Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  "Me too," Maggie blinked. "See you later."

  Well, Maggie thought as she watched Fionna head out into the already fading afternoon sunlight, that was interesting.

  Maggie leaned back in her chair and considered the rest of her day. The rendezvous with Fionna set at six o'clock, that would give her just enough time.

  * * *

  Sinclair's bookshop was not as far away as Maggie had thought, but it was well hidden in the back streets extending away from the Aberdeen waterfront. His description of it being 'out of the way still' was dead on; a resurgent district of fashionable boutiques had sprouted up several blocks to the west but its impact had not yet reached Mearns Street. In any event, it was nearly five o'clock before Maggie had found the store. The sun had almost finished its descent into the western hills. As she stopped her bike in front of the shop, she looked up at the dark blue sky. She could see a handful of stars through the gathering clouds, but no moon.

  Too bad, she thought. Just the thing for a spooky old occult bookstore.

  The bells on the back of the solid wood door jingled thickly as she pushed it open on hinges that squeaked just the right amount. The shop was small, although not particularly smaller than she had expected. After all, she had thought, how many books could there be on the occult?

  Quite a few apparently. Each wall was actually a recessed bookcase starting at the floor and rising at least ten feet to the vaulted ceiling. In turn, each mahogany shelf was crammed to capacity with books of every conceivable height, width and color. To complete the effect, each wall/bookcase was equipped with its own sliding ladder. A yellowed glass chandelier hung from the cream-colored moulded ceiling over an extraordinarily intricate blue, maroon, and ivory Persian rug which covered most, but not quite all, of the dark hardwood floor. A dark wooden table greeted Maggie from its spot directly beneath the chandelier. On it stood several volumes, each tilted back carefully on a pedestal to face entering clientele.

  At the sound of the bells, Devan Sinclair, who was standing at the back of the store with the one other customer in the shop, turned to see who had entered his establishment late on a Friday afternoon. When he saw Maggie, he smiled in greeting, but then returned his attention to the rather disheveled young man next to him. Maggie was surprised to find that Sinclair's smile appeared quite genuine, even friendly, not the 'I knew you'd change your mind' smile she had expected. In any event, it was clear he intended to complete his business with Mr. Disheveled before coming to assist her, so she glanced down at the book on the table in front of her.

  Obviously, she posited, the occult equivalent to the bestsellers section. Or maybe the bargain table. The difference between which, she considered, is often more a function of time than quality.

  Picking up one volume, she read the title to herself: 'Satan and His Plan for You.'

  Lovely, Maggie thought with a shudder and quickly set the book back down.

  Content now simply to look and not touch, Maggie gravitated toward the bookshelf to her right. Further titles were equally uplifting.

  'The Use of Human Blood in Druid Rites.'

  'Human Sacrifices throughout the Ages.'

  And of course: 'I'm Okay; You're a Sacrifice to Satan.'

  Maggie was beginning to question the wisdom of having come here alone. She started to doubt whether the shop would have any books which might actually help her. She wondered where the history section was.

  As if reading her thoughts, Sinclair looked past his customer to meet Maggie's gaze as it swept the shop. He quickly motioned to the other wall with his eyes, before returning his attention to the customer at hand.

  Maggie turned around, carefully circumnavigated the bargain table and sidled up to the bookcase just next to the counter.

  Ah, this is more like it.

  'A History of the Occult Practices of the Ancient Celts.'

  Bingo.

  'Black Magic Among the Scots, Picts and Bretons.'

  Score.

  'Arcane Rituals of the Ancient Druids and Their Application Today.'

  Why not?

  Before she knew it, Maggie had selected six different books which appeared to hold the promise of shedding light, so to speak, on her Dark Book.

  Okay, she told herself, good start. She should just buy these and get going. She didn't want to be late for her meeting with Fionna. She walked directly over to the counter to stand behind Mr. Disheveled, whose first name now appeared to be Fidgety. He was paying for several suspicious looking pamphlets with hand-drawn symbols on their covers. Maggie looked over to where he and Sinclair had been standing but was unable to make out what section the pamphlets had been selected from. Turning again to face forward, Maggie had to take a step back as Fidgety Disheveled hurried past her and toward the door, his evening's reading material tucked safely away in a plain brown paper bag.

  "Thank you... sir," Sinclair called after him. "Come again."

  The man turned and displayed a very unsettling grin among his black stubble, visibly pleased at this obvious omission of his name in front of another customer.

  It's the little things that keep customers coming back, Maggie thought sardonically.

  With a ring of the bells, the man exited out onto the street and scurried away into the twilight. Maggie noted with some annoyance that it appeared to have started raining.

  "Miss Devereaux." The welcoming smile was back. "Good to see you again."

  On the ride from campus, Maggie had been worried that Sinclair would pester her about reconsidering his offer to buy her book. Now that she was in his presence though, she felt sure somehow that he would not say word one about it unless she first broached the subject. He had made his offer. She could accept it or refuse it.

  "Good to see you too, Mr. Sinclair." That was true enough, she supposed, if only because she had found her books. "I must say, I very much like your shop. The atmosphere is perfect. And your selection of titles in the particular area I'm interested in far surpasses that of the university's libraries."

  "I thought you would approve." He reached for the books she had selected and began to inquire, "Were you able to find everything y—"

  "Devan!" The woman's voice almost beat the sound of the bells as she threw open the shop door. "Devan! I need you!"

  Maggie stared at the woman in stunned silence. She was six feet tall if she was an inch, but her cheeks were so gaunt that Maggie wondered whether she weighed even 100 pounds. Long, crazy red and brown and gray hair streamed from her head in frizzy curls and her neck held at least a half dozen different necklaces. Not to be outdone, each wrist boasted at least as many bracelets and, yes, bangles. She wore a long red overcoat, from whose sleeves her bony, silver-ringed hands were waving frantically. Under the red coat was an orange and gold dress which hung loosely over her scarecrow-like frame and ended at her ghostly white ankles, which in turn rested just above a pair of very nondescript black pumps. The heavy make-up she wore couldn't hide her age, which Maggie guessed was at least 50.

  "Devan!" The raspy voice was quite insistent.

  Sinclair looked calmly at Maggie, who had turned back to see what his reaction would be. "Will you excuse me for a moment, Miss Devereaux?" he asked.

  "Of course," Maggie acquiesced. She doubted the willow woman would have accepted anything less.

  "Ah, Madame D'Angelo." Sinclair glided around from behind the counter, gushing with the concern any wise small business owner shows for a regular customer. "What is it that troubles you, my dear?"

  "Oh, Devan," she sighed and relaxed into his gentle concern. "It's horrible, truly horrible," and she proceeded to explain her dilemma. From what Maggie couldn't help but overhear, it seemed to involve a sick pet and some effort, apart of course from standard scientific veterinary medicine, to heal it. However, rather than attempt to eavesdrop, Maggie decided to return to the 'history' section and see if there might not be another interesting title.

  Spaces had been left from the places Maggie had extracted her
soon (she hoped) to be purchased choices. Those left behind to mark the gaps did not appear to hold much promise, however. They appeared interesting enough, Maggie supposed, but were not terribly relevant to her studies. Several dealt with Eastern religious practices, including a surprising number with the word 'Byzantine' somewhere in their titles. And the general surveys of world-wide occult practices seemed a bit broad for her purposes. Good background perhaps, but she was hoping to avoid generalities and get right to the specifics of those beliefs which surrounded her Dark Book.

  Just as she was about to turn back to the counter and wait, if not a little impatiently, for 'Devan' to finish dealing with Madame D'Angelo's crisis, a book caught her eye. Rather, its title did. This book was not standing on a shelf like all the others, but had been lain haphazardly on its side, resting atop several upright volumes. This position was enough to attract her attention; a quick glance around Sinclair's impeccably ordered shop would confirm no other book so stacked. But it was the title that compelled Maggie to lift it from the shelf with the intent of adding it to her purchase:

  'Demonic Possession and Exorcism in Pre-Christian Scotland.'

  Judging by what she had been able to translate so far of the Dark Book, this title was dead on target. She picked up the volume and examined it. It was older—not ancient by any means—but its proto-psychedelic soft-back cover suggested publication in the late 1950s. The cover's edges were bent and crumpled, an entire corner having been torn off the back, and it appeared that someone had spilled rather a large amount of coffee on it at some point, judging by the large brown stain rising from the bottom edge of the pages which still held a slight curl from immersion in the liquid. She opened the tattered cover and was greeted by a proud little sticker affixed inside, slightly askew but well above the highest reaches of the page-curling coffee stain. Its preprinted 'Ex Libris' was followed by a youthfully handwritten 'Jared B.' Maggie couldn't help but wonder who would let their children read something like this, or worse yet, what sort of child would want to. But those questions aside, the well-worn treatise would undoubtedly be of use to her. She stepped back to the counter and added it to her stack.

  Sinclair seemed to be making at least some progress with Madame D'Angelo, but she was obviously high-maintenance. Maggie suspected she was looking for attention as much as for any book. Maggie gazed lazily around the counter area. Tucked under the counter, with its state of the art computer cash register, was a second shelf where the proprietor could stash away whatever items he might need handy when completing a transaction. In the darkened recesses of this second shelf, Maggie could see several pens, a notepad, two books whose titles were obscured by shadow, and a small silver photo frame, also half in shadow. Maggie could see that the frame held a photograph of a family: a man and woman with two children, one a teenage boy and the other a younger sister. Maggie would have thought it was Sinclair and his wife with their children, except that the man in the photograph had black hair while Sinclair's was a light strawberry blond.

  This image of family bliss must have triggered thoughts of recently encountered pairs of brothers and sisters, because Maggie again remembered her six o'clock meeting with Sean FitzSimmons' sister, Fionna. Maggie slipped off her backpack and looked at her watch. It was already 5:30. It had taken her over 45 minutes to travel from campus and find the bookshop, but even discounting the time it had taken to locate the store once she'd reached the waterfront, she would still be hard pressed to make it back to the King's Street Pub in time. And it was uphill.

  Come on, Sinclair, she thought. In another minute she might have to just abandon the titles and return after the weekend. She wondered if he might hold them until Monday.

  As if in response to Maggie's rising stress level, Sinclair finally parted apologetically from the adhesive Madame D'Angelo and hurried back to the counter.

  "My apologies, Miss Devereaux." Maggie thought he might have been just the slightest bit flustered, but she wasn't sure. "A small crisis. Now, where were we?"

  "Oh, I just need to buy these," she pushed the now seven books in his direction. "Then I need to get going. I'm in a bit of a hurry actually."

  "Of course. This won't take but a moment."

  Maggie bent down to remove her wallet from her backpack. When she straightened up she found Sinclair frowning.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Devereaux," he avoided her eyes, "but this volume is not for sale."

  He held up the book she had just selected while he was busy with the great pet crisis.

  "But—" That was as far as she got.

  "I'm sorry." He raised his hand authoritatively and set the book on the shelf behind him, again sideways on top of some others. "It is simply not for sale. It should not have been on the shelves. I must have set it there inadvertently."

  "But—"

  "Miss Devereaux," Sinclair said somewhat severely. "We both know that you understand there are some books with which one simply cannot part."

  This obvious reference to the black leather book in her backpack silenced her.

  "However," a controlled smile returned to his face, "these other titles you have selected are excellent. I'm sure you will find them useful."

  Maggie decided not to take the time to argue about one book. She was already going to be late.

  "What's the damage?" she asked, sounding quite American.

  Sinclair looked at her, his expression a mix of puzzlement and caution. He was clearly trying to decipher Maggie's last question.

  "How much do I owe you?" she translated, pulling several banknotes from her wallet.

  "Oh, I see." Sinclair's visage relaxed. "An Americanism." And then the two proceeded to complete their transaction.

  Maggie pulled her books to her, then looked down at her backpack on the floor. The Dark Book was in there, of course; she took it almost everywhere with her now, paranoid of losing this most vital resource. It was also the book, however, which she had pretended to Sinclair that she did not posses. She paused as she tried to think of some way of opening her backpack without letting him see inside.

  Sinclair seemed to appreciate her dilemma, but made no effort to turn away.

  Finally, Maggie pointed to the small silver frame behind him and asked, "Who's that?"

  This had the desired effect. As Sinclair turned to look at the photograph, Maggie bent down and quickly shoved the newly purchased books into her backpack, then zipped it shut. As she pulled it to the counter in preparation of slinging the now quite heavy bag onto her back, Sinclair turned back from the photo and met Maggie's gaze with surprising force.

  "My family," he answered almost angrily. "Good night, Miss Devereaux."

  * * *

  The rain was starting to let up a bit, but not enough to prevent Maggie from having to smear the raindrops off her glasses yet again. Between the precipitation and the extra weight on her back, she was compelled to ride slower than she would have liked. And it was uphill. She didn't take her hands from the handlebars to look at her watch, but as she pedaled up King Street, slicing a puddle into a razor sharp spray, she guessed it was already six o'clock. And she still had a ways to go.

  * * *

  "Way to go, Maggie," Fionna muttered as she looked at her watch. Almost 6:20. "Where are you?"

  Fionna was already nervous about the meeting. Not always the smartest thing for one's academic career to be disseminating troubling information about one's professors. But if Maggie was going to be working closely with Craig Macintyre, then she had a right to know. And if she and Maggie were going to be friends, she'd better tell her now, lest she find out the hard way. Fionna knew she'd be wracked with guilt if she could have done something to stop it but instead had stood idly by.

  She looked again at her watch. 6:21. Damn rude Americans.

  "Are you sure I can't get you anything?" It was the waitress. Again. "Something to drink at least?"

  They both knew Fionna was taking up valuable table space on a Friday night and still had not ordered anyt
hing.

  "No, thanks." Fionna stood up, ignoring the curious glances that were beginning to fall from other patrons—any one of whom might be a friend of Macintyre's. "I think I'll just be going. It looks like my friend won't be showing up after all."

  With that, she pulled on her coat, crossed the room under the inquisitive stares of the pub's paying customers, pulled up her hood, and headed out into the cold Aberdeen evening. The rain had all but stopped, but Fionna was still chilled by the damp air. She walked briskly toward her flat on Pittodrie Place, unaware that she had traded the stares of the anonymous patrons in the King Street Pub for the far more ominous surveillance of a shadow-darkened figure who waited across the street, just outside the reach of the streetlamp's glow.

  * * *

  Propping her bicycle haphazardly against a lightpole and not taking the time to lock it, Maggie dashed inside the King Street Pub. From where she stood, out of breath and dripping in the foyer, stone-heavy backpack still pulling her backwards, she could see the clock over the bar. 6:24. What she could not see was Fionna FitzSimmons.

  "Party of one?" The hostess had approached, menu in hand. "Or will someone be joining you?"

  "Actually," Maggie craned her neck to look around the twiggy blond in front of her, "I'm supposed to be meeting a friend here. But I'm a little late. Do you mind if I look around?"

  "Of course not," replied the hostess and she stepped far aside to let Maggie pass without brushing the wet jacket against her.

  The pub wasn't especially large so it only took a few moments to confirm that Fionna wasn't there. Maggie stood still, dripping on the floor, trying to decide what to do next.

  "Are you looking for a friend, miss?" A waitress had walked over.

  "Yes." Maybe she's still here.

  "A young woman, long curly black hair and a pretty round face?"

  "Yes, that's her. Is she still here?"

  "No, I'm afraid you've just missed her. She left not more than five minutes ago."

  Damn, Maggie thought. "Thanks anyway," she said.