by Josh Lanyon
Blanche moved aside, and the kid—Ambrose Jones—stepped inside my office, casting a quick, curious glance at the vintage pen-and-ink sketch of the Salem Witch Trials, which hung behind my desk.
I half rose, offering a hand. “Hello. I’m Cosmo Saville.”
His hand was small, fine-boned, his grip tentative. He was very tall, very thin. He reminded me of a puppy that had not yet grown into its paws. There was something else he had not yet grown into, and I could feel it humming in the air around him.
“I’m Ambrose.” His brown eyes met mine, veered shyly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ambrose. You say Ralph Grindlewood sent you?”
He nodded, gave me another of those wide, diffident looks. “I am looking for work, but also…Mr. Grindlewood said you could help me.”
“Help you how?”
I had the uneasy feeling I already knew, but surely Ralph wouldn’t try to saddle me with this kid when he knew perfectly well I was absolutely the last person to take on such a responsibility—and that had been even before I was prime suspect in a murder investigation.
“I want to be your apprentice,” Ambrose said. “I want you to teach me to be a witch.”
Chapter Five
“That’s not something anyone can teach you,” I said. “You’re either born to it or you’re not.”
Not exactly true, but close enough.
Ambrose Jones’s eyes darkened. He raised his chin. “I am a witch. I think. But…I’m not sure. I need training.”
Kudos to him for knowing that much.
“The thing is, and Mr. Grindlewood knows this, I’m not practicing. Haven’t been for over two years.”
“He told me. He said that was why he believed you would be the best teacher. Because you’re trying to live a mortal life. You can see it from both sides.”
It being this kid’s decision to choose to live his life within the Craft. That’s what Ralph meant. If you didn’t grow up within the constraints—and protections—of a particular tradition, trying to move from a mortal life to a life within the Craft required a huge adjustment. Could even be dangerous.
“And even if I was still practicing, I’m not really equipped to take on an apprentice. I’ve never taught. I’ve never even shared spells in circle.”
I kept hoping to make the kid see reason, although I had a sinking feeling this was foreordained.
“But you could if you wanted to. You know how. You’re trained. Mr. Grindlewood says you’re well trained, that you know more old magic than any witch he’s ever met.”
“Yeah, but no. Besides, old magic isn’t even…it’s not practical. It’s theoretical. Most of it doesn’t even work now. That’s just academic interest. A hobby.”
Ambrose shrugged. “I don’t mind beginning with theories. I have to start somewhere.”
I opened my mouth, shut it. I did feel for the kid. I really did. He was—well, who could say, but he did have power. Unharnessed, unfocused, it buzzed beneath his skin like an alternate nervous system. Like those old cartoons where someone swallows a firefly and their stomach lights up, Ambrose Jones was lit from within.
And that was the last thing I needed right now. A witchling apprentice? I was trying to live a mortal life—was hoping to marry a mortal—oh, and let’s not forget, was a suspect in a mortal murder investigation.
I said regretfully, “I’m sorry, Ambrose. I just can’t take this on right now. I don’t know why Mr. Grindlewood thought I could. I’m getting married on Sunday, and then I won’t even be around for a few weeks.”
Ambrose said nothing, just gazed at me with those mournful dark eyes.
“If you’re serious about this, I could maybe try to recommend another master.”
Or mistress. It would serve Andi right if I sent Ambrose to her. Having to keep her eye on an apprentice ought to leave her too busy to meddle in other people’s business.
“Mr. Grindlewood said you would be the best.”
“Mr. Grindlewood is not even Craft.” I was starting to get exasperated. “How would he know who would be the best teacher?”
Ambrose shook his head. He seemed to think things over and said, “All right. You won’t take me as your apprentice. But you are looking for help? For the shop?”
“Yes, but—”
His expression grew pleading. “Mr. Saville, I really do need a job. I’m willing to do anything. Really.”
I sighed. “What’s your work experience like? Have you ever worked for an antiques dealer? Or an antiquarian?”
“No. I love books, though. I worked at the Barnes and Noble in San Bruno, but I wanted to move up here to live with my GramMa. She’s getting on, and there’s no one else to help.” He lifted his shoulders as though he could feel the weight of his responsibilities settling.
I did not want to know. I did not want to take him on. It wasn’t just his lack of experience. I could feel he was going to be trouble. Not feel in a Craft sense. Feel in a that-much-baggage-is-called-luggage-and-I-can’t.
“Please. You can call the store for references. They’ll tell you. I’m a fast learner. I show initiative and I-I’m self-motivated. And I’m willing to stay late or come in early—”
I shook my head. “I was hoping for someone with more—”
His face fell—he looked stricken—and I stopped.
Just because I was having a spectacularly fucked-up day didn’t mean Ambrose Jones had to. We did need help at the shop, particularly over the next couple of weeks, and if Ambrose didn’t work out, well, at least he’d have been given a fair chance.
I sighed. “All right. Go ask Blanche for an application. I’ll have to check your references, but if everything works out, you can start tomorrow morning.”
His smile was incandescent, and I couldn’t help thinking maybe I had made the right decision after all.
“Thank you, Mr. Saville. I won’t let you down.”
“Go. And it’s Cosmo.” I pointed at the door. “Close it after you.” I picked up the phone.
Ralph answered on the third ring—unsurprising because he works mostly from home, although he does guest lecture at colleges and universities now and then. I first met him four years ago when I acquired Blue Moon Antiques. He bought a repro copy of Francis Barrett’s The Magus and asked if I had ever handled the original 1801 edition.
That is not a typical question.
We became friends long before he revealed his startling knowledge of witches and Craft.
He’s about fifty, tall and thin and sort of scholarly. The quintessential bachelor, although he always has a very pretty and much younger girlfriend somewhere in the picture. Or maybe that is the quintessential bachelor.
Anyway, Ralph was home and taking phone calls.
“Cosmo. I’ve been thinking of you all morning. What a terrible experience. The police can’t seriously consider you a suspect.”
“So far they’re just calling it a person of interest.”
“Was it a summoning spell that brought you to Reitherman’s?”
My feelings for Seamus—and vice versa—were no secret in the antiquarian community, unfortunately.
“No. He invited me. The usual way. He said the Grimorium Primus had come into his possession.”
The silence on the other end had a stunned quality.
“That’s not…surely that’s not possible?”
“I don’t know. He was dead when I arrived.”
“My God.”
“Yes. Ralph, did you send me a boy named Ambrose Jones?”
His tone changed, lightened with relief. “Then he did contact you. I’m glad. I wasn’t sure he would.”
“But you know I’m not practicing.”
“I know. That’s one reason why I sent him.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I don’t know if this boy is witch-blood or not. I don’t know if it matters. What I do know is he’s going around asking questions of the wrong people. Not counting myself. He needs guidance. He need
s a mentor. And he needs to see there are alternatives.”
I opened my mouth, but before I could answer, Ralph added, “And he does need a job rather desperately. You mentioned last week needing to replace Antonia; well, Ambrose is smart, personable, and he’s living with his ninety-year-old grandmother who’s subsisting on what sounds to me like welfare fraud.”
“Terrific.”
“From what I’ve gathered, neither his mother nor uncle are willing to look after the old woman, so it’s all on young Ambrose.”
“Stop. I give up,” I said. “I offered him a job.”
“Excellent! I knew you’d take to him. He’s a very nice boy.”
I tried to be noncommittal. “We’ll see how he does.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” There was a smile in Ralph’s voice. “Well, then. Is there anything I can do as far as the, er, other situation?”
That tactful “other situation” brought me back to earth hard. I remembered that Seamus was dead, the grimoire was missing—assuming Seamus ever had it—and I was suspected of murder.
“No. John assures me SFPD will find the killer and…” I couldn’t quite finish there’s nothing to worry about because there was so much to worry about. None of which I could share with Ralph.
“I’m sure John’s having to walk a tightrope.”
“Yes.”
“But he’ll have walked tighter ropes than this.”
I had no idea. John didn’t talk much about his past. His focus was always on the immediate present or, as he liked to call it, the mission.
“Then I’ll see you Sunday,” Ralph said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
* * * * *
Ciara Reitherman was a witch, but not of the Abracadantès tradition. She claimed buidseachd tutelage, but according to Maman, she was mostly self-taught.
It’s relevant only because I knew Ciara had no stake—or likely even interest—in the Abracadantès’s claim to the Grimorium Primus. After all, Seamus had been Abracadantès and had shown no loyalty, except perhaps in offering me first look.
I haven’t explained about the Grimorium Primus yet. Think of it as a cross between a family Bible handed down through generations and your mémé’s treasured cookbook—complete with her secret recipe for macarons. It is one of The Five. One of the Great Grimoires, five original grimoires, each associated with an ancient tradition and, inevitably, a bloodline. Grimorium Primus may or may not be the first grimoire, but it is the most powerful—and it belonged to the Abracadantès.
Well, I mean, that’s the legend. Who knows, really? The fact is, the book has been missing for nearly a century. Ever since Great-great-great-uncle Arnold used it to murder Great-great-great-aunt Esmerelda.
(Never mind about that. Every family has its skeletons.)
The point is, having such a powerful and dangerous grimoire floating somewhere out there in the mortal realm was an embarrassment to my family and a potential catastrophe for la Société du Sortilège.
So, I did not expect much help when I arrived at the Reitherman house on Hopkins Street in Berkeley.
It was just before lunchtime. An unmarked police car was pulling away from the small Spanish-style home as I arrived. I waited for the detectives to disappear down the wide, tree-lined street before I strode up the front steps and through the porch’s arched doorway. Colorful glazed pots of caraway, catnip, and chamomile were positioned against the wall. A wreath made of tiny spring flowers and more healing herbs hung on the brick-red door.
I knocked.
Nothing happened.
I rang the doorbell.
Still nothing.
I was tempted to see inside.
I don’t mean look through the window. That can get you arrested, and I already had enough of that in my life. I mean see. But no. It’s not only rude, I had given up all that when I stopped practicing.
While I waited, my gaze idly wandered over the tidy lawns and neat flower beds. It was a pretty little house on a pretty little street. Not exactly Seamus’s style—or at least not the style of the old Seamus. Maybe marriage had changed him. Presumably marriage changed everyone.
I only hoped I got to find out for myself.
The door suddenly swung open. Ciara gazed at me with grief-dulled eyes.
She was in her forties. Tall for a woman, slender but shapely. Her eyes were green. Her hair was cut chin-length and colored in Cheshire Cat stripes of red and blonde.
“Blessed be, Ciara,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you myself I had nothing to do with Seamus’s death.”
Recognition blazed in her eyes; color came back into her white face. “You.”
I spread my hands, palms up. “I swear to you in the name of the Lady and the Lord. I swear by all that is holy. I had no part in Seamus’s death. I did not raise my hand to him. I did not—”
“That’s not what the police say.”
“What?” I gaped at her.
“There were two detectives here just a little while ago. They only asked questions about you. You’re the only suspect, Cosmo.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. Seamus said you would do anything to get your hands on the grimoire, and he was right.”
“Pay anything, yes. Not do anything. I wouldn’t kill.”
“And yet Seamus is dead. You’re the only one who knew about the grimoire. You’re the only one Seamus told.”
“That can’t be right.”
“Of course it’s right. He didn’t have to tell you he had the grimoire. He didn’t owe you anything. He owed the Abracadantès nothing. But he went out of his way to try to help you. And you turned on him.” Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them back furiously.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Any of it. Including the part about my being the only person Seamus told about the grimoire. One thing Seamus had never been was closemouthed. “Did the police actually say I was the only suspect?”
“They didn’t have to. You’re the person they asked about. The only person they asked about.”
“If I had killed Seamus—which I would never do—it would be for the grimoire, correct? But I don’t have it. I came to tell you I don’t have it and to see if you knew—”
In hindsight, there was probably a more diplomatic way to have approached the subject of the missing grimoire. I blame my lack of sleep and the shock of hearing the police weren’t even pretending they had other suspects.
Ciara’s eyes turned molten. “That’s why you came here? To ask about the grimoire? My husband is dead, and you’re whining about your family album? You rank, dank, hell-hated demon spawn reject of a witch.” She threw up her hand and began to speak in Gaelic.
“Avert!” I twisted my hand to turn the spell, stumbling back and half falling down the steps.
She followed me out into the portico, still pointing, still reciting—loudly—the words of her spell, clearly indifferent to the possibility of attracting the attention of her neighbors.
I landed at the bottom of the steps, babbled, “Open the door, I know no more.”
A door opened, child-sized, and only the Goddess knew where it led to, but I didn’t care. I shoved my way in, wriggled frantically, and pulled my feet through just as the opening snapped shut.
Chapter Six
I landed badly.
Hard. And in way too small a space. Which is what I got for using a child’s spell. But I had been too unnerved to think of a real spell. It had been two years since I’d performed an actual incantation.
I tried to sit up, and promptly banged the top of my head against… I sank back, squinting up through the gloom. I was sprawled beneath a small table. A child-sized table. I scooted out from under and studied the small chairs, the half-size fireplace with a witch’s cauldron replica.
I was in a child’s playhouse. To be precise, a witch child’s playhouse.
It looked eerily familiar.
The reason came to me. This was the p
layhouse located on the playground at Covenant Hall, the elementary school at the Academy of the Sacred Art, San Francisco, which I had attended from kindergarten through grade 12.
The last time I used that spell, I’d probably been a student here.
I stood up—sort of—and exited orangutan-style through the little green door. Across the yard a bell was chiming in the clock tower, and a mob of black-and-white-clad children poured out of the building, shrieking like baby birds, as they raced toward the playground.
“Oh God,” I said, but I was thinking in alarmed mortal terms, not calling upon the Lord or Lady.
“What on earth? Cosmo?” Someone spoke from behind me.
I whirled, probably looking a little wild-eyed, but the woman standing beside the faux-gingerbread playhouse stood her ground. She was nearly as small as a child and quite elderly. She was dressed all in black. Beneath the black cowl, her silver coif was embroidered with purple moons and stars and other holy symbols.
“Magistra Alizon.” I gulped, as though I was six years old again and had been caught writing No More Homework spells on the walls of the boys’ restroom.
“Cosmo Saville. It is you.”
I nodded. “I-I think I took a wrong turn.” I was speaking geographically, not morally.
“You’re all over the television. You’re all over the news.”
There are few things more frowned upon in the Craft.
“I know, but the things they’re saying… None of it is true.”
“They’re saying the police consider you a person of interest in Seamus Reitherman’s murder.”
“Well, yes, that part is true. They do”—I swallowed—”suspect me. But they’re wrong.”
She studied me with her bright, birdlike eyes and held out her hand.
I took her hand—my own was now large enough to engulf hers, though her grip was as strong as ever. After a moment, she nodded and released me.
I wiped my forehead.
By now we had an audience of pint-sized witchlings. They ringed us, gazing up in wide-eyed curiosity. In my day, mortal television was believed harmful and disruptive to the young. But nowadays—
