by Josh Lanyon
A strong enchantment protected the store itself from the city’s network of netherworld doorways, which was why once again I had to enter half a block down from the Creaky Attic and walk up the street.
I had pretty much forgotten all about the dark presence that had followed me on Thursday night, and it was not waiting near the postern. But when I was within a few feet of the store, I sensed it drawing close.
I stopped walking.
“Spirit show thyself,” I said.
Across the street, traffic lights changed colors. Caution. Stop. Go. Caution. I continued to wait. A crumpled Doritos bag scraped its way down the sidewalk. Nothing else happened.
Yet it was there. I could feel it hovering. Feel the charge of black emotion: unhappiness, anger. There was no graveyard nearby. How had it come to be here? A violent death on the street? A traffic accident perhaps? Some tragedy had left this poor soul stranded.
But no. This was not simply a lost soul. A ghost, yes, but not only a ghost. There was magic at work here, there was…witchery in this.
It was too great a coincidence that this spirit lingered just a yard or so from the Creaky Attic. Had it been brought here through some article in Seamus’s store—and then banished to the street outside?
On impulse, I said, “Fantôme, montre toi.”
A silhouette began to take shape in front of me, the inky outline of…I wasn’t sure. Tall, slight…
A chill slid down my spine.
A witch. More alarming, in life she had been Abracadantès.
“Qui es-tu?”
The vague black mist wavered, rolled. A sudden flash of crimson illuminated the black and featureless face. Not good. Never a good thing.
The street lamps and traffic lights all turned red and began to blink on and off. Blood-red shadows pulsed against the buildings and sidewalks in silent, angry heartbeats.
The dark presence vanished, pinched out, like cold water on a hot ember.
I wiped my damp forehead.
Ohhh-kay. The spirit of a wicked witch was trapped on the street outside the Creaky Attic. After this, a little breaking and entering ought to be a piece of cake.
I continued to the front door of the store. Crime-scene tape stretched across the entrance. I snapped my fingers, and it ripped down the middle.
I raised my hands, said, “Ticktock, turn the lock.”
The handle turned to the right, turned to the left, but the door stayed locked.
Damn.
I tried an oldie but a goodie. “Open locks, whoever knocks.”
The door banged in its frame but held fast.
This was probably Ciara’s work. Not that I blamed her for throwing a few barriers up after the catastrophe that had occurred here.
Okay, so a formal incantation was required. Cadence. Concentration. Full sentences.
Open the door that is always there
Grant my passage through thin air
The secrets that may lie within
Are now my own, now let me in!
The locks clicked, the handle turned, the door to the shop swung open. I crossed the threshold cautiously, prepared for… I wasn’t sure what.
My nose twitched—the non-magical way—at the mix of scents: incense, furniture polish, crime-scene chemicals.
Déjà boo. Last time I did this, it didn’t go so well. I can’t deny I was on edge, uncertain—and that had been before I ran into the dark presence.
“Oliver?” I called.
Tonight, there was no light to guide me. Shadowy, ungainly forms stood at the head of crowded aisles. I passed the Secor wooden barrel chest, the empty square where the Broadwood upright piano had stood, a gold-painted grandfather clock that I could tell, even in the dark, had been made in China.
As soft as my footsteps were, they sounded loud in the stark silence.
“Oliver?”
My nerves jumped as the Wicca figure candles in a box on the other side of the aisle burst into flame.
I pledge no harm, but claim this right;
Now douse your flame and say good night
The candle flames wavered and went out.
“Oliver?”
I was pretty sure by then that Oliver was not in the store. I wasn’t even sure Oliver had summoned me. It seemed logical because we had agreed to meet, but never assume. He was probably tucked up in bed right this minute, the tassel of his nightcap bobbing in the wind of his peaceful snores.
I reached the closed door of Seamus’s office. I had to give myself a moment.
That was just good old-fashioned atavistic dread. I didn’t sense any threat on the other side of the doorway. I was just…afraid.
But I had planned on searching the store with or without Oliver’s help, and that was what I was going to do.
I raised my hands, but before I even spoke the words, the door unlatched and swung soundlessly wide.
It didn’t soothe my anxiety any.
I stepped into the room.
To my relief, there was no scintilla, no lingering aftereffect of dark magic, no resounding echo of recent, violent death. I had sensed nothing the first night either, but I’d put that down to my own shock. Now I saw that my first impression was correct.
That meant two things. Seamus had died without guilt and without regret. And he died by mortal hand. Or, more precisely, no magic had been used against him.
I spoke a quiet prayer for him. I should have done it the night I found him, but I’d been too rattled, and then there had not been time.
The niceties out of the way, I began to search his office.
You know, on TV everybody seems to have great luck conducting searches. I did not. It probably didn’t help that I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew what I was looking for, but that was all I knew. I didn’t have a system. I opened every drawer, every cabinet, and searched every shelf. I used every finding spell I knew. Nothing. Nada. Le zero.
I did not find the Grimorium Primus. I did not find any grimoire of any kind. Nor did I find the shadow lantern that had cast that paralyzing image of an old-timey witch on a broomstick.
As I stood by Seamus’s desk, defeated and dusty, trying to think whether I should tackle the sales floor on my own or wait till I could gather reinforcements, the door to the office slammed shut with a force that shook the entire building.
I jumped and swore. I was hoping it was the wind, but I knew it was not. For one thing, it would take more than the little summer breeze tickling the closed blinds to swing shut a propped door. My light—just your basic, atmospheric ghost light—went out.
I said, “Light, light, I hate the night.”
It didn’t work.
Now maybe it didn’t work because it was an idiotic spell even for someone who’d gotten into the bad habit of using kiddie Craft. It was both nonspecific and inaccurate, and magic requires aim and intent. Or maybe it didn’t work because someone better prepared than me was ready for my response.
Whatever the reason, it was a jolt.
I pulled out my Takeflight pen—an early gift from John, who had been appalled to learn I frequently walked around town unarmed at night—switched on the flashlight, and recited:
Open the door that is always there
Grant my passage through thin air
I wish to leave, I cannot stay,
Open door and clear the way.
The door began to rattle in its frame so hard, the tall shelves in Seamus’s office bounced and began to weave back and forth as though we were having an earthquake. Boxes began to fall. A file cabinet tipped over. Or maybe that wasn’t a spell. Maybe we were having an earthquake. That would be about my luck.
But no. The desk drawers flew open, and a tornado of papers whirled up and flew in my face. I batted them away.
Open the door I see right there
Stop my passage if you dare—shit!
I ducked as a heavy brass knuckles paperweight just missed my head.
It’s hard to think clearly when you’re
really frightened. That’s why they call it scared out of your wits. My wits were as scattered as the papers flying around Seamus’s office, but I knew one thing for sure. If I didn’t get out of that room, I was dead.
I crouched down, protecting my head from the pens, pencils, paperclips, stapler, tape dispenser, letter trays, every fucking item on that fucking desk being hurled at me, and shouted, “Open the door, I need a noun. Open the door or I’ll burn it down!”
The spell was terrible, maybe the worst yet. I think what did the trick was my pointing my flashlight at the door and saying, “Ignem.”
The small circle of light began to smoke.
The door flew open, and I scrambled up, racing out of the room. I ran for the front door as the canyon of shelves began to topple over like dominos. The crash of wood and glass was horrendous. I expected any moment to be crushed.
I could see the streetlights—now back to their normal comforting white—shining through the windows. And I could see the bars of a security gate pulled across and barring my exit.
So it had been a trap all along. And I had walked right into it.
The normal spells would be anticipated. I gathered all my strength, all my focus, and cried, “Open Sesame!”
Because a classical education is all well and good, but so is familiarity with pop culture—as in movies, television, and comic books.
The security gate shoved to the side with an accordion-like screech, the door swung open, and I dived out. I sprinted down the street, summoning the postern as I ran, and jumped through the shining rectangle that appeared before me.
I landed on Greenwich Street, sweating, shaking, but mostly unharmed.
That had been way too close. I assumed my attacker had been Ciara. There was no question she wanted me dead, and while she wasn’t the only person who knew how desperately I wanted the grimoire—desperately enough to risk returning to the Creaky Attic to hunt for it—she was the only person I could think of who would be willing to nearly wreck the place trying to kill me, but stop short of letting it be burned to the ground.
It was possible Oliver had set me up, but what would be his motive? And I was the one who had come up with the idea of searching the store. He had not been in favor of it—and he had been right.
Of course, the third possibility was that whoever had killed Seamus, had tried to kill me by luring me to the Creaky Attic with that clumsy summoning spell. But why? Because they thought I knew something about the crime that I hadn’t yet told anyone? Because they couldn’t find the grimoire and hoped I could? I hadn’t succeeded, though, so in that case, why kill me? Because they didn’t like me on general principles? For some other unknown reason?
I puzzled it over as I walked back to the house.
When I let myself in, I was nonplussed to see the amber and bronze chandelier in the dining room was on.
Had I left it on? No, I was pretty sure I hadn’t turned on any lights. I walked toward the staircase, glanced over at the sofa, and saw John sitting there, watching me.
I know the jump I gave was visible—and visibly guilty.
“Oh.” I gulped. “Hey. You’re awake!”
Chapter Thirteen
“Where have you been?” John asked.
His voice was even—and dangerously quiet. Not many guys look intimidating in their underwear, but John did. Wearing nothing but a pair of blue-and-red plaid boxers, hair sleep-ruffled, he still looked imposing.
“You startled me.” I smiled. “I went down to the white garden. To see the flowers in the moonlight.”
He gave a small nod as though this confirmed his suspicions, and I relaxed. But what he said was, “No, you didn’t. Because I thought of that too, and I went down to the garden to check.”
Awkward. And unexpected.
I offered another quick, rueful smile. “Oops. Okay. You got me. The truth is, I went for a walk. I needed to clear my head, and I thought the night air would help. I knew you wouldn’t like the idea of me wandering around alone in the dark—”
“Don’t lie.” Again that flat, controlled, and increasingly ominous voice. “I hate liars.”
“I—”
“And I hate that you are a very good liar. Very natural. Very believable.”
“It seems not.”
He smiled, and speaking of the Spanish Inquisition, that had to be an expression many a witch before me had seen on the face on the other side of the fire.
John said, “Pathological liar would be a deal breaker for me.”
“Doesn’t trust me would be a deal breaker for me.”
He continued to smile. Not angry. Not losing control. And, unlike me, not bluffing. “So fair warning, Cosmo. Don’t ever lie to me again.”
Anything out of my mouth would have been untrue, so I said nothing.
John studied me, interpreted my silence perfectly, because he said, “Exactly. You can decline to answer. But don’t lie.”
“All right. Then I’m pleading the fifth. With the rider that I had nothing—nothing—to do with Seamus’s murder. Also, I’m not having an affair.”
Why the hell hadn’t I said I’d been doing something related to another wedding gift for him? Something he couldn’t possibly verify. Something he might even believe? Something I could make true.
John considered, nodded. “All right. I’ll accept that for now.”
This was even worse than I thought. If at some point my actions this night became relevant, John was not going to be able—or willing—to lie for me. Feeling as he did, I did not want him to have to lie for me.
I was potentially putting him—and myself—in a terrible position.
That wasn’t the real worst, though. Even more painful was the obvious recalculation John’s emotions had gone through over the past ninety minutes. I could see it in his eyes. He did not see me the same way he had when we had retired for the night. He did not trust me. In fact, he viewed me as…not an enemy, exactly. No. An adversary. We were on opposing sides.
He was smiling, his gaze assessing, curious, but there was no kindness in him, no gentleness in him now. I still had his interest, so that was something.
What this last shank of the night needed was a redo. Failing that, John’s memory of the past few hours needed to be wiped. For both our sakes. For the sake of our marriage. He would be happier, and I would be happier.
And it would only be this one last time.
Truly, this would be the final time.
“Good.” I walked toward him. “Then can we please go back to bed? I’m beat.” I reached up, and he took me into his arms, kissing me with an unexpected, rough hunger.
Did he suspect I was having an affair? Not knowing the truth left him with a limited number of possible scenarios—and international jewel thief was probably not one of them.
I moaned, kissing him back—almost forgetting my true purpose for a second or two—my fingers sliding through his hair, thumbs coming to rest on his temples.
John raised his head, gazing darkly into my eyes, his lips moist from my kisses.
My mouth still tingled as I began the spell, “Forget what was, let’s start anew—”
“Nn-uh.” John grabbed my wrists, pushing me back a step. “No, you don’t. Not this time.”
What in the nine gates of hell…?
I was startled at this resistance—was I so out of practice, I was losing my powers? No way. When I’d needed them tonight, I’d been able to draw on them. I laughed, reached for him again, murmuring, “The recent past’s no good for you—”
I broke off in a yelp as he grabbed my left wrist, twisting my arm behind my back and momentarily immobilizing me in an excruciatingly painful wrist lock. Fast and efficient. I had no time to resist—had not even thought of resisting—before I was off-balance, gasping in pain, and in imminent risk of having my arm dislocated from my shoulder socket.
“Down boy,” John said.
“John.” I wheezed, “Let me go!”
“Stop struggling.�
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“You’re hurting me.”
“And I’ll hurt you worse the next time you try the Vulcan Mind Meld on me. Or whatever that was supposed to be.”
I whimpered, let myself stumble against him, his grip eased a fraction, and I drove my right shoulder into his chest. The follow-through part of that move required that I knee him in his crotch, but I couldn’t bring myself to really hurt him, and anyway, he let go. I think that was his equal unwillingness to break my wrist as much as surprise at my resistance.
He was surprised, though, and I took advantage of it to jump out of reach.
I protested, “I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
I saw that he was not quite as controlled as I’d thought. Or as he wished.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” I cried. “I just wanted you to stop looking at me that way. Like you don’t—like I’m the enemy.” Things had gone from bad to incredibly worse in the space of seconds. How, how was he resisting my spells? I scrambled for an alternative anything I could use to fix this, in my desperation resorting to old magic from my collection of antique grimoires.
I pointed at him, reciting, “Irresistable ego ad te, nolo te resistentibus, id velim facias…”
Not elegant. Not subtle. But surely fail-safe.
I am irresistible to you, you have no wish to resist me, you will do whatever I wish.
John snorted. “Hard to resist, sure. Nobody is irresistible.”
That shut me up.
“You…speak Latin.”
“I spent twelve years in a Catholic boys’ school. I was an altar boy for three years. Yes, I have a rudimentary understanding of Latin.”
“I didn’t realize.”
He made an unamused sound. “I can see that.” He was cool again, watchful. “What is it? Some kind of hypnotism?”
Magic, spell-casting, witchcraft, none of these even occurred to him.
That was the good news, right?
I rubbed my wrist—there would be bruises there for sure—and tried to think.
It would be impossible to obey him regarding telling lies. The ability to lie well was as much a part of practicing the Craft as spell casting. It was a matter of safety. Of survival. Even if I wasn’t practicing myself, the secret of the Craft was not mine to share.
