Ink and Shadows

by Ellery Adams

  “Thank you!” Nora’s last customer called out.

  Nora was still looking at McCabe when she shouted back, “Have a nice night!”

  Seconds later, they heard the clanging of the sleigh bells.

  For some reason, the sound gave Nora a boost of confidence. She mustered a smile and said, “Time to flip the sign.”

  The sheriff lowered his arms and glanced at his phone. “He’s coming.”

  The words sent a ripple of fear through Nora’s body, but she managed to walk to the front of the store and begin her closing tasks as if this were any other night. She flipped the sign, printed a register receipt of the day’s sales, and turned off the lights over the checkout counter. She straightened a few books in the Fiction section before moving into the ticket agent’s office, where she transferred mugs from the drying rack to empty hooks on the pegboard.

  She waited, her muscles taut and her pulse thundering in her ears, for the sleigh bells. As soon as they rang out, she’d have roughly thirty seconds before Wolf Beck entered the readers’ circle.

  So when a man said, “Nice place,” in a deep, train-rumble voice, Nora was so startled that she dropped the mug she was holding.

  It struck the sink faucet, cracked like an egg, and landed in the basin in pieces.

  The mug had been embellished with the text NEVER UNDERESTIMATE A WELL-READ WOMAN. To Nora, its destruction was a bad omen.

  As if to confirm her suspicion, the space above her pinkie knuckle began to tingle.

  Wolf Beck leaned in through the serving window and let out a dry laugh. “Oopsie. Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Nora looked into his dark eyes and knew this was a lie. He’d absolutely meant to scare her. He’d slowly eased open the front door, keeping the bells from ringing, because he wanted to catch her off guard. He wanted to startle her. To see how high she’d jump.

  But Beck’s plan to establish dominance had failed. Instead of stirring Nora’s fear, he’d ignited her anger. It burned in her chest, fueling her courage to the point of recklessness.

  “No need to apologize. It takes more than that to scare me,” she said breezily. “Are you ready to see the book? Or do I need to lock up first?”

  “I took care of that. I didn’t want us to be interrupted.”

  There was a predatory glint in Beck’s eyes. His smile was smug.

  Nora walked to the readers’ circle and took a seat in her favorite chair. Her posture was as regal as a queen’s.

  Indicating the chair across from her, she said, “Let’s get down to business.”

  Chapter 18

  Nothing has changed since Little Red Riding Hood faced the big bad wolf. What frightens us today is exactly the same sort of thing that frightened us yesterday. It’s just a different wolf.

  —Alfred Hitchcock

  Nora put her hand on the box that held Juliana’s notebook.

  “I don’t come across materials this old very often,” she said. “Would you like to hear about the book’s provenance?”

  A real collector would want to learn as much as possible about an item he hoped to purchase, and since Wolf Beck was playing a part, he said yes.

  “Mind if I take a look while you talk?” he asked.

  If Nora had her way, he’d never touch the book again, but she removed the box lid, sat back in her chair, and waited.

  Though Beck’s face was a blank mask, Nora caught the zealous gleam in his eyes. His long, vampiric fingers trembled with eagerness. This wasn’t a man seeing a rare and valuable book for the first time. This was a hunter claiming his trophy.

  “Oh,” Nora cried. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if you’d like to wash before handling the book.”

  Beck didn’t so much as glance at her. “My hands are clean.”

  Liar! Nora silently screamed.

  Lifting the book from its bed of tissue, Beck settled it on his lap. He stroked the cover as if he were petting a cat before cradling the spine between his legs and opening to the page bearing Juliana’s name.

  Nora stared at his hands as he turned pages. She saw those long, deft fingers offering Bren a burger made of beef or holding a jar of mustard powder in front of Celeste’s face once the pain from the wolfsbane poisoning had become acute. Those hands had smashed and ripped and broken things in Bren’s house and Celeste’s apartment. They’d been ruthless in their search for Juliana’s book.

  Wolf Beck had destroyed so much for the chance to trick a collector into paying ridiculous amounts of money for a fake grimoire. He’d killed two women so he could line his pockets.

  Stay focused. You can’t let your emotions take over.

  Nora took a deep breath and said, “She was a healer.”

  Her voice startled Beck out of his own thoughts and he shot Nora a questioning look. “Who was? Juliana Leopold?”

  “Her, and the three writers succeeding her. All healers. This notebook is a compilation of herbal remedies. Except for the last two pages, of course. Those pages are why you’re here.” Nora cocked her head. “And so quickly too. You must not have had to travel far.”

  “No,” said Beck, immediately returning his attention to the book.

  When he reached the group of stained pages, he made his first mistake. He skipped over them, turning directly to the protection ritual near the end. A bona fide collector would examine every page. Even if they’d been told that only the last two pages differed from the rest, a real collector would be compelled to verify this information. But Beck ignored over twenty pages because he already knew they were illegible. He knew because he’d seen them before.

  Beck’s gaze rested on the protection spell. There was no need for him to look through the rest of the book. He was fully aware that the remaining pages were blank.

  “Can you decipher that?” Nora asked, gesturing at the protection spell.

  “Well enough,” Beck answered.

  Nora wasn’t going to get anything out of him by being courteous or tactful. It was time to rattle Beck’s cage.

  “I’m guessing this book appeals to you on multiple levels,” she said, smiling coyly. “In addition to your interest in the occult, you must have an affinity for plants.”

  A flicker of uncertainty passed across Beck’s face. “What makes you say that?”

  Nora kept smiling. “Monkshood81? Isn’t that another name for wolfsbane?”

  Beck’s stare was sharp enough to pierce flesh, but Nora didn’t flinch.

  “When I first saw your username, I didn’t know much about the plant. I do now.” She folded her hands daintily over her crossed legs and studied Beck as if he were a butterfly under glass. “Wolfsbane is beautiful, but deadly. Does that description apply to you as well?”

  “This isn’t a blind date.” Beck’s voice was a low growl. “I’m not here to share personal information with you. I’m here for this book, which is exactly what I hoped it would be. I have a long drive ahead of me, so I’m going to pay you. After that, I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t you want to know about the blank pages?” Nora asked, feigning surprise.

  Beck glanced down at the book. “What about them?”

  Bobbie never mentioned blank pages in her description and Beck never looked at them. He just made another mistake.

  “They’re not nearly as old as the rest of the book. In fact, they were probably made in the twentieth century. Believe me when I say that I was unaware of this when I posted the photos and description. A friend of mine, an expert in antique paper, came by the shop today. I showed him the book, and he told me that it was authentic. Except for the blank pages. They’re not seventeenth-century laid paper. Not even early eighteenth.”

  Thunderclouds were gathering in Beck’s eyes. He glared at Nora from beneath his lowered brows and asked, “And your friend could determine this just by looking at the paper?”

  “Actually, he used another sense: touch. After rubbing several of the blank pages between his fingers, he explained that th
e paper is slightly thinner because it’s made of wood pulp instead of flax.” Nora paused for a second to give Beck a chance to digest her falsehood. Then, she barreled on. “Here’s the craziest part. My friend recognized the paper because he saw a sheet just like it last week. Our sheriff asked my friend to examine a piece of evidence in a suspicious death case. The spells in this book must be powerful. I mean, it’s like they infected every piece of paper between the covers.”

  Without warning, Beck lunged forward. His face was inches away from Nora’s. She could feel the heat of his breath as he said, “I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I think you should shut up now.”

  Stifling an urge to cry out, Nora raised her hands in a submissive gesture. “I just wanted to come clean about those pages. I’m sorry that you had to find out at the last minute. If you still want Cecily’s book, I’ll knock a few hundred off the price. After all, it’s none of my business what you do with those blank pages.”

  Beck stood up and edged closer to Nora. He stopped at the chair next to hers, perched casually on its arm, and fixed Nora with an icy stare. “What a strange thing to say to a collector. What would I do with those pages?”

  It’s now or never.

  Nora blurted, “Forge a grimoire.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, her fight-or-flight response kicked in. She wanted to run—to put as much distance between herself and this man as she possibly could. Her body thrummed with adrenaline, but she didn’t move. To Beck, she probably looked like a rabbit in an open field, exposed and paralyzed by fear.

  To her surprise, he began to laugh. The sound was devoid of merriment. It held only mockery and arrogance. “You’ve been reading too many fantasies, Book Lady.”

  Beck pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. He removed several bills from the wad of cash inside before tossing the envelope on the coffee table. “Your payment. Minus three hundred for your error and another two hundred for springing it on me this late in the game. Feel free to count it.”

  Having regained control of the situation, Beck returned to his chair. He sat down and placed the book back in its box. Seeing that Nora hadn’t touched the envelope, he said, “You’re far more trusting than I am.”

  It was now Nora’s turn to stare him down. “You didn’t correct me. I said that it was Cecily’s book. I knew her as Celeste, but to you, she was Cecily. She was a gentle, compassionate woman, but you punished her for leaving Still Waters. For having the nerve to defy your wishes.” Nora pointed at him. “I saw you. The night of the festival. I saw you sitting with Bren. I saw the tattoos on your arm. And when I found Bren’s body, I saw the tattoos on her neck. She gave me the book page for a reason, Monkshood81.”

  Nora clamped her mouth shut. Had she said too much?

  But she’d had no other choice. Beck had been on the verge of leaving, and Nora couldn’t allow that. The sheriff didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest. At this point, he probably couldn’t even question Beck unless it was voluntary. And while Nora was positive that Beck had been with Bren at the festival, she couldn’t swear to it under oath. His face had been cloaked in shadow. He’d been there for a few minutes before slinking away into the night.

  He wasn’t slinking away now. His shoulders were pressed firmly against his chair back, and his long fingers were curled over his knees. While his knuckles had gone white, his face and neck were a mottled red. Malice glistened in his eyes.

  He was the rattlesnake, and Nora had poked him with a stick.

  Everything now hung on Beck’s reaction.

  But it was taking way too long.

  Nora tried to hide her terror. If she showed any weakness, Beck would regain control of his emotions and would deflect any further taunting. If he succeeded in this moment, he would most likely get away with murder.

  “You were clever. Your workmanship was almost perfect. But your ink was off.” Nora spread her hands. “Why didn’t you spend more time researching the ingredients? You could have fooled everyone. Were you in a rush? Or did you get lazy?”

  “Bren looked up the formula!” Beck shouted. “That little bitch said that our ink was perfect. She was such a good girl in the beginning. So sweet and malleable. But after she was diagnosed with that ridiculous allergy, she changed.” He barked out a dry laugh. “She demanded a higher share of the profits. Stupid girl. No one tells me what to do with community funds.”

  Nora wanted to let out a whoop of triumph. She’d done it. She’d triggered Beck into admitting a connection to one of his victims. But those few lines weren’t enough. He could still escape the trap. It hadn’t been completely sprung.

  In a voice dripping with disdain, Nora said, “You’re such a cliché. You couldn’t get Cecily to do what you wanted. She wouldn’t hand over Juliana’s book, so you turned to her daughter. Was Bren even legal when the Maestro began favoring her with his attentions?”

  “You wouldn’t understand how a community like ours works. You’re a person weighed down by possessions.” He waved around the bookshop. “At Still Waters, we share everything. Money, food, and work. There’s no such thing as a starving artist in our world. We keep art alive in a society that’s forgotten its value. Art is in danger. You might not know it, but you’re waging the same war. Consider how many people read free eBooks and nothing else. They place little value on the quality of the writing or feel no loyalty to any author. They read books only because they’re free. Books are just another artform being devalued. But in Still Waters, we protect Art.”

  Nora couldn’t argue. She knew far too many authors who’d had to take on second jobs because being a full-time writer didn’t pay the bills. And the number of independent bookstores being driven out of business by cyber retailers was tragic.

  Despite these challenges, Nora still believed in the staying power of books. She also believed in reader loyalty. As long as the bookstore was the beating heart of every town—the place where people went for hot drinks, soft music, and the delicious anticipation of discovering a fabulous new book—they’d never become obsolete.

  And Miracle Books was definitely the heart of this town.

  “Creating art, teaching people about art, and preserving art is noble,” Nora said. “But using artistic talent to manufacture counterfeit grimoire pages isn’t. And tricking a collector out of his or her money? That’s despicable. Or are you going to tell me that all the profits went toward feeding the hungry and healing the sick?”

  Beck glowered at her. “Every community has unforeseen expenses.”

  “Such as hiring attorneys to fight Lazarus Harper’s civil suit?”

  Beck flinched. The target had hit its mark.

  Nora pressed her advantage. “Every CBD product sold at Soothe came with a Certificate of Analysis. Either Celeste learned her lesson, or what happened with Mr. Harper wasn’t her fault.”

  “Celeste. Reminds me of those ridiculous moon goddess statues she sculpted when she first came to Still Waters,” Beck scoffed. “She could have made anything—she was truly gifted—but she only sculpted so-called powerful women. What horseshit.”

  Nora thought about her controversial window display. She pictured the women brewing stories in their cauldron and the array of powerful female characters on the book covers. More than once, Nora had doubted the wisdom of keeping the display intact. However, Beck’s remark made her wish that it was still in place.

  “Cecily had no power,” Beck continued, warming to his subject. “She only survived because my older brother let her join Still Waters. The two of them had a casual thing for over a decade. If my brother hadn’t had a brain aneurism and died, I wouldn’t have been in the position to tell Cecily to hand over her book. Stupid cow refused. I was going to kick her out when Bren came to me. She was more ambitious than her mother, but in the end, just as powerless.”

  Swallowing her rage, Nora said, “Celeste made other things besides women.”

  “Those garden pieces?” Beck snorted in disdain. “C
ement cherubs made from molds don’t bring in much money. It was peanuts compared to what she got for a marble angel.”

  Nora’s mouth curved into a Cheshire Cat grin. “Maybe. But some of those garden pieces were hollow in the middle. A person could hide something inside, say, a table base.”

  Pinpricks of fury flared in Beck’s eyes. “The mushroom table!” He looked at the box holding the book and snarled, “Damn you, Cecily. You should have told me.”

  He wasn’t remorseful. He was annoyed, as if Celeste had inconvenienced him by dying instead of telling him that Juliana’s book was inside the table in her grow room.

  Quietly, Nora said, “I don’t see why you’re upset. You’ve won. Celeste didn’t fight the poison because you’d already broken her. You did that when you took her daughter away. Forever.”

  “Oh, please. Mom and Baby Girl hadn’t gotten along ever since I started paying attention to Bren. And before you hang a halo on her, you should know that the fake spell pages were Bren’s idea. She invented the language, created our online identity, and handled the money. She was smart. Until she wasn’t.”

  “Until she asked for a bigger cut, you mean. She wanted to fund her dreams. Even in the height of her adoration, she knew that she wouldn’t stay with you. She wanted to see the world. She told me as much.”

  Beck scooped up the box. “I’m leaving now, but before I go, I want you to listen closely. If you interfere with my plans in any way, I’ll name you as my accomplice. Your posting claims that this book is a genuine occult item from the late sixteenth century. I bought it from you in good faith, so if I go down for counterfeiting, you’ll go down too.”

  Feeling reckless, Nora leapt to her feet. “I’m not going to interfere. Just tell me one thing. The symbols on your arm. Are they from Bren’s language?” At Beck’s nod, she went on, “What do they spell?”

  The smug smile returned. “Maestro.”