The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7)

by Juliette Harper

  While Darby was cleaning up the table, Dad, Beau, and Chase spread out the fishing tackle catalogs and instantly became deeply involved in a conversation on the merits of live bait as opposed to lures.

  By virtue of his 19th-century birth, Beau adopted the pure position that worms, in the end, are the most “enticing piscine inducement.” Chase argued for something called a jig, and then Dad got on his fly fishing soapbox. We could have tossed a bottle rocket in the fireplace, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  Mom, Gemma, Tori, and Glory got right on the shoe thing, which rapidly devolved into a complicated debate over the correct incantation to use. All were in agreement that under no circumstance should any Louboutin be harmed in the execution of the reduction spell.

  Lucas, who hadn’t shown up until we were done eating, planted himself in one of the leather wingback chairs by the hearth. Greer joined him and listened patiently to a long recitation of his day in Cairo. With Lucas none the wiser, she caught my eye and gave an imperceptible nod first toward Festus and then in the direction of the alcove.

  Festus picked up on the gesture as well and proceeded to disappear under the table. The curtain over the entrance to my private nook rippled slightly, and I caught a rapid-fire glimpse of a yellow tail before the old cat was hidden from view.

  “If anyone wants me, I’ll be reading,” I said.

  No one even noticed I’d said a word.

  As I closed the curtain behind me, I said to Festus, “Talk fast. I don’t know how much time we have. How did things go in Raleigh?”

  I listened in silence until he got to the part about the figure we assumed to be John Smyth smelling like a deer.

  That bit of information drew a groan from my throat. “You are not getting ready to tell me there’s such a thing as weredeer, are you?”

  Festus made that cat face. You know the one. Like he just ran straight into a pile of the foulest substance on the planet.

  “For Bastet’s sake,” he said, “you’ve seen too many bad movies. No, there’s no such thing as weredeer. What the heck would a weredeer do anyway? Sprout antlers on the full moon and run around trying to get himself shot?”

  He had a point there, but I wasn’t ready to give up my skepticism. “Seriously,” I said, “you want me to believe that these street cats smelled this guy all the way down the alley?”

  “For your information, Miss Superior Humanoid,” Festus growled, “the feline sense of smell is roughly fourteen times better than yours. We have twice as many receptors in our noses than you do. And while we’re on the subject, there are days when you could step up your game in the deodorant department.”

  “Back off,” I said. “You don’t have to get personal about it.”

  “You started it insulting the street cats,” he said, laying his ears flat.

  “Okay, okay, fine,” I said. “My apologies. If the street cats say they smelled deer, they smelled deer. So what do you think is up with that?”

  Festus still regarded me with pursed whiskers, but his ears came back to normal. “I have no idea,” he said, “but if you want me to, I’ll run it by the triplets at the Registry.”

  He meant Merle, Earl, and Furl, three Scottish fold brothers, who work with the Registry investigating cases of shapeshifter misbehavior in the human world. They fix what they can and cover up what they can’t. We called them in, for instance, when a rogue werecat halfling, Malcolm Ferguson, left a dead man on our front doorstep.

  “Okay,” I said, “but tell them to keep it quiet. I don’t want anyone to know I’m digging into this.”

  “I know,” Festus said, jumping down. “I’m on it. Now let’s get back out there and act normal. The last thing I want is to get grilled by Chase when we get home.”

  “Trust me,” I said, getting up, “I don’t want to deal with my mother being suspicious any more than you want to deal with your son.”

  We timed our re-entry perfectly. As I drew back the curtain, a cheer went up from Tori and Gemma’s alchemy work area as Glory took her first wobbling steps in the Louboutins. Festus and I slid right back into the scene in the lair like we’d been there all along.

  By the time I climbed into bed later that night, I wasn’t thinking about Chase and Ann Marie, or even my unpleasant attack with vertigo from the night before. If anything, I had come to the conclusion that the experiment was a total success. We’d put a face on John Smyth, and Festus had come up with the intriguing detail that the man smelled like a deer. That alone might be enough to help narrow our search.

  The Casket of Morpheus still sat on my bedside table, but I didn’t chant the invocation spell or use any of Tori’s green dust. I needed a decent night’s sleep, not another wild trip down the rabbit hole. So I shut out the light, shoved the protesting cats over enough to make room for myself, and fell asleep.

  You ever think about how we say that — “fall” asleep? If you’ve ever fallen through a black void in the unconscious depths of slumber, you’ll never hear it as a benign turn of phrase again.

  In my dream that night, I fell — with flames surrounding my body and searing my flesh. My chest felt as if something had been driven through my rib cage. I don’t know what I feared more — dying when I hit bottom or living to endure more agonizing pain.

  Without warning, however, my momentum slowed and the air around me cooled. As I passed through a cloud of light mist, the flames went out. I did touch down, but with a feather-light impact.

  A voice to my left said, “Lift her carefully,” followed by the rhythmic sound of beating wings. In the dreamscape, I lost consciousness, but in my world, I came awake with a start.

  My first impulse was to open the grimoire and reach for the pen. Dispensing with formalities, I just said, “Draw it for me.”

  The pen did as I commanded, creating an impressionistic image first of a woman falling through a swirling void, her body encased in flame. Then, on the opposing page, the nib began to work on a different scene. The profile of an eagle emerged from the strokes against the backdrop of a rocky cliff. The bird sat beside the fallen woman, who was being tended by a small creature with pointed ears and — horns?

  Reaching for the magnifying glass, I studied the drawing more closely. Definitely horns. But then I choked on a strangled breath. The woman lying on the ground with a bloody wound in her chest was Brenna Sinclair.

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked the pen, which had returned to its leather enclosure.

  My question met with an outraged chirp. “Okay, okay,” I said, “you drew what I saw in my dream. Sorry.”

  Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I saw it was almost 2 a.m., but I didn’t care. Tori had to see this latest sketch — now.

  I went downstairs with the grimoire and the magnifying glass. When I knocked on her apartment door, several seconds passed before my bleary-eyed bestie opened it and looked at me with confusion.

  “World ending?” she mumbled.

  “Not exactly,” I said, pushing past her and plopping on the sofa. “But close enough.”

  “Come in,” she said, as the sarcasm center in her brain woke up. “What happened?”

  “You know how you said double enchanting an artifact wasn’t a great idea?”

  She joined me on the sofa. “This ought to be good,” she said. “Say it.”

  “You were right,” I answered automatically. “We kicked the Casket of Morpheus into high gear alright, but we definitely did not find the off switch.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Take a look at this,” I said, holding out the open book and the magnifying glass.

  First, Tori squinted at the woman’s face when I pointed it out to her, then she went completely still before flipping on a second lamp and looking again.

  “Oh, hell no,” she said finally. “What is she? The freaking Energizer Bunny from the dark side?”

  9

  “I continue to have reservations about this, Barnaby,” Moira said. “You know
that Jinx does not react well when she believes that information is being withheld from her. Given the rapid advancement of both her skills and her understanding, this subterfuge does not seem necessary.”

  The Lord High Mayor of Shevington sat at the desk in the Alchemist’s private study surrounded by piles of books and papers. Beside him, a block of quartz projected images of assorted objects in a holographic array several inches above its polished surface.

  “Thank you, Vicus,” Barnaby said to the stone. “Please work on cross-referencing the latest information.”

  “It will be my pleasure, sir,” Vicus replied obediently.

  Barnaby placed the quartz in his pocket and began fussing with the notebooks spread out on the desk.

  “We are not withholding information,” he replied stubbornly, avoiding Moira’s gaze. “We are merely attempting through careful research to delve more deeply into how my brother’s fascination with magical artifacts led him to the Amulet of Caorunn. When we have something to share with Jinx, we will.”

  Moira moved to stand behind him. She rested her hands on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles. “Would this have anything to do with your grandfatherly desire to let your family enjoy a proper Christmas?” she asked.

  Closing his eyes and leaning back, he said, “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “No,” Moira said, “but you did make rather a point of emphasizing the urgency attached to recovering this artifact. Do you think that it has escaped Jinx’s attention that you have not mentioned it in her presence since?”

  Barnaby reached up and caught hold of her hand. “Restoring Caorunn to its rightful place is a matter of urgency,” he said. “You understand that better than anyone, but the problem is that we cannot predict how Irenaeus will use the amulet unless we have some sense of what other objects he has amassed. Had I known of his acquisition of enchanted timepieces and navigational instruments, perhaps I could have halted his experiments into temporal magic.”

  Moira’s hands stilled. “So now you are gifting yourself with the powers of prognostication?” she asked.

  “Please do not let us quarrel,” he pleaded.

  “Barnaby, in the several centuries we have known one another, I can use the fingers of one hand to count the times we have quarreled,” Moira said. “You know that your brother used some means to suppress his powers when we examined him in 1936. Temporal magic is a rare and esoteric skill — one I would have said was completely beyond Irenaeus’ abilities.”

  “But that is just it!” Barnaby said. “He wants us to believe that he has no skills, and yet time and time again he proves that to not be the case. For now, the eleven remaining amulets are safe in the hands of the designated guardians. Colonel Longworth is in possession of the Phoenix. The most pressing question at the moment is what can Irenaeus accomplish with only one amulet.”

  Moira moved around to perch on the edge of the desk facing him. “My darling,” she said, “you must know that sending Lucas Grayson on errands all over the world is not the answer to that question. Even if you do amass a record of every artifact your brother may have acquired, you cannot fully anticipate how he will use them or the Amulet of Caorunn to further his ambitions. Scholarship has its limitations, Barnaby.”

  The wizard scrubbed at his face in frustration. “I know him too well, Moira,” he said. “Irenaeus ignores the cautionary principles of hereditary magic with complete impunity.”

  “Your brother does not possess hereditary magic,” she pointed out. “Irenaeus follows no rules save for those he creates for himself.”

  “That does not change the way the forces of magic work!” Barnaby cried in frustration. “There are natural rules! No good has ever come of attempting to marry the powers of individual artifacts. This is precisely the sort of thing he did as a boy when father set him to studying alchemy. I cannot tell you how many times Irenaeus blew up his laboratory or set the castle on fire. He was incorrigible!”

  Ignoring the force of the outburst, Moira held out her hand and said simply, “Come.”

  “Come where?” Barnaby asked with surprise.

  “Beyond the confines of these walls,” she said. “You have been inside too long. Walk with me in my garden. Allow the fresh air to calm your nerves and clear your mind.”

  “But snow has begun to fall,” Barnaby protested.

  “Yes,” she said, “and the flakes are large and lovely. This is snow we can enjoy, not the blizzard we’ve just endured. It is a beautiful winter day. We have our magic and one another to keep us warm. You said you do not wish to argue, so do not argue.”

  She emphasized the last words with a beguiling smile that erased the frown creasing Barnaby’s features. “Very well,” he said. “We will walk.”

  On the third circuit of the garden, when she felt the rigidness of his body begin to soften, Moira said, “Now, are you ready to discuss with me the political motivations behind your decisions to search for the amulet in this manner?”

  Barnaby sighed. “Am I so transparent?”

  “Only with me,” she said. “I know you are not anxious to work with Reynold Isherwood and the Ruling Elders on this matter. It would be far easier to simply present them with the recovered amulet as a fait accompli.”

  “It most certainly would,” he agreed.

  “Your concerns do not run to Reynold alone, do they?”

  “No,” Barnaby admitted. “I am unable to bring myself to trust the motivations of the assimilated Creavit of Europe. They sit among the Elders, Moira. They occupy positions of power and influence in the Fae world on the Continent. These are the very things that led us to leave our home and come to the new world. Perhaps these sentiments mean I am a bigot, but the thoughts remain in my mind.”

  They made another turn of the garden in silence. Then, as they approached the bench under the arbor, Barnaby said, “Shall we sit?”

  When Moira nodded, he used his gloves to brush away the accumulated snow. Once they were settled, Moira reached for his hand. “Forgive me for saying so, Barnaby, but you have only truly known two Creavit, Irenaeus and Brenna. You do not know those who live now in Europe. Many have even intermarried with the Hereditarium.”

  “I would say that together my brother and the Scottish sorceress have provided me with rather a complete education,” he grumbled.

  “And I would argue that they have not,” Moira replied. “The means by which a Creavit is made does involve striking a deal with the Darkness, but that does not erase free will from the soul of the created practitioner. Is it so impossible to believe that given time and circumstances, a Creavit might not see the wisdom of genuinely aligning themselves with we of the Hereditarium?”

  “A generous viewpoint, my love,” Barnaby said.

  “I think you can offer a better response to my assertion than that,” she chided softly.

  Barnaby sighed. “You are a relentless woman,” he said. “Very well, then. Your viewpoint is also a fair one, and mine perhaps is not. I must return to City Hall now, but I promise I will think about the things you have said and we will talk more this evening.”

  Moira leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss.

  “Your nose is cold,” Barnaby said when she pulled away slightly.

  “But my heart is made warm by you,” she said. “Now, go to work.”

  He stood and offered her his hand, but Moira shook her head. “I’m going to sit out here for a bit,” she said. “I have not yet meditated today.”

  “Won’t you be too cold?” he asked with concern.

  “Not if I meditate properly,” she smiled.

  Barnaby laughed. “Very well,” he said. “I will see you at dinner.”

  Moira watched him let himself out through the garden gate, his shoulders square and erect. The sight transported her back to a country manor in Kent in 1580 when she watched those same shoulders heave with tortured sobs as Barnaby cradled Adeline’s lifeless body in his arms.

  His grief unleashed an anguished tor
rent of uncontrolled magic, so intense the ground beneath the house shook. Moira learned later that the earthquake toppled chimneys in London and damaged the highest parts of Westminster Abbey, even opening a new section of the White Cliffs at Dover on the coast.

  Only Moira dared approach Barnaby that day, kneeling by his side and laying her hand on his back. “We must take her to the Druids,” she said in a strangled whisper. “She is a priestess of their order. There are certain rites that must be performed.”

  “Damn the Druids!” Barnaby cried out, pushing her away. “She is my wife!”

  Choked by her grief, Moira whispered, “Yes, she is your wife and the dearest friend of my heart. We are bound by those obligations of love to do as she would wish. We must take her to her people, Barnaby. They will prepare her soul for the next stage of its journey. It is their way, and it was Adeline’s belief.”

  Unable to meet her eyes, Barnaby only nodded. Beyond where they knelt, in the shadows of the great hall, Moira saw the house brownies huddled in small clumps, sobbing for their mistress.

  “Cornelius,” Moira called, “are you here?”

  “I am here, Alchemist,” the brownie said, stepping into the light.

  “Send a messenger to the Druid priests and tell them we are bringing Adeline home,” she directed. “Then go to my brothers, the forest elves, and say that I have need of their services.”

  “Yes, Alchemist,” Cornelius said. “And please, what may we do for Master Barnaby?”

  “I will stay with him,” Moira said. “Hurry now and do as I have bade thee.”

  Within the hour, the elves of the forest came to the manor, forming a circle around the fallen woman. At Moira’s behest, the elves took the great shield of a Templar knight from the wall, laid Adeline’s body upon its surface, and lifted the burden to their shoulders.

  Dusk fell as the solemn procession exited the manor and crossed the fields, hidden from prying human eyes by Moira’s softly chanted incantation. Passing through the nearest portal and into the forest of the Otherworld, they took Adeline to the Druids where, by the light of the full moon, her soul was given flight.