by Cate Lawley
Sylvie popped open my fizzy water, pushing the can closer to me. Quietly, she said, “It’s not your fault. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine for getting you involved in my family’s inheritance dispute.”
Hector perked up. “Family squabbles? Tamara, you should know better. That’s the worst sort of trouble.”
Tamara snorted. “You should know me better. It’s nothing like that.” As she pulled the rock from her travel bag, she said, “The Gonzalezes have kidnapped Geoff’s cat.”
Hector raised a brow. “You mean the cat who’s not a cat?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “Clarence.” I didn’t provide a last name, but only because I didn’t know it. Part and parcel with Clarence’s murky history.
But Hector’s full attention had moved to the rock. He reached out but stopped suddenly. “May I?” And interestingly, the question was directed to Sylvie, even though she had yet to be identified as the relevant “family” in this particular dispute.
Glancing at Tamara for confirmation first, Sylvie said, “Yes, please.”
As he took the rock in his hands, that brilliant smile he’d flashed earlier reappeared. “I haven’t seen one of these in a very long time.”
Which made me look at him more closely. Because when he said “very long time” in his deep, appealing voice, I believed he meant a very long time. Years? Decades? More?
Tamara frowned. “Well, if I’d known you could decode it, I’d have brought it around earlier. We came by primarily for armaments.”
We had? Right, because we were going into battle. I really hoped this talk of battle and weapons was all a huge, overextended metaphor for a more civilized conflict—if there were such a thing.
Sylvie leaned forward. “So you do know what it is?”
Hector gave her a curious look. “You don’t?”
Tamara, Ms. Harmony and Light, punched him in the arm. Either she packed more of a wallop than her size indicated, or she’d put a little magic behind it, because Hector winced. Then he winked at her.
“It’s a fancy box.” He tipped his head. “A portable vault.”
“There’s something inside?” Sylvie asked, peering intently at the rock. Hector nodded, and then she asked, “Do we have to break it open?”
Hector laughed. “No. You don’t have to break it. What’s inside isn’t a physical thing.”
“Thank goodness. That would have made me feel terrible.”
Hector’s gaze met Sylvie’s. “Exactly. And that should be enough to tell you it isn’t the right course of action.”
“Hm. If you think so,” she said with no confidence at all.
Were Hector and Sylvie having a moment? If Clarence were here, he would probably know—or have a well-formed and incorrect opinion. Whatever was happening, it made me uncomfortable. If I was honest with myself, I was jealous. But there was also that unanswered question: what exactly was a demon? So . . . maybe I should be uncomfortable?
Either way, Clarence’s clock was ticking down. “What you’re saying is that we shouldn’t trade the portable vault,” I asked, “because we don’t know what’s inside.”
“You most definitely should not trade the vault, because I know what’s inside.” Hector held the rock between his hands, and as he replied, his voice deepened to a rumble and his eyes began to glow. “Power.”
Everyone in the kitchen grew very still, even Tamara.
A collective sigh of relief swept the room when his eyes dimmed, and he said in a casual tone, “Your family gifts power through inheritance.”
Inherited power? I hadn’t heard of such a thing.
But then Hector set the stone down and rubbed his hands together. “I have a plan.” The glint in his eye, a mischievous twinkle, not a demonic glow, made me wonder if Hector held a little love in his heart for the chaos he’d mentioned earlier. Or at least a love of conflict. That seemed a demon sort of trait.
“Are you going to share this plan,” Tamara asked, “or wait for us to beg?”
“I would never make you beg, Tamara.” He arched an eyebrow. “Not in these circumstances.”
Which made me blink. Maybe I didn’t need to worry about Hector and Sylvie. Maybe Hector’s love life was fully booked.
I hoped.
Tamara crossed her arms, but there was a crinkle at the corner of her eyes that softened the gesture. “Spill already, demon.”
“Do they know you have the stone? Or are you theoretically still looking for it?” Hector asked.
Given how little he knew of the situation, that seemed an awfully specific question.
“Still looking,” Sylvie said. “But how did you know?”
Hector touched the rock with a finger. “Because this power is meant for you. That you have the rock, and it’s not been emptied of its gift, tells me you haven’t had it for long.” He pulled his attention away from the rock. “Here’s what we’re going to do. First schedule a trade for a neutral, but controllable location. You pick both the time and place. Also, ask for proof of life.”
Sylvie paled. “Can we do that? They said they would give us instructions in twenty minutes.”
“They want what we have, and what we have is unique,” Tamara said. “It’s a risk, but I think a good one. And it gives us more time to dig through Hector’s armory.”
I tried not to blink at the word armory, but most likely failed.
Lilac lifted her hand. “We can have the handoff at my place. It’s not exactly neutral, but it’s familiar to both parties.” She narrowed her eyes. “Given that construct they sent after me, they certainly know about it.”
“But what then?” I asked. “How do we actually get Clarence back, preferably in one piece?”
“Well, we give them exactly what they want.” Hector tapped the rock again. “We just make sure Sylvie has emptied it first. And if that fails, we get our hands a little dirty.”
27
Wednesday early afternoon
Getting Clarence back in one piece and getting our hands a little dirty were difficult for me to reconcile. Potentially even mutually exclusive.
Hector had confidence it could be done, but he also had less at stake. Clarence might be a hassle, he might leave noxious gases in his wake and steal my credit card with alarming frequency, but he also seemed to be hiding a few good qualities under all that fur. Maybe I’d find out what they were if he made it home.
Hector and I left the lady folk—his words, not mine—to inspect the armory. They stayed in the kitchen composing the perfect text message, while Tamara also worked on enchanting the phone. She wasn’t sure persuasion would work via text, but she was willing to give it a try.
Hector opened a huge wooden door to a set of stairs and gestured for me to precede him. I walked up the stairs thinking that a basement would be a more fitting repository for what I expected to be his stash of crossbows, maces, swords, knives—
“Wow. This is amazing.” The words tumbled out as I stepped into a beautiful private library.
Except it wasn’t just a library.
Books lined two walls from floor to ceiling—no small task, given that the room we’d entered encompassed the entirety of the second floor of the house—but there was also an assortment of gadgets. I spun around. And pottery. Jewelry, vintage clothing . . . I wanted to spin around until I’d seen everything. No, I wanted to touch everything. Read everything.
“It’s like a museum and a library.” Then I spotted a massive wooden table that Hector was obviously using as a workspace. And then the reading nooks with the window seats and natural light. “A museum and library and office. It’s heaven.”
Hector quirked an eyebrow.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. No offense intended, just a turn of phrase,” I rambled, still overwhelmed by the absolute wonder the space evoked. No, wonder held an edge, and this space was all curves. I felt at peace. Welcome.
“Now, see, I knew I liked you, Geoff.” Hector’s voice brought my attention back to him.
“Thank you,” I said, a little surprised. Some of my earlier thoughts about him returned, and I experienced more than a twinge of guilt. “I appreciate you welcoming me into your . . .” Words failed to describe the space.
With a chuckle, he said, “Tamara refers to it as my armory. Her sense of humor isn’t shared by all, but she’s also not entirely wrong.”
Before he could explain, Lilac trotted up the last few steps. “We did it! We got the meeting changed. It’s just after dark now.” Lilac’s bubbling update screeched to a halt. “Heavens above and hell below,” she whispered, her eyes huge as she took in Hector’s sanctuary. Then her gaze landed on him and she frowned. “Oh, sorry—”
Hector held up a hand. He waited to speak until Sylvie and Tamara joined us. Sylvie didn’t have much of a chance to take in her surroundings before he began. “There seems to be some misunderstanding as to my exact nature.” He glanced at Tamara, but there was no harsh judgment there. He appeared amused more than anything else. “Am I from hell? Am I the son of Satan?”
“Oh, thank the goddess,” Lilac said. “I’ve been dying to ask.”
“Lilac!” Sylvie said.
“What? We have time now. If I’m going into battle with a”—she looked around the room—“with a scholarly curator from hell, I want all the details first.”
Hector’s baritone laugh rumbled through the room. Once his amusement died down, he said, “The existence of heaven or of hell haven’t been conclusively proven or disproven, so we’ll say I’m ambiguous on the question, but I most certainly did not originate from either hypothetical place. And while my father and I have a . . . difficult relationship, I’m certain he’s not Satan.”
Lilac cocked her head. “But then, how are you a demon?”
“Demon is a catch-all term for a group or beings with specific types of powers.” He sounded much like a father speaking to a young child: primarily patient, but with a touch of indulgent amusement and a smidge of condescension.
Not having had dealings with demons in the past, I wasn’t certain if inquiring as to one’s powers was considered indelicate.
Lilac didn’t share my uncertainty. “So, what cool stuff can you do? I’m a medium, oh, and as of today, I can do psychometry. I think. So?”
As if revealing her own skills obligated the man to share . . .
But then Hector flashed his charming grin.
There comes a point when something is so obviously true, it’s no longer an expression of subjective opinion. That point was now, and the subjective truth was that Hector was one handsome devil. Hopefully, he was too busy with Tamara to have any aspirations in Sylvie’s direction.
Not that I had aspirations in Sylvie’s direction.
Not exactly.
“I’m a master of the cursed object.” Hector dropped that bomb like it wasn’t one at all.
“What?” I snapped, then felt my neck warm. “Sorry. That sounds like a handy skill.”
“Very.” He let me dangle a bit, then said, “But not in the way you mean.”
“Do you want me to punch you?” Tamara asked Hector. To the rest of us, she said, “Cursed is a term of art. It simply means the ability to imbue objects with self-sustaining magic.”
My brain twisted that around to fit the man we’d met. “So one could use cursing as a force for good.”
“Exactly,” Hector replied.
Cursing for the greater good. An interesting concept, certainly.
Lilac nodded with a satisfied look on her face. “Now that’s cool.”
“And a PR problem,” I muttered as I eyed the shelf of books nearest us. I desperately wanted to start digging through some of these books he had collected. “Demons, curses . . . a PR nightmare,” I mumbled.
The walls practically shook with the sound of Hector’s laughter. Since I’d been drawn in by the room’s attractions and hadn’t been entirely minding my words, I was caught off guard by Hector’s response.
When his laughter died down, Tamara asked, “Everyone passed?”
Hector didn’t respond directly, not that I could see, so I hoped the answer was yes. I still couldn’t shake that “moody during daylight hours” warning Tamara had issued when she’d first mentioned Hector.
Rubbing his hands together, Hector said, “Let’s talk cursed objects and rescue plans.”
Turned out Hector’s magic was much stronger at night, which meant the tools of his trade—objects cursed by him and managed by him in his library-armory—also worked much better at night.
My curiosity was piqued as to his other talents, but he wasn’t saying, I wasn’t asking, and even Lilac was silent on the subject.
It took us twenty minutes to decide on the simplest course of action: trade the rock for the cat, and if that didn’t work, then run like hell with Clarence in tow. Basically. It was a little more complex than that, especially the recovering Clarence part.
In the remaining time, we—meaning Sylvie—had to pry whatever was inside that rock loose.
Two hours later and Sylvie had nothing but a headache. I still sat across the kitchen table from her. Lilac was checking in regularly, but was primarily consumed with the “toys” in Hector’s library. She’d been admonished to look, not touch, and had only agreed when Hector told her he’d know if she got overly inquisitive. Tamara had left to retrieve lunch fixings, since Hector hadn’t been expecting company.
Hector had remained to help Sylvie crack the rock’s code. He handed her a second can of sparkling water and a bottle of painkillers.
“You’re sure you can’t just do this yourself? You know, use a little brute magical force and pry the thing open?” She popped two pills into her mouth and chased them with fizzy water.
Hector shook his head. “I’m surprised your grandmother didn’t leave instructions. You’re certain she never discussed anything that might have been a hidden message? Something to do with unlocking or revealing, maybe?”
Sylvie shrugged then rubbed her temple. “What about a key? If we need a key, then this is pointless.”
Hector studied the rock. “I don’t think so.” But he didn’t explain his reasoning.
Maybe it talked to him. He was a master of cursed objects, after all.
Hector’s turn of phrase, “hidden messages,” reminded me . . . “Remember when you told us about that saying, the one about hiding secrets?”
“Yes, but I don’t really see how that fits,” Sylvie replied.
“Did she have any other odd sayings? Bits of advice, anecdotes, funny sayings . . . anything like that?” My gut said I was onto something, but my gut wasn’t very precise and hardly scientific.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Maybe? My brain’s about to explode. If this wasn’t time sensitive, I’d set it aside and come back to it with fresh eyes. Who knew that thinking could be so tiring? I feel like I’ve been on my feet working all day.” She rubbed her neck for a few seconds, and then a mingled look of excitement and chagrin crossed her face.
She had it.
“You know?” I asked. She looked hesitant. “You know. Trust yourself.”
She sighed. “I might have an idea. Hector, do you have a heavy cloth? Something like denim or canvas?”
After seeing Hector’s library-museum-sanctuary-office, I was sure he did. Probably a magical version that never ripped, or one that didn’t stain.
Hector retrieved a small, perfectly ordinary flannel cloth from a kitchen drawer. “Something like this?”
Sylvie accepted the cloth with a tentative smile. “I hope so.”
And then she sat at the kitchen table and scrubbed on a perfectly clean rock like it was covered in grime—or, from the grim expression on her face, something much worse.
Three or four minutes passed. Her arm had to be sore.
“Can I help?” Watching her toil while I twiddled my thumbs made me uncomfortable.
“No, I don’t think so.” She switched the cloth to her other hand. “If I’m right, I have t
o do this myself.”
She worked at that rock until my arms ached just watching her, periodically switching the cloth from her right hand to her left, then left to right.
And then, suddenly, she stopped. The cloth fell from her nerveless fingers.
The rock didn’t glow. It didn’t levitate or change colors. In fact, it looked exactly the same. But something changed. I just knew.
Sylvie’s eyes grew wide, and her gaze shifted to the corner of the room. She looked so terribly sad. My eyes burned with sympathy, though hers were dry. She didn’t cry, but she looked stricken.
Several seconds passed, then she collected herself and turned her attention back to Hector and I.
“It’s done,” Hector said.
“It is.” She was more subdued than I expected. With a sad smile and a quick look to the corner of the room, she said, “The magic word isn’t ‘please’; it’s ‘elbow grease.’ My grandmother used to say that when I was a little girl. I teased her that it was two words, but she would smile and say that I should work hard for the things I want, and not just ask nicely. That’s how she was.” A tear slipped down Sylvie’s face.
She brushed it away quickly, and then took a drink from her can of fizzy water.
Hector busied himself in the kitchen, but I didn’t want to leave her, not like she was, as if someone had turned the volume down or washed out the colors that were Sylvie. “Ah, do you feel any different?”
“Not really.” Her gaze darted to the corner of the room. “But I’m pretty sure I can see ghosts. That, or I’ve overdosed on over-the-counter pain meds and am hallucinating.”
“Not on two aspirin.” I looked at the corner. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head then looked at the rock and frowned. “It’s all so anticlimactic. I don’t feel any different, nothing seems to be happening . . . except—” She gestured to the corner, the space where she’d seen her first ghost. “The rock looks exactly the same. Feels exactly the same.”