Stupid, Nadia. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“So!” snarled Della. “My uncle’s murderer dares to return to the scene of the crime? You will burn for his death!”
She thrust out her left hand as she cast a spell, flames blazing around her fingers.
***
Chapter 8: That Used Bookstore Smell
Riordan did a little research as Nora drove to Songstress Books & Antiques in Queens.
“Looks like Anthony Watkins owns the building,” said Riordan, frowning at his phone screen. “Lives there, too. He’s been sued a lot.”
“What for?” said Nora, punching the gas to roar through a yellow light maybe a tenth of a second before it changed to red. “Selling books of illegal magic?”
“The Inquisition would shoot him for that. They wouldn’t bother with lawyers,” said Riordan. “There was an Archon attack about thirty-five years ago that wiped out a part of Queens near JFK Aiport. During the rebuilding, a few developers bought up as much land as they could, turned it into hotels and convention centers and restaurants and the like. They’ve been trying to force Watkins off his land for years, and he’s defied them every time.”
“He must be popular with the locals,” said Nora.
“Doesn’t look that way,” said Riordan. “All the online reviews for his store are terrible, and there was a petition filed by local business owners to get his building condemned as a public eyesore.”
“Makes sense,” said Nora. “Bitter old man turns to a Dark Ones cult or starts dabbling in illegal magic. We’ve seen that kind of nonsense before.” She paused. “But a bookstore owner? That seems a bit much.”
Riordan shrugged. “I once encountered the chief of medicine at a hospital who started summoning Shadowlands creatures because he thought the chairwoman of the board of directors didn’t give him enough credit.”
“That’s just stupid.”
“I agree,” said Riordan. “And I was proven right when the maelogaunt he had summoned devoured his mind. But that’s a story for another time.”
A few minutes later they reached the neighborhood that held Songstress Books & Antiques. The area looked expensive – a lot of high-end restaurants, stores, and condos. Most of the buildings were recent, which made sense as much of the neighborhood had been leveled during that Archon attack a few decades past.
That meant the bookstore stuck out like a fly on a white tablecloth.
Songstress Books & Antiques occupied the bottom three stories of a five-story brick building. The brick was old and weathered, its paint flaking, and several of the upper windows were cracked or missing panes. The windows on the bottom floor were caked with dust, and Riordan just managed to glimpse displays of books that looked as if they hadn’t been rotated in years.
“Charming place,” said Nora as they drove past. “I guess Mr. Watkins isn’t a fan of gentrification.”
“Guess not,” said Riordan. “There’s a space.”
Nora pulled into the space, parallel-parking the big SUV with adroit skill, and Riordan got out and fed some quarters into the meter. Once Nora joined him, they walked to the front door of Songstress Books & Antiques. Up close, the bookstore looked even dingier and more dilapidated than it had from the street. The displays of books in the front window looked dusty and sun-faded, and behind them, Riordan glimpsed a cramped space filled with aisles of overflowing bookcases.
The lights were turned off, and a CLOSED sign hung in the front door.
“He doesn’t seem sociable,” said Nora.
“Or like he even wants to stay in business,” said Riordan. He was starting to wonder if the bookstore was a front for something else.
“Should we break in?” said Nora.
“No, not yet,” said Riordan, looking to the left. A pricey-looking coffee shop occupied the bottom floor of the next building. “I have an idea. Remember our insurance investigator ploy?”
Nora nodded, and Riordan led the way into the coffee shop. The interior looked pleasant enough, all polished hardwood and gleaming wooden tables. Perhaps forty patrons sat at the tables, drinking coffee and eating pastries. The clerk at the front register, a cheerful-looking girl in her late teens or early twenties, gave Riordan a sunny smile as they approached.
“Welcome!” she said. “What can I get you today?”
“Could we speak with the manager?” said Riordan. “We’re from the insurance company, and we have a few questions.”
Her smile flickered for a moment and then returned. “One moment, please.” She disappeared into the kitchen behind the front counter.
Nora raised her eyebrows. “Why are we pretending to be from the insurance company?”
“Watch,” murmured Riordan. “I’ll bet Watkins isn’t too popular with his neighbors.”
A moment later the clerk returned with a scowling middle-aged woman. She was short and wiry, with graying hair pulled into a severe bun, and wore jeans and a sweater.
“If you’re from the insurance company,” said the woman, “you had better know that we’re paid up through the end of the year already. We…”
“We’re not here about your business, ma’am,” said Riordan. “We are private investigators hired by Mutual Fidelity Insurance to investigate claims of insurance fraud against one Anthony Watkins, who owns the bookstore next door.”
The woman blinked several times, and then a wide smile went over her face. “Well. That’s different. I’d be happy to talk to you. What did you say your names were?”
“I’m Corvus,” said Riordan, using the nickname some of the older Shadow Hunters had hung on him, “and this is Roberta.”
“Marsha Avery,” said the woman. “This way.”
She walked around the counter and led the way to a table in the corner. Riordan let her sit, and then seated himself, Nora settling next to him.
“Now,” said Marsha. “What’s all this about?”
“I am unable to divulge any details at this time,” said Riordan, “but we believe Mr. Watkins has filed several false claims. We have attempted to contact him by phone and email, but he has not responded. A few minutes ago, we knocked on his door, but there was no response. We wondered if you might have any contact information for him.”
Marsha gave an irritated shake of her head. “That old crank doesn’t answer his phone or his email, and he doesn’t answer the door unless he happens to feel like it.”
“Do you know when his business hours are?” said Riordan.
Marsha snorted. “When he happens to feel like it.”
“I think I’m detecting a theme here,” murmured Nora, and Marsha laughed.
“You’ve had trouble with Mr. Watkins in the past?” said Riordan.
“Where should I begin?” said Marsha. “For one, his building is an eyesore. It scares off customers, and it looks like a drug den or the house of some kind of deviant, like he sells pornography out of the back room or something. He won’t shovel his sidewalk in winter, no matter how much the city fines him, and we’ve had people slip and fall. He also has like thirty or forty cats, and he doesn’t clean up after them. In the summer, you can smell the cat piss for the entire block. I hope the city finally forces him out or seizes his property for back payment on taxes.”
“Forty cats?” said Nora.
“Forty!” said Marsha. “I have a cat at home, but forty? It’s nuts. When Watkins finally dies, whoever buys that building is going to have a hell of a time getting the stink out. Probably cheaper to rip the building down and start over.”
“Or to turn it into parking for local businesses?” said Riordan.
Marsha smiled. “I wouldn’t object to that.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Watkins?” said Riordan.
Marsha mulled it over. “Last week, I think. I saw him when he was yelling at the mailman. Guess he was expecting a check and he was ticked off that it hadn’t shown up yet.”
“Given the obvious disrepair of the property,” said Riordan, “I am s
urprised that Mr. Watkins has a source of income.”
“Oh, he makes most of his money selling antiques over the Internet,” said Marsha. “Shabby crap, mostly. The kind of stuff that looks impressive but is mostly knockoffs made with a 3D printer and cheap paint. People who want to look like they have money buy Watkins’s stuff.”
That sounded like Paul Ricci.
“Do you remember the last time you spoke with Mr. Watkins?” said Riordan.
“End of September,” said Marsha at once. “Two of my baristas were in the alley out back talking during their break, and Watkins came out and started screaming that they were disturbing him.” Her scowled hardened. “It was one in the afternoon, and they were talking at a normal volume. One of the baristas started crying and ran inside, and I went out to see what all the fuss was about. Watkins threatened to call Homeland Security and report a noise violation. I told him to go right ahead.” She shook her head. “Then he told me he wished that I had been killed during the Rebel attack in July. So, I’ll be honest. I hope that old crank keeled over, and that his cats ate him.”
“Mr. Watkins sounds like he was a difficult neighbor,” said Riordan. There was an understatement. He reached into his coat, produced a business card, and handed it over. “That’s my number. If you think of anything else, please do not hesitate to give us a call.” Riordan and Nora had used this ruse before, and the number on the card was a dummy owned by the Shadow Hunters and would bounce automatically to a voice mail box in the Sanctuary.
“Thanks,” said Marsha, taking the card. “Good luck dealing with Watkins. He’s been in trouble before, but he always manages to wriggle out of it.”
Riordan bought a cup of coffee for himself and another for Nora, and took them both to go. They walked outside and got into the SUV, and Nora started the engine.
“Watkins sounds like a right wanker,” said Nora.
“Mmm,” said Riordan, thinking it over.
“Cranky loner,” said Nora. “That’s the classic psychological profile for the sort of person who joins a Dark Ones cult.”
“True,” said Riordan. He took a sip of the coffee. Not bad, though he had still paid too much for it. “Or he could just be a crank or mentally ill.”
“Either way, we’re breaking into his building and looking around?” said Nora.
“Yup,” said Riordan. “He sold that copy of the Summoning Codex to Ricci, and the Firstborn wants to know where Watkins got it. If he’s there, we’ll ask nicely. If he refuses to answer, we’ll frighten him until he does. And if he’s not there, we’ll go through his records. Drive around the block and park out of sight. We’ll go in through the alley.”
Nora nodded, pulled into traffic, and circled the block. She parked in front of a restaurant that sold burgers, and Riordan fed more quarters into the meter. They left the SUV and slipped into the alley next to the burger restaurant. The air smelled faintly of garbage, and there was a collection of old litter on the ground, but the alley was deserted. They turned a corner and entered the alley behind the coffee shop and Songstress Books. Watkins’s building looked like a brick wart squatting next to the more modern structures around it.
“No security camera over the back door,” said Nora, pointing.
“No,” said Riordan, clearing his mind and focusing his will. “Give me a minute.”
He concentrated and cast the spell to sense the presence of magical forces. Nadia could use this spell casually, almost with the same amount of effort it took her to write a quick note. It took Riordan far more effort to concentrate and use the spell, but he knew the price Nadia had paid to gain her level of skill and power.
The price she still paid regularly, given how often she woke from nightmares.
Riordan finished the spell, sweeping it around him. He felt no magical force nearby, but…
Yes. There. A faint aura of residual power lingered over the upper floors of Watkins’s building.
“Trouble?” said Nora.
Riordan grimaced and dismissed the spell. “Someone cast a summoning spell in Watkins’s building recently.”
“Ah, bloody hell,” said Nora, flexing the fingers of her right hand.
“I’ll go first,” said Riordan.
He produced the lockpick gun and pressed it against the handle of the back door. The lock was old, and the gun caught the tumblers on the first try. Riordan turned it, and the door swung open. He stepped inside, and Nora followed, closing the door behind her.
They were in a stockroom. Heavy steel shelves lined the walls, holding dozens of boxes of books. More boxes were stacked haphazardly around the floor, and hundreds of individual books had been heaped here and there. There was no organizational system that Riordan could see, and a thin layer of dust lay over everything.
Riordan gestured to another door on the far side of the room, and Nora nodded. They crossed in silence, and Riordan eased the door open and stepped into the main floor of Songstress Books & Antiques.
The smell hit his nose at once, an unpleasant mixture of old paper, mildew, dry rot, cat fur, and cat urine. Riordan had visited several used bookstores across the world during his travels for the Family, and the best of them had a pleasant scent of old paper and leather, the sort of place where he could cheerfully spend hours browsing.
Songstress Books smelled like the home of an invalid who liked to hoard books.
Nora wrinkled her nose in disgust as Riordan looked around.
The interior of the store was cramped. Shelves ten feet high stood in rows, creating narrow aisles between them. The shelves overflowed with books, and in places, they had fallen, creating untidy heaps on the dusty carpet of the floor. Riordan glanced up and down the aisles, but the first level of the store seemed deserted. He led the way towards the front of the building. A wooden counter sat near the door, with an old mechanical cash register and a rack of periodicals that didn’t look as if it had been updated this decade. Riordan gave the counter and the cash register a cursory check but saw nothing that drew attention. He picked up one of the books and opened it and saw the same sort of RFID tag he had seen in Ricci’s copy of the Summoning Codex.
“Upstairs?” whispered Nora.
Riordan nodded and headed for the back corner of the store. There was a wooden staircase there, and he climbed it with as much stealth as he could manage. Which wasn’t much – he could make his footfalls silent, but the old staircase still creaked and groaned beneath his weight. Nora was a little quieter, but not by much.
The second floor of Songstress Books & Antiques looked much the same. The narrow aisles of books, the same dust and decay and sent of cat urine. But there was a different odor here, a smell of something decaying…
“Riordan,” hissed Nora, her Shadowmorph blade appearing in her hand.
Riordan whirled, his eyes scanning for threats.
He spotted the dead cat.
It lay just in the next aisle, its blood crusted on the carpet. The cat had been golden-brown in color, but now it looked peculiarly deflated, and the smell of rot coming from it was strong. Riordan looked closer, and he realized that something had slit open the cat’s belly and devoured its internal organs.
He shared a grim look with Nora. Riordan could think of a few things that ate cats that way, and none of the creatures were anything he wanted to meet.
“Think Watkins is still alive?” whispered Nora.
“Don’t know,” said Riordan. “I’m more worried about whatever killed those cats.” He beckoned and summoned his Shadowmorph blade. “Follow me.”
They moved from aisle to aisle, checking the second story step by step. Riordan found fifteen more dead cats. All the poor animals had been killed in the same way as the first one. To judge from the claw marks around the cats, the animals had still been alive when they had been eaten. It was a ghastly way to die, and Riordan wouldn’t wish it on an animal, let alone a human being.
But he was increasingly certain they were going to find a human corpse killed in the
same fashion.
The third floor was deserted. It looked as if it had been converted to apartments, but all the rooms were empty, save for a collection of junk. Likely Watkins had used the space for storage. Riordan saw a half-dozen dead cats. To judge from where they lay, the cats had been hiding here, and whatever had killed them had amused itself by dragging them from their hiding places behind broken shelves and old chairs.
The fourth floor was Watkins’ living quarters. Riordan passed through a living room filled with old papers, a bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in years, and a bedroom that reeked of vomit. There were only four dead cats here, and Riordan saw the marks of a struggle. Some of the chairs had been overturned, and claws had ripped the carpet.
Claws far, far larger than those of a common house cat.
On the fifth floor, they found the source of whatever had killed the cats.
It was the attic, and it had been full of boxes. But all the boxes had been pushed to one side to make space for a summoning circle. It was one of the designs from the Summoning Codex, and it had been drawn onto the floorboards with red paint. A plastic folding table stood next to the circle, and on it rested another copy of the Summoning Codex, along with some documents that looked like invoices.
Anthony Watkins lay sprawled on his back before the circle.
Or what was left of him, anyway.
Riordan recognized the white-bearded face, but the rest of the man looked like raw hamburger. Like the cats, his torso had been ripped open, and something had eaten his internal organs. His ribs jutted from the bloody ruin like white daggers. Something had also taken big bites out of his legs, and the stink of blood filled the attic like a choking mist.
Nora didn’t say anything. Neither did Riordan.
They both knew that whatever had killed Watkins and his herd of cats was likely in the attic with them.
Riordan looked around the attic, and then at the wall of boxes. He caught Nora’s eye, and she nodded. Riordan took a deep breath, summoned magical power, and cast a spell.
A sphere of lightning leaped from his fingers and struck the wall of boxes. It burst in a spray of sparks, accompanied by a snarling crackle. A few wisps of smoke rose from the boxes, but the spell hadn’t hit with enough force to set anything on fire.
Cloak of Dragons Page 14
