“And be forced to eat your mother’s cooking. That is unusually cruel even for you. I’ve not had twenty-two and a half years to build up immunity.”
“Hey, there is this thing called tact, and only I get to insult my mother’s cooking.”
“Pfft, tact is for people who aren’t witty enough to be sarcastic.”
Incarra smiled over the rim of her cup as cream smeared across her top lip, giving her a little mustache. I laughed and she broke off a bit of cookie, chucking it toward me. I caught it and wiped a finger over my top lip. She took a napkin and scrubbed at her mouth.
“So are you back to working at that club?”
“Yeah, sometimes I’m there.”
“Did you get that hottie out of trouble with his bosses?”
“Who? Aram? Yes, but it’s causing me more problems. Magnus and I had a fight last night over him—his attentions haven’t leveled off.”
“Boyfriend got jealous.”
“Irrationally so. He got very aggressive, to prove that he owned me or something, so I kicked him out. I’m still waiting for him to apologize.”
Incarra shook her head at me. “He’s a man, he ain’t gonna.”
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my legs, rubbing the heel of my boots against an itch on my shin. Magnus always apologized when he was wrong, and he had been wrong, hadn’t he? I know what it looked like, but I couldn’t have stopped Aram, and I had never told Magnus that it wasn’t our first kiss. Well, I say “our,” but I hadn’t really responded, not in more than an involuntary way. I was sick of talking about me.
“What were you up to last night? Your eyes were a little stressed out.”
“The jerk Facebooked me.”
The jerk was Incarra’s first boyfriend, her high school sweetie who had gone totally psycho on her toward the end of their relationship because she was growing and changing while he was staying the same. He wanted her to stay the same too; he didn’t realize that people were meant to grow and change.
“Ouch, sounds like it hurt.”
“Mmm, right here,” she said, putting her hand over her heart. “We talked pretty much all night, and, well, it ended with me blocking him and all his messages. He hasn’t changed. He’s even voting BMP.”
I shook my head disapprovingly and chewed on my slice of cookie, which made my stomach grumble with both hunger and appreciation. I’d barely eaten last night after such a long day. Incarra checked her watch.
“I got class. I’d offer to walk with you, but since you’re not doing that anymore...”
I swiped my hand at her across the table and she ducked back, poking her tongue out at me. I stood up, downing the last of my coffee.
“I can walk part of the way with you. I work nights, so it’s not like I have anything better to do.”
She got up, bouncing like her normal self, and she even winked at the cute barista whom we had slightly creeped out earlier. I held the door open for her, and we went out into the snow.
* * * *
I grabbed a bagel at a deli before heading home later as the sun was starting to set in the sky. I’d dithered about town for a little while, doing some window shopping while waiting for the night to come. I skipped up the steps of my building as the shudder rolled down my spine and the crossover happened. I went back to my mailbox to check it again. A large manila envelope was inside with a Birmingham postmark—it had to be from the prison. I crossed the corridor and opened the door to my new office. The glass in the door had “Farbanks Investigations” written on it in beautiful gold letters. My desk sat across from the doorway, a large oak classic that I had searched antique stores in Malvern to find. It was the kind you expected to see in old-time detective movies. I’d gotten two brown suede chairs to sit across from it for clients to use, to make them feel comfortable. I had a plastic fern in the corner and some tasteful art on the mocha-colored walls; I’d seen on some design show that it was a very warm, comforting color. I had a hat stand as well, which I hung my bag and coat up on before slinging the envelope on the desk. One side wall was lined with filing cabinets labeled to cover all twenty-six letters of the alphabet, and I was very proud that I’d be able to put my first case file in there soon. That wall had another door in it, and I could hear tinkering from inside. I opened the door and peered in. A large man was bent over the toilet, his overalls pulled up and a plaster-splattered red toolbox on the floor behind him.
“Hey, Ralph. Working late?”
He rolled up onto his knees and looked over his shoulder at me, wiping his forehead with the back of a hand that held a spanner.
“I wanted to get this working for you, Ms. Farbanks. Shower and sink are running, toilet’s the last one, but if you want me out of your hair?”
“No, it’s fine, but make sure you bill me for the overtime. I know you’ve got a family to get home to, so I appreciate it.”
He smiled at me and got back to work. I went back into the office, shutting the door, and sank into the leather of my chair. I’d gone for one of those chairs that looked like it would be right at home on the set of a Bond film, in the villain’s lair. I must have swiveled around in it for a good half an hour, doing my impression of Blofeld, but Nancy had refused to let me make it as authentic as possible. When Nancy and I’d met we’d gotten on like a house on fire—well, we’d clicked. She’d been the first one to help me with my magic. My power had emerged so late in life. Most witches developed their abilities at puberty—as if that time of life wasn’t hard enough already. Even then, you had to a pass an exam to be apprenticed, to join the Magic school; if you didn’t have enough potential, your power was left to die out. Magical talent un-nurtured died out to nothing. Some only failed by a margin, and that’s when you got warlocks. They kept trying, teaching themselves till they were stronger and quite bitter. The system had let them down, and their first instinct was to use the power they had cultivated on their own to attack those that had denied them training. That was why there was always a call for enforcers. I had originally thought I’d been sent to Virginia—an ex-enforcer—because I was going to learn to become an enforcer. That assumption had been quickly quashed.
Now I took a letter opener that had been a gift from LeBron for starting my own business and sliced through the seal of the envelope. I turned it upside down, and some papers plus colored photos tumbled out. I read the attached note.
Ms. Farbanks, as per your request, these documents contain a record of all mail and items received by Prisoner Ivan Petrovich in the past six months. I hope it helps. Pert-Smith.
I pulled the papers together and looked at the list. I took a high lighter from my desk drawer and started highlighting each letter from his daughter. He’d gotten one every two weeks until about a month ago; then she’d just stopped writing. It was unusual that she would just stop after she had been so faithfully keeping in touch. I made a note to myself that it might be worth looking into that and maybe talking to her.
From what I could make out from looking at Petrovich’s body, he had switched bodies with the guard Stone, then beaten himself so severely that it wouldn’t be noticed for a long time. Time enough for him to get out into the real world—but for what end, and how had he done it? Nothing about his cell had even remotely suggested he knew magic, and if he did, why had he sat his sentence out until then? He could have gotten out at any time if he was a wizard in a human jail. That was why the wizard council had its own punishments and prisons.
I flicked through the photographs until I came across an interesting picture of a pendant. It was a beautifully crafted silver medallion with a bright green gem in the center that could very well be an emerald, judging from the quality. Around it were smaller cut stones in groupings that looked slightly symbolic, green as well but lighter, like peridot. It was an amazing piece of jewelry. I hadn’t been aware that inmates could order things in
to the prison; he must have bought it at some sort of online auction or shop or something. I flipped to the list, checking for the log that matched the photo, when the phone rang next to me. I lifted the receiver and pressed it to my ear as I kept scanning down the list.
“Farbanks Investigations,” I announced proudly.
“Am I talking to Miss Cassandra Farbanks?” The voice was female and soft; I placed the speaker somewhere in her late twenties.
“Yes.”
“I’m calling from Mayor Mayla’s office. He requests your presence for a personal meeting at eight tonight. Can you make that?” I looked at my watch. It was five thirty. I didn’t see why I couldn’t, but what the mayor wanted to see me about was something of a mystery.
“Sure, I can make that.”
“Excellent, we’ll be expecting you.”
I returned the receiver to the cradle and focused back on the list. The parcel that had contained the necklace had arrived only a week before he had made his escape, and the return address had been noted. It was a shop in Worcester. I wrote down a copy of the address just as the bathroom door opened.
“Okay, Ms. Farbanks, you’re all set. I’ll send the bill in the post.”
“Thanks, Ralph. I’m just on my way out myself. Have a good evening.”
Chapter Four
When I got to the shop the windows were dark and the closed sign was across the door, but a small sliver of light came from the back of the store, what could be an office. Someone was still there. The sign on the shop’s facade read “Silverman Antiquities.” I peered in through the window and saw a magnificent grandfather clock, several large pieces of furniture, a few glass-topped display cases, an old globe, a wooden rocking horse, and bookcases lined with ancient-looking books. I rang the bell and knocked hard on the window. The door at the back opened and the light spilled out, revealing a rich red carpet over a highly polished wooden floor.
A man shambled toward me. He looked aged and as if he’d come from a different time. His shirt and pants were perfectly pressed; his green tartan waistcoat was buttoned tight across an expansive middle. He pulled an old silver fob watch from his pocket, clicked the cover open and stared at it. He came closer and looked out through the glass. His face was weathered, with lines around his eyes and deep jowls that made him look like a little bulldog. His hair was pure white, combed flat back against his skull.
“I’m sorry, young lady, but I’m closed.” His voice came like a whisper through the glass. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my professional ID. I flipped it down like I was an FBI agent, and part of my brain was giddy with the fact that I had actually been able to do that for the first time.
“Sir, my name is Cassandra Farbanks. I’m a paranormal investigator; I need to talk to you about an item you sold recently.”
He looked at me, puzzled, and stared at my ID through the glass for a minute before unlocking the door and pulling it ajar. I showed him my ID again before slipping it back into my pocket.
“I will take as little of your time as possible, but if I could just talk to you about—”
“You’d best come in,” he said, taking a step aside to hold the door open for me. I stepped into the dimly lit shop and listened to him lock the door behind us. He led the way back to his office and cleared space for me to sit on a chair. “Cup of tea, Miss Farbanks?”
On the sideboard behind a desk clumsily piled with papers sat a kettle and a little brown china teapot and several chipped mugs. I smiled and accepted the offer to help keep me warm through the next few hours. I let him make the tea; he produced milk from a small fridge in the corner and passed over a very pale cup of tea. He took a seat across from me, checking the time on his watch again before slipping it back into his waistcoat pocket.
“So, how can I help you, Miss Farbanks?”
I reached into my jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out the photograph of the pendant. I place it down on the desk in front of him.
Silverman patted down his pockets and then started searching through things on the desk. He pulled out a pair of round wire-rimmed frame glasses, which he balanced carefully on the end of his nose before taking up the photograph and peering at it.
“I believe you sold this item quite recently.”
“Yes, I remember this. Quite an expensive piece of jewelry because of the emerald here, you see.” He poked a wrinkled finger down on the center of the pendent. “Came to me through an estate sale, if I recall correctly. Let me just look at my records.”
He pulled himself up from his chair, his bones creaking almost as much as the chair itself, and waddled his way over to a bookcase where he ran his fingers over the ledgers on the shelf. I took a sip of the tea and nearly gagged. I don’t much care for tea, but this had to be the worse cup of it I had ever tasted. I put it down on the desk behind a pile of papers, obscuring it from view as he sat back down, a brown ledger in his hands. The pages looked brittle and stained with columns of neat handwriting.
“I can’t be doing with these modern computer gizmos. I’m too old to learn them.” He readjusted his glasses and started looking down the page, following his fingers. “Let me see.” He turned the page and continued till he came to something and tapped it with his finger.
“Here we go. Estate sale from an old manor house—poor old guy died with no family to leave anything to. I bought several items from there; he had quite a collection of knickknacks and some fabulous pieces of furniture. I could only take some of the smaller pieces, though; such a shame.”
I tapped the photograph. “The pendant, Mr. Silverman. What can you tell me about it?”
“It was in a chest of several trinkets and papers; it was tagged, in fact. The amulet of Taish. Silver with emerald center and archaic inscription on the back.”
I fished around in my pocket for my notepad and wrote down the name.
“Do you have anything on the inscription? A copy of it, maybe.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m still cataloguing some of the newer things in the shop, and that sold quite quickly. I was surprised really.”
“You’re not online?” I checked.
“No ma’am.”
“Do you remember who bought it?”
He stroked his chin as he thought about it.
“A man in a suit, very official looking, on behalf of a third party. He paid in cash and gave me an address to send it to. I left it with my assistant to package up and send out.”
It sounded like Ivan had sent his lawyer in to purchase it. Providing the cash straight out wouldn’t have been difficult for him if he was as well off as the governor had suggested. The amulet of Taish wasn’t something I’d ever heard of, but a name like that suggested the item was steeped in mystical power. If it were powerful enough, Ivan Petrovich didn’t need any magical talent at all to use it. A little research to know what it did, and he could probably have cobbled together enough to work with it.
“Can you tell me more about where it came from? Who did the manor belong to?”
Silverman put the ledger down and looked at me squarely. He locked his fingers together and took in a deep breath.
“Now, Miss Farbanks, I’ve answered your questions so far without explanation. But if you want to know things like that, I’m going to need to inquire as to why you want to know about this?”
I nodded. It was a reasonable enough request, and I wasn’t the police. I didn’t have any policies laid down against talking about an ongoing investigation. Of course, I had to edit my explanation so that it would make sense—talking to a normal person about body-switching magic would be likely to leave him less cooperative than before.
“The third party was a man in prison in Birmingham; I am trying to determine whether or not this amulet held any mystical properties that allowed him to escape recently.”
Silver
man’s mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged a little. He coughed and pounded his fist gently on his chest to gather himself. Then he turned his eyes back to the ledger, using his finger to find his place again.
“The call came from a house in Battenhall Avenue.”
I made a note of the address, smiled and thanked him as he showed me back through the store to the door. He shut it and relocked it behind me, going back to his mess of an office to sort through the debris. I promised myself that I would never, ever let my office get like that. It was why I had bought the filing cabinets.
Battenhall Avenue was at the tail end of Wizard world—the affectionate name for the area of Worcester that was mainly inhabited by Wizards and witches and their families. It was quite close to the Wizard council building that had strangely once been a convent. I had to bet that the house these items had come from had belonged to a Wizard, and what had been sold to Mr. Silverman had been approved by the council. When a Wizard died with no family, they sent someone to make sure nothing potently magical ended up in the hands of normal humans who might misuse or unleash power they had no understanding of. Seeing as the pendant had apparently been in a trunk full of papers, it had been missed. I needed to find out more about it if I could. I couldn’t go to the house; it would probably have new occupants by now who would have no idea at all about the property of the previous owner. I could approach the council about it, but I wanted to avoid that. I didn’t like the council much, and going in there and pointing out that they had missed this potentially powerful amulet was not the best way to approach them. I would have to find another source of information.
I looked at my watch quickly. I had just about enough time to grab some dinner somewhere before my meeting with the mayor.
Chapter Five
I’d done an awful lot of sitting in chairs waiting lately. The mayor’s office reception area was tastefully decorated in creams and off-white neutral colors. Selective prints of great works hung on the walls, and comfy chairs like the one I was sitting in dotted the room around a desk that had to belong to the mayoral secretary. No doubt the woman who had called me this afternoon to invite me in. Behind her desk, the wall split into a long corridor that led back to where I could see a couple of offices and a double door at the far end with a gold plate that read Mayor’s Office.
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