by Josh Lanyon
Several reasons—though I couldn’t admit that—starting with the scant hope that John wouldn’t find out.
“Frankly? I didn’t think you’d want me to go, and I felt that I needed to hear what she had to say.”
“Why?”
“I-I’m not sure I understand?”
“Why did you feel you needed to hear what she had to say?”
I didn’t want to lie to him. I had promised to never lie to him. I floundered, “Because maybe it concerned me?”
He drew a sharp breath, which he then let out slowly, quietly. “Cos, does it not occur to you that by visiting this woman, you’re not only jeopardizing the case against her, you’re very likely reinstating yourself as a possible suspect in Reitherman’s death?”
No, to be honest, neither of those things had occurred to me.
I protested, “What? That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s not ridiculous at all. Her defense could try to claim that a relationship exists between the two of you, that together, and for reasons not yet known to the prosecution, you concocted a scheme to get rid of Reitherman’s husband, and then for reasons unknown, fell out.”
“Nobody would believe that for a minute. What would my motive be?”
“Motive is irrelevant. Motive can always be found if the other pieces of the puzzle are in place.”
“But the other pieces aren’t in place.”
John said, “Not all of them, no. But enough are. Which is why you fell under suspicion the first time around. I can’t believe you blithely strolled into that interview room for a chat with the woman who tried to kill you.”
“She asked to speak to me.”
John pressed his lips together. He took the time to refill his wineglass. He held the bottle up. I shook my head.
He said carefully, and I could hear that greatly strained patience, “The main reason you’re no longer under suspicion is because she is.”
“Yes, but she shouldn’t be. I told you I didn’t think she murdered Seamus, and she confirmed it.”
“She… Cos.” For about a split second, John looked truly at a loss.
“I believe her.”
“That’s nice. Given that she tried to kill you. In front of about fifty witnesses, several of whom belong to SFPD. For that alone, they’re going to lock her up and, hopefully, throw away the key.”
I was dismayed by his casual brutality.
“She thought I killed Seamus.”
“Don’t repeat that,” John warned.
“It’s the truth.”
“If it is the truth, it strengthens the case against you.”
I saw his point.
I also saw that, being unable to share all the facts of the situation, continuing to try to convince him of anything was a waste of time.
I said quietly, “You’re right. I didn’t think about how things might look or how my visit might potentially affect Ciara’s case. And I realize that you’re concerned for me. I truly believe her when she says she didn’t kill Seamus, but I can see that I should have spoken to you before I went to see her.”
He relaxed a little. “I don’t think any real harm has been done. You’re…an unusual person, Cos. People, my people, don’t always understand—are liable to misinterpret your actions.”
He was not only serious, he was earnest, and I was touched to see his worry for me.
“I know. It’s all right. I don’t care what people think.”
John said, “I have to care, though.”
Once more I felt heat flood my face. “Yes. Right. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t kill Reitherman. I know you’re genuinely worried about a perceived injustice.”
“Well, yes.” Aren’t you? That was my real question. I didn’t have to ask it because John continued in his blunt, dogged way.
“When the Reitherman woman came after you, she lost any sympathy I might have had for her. There’s more than enough evidence to put her away forever, and that’s fine with me.”
“But if she didn’t do it—”
“She’ll have done something else. She did do something else. She tried to harm you.”
I think he saw my shock, because something glinted in his eyes for a moment. Regret? Guilt? Shame? If so, it was gone in the blink of an eye.
I said, “I can’t believe you mean that, John. I know you don’t really.”
Instead of answering, he said, “Promise me you’ll stay away from her. I want your word that you won’t do anything else to jeopardize the case against her.”
“John.”
“I’m deadly serious about this.”
He was too. It was right there on his face.
I said, “I…I’m not… I don’t know how to answer that. I’m not trying to interfere or make trouble for you. She asked for my help, and—”
“Your word.” John was adamant.
I gazed into his face and understood a couple of hard truths that had escaped me before. Magical abilities notwithstanding, John really did hold all the power in our relationship. And although he had not included “obey” in our wedding vows, my obedience was clearly a condition of our marriage.
The ability to negotiate a hard bargain is the ability to walk away from a bad deal. John—it was right there in the fierce lines of his face, in the steely gleam of his eyes—was prepared—always prepared—to walk away. I was not. Could not even contemplate it. Not then.
In those four minutes I learned more about him than I’d learned in four weeks, and I’m ashamed to admit I crumbled.
I said huskily, “I promise.”
The flinty look faded. We were no longer on opposite sides of the battlefield. “Thank you.”
There must have been something in my face, in my eyes, because his expression grew gentle, apologetic.
He leaned forward to take my hand, his lips brushing across my knuckles and sending a little shiver of pained pleasure down my back. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
He was not relenting, not in any way, but he was truly sorry for having to be harsh, for having to insist.
That night our lovemaking was especially passionate.
John was, if possible, more attentive and tender than ever before, and I could see that he recognized I was a little stiff, a little closed, and he was patient, even sympathetic in his wooing of me. Sure, he had won the battle—he planned on winning all our battles—but he was generous in victory, trying to show with every lingering, loving caress the rewards of surrender.
And I can’t pretend that I didn’t respond, didn’t let myself be petted and comforted and reassured. I loved him.
When he whispered roughly, “There’s nothing as important to me as you,” I wanted to believe him.
I even did believe him a little.
But my heart was still heavy.
Chapter Eight
Everyone wants to believe their job matters. Myself included.
Which is why I made a point of attending estate sales, although both Antonia and Blanche used to tell me Blue Moon was too high-end to carry other people’s cast-offs. Anyway, all antiques are other people’s cast-offs.
When elderly people cross, especially people with no kith or kin, very often their belongings end up in yard sales, or on the shelves of charity organizations like Goodwill, or, sadly, in dumpsters. It’s no different in the Craft. The difference is, an elderly witch’s worldly goods are almost certain to contain items both sacred and magical. Items that could be dangerous in the wrong hands.
Long before I knew of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm, I made it a point to collect such items so that they could be safely passed on to another of the Craft.
Now that I knew of SPMMR, I felt it all the more imperative that these items not fall into hostile hands. In fact, this was a subject I planned to eventually bring to the attention of the Société du Sortilège. Not that I thought much would come of it. The Craft is not good at organizing campaigns, especially across traditi
ons.
Anyway, on Sunday morning I was attending the estate sale of Hazel Nottingham in Roseville.
Hazel had been ninety-three when she crossed. She was Craft, though not Abracadantès. We had not been friends, but we had been friendly, and over the years I’d sold her a few rather valuable antiquarian (i.e., occult) texts—books I was now eager to retrieve, if at all possible. Hazel had no children of her own, and her great-niece was both mortal and unsentimental. The niece had hired AM Schiff & Company to liquidate her aunt’s estate, and by the time Blanche and I arrived, Hazel’s treasures were disappearing fast.
“These are sweet,” Blanche said, stopping to examine a display of modern Capodimonte porcelain.
“Focus,” I said, scanning the rows of long tables stacked with books and bric-a-brac.
“On what?”
I didn’t reply, astonished to see a familiar figure—small, spindly, with white hair that looked like the tousled feathers of a dalmatian pelican—speaking eagerly to another man. My heart skipped a beat as I recognized the second man.
Ralph Grindlewood.
“Blessed be,” Blanche said. “Isn’t that Oliver Sandhurst?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t seen him in ages.”
I opened my mouth, but I had no idea what to say. I’d been so sure Oliver had met with some terrible fate, and that that fate might be my fault. But here he was, looking perfectly normal—for Oliver—chatting pleasantly with Ralph as if they were old friends. Ralph. The enemy of everything Oliver and I devoted our lives to protecting and preserving.
Was it possible that Oliver didn’t know about the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm? Was it possible Oliver still believed Ralph was a friend and not a foe?
Here was a worse thought: was it possible Oliver was working with SPMMR?
“Oh, and there’s Mr. Grindlewood,” Blanche said. “He had the same idea as us.”
No lie there.
“We need to find those books,” I said, turning my back on Oliver and Ralph. I didn’t think they had spotted Blanche or me yet. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry, continuing to shoot the breeze while potential buyers inched past or leaned around them to examine the items spread across the long tables filling Hazel’s front yard.
“What books?” Blanche asked.
“I sold Hazel a 1958 first edition of Nedoure: Priestess of the Magi or Blazing Star, and I know she had a copy of the 1929 translation of Compendium Maleficarum.”
“Ugh. Why would you want a copy of that?”
“I don’t. I also don’t want copies of it floating around.”
Blanche looked confused, and I couldn’t blame her. It’s not as though I could confiscate all copies of one of the most insidious and vicious of the witch-hunter handbooks. Even if that were possible, versions of the book would continue to linger on the Internet for eternity.
Still. Physical copies have far more power than any representation. No need to make it easy for our enemies.
I said, “There are books stacked over there. Near the table with the clocks. Let’s split up. You start from the left; I’ll take the tables on the right. If you see anything rare or valuable of an occult nature, grab it.”
Blanche, still looking a little perplexed, nodded and headed in the direction of the book tables. I went in the opposite direction, trying to avoid catching the eye of either Oliver or Ralph.
I learned two things about Hazel that day: she had a taste for historical romances with covers featuring brawny, bare-chested men in kilts, and, over the years, she had consumed a bakery’s worth of Danish butter cookies. Hazel had an extensive collection of books, some sacred, some secular, some valuable, some not, but the day’s prize was a battered black-leather journal. A couple of pressed flowers and herbs slipped out when I opened the book. I glanced at browned pages of ink drawings and Latin notations.
Her grimoire.
I held it against my chest for a moment.
Don’t worry. It’s safe now. I’ll keep it safe.
“Cosmo,” Ralph said from beside me, and I jumped. “I should have expected to see you here.”
He was smiling, blue eyes twinkling with familiar good-humor. It was strange—knowing what I did now—but I had trouble reconciling my old concept of Ralph with my new understanding of who and what he was. He did not look remotely dangerous.
He still looked like a friend.
It was troubling.
“Ralph,” I said. “How are you?”
“Very well. Very well indeed.” His smile broadened. “How are you enjoying married life?”
“It’s nice. I’m a fan.”
“Excellent. You and John make a charming couple. How did you enjoy Scotland?”
“It’s beautiful.”
If my answers struck him as half-hearted, he gave no sign.
“Were you able to visit any of the ten sites of arcane power?”
Was he fucking insane?
To speak of these things in broad daylight?
I stared at him, truly at a loss how to answer. I had thought I knew him. I had thought he was a friend. Not just my friend, but a friend to the Craft. I had talked with him as though he was one of us. I had trusted him. But the fault here was not Ralph’s. He was what he was—what he had apparently always been.
The fault was mine.
For being so naive, so careless as to take a mortal into my confidence. To endanger all because I was a credulous, hasty-witted fool.
Ralph was still chatting away as though nothing had changed between us.
“It’s a shame these terrible murders had to happen just now. John’s bound to be preoccupied. It’s all the media seems interested in covering.”
But then Ralph didn’t know anything had changed between us. He had no idea I was now aware of the existence of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm. Let alone that I knew—well, suspected—he was a member.
And that was all to the good. Because if Ralph still believed I was clueless, I could feed him false information and he would accept it as truth and hopefully pass it along to his fellow conspirators.
“Yes, terrible,” I said automatically. I was afraid my doubt and suspicion were right there on my face for him to read.
Also, I couldn’t help wondering what stories Ralph thought the media should focus on?
“Valenti tells me she had lunch with you and John’s sister on Friday. What did you think of her?”
“She’s beautiful,” I said. “So, is it serious between the two of you?”
Ralph looked a little taken aback at this uncharacteristic nosiness on my part, but I remembered that the best defense was a good offense. That’s not one of the Precepts; I learned it at Krav Kids back in the day.
His smile was rueful. “A delightful girl, but you know me. I’m a confirmed bachelor.”
I chuckled. “That used to be code for gay.”
“In my case it’s code for middle-aged bachelor used to having my own way for far too long.” He was still smiling, still genial as he added, “I was happy to hear you turned down the idea of resuming practice.”
I was momentarily confused, then remembered the invitation that had turned out not to be an invitation. “Was it a test?” I was still smiling too.
His eyes narrowed. “A test? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Was she testing me to see if I was truly worthy?”
Ralph smiled, his flare of unease forgotten. “Oh, I’m sure she’s aware what a coup it would be to have the heir to the trône de sorcière as her novice.”
Yeah, no doubt. And the fucking arrogance! But I continued to smile, as John would have put it, blithely.
Ralph grew serious. “I understand you went to visit Ciara Reitherman in jail?”
Despite the phrasing, it wasn’t really a question. Or at least, that wasn’t his real question.
“She asked for my help. She believes Seamus’s murder may be connected to these Witch Killer slayin
gs.”
Of course, Ciara didn’t believe any such thing, but I thought the idea was worth throwing out there.
Ralph looked flabbergasted. “She believes… That’s…”
“Well, it makes sense in a way.”
“But it doesn’t,” he said.
“You don’t think there are worrying similarities in these cases?”
“Of course not. What similarities? She must be trying to throw suspicion elsewhere. She had to have killed Seamus.”
He seemed so genuinely startled, so genuinely confused—and alarmed—I wondered if I’d been jumping to way too many conclusions.
Blanche joined us then, balancing a stack of much-handled books. “Mr. Grindlewood. How nice to see you again!”
Ralph responded gallantly, if a little by rote, all the while his blue gaze returning to mine, then falling away, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.
Shortly after, he excused himself.
“Was it something I said?” Blanche remarked as we watched him striding swiftly back toward the shady street crowded with parked cars.
“Possibly something I said. Show me what you found.” I leaned over to study the spines on the stack of books she held. I groaned. “Uh-oh. Tell me these aren’t all of the His Bonnie Highland Captive ilk…”
* * * * *
Our cocktail party was supposed to start at seven, so I’d left Blue Moon at four thirty, planning to make a stop along the way.
Even from the street, it was clear Oliver was home.
The windows were open, the sheers pushed back, and I could hear the whistle of a teakettle and music—“Danse Macabre” by Camille Saint-Saëns—floating on the summer breeze.
I jogged up the red stone steps, pushed through the short black-and-yellow wrought-iron gate, went up more steps, and rapped briskly on the red-and-yellow door of the small Victorian.
The teakettle’s peal cut off, and a moment later the door swung open. Oliver blinked up at me. I saw the impulse to close the door go through his eyes, but then he smiled brightly.
“Cosmo, dear boy! This is an unexpected pleasure!”
Though not such a pleasure that he invited me inside.
“Oliver, when did you get back?”