a new spot, the dog lifted another leg and peed over the brown patch in the small garden. “I thought it might be here,” Arden sighed. “Is it at the black market?”
Cham viewed Arden with surprise and concern. Her knowledge at first glance seemed extensive, and that worried him. But then she had met Jason Pearce and told him of the ring.
“No. It’s hidden. Is there someplace we can go in private?”
“Upstairs.”
Cham and Emerson followed Arden Blakely inside what was once a turn-of-the-century mansion and was now several condominiums. Industrial-strength soap assaulted Cham. The real wood baseboards and hand rails had just been polished; his boots clicked against the newly cleaned tile. He followed Arden Blakely up the stairs as the treads creaked under his weight.
The animated dog bounded gleefully, leading them up to the third floor, unaware of the danger its owner was in. The owner shook with each step as if the air still chilled her—or maybe the reality of the ring made her nervous. Nonetheless, she remained singularly focused on the dog and followed it up the stairs.
The bright white hallway gave way to a closed-up apartment. Window shades were drawn shut; the only natural light broke in from around the shades that looked like a square halo. Warm, stagnant air greeted them. Emerson grimaced and followed Arden as she shuffled through the large room, cluttered with furniture and covered with artifacts. Every square inch of the apartment was filled with something.
Cham skirted boxes filled with scrolls and rolled-up maps, Emerson nearly tripped on a bust of a man; his gold paint was worn
and chipped, and the base was scratched.
The archaeologist led them to a corner of the room to a desk, piled high with folders and notepads scrawled with handwritten notes and additional papers. Some folders were so filled with papers that they couldn’t stay closed unless something else was laid on top. Arden offered the two wizard guards seats across from her.
“Dr. Blakely, I’m Robert Chamsky and this is Emerson Donaldson,” Cham said. When Arden didn’t respond to his introduction, he glanced at Emerson who rolled her eyes and offered a shrug.
“I’m sorry to spring this on you,” Cham continued.
Arden unhooked the dog, and Solly ran for the kitchen. His nails clicked against the hardwood floor as he waddled through the doorway. When he was out of sight, Arden switched on a desk lamp, which did little to brighten the small corner. Between the gray light from outside, the drawn shades, and the dark wood that encased the room, the small house felt depressing.
Before sitting, Cham moved a large box with an eclectic array of items, mostly likely from a dig site. He spied clay shards, a knife handle, a swatch of cloth. While he placed the box on the floor, Emerson removed a pile of folders from her chair and left them teetering on the edge of the already filled desk.
Arden Blakely hadn’t taken her gaze from the opposite corner of the apartment, leaving Cham and Emerson time to examine their surroundings.
It looked like the Snake Head Letters, Cham thought as he crossed his legs and kicked a tome from a pile at his feet. The thick book with worn edges and a loose, cracked binding was entitled Magical Portals and Where to Find Them. A groan escaped his lips, and he showed the book to Emerson.
“Where would a nonmagical find this?” Emerson whispered. What she lacked in Wizard Guard knowledge and ability, she more than made up for in her research skills. If she questioned this, it was a good thought: books like this were hard to come by.
“I was thinking that too,” he whispered back. “Arden. Where did you get this?” he asked out loud.
The question brought Arden back to the present, to the depressing room. Her weary smile accentuated the deep lines around her eyes and mouth, and yet her eyes sparkled as if she were giddy.
Maybe she’ll be open, Cham thought.
“Yes. Well. I’m sure you know, there are… sellers. All over the world. Very easy to find them if you know where to look. I can only assume they’re smaller versions of the real market.” The archaeologist rested against the back of her chair, seemingly more in control than moments ago.
The Wizard Guard was aware of illegal auctions, of markets springing up in desolate and difficult to reach regions throughout the world, locations that remained out of the control of wizard authorities. They took much more manpower than there were bodies to investigate them all. These markets could open up one day and be gone the next, or these merchants could sell at any nonmagical market. All reasons why the Wizard Guard preferred the major black market to remain intact. It was easier than monitoring the other less stable markets.
Curious, Cham skimmed the chapter titles and flipped through the tome for words like portal and Busse Woods. Staring at the information in disbelief, he tapped the book with his thumbs, pounding it like it was a set of drumsticks.
“You know about the portals in Busse Woods then?” he surmised.
Pointing to the book, Arden said, “It lists the portals there. Offers a map to their locations. I’m aware I’m so close. Alas, I cannot get inside.” Arden sighed deeply. If she couldn’t get inside, that meant she wasn’t magical. Even with a cursed object, only a magical could harness the energy to enter a portal.
The fact that Arden most likely had been tracking the Ring of Solomon and knew about the portal worried Cham and Emerson.
She’ll need to be dealt with by the VAC, Cham thought.
Jason Pearce had mentioned meeting Arden in a black market outpost in Morocco, according to his notes. With enough currency, those markets were easy to gain access to.
“Did you ever meet a man named Jason Pearce?” Cham asked nonchalantly.
Arden eyes blinked rapidly. They were unfocused, staring seemingly into nothingness. “I’ve met so many people. I don’t recall that name.” The archaeologist rooted through her piles of precariously stacked folders and paper.
It was eight years ago, so Cham wasn’t surprised, though Jason had marked it in his notes, maybe as a reference for the future.
As he passed the book of portals on to Emerson, Arden’s fingers lovingly grazed tablets and tiles, books and notebooks. She moved folders and books from one pile to another, mixing and matching until finding a particular notebook that she finally slid across the table. It was an average, nondescript spiral notebook that was missing the front cover. The pages, brown and crumpled, featured handwritten notes made illegible with water damage and age.
Arden drew pictures and maps, noted equations, and made hypotheses. She had written on every page, using the margins and back cover. Much of the information had been scratched out, rewritten, added to. It wasn’t the only notebook. Cham spied several more on the credenza behind her desk. But she wanted him to have this one.
He scanned and flipped through the pages, finding the picture of the ring; a thick and large band, the face of the ring an etched six-pointed star surrounded by and four stones creating a square.
That’s our ring.
He showed the drawing to Emerson.
“You have many lovely items,” Emerson complimented.
“Yes, yes. All mine,” Arden replied her eyes unfocused. She absently played with a folder on the desk. It was empty.
“Dr. Blakely. How many archaeological digs have you headed? Finding the Ring of Solomon must have been the highlight.” Emerson tried again to bring Arden back to them. She seemed lost in her own thoughts.
“Just one. Just the one.”
Emerson and Cham exchanged glances.
She’s been looking for the ring for forty years!
“Why?” Emerson asked incredulously. It seemed odd to work so hard for your Ph.D. and throw it all away.
The ring wasn’t worth that. What was she doing all that time? Cham thought to himself.
“Too much to do. There was no time to search for anything else.”
“Dr. Blakely, we need to know what you know about the Ring of Solomon.” Cham held up the drawing, Arden’s hand trembled at the request.
“Arden honey, what’s going on in—?” A middle aged woman strode into the room. Her flowing dress billowed out behind her, and her long, plaited hair bounced as she walked.
“They’re here about the ring,” Arden’s face lit up as she announced the purpose of their visit, as if they vindicated her life’s work. “Ariana, meet Robert and Emerson.”
“Where are you from?” Ariana’s terse voice rose an octave.
“Sorry, ma’am. We’re with the Chicago Police Department, investigating the death of a man who had this ring on him when he died.” Cham held the picture and his police badge for her to review.
Ariana grabbed the identification and scrutinized it as if she would know whether it was real or not. “This is ridiculous. The ring is fiction. I wish you all would leave her alone!”
Taken back by the outburst, Cham believed Ariana thought Arden was out of her mind. Arden’s face went blank.
“I understand you don’t believe in the ring, but I assure you the ring is real. We have it, and we know Dr. Blakely has extensive knowledge about it.”
Ariana’s shoulders slumped. She backed away without apology or acknowledgement about Arden’s work. She turned and ran for the kitchen, making her displeasure known through loud outbursts. Doors opened and were thrown shut; plates and glasses were slammed against countertops.
While the wizards sat in uncomfortable silence, trying to not look toward the kitchen, Arden relaxed, comfortable behind the desk and ignoring Ariana’s fit. She easily found a second book and handed it to Emerson. The wizard guard perused the tome; it was Arden�
�s personal diary.
“You’re not really with the Chicago Police Department. Who do you work for?” Arden asked with a grin on her face.
Memory modification, Cham noted to himself.
“The Wizard Guard, ma’am,” Cham admitted.
“Ah. I always wondered if Wizard Guards were a rumor told to demons and bad wizards, scaring them into behaving.” Arden chuckled as if this was all a joke.
“I need to know how you know about us, about magic.”
With the question, her face drew downwards, creating deep lines in her forehead and around her lips; her shoulders fell forward and her hands fell limp against the desk.
When she spoke, it was as though from a place long ago, her tone wistful. “I’ve been tracking that ring since I first lost it. When you track a supernatural artifact, you ultimately meet others searching for the same thing, and you learn of the places. You become familiar with spells and magic.”
Leaving the thoughts in the past, Arden returned to the piles on her desk, sorting through the books and folders—forty years of research—and lining it across the rickety desk that swayed each time she moved something.
Emerson was lost in the pages of the diary, reading the meticulous notes that graced the pages—so neatly written and organized, they almost seemed obsessive.
“Cham.” Emerson showed the notes to Cham.
There in the pages, a mention of a man named Benaiah.
Cham reached into his jacket for a picture of the deceased. He would have slid it across the desk, but it was so full of stuff, so he stood and handed Arden the picture. “Is this the Benaiah you mentioned in your notes?”
Arden held the picture close to her face, examining every line, every scar on his large, bloated body.
“Yes. This is him. He’s dead. I’m not surprised.” She handed the photo back to Cham.
“How do you know him?” Emerson asked.
“It’s not important anymore.” With a shaky hand, Arden fiddled with a folder. The paper rustled. “It’s a small community you live in, and for the right price, things are exchanged: information, goods. People show up in multiple locations.” She trailed off, her voice dreamy and distant.
Black Market (The Wizard Hall Chronicles Book 2) Page 20
