“She died because of a glass orb.”
“A what?” Jack wondered if he heard her correctly. His mind raced as to how an orb was tied to the death of the princess.
“The Orb of Eridu, to be exact.”
Jack frowned and tapped his pen against the pad of paper. “What is it?”
“Bad magic. Amelie and Jordan stole it, and the owner killed her to get it back. We’ll be looking at Rathbone’s participation, though we haven’t confirmed he was in the room that night.”
Questions popped in Jack’s head. So many answers he wanted, so many pieces to fit together. He parsed through the ones that might be helpful to the case. “What makes this so dangerous? Worth killing for?”
“This is hard for me, Jack. Your safety, my safety. The less you know, the better. I think.”
It was the crux to the entire case. The magic, their differences, her safety, his safety. And it was something Jack believed. He didn’t need to know everything and didn’t want to know all that they did to tamper with the evidence and witnesses. At the same time, Jack was curious: about Annie, about magic, and about this Orb of Eridu. Why was it so important that the princess was murdered? Jack knew he was lying to Annie and to himself. He really wanted to know.
“I don’t understand at all.” Relieved for his ignorance, the FBI Agent stared at Annie cautiously. “Is there anything I can do to help? I know it’s magic, but I am an investigator. I can help, and I don’t like giving up so much control.”
Still gnawing on her lip, Annie regarded his offer. Jack felt her gaze on him with her warm, chocolate-brown eyes deep in thought.
“Give me time to figure out how to include you. I need permission to read you in. I’m not really sure how much I’m allowed to tell you yet.”
“Fair enough. Why do all of our conversations leave me exhausted?”
“Don’t call so much.”
*
The nearly empty employee record seemed odd and, if possible, made Anne Pearce more compelling than before. Rebekah spent the better part of an hour searching for the officer on the Internet. She expected very little, and very little is what the reporter got. An address in Oak Park, Illinois, gave her someplace to start.
At least Anne lives somewhere.
Rebekah tried all the social media sites, high schools in and around Oak Park, and police union. There was nothing pertaining to Anne Pearce, and that upped the peculiar quotient.
Okay. So what twenty-three-year-old is nowhere on the internet?
Even more than before, Rebekah believed Anne had a secret—and she was more determined now to find out what it was.
Rebekah had chosen to work in journalism due to a naturally curious nature and her enjoyment of discovering new things. On this particular occasion, that curiosity led her to sitting in her car, spending the entire morning outside the detective’s home, only to leave because she had to pee. After spending two days trying to catch Anne leaving, staking out both the back and front doors, Rebekah decided that either Anne knew she was being watched and slipped out through the opposite door or she worked the night shift, and Rebekah was long gone when she left.
Undeterred, the journalist switched focus and followed Jack Ramsey, tracking him from his high-rise apartment to the Cook County Morgue, where he remained for most of the morning. In between waiting for him to leave and reading several trashy magazines, Rebekah observed Princess Amelie’s coffin being loaded into a large van for her last trip home. With the princess’s body safely on its way, Jack rushed from the parking garage through the morning traffic to Grant Park.
Great minds think alike, thought Rebekah as she trailed him into the garage.
The FBI agent took two stairs at a time. For his age, the journalist found him rather spry and in good shape; she had a hard time keeping up with him in her skirt and heels.
I should have worn gym shoes.
Already across the street and interspersed in the park with the tourists and locals enjoying the warm breezy day, Rebekah headed across the street, along with the throngs of others heading out to lunch. She took in the park and, on a hunch, followed her own previous path to the retaining wall at the fountains. It unnerved her slightly when she found Anne Pearce and Jack Ramsey sitting together.
Realizing her dress was far too formal for sightseeing and that she didn’t necessarily fit in, Rebekah hid herself on the other side of the fountain with just enough viewing room to see the two speak. Far different than their last discussion at the double homicide, they were calm at what appeared to be a designated meeting.
Still unsure about her ultimate goal, Rebekah snapped several pictures during their short conversation. It wasn’t long; they passed no tangible information to each other, though Jack seemed to be weary after their meeting. After they said goodbye, the agent headed back to the parking lot, leaving Anne to sit alone on the wall.
Finally having Anne in a location she could follow her from, Rebekah observed a quick yet animated phone call. Again, it must have been an update only, as the officer left soon after, blending herself into the growing lunch crowd. The journalist followed, easily maneuvering her way through the employees heading back to work after their hour breaks. She followed the bobbing head of Anne as she sauntered at a quick clip across the busy street.
To keep up with her person of interest, Rebekah ran across Michigan Avenue after the light turned, causing several to honk. She held up a hand in apology and dashed the rest of the way, still tailing the curly brown hair.
Pushing against the throngs, Rebekah peered ahead to see Anne glance down an alley and turn quickly between two buildings. The reporter ran in her heels, the balls of her feet burning as she skidded and stopped at the alley.
Nothing more than a large garbage dumpster and an empty parked car remained in between the two buildings.
Empty? How is this possible?
Holding back a scream, Rebekah blew out a deep breath and a frustrated groan before heading back to her office.
*
Jack rummaged through his near-empty refrigerator for something to eat. Sniffing through some leftover Chinese food containers, he found something still fresh and carried it and a beer to his leather club chair and switched on the television. After flipping through the channels, he chose a late-night rerun of a sitcom and grabbed his research to read while eating his cold dinner.
I shouldn’t have done this. Technically, this case belonged to him, and his victim had died over a magical object, so Jack made a choice. And now after hours alone in his high-rise apartment with the only light coming from his 54-inch television that he never got to use, Jack stared at this book. It caused deep anxiety as it rested in his lap, so he popped yet another antacid to settle his stomach. The beer chaser did little to mask the tablet’s chalky, dusty flavor.
Jack had purchased the tome at a bookstore that he had passed several times without ever knowing its true nature, all along believing the establishment was a tiny tea shop owned by an elderly lady who always wore a floral smock over her dresses. After meeting Annie, the world changed, and his mind opened to the subtle clues all around him. The shop, for the first time, took on an appearance far different than he expected.
I’ll have to ask her why that happened.
But he already knew the answer. Magic.
As his legs had propelled him inside the shop before he could change his mind, the owner, a short, irritated man with grimy, wild hair and blue eyes had greeted him with a sneer and blocked the exit, making turning and leaving a less viable option.
The bookseller had glowered at Jack as he perused the shelves. The hair on the back of the agent’s neck crawled; he patted his hip where his gun lay at easy reach. Before long, the bookseller handed Jack a book, imploring him to take it, promising an interesting read. In order to leave and be away from the man, Jack had reluctantly handed over his money, which the man gleefully pocketed.
The entire transaction felt like a set-up—and odd. He knew I’m not
magical.
And now the book sat in his lap, opened to the first interior page, which revealed a print date of 1680. Having no previous knowledge of antique books, Jack took the date at its word, even though the leather-wrapped cover appeared new, not centuries old.
Knowledge of the Orb of Eridu teased him. The glass ball, the center of Amelie’s murder— who wanted it so badly they would kill a nonmagical for it, and what did they want it for?
The shopkeeper had called this tome a Book of Shadows, a witch’s book of spells and potions, demons and vampires, all things that shaped the experience of the witch or wizard. The man had insisted it was good magic. Jack failed to trust him.
With shaky hands, Jack turned to the first entry, a page neither yellow nor brittle as one might expect in such an old book. The page decorated with an ornate border of vines and roses, enclosed a handwritten poem scrawled in a light hand.
Jack touched the words, following the swoops in the ink, the unevenness of the hand. Carefully examining the page, he noticed small symbols interlaced in the border. He longed to know what they meant.
Jack read the stanza out loud.
To those who seek
Knowledge and truth,
This book will serve.
To those who wish harm,
Destruction will come to you.
It causes me harm if I read it with harmful intent?
Jack wished no harm; his objective was simple—find out why Princess Amelie was murdered. Jack reread the passage, letting the importance of each word sink in. Still and silent, the book lay unmoved.
Did I really think something would happen?
And yet Jack felt disappointed.
The next entry was written in language so old it was foreign to him. He continued to flip through the pages, noting the bold and colorful ink drawings. They were highly detailed and a little repulsive, and yet he couldn’t stop perusing the pages, like watching a train wreck.
The tome was filled with these symbols and pictures drawn in the border and added to the margins. Jack promised himself he’d draw them out in the morning and ask Annie about it when his head cleared.
I wonder if Annie owns a Book of Shadows.
Jack fell asleep to the television’s white noise, unaware of the soft humming coming from the tome or the vibration against his dress pants. Had he been awake, the FBI agent would have known something was odd with his purchase. Instead, he woke early in the morning with the book resting on the floor by his feet.
*
Wolfgange Rathbone sat behind a large, oak desk in his study. Lined across the top of his nearly empty desk sat four glass boxes, each containing a thick, foam pad wrapped in dark purple velvet. Nestled in three of the boxes: the most perfect glass spheres ever forged by magic. They reflected soft, white light from the lamp above. The fourth box remained empty, teasing him with the robbery perpetuated by Wellington’s boy and his brat princess. Rathbone glared at the empty box, anger boiling in the pit in his stomach.
He reclined in his leather desk chair, rubbing the black-and-white stubble on his chin and grimacing at his haggard appearance. The wizard blamed the vampire for this state of being; the creature should have stolen the orb from that stupid boy and killed him by now. This delay set the plan back nearly a week. In his fury, he slammed his fist against the table, causing the glass spheres to rattle in their boxes.
After a cleansing breath, Rathbone opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the package, wrapped in linen and tied with twine. The wizard pulled on the binding releasing the Golden Athame from its protection.
The knife, poured from solid gold four centuries before, balanced perfectly in his hand and hummed against his skin. It glinted under the light of his desk lamp. Etched into the hilt were symbols of an ancient language long since dead. Rathbone’s inability to interpret the primordial spell kept him from harnessing the athame’s full power. A successful outcome to this ridiculous plan slipped farther from his grasp; without the athame, he needed the fourth orb and that idiot Sturtagaard.
Time quickly slipped away from him as the Day of First Sun drew closer. Only the power of that day would allow the plan to succeed. The athame gleamed as the light reflected on its perfect gold devoid of imperfections and marks.
A knock rapped against his door, breaking him from his thoughts; the late-night interruption troubled Rathbone. He stowed the athame away in his desk drawer as if the article meant nothing, slamming the drawer shut.
“Enter.”
A small, thin man, hunched and trembling, entered the dimly lit study. Unable to look Rathbone in the eyes, the man stared at the burgundy carpet that covered the den.
“Sir, we have news.”
“Well, out with it,” Rathbone said.
“The vampire, sir.”
“What’s with the vampire? Speak, man!” Anger reverberated around the oak walls. The man at the door cringed.
“He’s been captured and is being held in Tartarus Prison, sir.” The man leaned into the door, the handle pressed against his lower back and pinched the skin. He made no more effort to move and held his breath with fear.
“And my orb? Where is it?” Rathbone grit his teeth, his brows furrowed, his brown eyes small and beady like an angry mouse, ready to pounce.
“The boy had the orb. He’s at Ta-Tartarus as well.”
Rathbone flew from his desk chair and lunged at the man, grabbing him around the neck. The pressure forced the door handle further into his kidney. The man’s knees grew weak, and he quivered against the door, rattling the hinges. His eyes danced around the room, remaining on nothing in particular for more than a few seconds. They finally rested on the window behind Rathbone.
The moon was thick and full, and its light protruded through the blinds. It was a cold blue light that, mixed with the burgundy, left the room a nauseating gray. The man blanched.
“The Wizard Guard is in possession of my orb!” Crazed in anger, Rathbone ran for his desk, grabbed the empty glass box, and launched it at the man’s head—the glass shattered missing him by inches.
Rathbone’s shouts rang through his mansion. He heaved one breath after another before clearing his throat and smoothing his hair. Once composed, he stepped over the pile of debris and sat in his chair.
“And we have no access to Wellington now?”
The employee shook his head.
“Damn vampire! At least there’s no connection between me and him. That I made perfectly clear.”
His employee nodded in agreement.
“Stonewell. Tell him to find the orb. He has access to it now.”
The timid man nodded and bowed.
“Now!”
The man scampered out of the study, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Retrieving the athame from its hiding spot, Rathbone ran his fingers over the ancient symbols, willing the blade to reveal its secrets. The symbols offered no new knowledge; the orbs and athame remained unchanged.
He threw the knife in anger, wedging the blade deeply into the hard grain of the door frame. After several tries, the summoning spell freed the dagger, and it flew to his palm.
Turning the hilt toward him to examine the engraved markings, he found a familiar word that meant “possess.” Unable to translate the rest, he still broke out into a smile. It wouldn’t be long now before the athame possessed the power he wanted most.
Chapter 15
Rebekah’s newest assignment kept her away from the office, from home, from her prior commitments, leaving her no time to follow up with her thoughts since spying on Anne and Jack at Grant Park. Finally, finishing her story, the journalist returned to the office after a week, to download her pictures and take a closer look.
Evening saw just a handful of employees still working in the newsroom. Three desk lamps burned as Rebekah walked swiftly through the otherwise empty room, heading toward her desk at the back end of the space.
I should be able to work without interruption, she thought as she
turned on her computer and downloaded sixty pictures from her phone. The camera phone did a great job capturing Anne’s meeting with Jack, from the circles under Jack’s eyes to the nervous bite of Anne’s lip. With the close-ups, Rebekah sensed tension between the two.
“Hey, Bekah. Whatcha doing here so late?”
The reporter jumped in her chair. “I… oh. Hi Stacey. You startled me. I thought I was alone. I’m just working on an assignment.” Clicking on a new window, her hands shook with nerves.
The college intern was dressed in slacks too large for her that hung off slim hips and a white button-down shirt. She craned her neck looking at the rest of the piles on Rebekah’s desk.
“I’m finishing up some research. Yours must be important. Is there anything I can do?”
Rebekah slammed the file shut, pulled the folders together, and neatly stacked them beside her.
“Nah. Just a project. I think I’m good.” She shoved the folder inside her bag and rested her hand on it as if to protect the contents.
“Guess you found something. Anyway, I thought I’d ask. See ya.” Stacey bounced away, her long, blonde hair floating behind her.
Positive Stacey wouldn’t return, Rebekah opened her computer and pulled up the Internet for another search of Anne Pearce.
*
Sprawled across her bed, Annie scribbled on a pad of paper, crossing out and re-marking her notes. The television hummed behind her with some show she’d never seen before. The light flashed as the scenes changed; one commercial came on and then another. Her temples pounded from stress and lack of sleep. Too tired to run downstairs and make a potion, she ignored the pain.
The meeting with Jack and his follow up call, left her stretched too thin. Their conversations replayed in her mind on a loop and each time she ended up punching him in the face. It wasn’t his fault. His stress was palpable and he passed on to her.
Glancing at her notes, names swirled on the page: Rathbone, the associate, Jordan, Amelie, Sturtagaard, the Orb of Eridu. The letters, the words, the timeline of the murder, and the events of that night and since danced around her head; the pounding, like a beating heart, increased. Annie could no longer concentrate on anything other than going after Rathbone, which terrified her.
The Day of First Sun (Annie Loves Cham Book 1) Page 16
