The Book of Peril

by Melissa McShane

  “Helena, please.” Now Chet spoke in the tone of voice that said he was working up to the kind of tears he’d shed when he pleaded with me to take him back when I’d dumped him. “I’m sorry, okay? It was stupid, I see that now, but I wanted you to look at me the way you look at that jerk who punched me. I just wanted you back.”

  “He would never manufacture an incident to make himself look good in front of me. He’s strong, and honorable, and he cares about what matters to me. I wish he and I were together because then I could get him to beat you to bloody pulp.” My voice became a shriek near the end, hurting my throat, and I dropped to my knees and lowered my face so I wouldn’t have to look at Chet while I gathered my things. My knees were raw from the concrete, and so were the heels of my palms. I choked back a sob and tucked the deposit bag safely into my ruined tote.

  “Helena—”

  He was still trying. How incredibly stupid was he, and how had I never realized it before? “Touch me, and I’ll break your fingers,” I snarled. Chet went silent. I stood and clutched the tote under one arm and strode off in the direction of the bank. Chet didn’t follow me. I guess he wasn’t as stupid as all that.

  Marci, my usual teller, exclaimed over my condition—skinned knees and hands, blouse untucked, my hair in disarray—but I told her I didn’t need anything but to transact my business and go home. Oh, what a wonderful thought, that work and home could be the same place. I filled out forms while I waited for Marci to count the cash and compare it to my deposit slip, accepted my receipt, then asked if Gemini, one of the bank security and a magus I knew well, could escort me to my car. I was fairly sure Chet wouldn’t be waiting, but I didn’t feel like taking any chances.

  “I can tell the boss. He can make the guy disappear,” Gemini said, his dark face concerned.

  “It’s not that serious,” I said, though in my heart I wished I could sic Malcolm on Chet. But Chet was just stupid, and not even criminally so—or did hiring someone to pretend to assault someone else count as a crime? I got in my car, waved goodbye to my friendly mountain of a guard, and drove back to the store.

  I got back at quarter to ten. Judy wasn’t there yet—no, she had a dental appointment, so she wouldn’t be in until later. That was fine by me. I didn’t feel like talking to her or enduring her pity or whatever Judy might come up with. What I wanted was to call Viv and tell her the whole awful story, but she had work that morning. It would have to wait until later. I locked the back door behind me and sagged against it. How could Chet have been so stupid? How could I not have known how stupid he was?

  I went upstairs and washed my hands and knees, then changed my shirt. It wasn’t dirty, but it felt grimed by the memory of Chet. I didn’t have any bandages big enough to cover the scrapes on my knees, so I put on some pants. The fabric stuck to my raw skin, and with a sigh, I removed the pants and changed into a long, loose cotton skirt that billowed when I walked. I couldn’t do anything about my abraded palms but wash them, picking bits of grit out of the deeper scratches, and smear antibiotic ointment over them. That was going to make doing auguries unpleasant if I had to avoid touching things to keep the ointment from coming off on the books.

  Clean, doctored, and emotionally less fragile, I went downstairs and unlocked the front door. Abernathy’s was open for business. I sat on the stool behind the front counter, trying not to wobble, and stared at the door, willing someone to come through it. I needed work to keep me from remembering how awful it had felt, having that gun jammed into my side. I’d been sure I was going to die if I wasn’t fast enough giving the mugger my bag. What if it had been a real robbery, and the thief had gotten away with all that money? The Board of Neutralities couldn’t blame me for being robbed, could they?

  The door jingled. I wiped a tear away from my eye and left a smear of ointment on my cheek. “Good morning,” Malcolm said. “I—you’re crying. What happened?”

  “I’m not crying, I’m angry,” I said, and to my surprise it was true. “My stupid ex-boyfriend pulled a stupid stunt on me and terrified me and now I’m mad about the whole thing.”

  “What stunt?”

  “He hired someone to pretend to rob me so he could rescue me.”

  Malcolm laughed once, a short, sharp sound. “That’s incredibly clichéd.”

  “I don’t care,” I shouted. “I had thousands of dollars on me, and—I thought it was real, the guy had a gun, I thought I was going to die, why do men have to be so stupid?”

  Malcolm hurried around the counter and took my hand in his. “What is that?” he said, examining his fingers where they were coated in ointment.

  “I scraped my hands when I fell down running away.”

  He took my other hand and raised both to the level of my eyes so he could look at them. “I’m no bone magus, but I can do something about that.” He released my hands and took a handkerchief out of his coat. I giggled at the old-fashioned gesture, which made him smile. Gently, he wiped the ointment off my hands, then set the soiled handkerchief aside and took both my hands in his again. “This will sting,” he said, “I apologize,” and blew lightly across both my injured palms.

  My mother always poured hydrogen peroxide over my cuts before bandaging them. This felt like that: a burning, fizzing sensation that made me wince. Malcolm’s grip on my hands tightened. “Sorry,” I said. The burning subsided, and as I watched, the angry red abrasions faded to pink and then disappeared.

  Malcolm had his dark eyes on me, searching my face for I didn’t know what. “Better?” he said.

  “Yes. No. My knees are skinned.”

  “Show me.”

  I sat on the stool and pulled my skirt up. Malcolm laid a gentle hand on my knee, and I shivered again, but not from pain. His closeness felt intimate in a way I’d never experienced before. I kept my gaze fixed on my knees, unable to look at him because I was sure my cheeks were bright red. I wished I could throw my arms around his neck and let him hold me, give me comfort when I so desperately needed it. I could smell his aftershave, a woody, rich scent that suited him perfectly, and the thought of pressing my face against his cheek was so compelling I had to clench my fists to keep myself from indulging in it. “How are you doing that, if you’re not a bone magus?” I asked instead.

  “There are things every magus can do regardless of their aegis,” Malcolm said. He sounded far away, distracted. “Telekinesis and levitation. Basic firestarting and extinguishing. Small illusions. And healing little scrapes and bruises. It’s a simple manipulation of magic, though the effects are anything but simple.”

  “I appreciate it, simple or not.”

  “There,” Malcolm said, lifting his hand, and I hurried to drop my skirt over pink, unwounded knees. “Now, explain to me why—what is his name again? Chip?”

  “Chet.”

  “Explain to me why Chet thought rescuing you was going to make a difference. I assume he wanted to be the dashing hero and have you fall into his arms, begging him to love you.”

  “That’s pretty much it. He’s an idiot, and he watches too many movies.”

  Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “I think by some standards, you and I watch too many movies.”

  “Yes, but you would never reenact Arsenic and Old Lace to get rid of someone you disliked.”

  “Point taken. Do you want me to do something about him?” He leaned against the countertop, graceful as a hunting cat.

  “Do something? Like what?” My imagination stuttered to a halt as I tried not to think of what Malcolm was capable of doing to Chet.

  “I am extremely creative, and I happen to think men like him are a blight on society. I don’t like the idea of you being vulnerable to him.”

  My cheeks reddened again. “He’s not dangerous, just foolish.”

  “Suppose that gun had accidentally gone off? Helena, people don’t have to be evil to be dangerous.” Malcolm’s jaw tensed, and he looked past me, his gaze focused on something I couldn’t imagine.

  “I know.” I sighe
d. “It’s all right. He’s not coming back again. I hit him with my bag and called him an asshole. I think he knows now I’m never taking him back.”

  “If you’re sure. At least call me if you’re afraid in the slightest.” His dark gaze fell on me, intent and searching.

  “I will.” I smiled, trying to ignore the little flutter in my stomach. “I guess it’s true that ‘the love impulse in men very frequently reveals itself in terms of conflict.’ Though I doubt what Chet feels for me is love.”

  He smiled back at me. “If you’re capable of quoting Bringing Up Baby, you’ll be fine.”

  I hopped down off the stool. “Did you come for your safe deposit box?”

  “No, an augury.” He reached inside his coat again and brought out an augury slip.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, and disappeared into the oracle.

  I stopped a few steps in to give myself a moment away from Malcolm to calm down. He’d touched me so gently, and he cared about what happened to me. Was that normal concern, or did it mean something more? I leaned against a bookcase and closed my eyes. He probably kissed like a god, too.

  I sighed and unfolded the augury slip. Is Andria the woman I’m meant to spend my life with?

  The silence of the oracle felt suddenly as oppressive as if a hundred thousand books were holding their breath, waiting for me to fall. I clutched the slip of paper and let out a long, slow breath, encouraging them to do the same. Silence covered me like a blanket of stone. Of course he had a girlfriend. Why wouldn’t he? She was no doubt a magus, sophisticated and elegant, with long wavy dark hair and skin like porcelain. She even had an elegant name. I took a step, feeling the weight of the stony silence bearing me down. Another step. I had to find the augury. Nothing else was important, not Malcolm nor Andria nor how good Andria no doubt looked even when she was scruffy.

  I found the augury after about a minute’s searching, but stood there holding it while it buzzed and tingled against my fingers. The title was Love to the Highest Bidder. Was that a good sign, or a bad one? And good or bad by whose definition? I dropped the book on the nearest shelf and buried my face in my hands. I was being stupid. Malcolm was a friend, and I should be glad of that instead of hating a woman I’d never met. But you hope the augury tells him no, a tiny part of me whispered. You want him to love you. Stupid.

  “Here you are,” I said, handing him the book. “Five thousand dollars.”

  “That seems rather inexpensive for such an important question.” Malcolm took out a checkbook and borrowed my cheap ballpoint pen from the augury ledger.

  “Maybe Abernathy’s doesn’t think it’s important,” I said, then wanted to kick myself for how rude that had sounded. “I mean, sometimes it gives auguries that matter tremendously to the person, but not to the store. I don’t know. I hope it’s easy for you to work out the answer.”

  Malcolm handed me the check. “So do I,” he said, smiling so his dimple flashed at me. I wanted to make Andria disappear. “Take care, Helena.”

  “Don’t forget your handkerchief.”

  “Keep it. I have several.” He waved, and the door shut behind him. I didn’t go to the window to watch him drive away as I always did. Instead, I went back to the rickety stool and leaned my elbows on the counter. It was time I stopped crushing on Malcolm Campbell. Past time. If only it were as easy as talking myself out of it.

  busied myself with the day’s mail until Judy came in. Her jaw had the slack look of something under the influence of local anesthetic. “Don’t expect me to talk,” she mumbled, and wiped a bit of drool off her cheek.

  “I won’t. You want to go buy us a computer?” I still didn’t feel much like having company, between the faked attack and Malcolm’s augury.

  Judy’s eyes went wide. “Changed your mind?”

  “You convinced me. It’s past time we entered the 21st century. You know where the debit card is. Pick something that will last us a while. I don’t care how much it costs.”

  Judy nodded and headed for the office at a near run. I tucked another augury slip between the pages of the latest book and slit open another envelope. It felt like there were more of them these days, some of them odd. Like this one: Where is Carlyle Oats’ dog buried? A $7500 augury, too.

  Judy hurried past and let the front door shut behind her. It no longer slammed unless you wanted it to. Things had changed since I’d sat in the wobbly metal chair by the front door last November and waited for the job interview that would change my life. The memory soothed me somewhat, remembering how overwhelmed I’d been by everything those first few days. At least now I felt comfortable in this new world I’d discovered.

  Judy still hadn’t returned by lunchtime, but midway through my mother’s leftover chicken cacciatore, I heard the front door open. It was Martin Maxwell, one of Lucia’s right-hand men and a talented glass magus. It had taken me three months to discover Maxwell wasn’t his first name. “Hi, Martin. Lucia said you’d be coming over.”

  “She didn’t explain what the problem was, just said to take my kit and head on over.” Martin put a black bag that looked like an old-time doctor’s satchel on the counter next to the till. “Typical.”

  I nodded. “I don’t know enough about glass magi to tell you what to do. But the problem is Abernathy’s has been giving out auguries to people who haven’t asked for them. Lucia seemed to think if it was a magical influence on the store, you’d be able to see traces of it.”

  “That’s the idea, yes.” Martin opened the bag and took out, one at a time, an assortment of rods, cups, a rubber hose, and strangely shaped objects I couldn’t identify. All but the hose were made of clear glass, and he handled them with great care. They made little tinging sounds as he set them on the glass-topped counter. He next removed a rubber-headed reflex hammer and tapped it on the countertop the way a doctor might strike someone’s knee. The dull thwack sounded muted next to the merry chime of glass on glass.

  “I have to establish a baseline first,” he said. He picked up what looked like a palm-sized glass gong, attached by chains to a wooden rod so it moved freely in the air, and held it up at face level. He gave it a tap with the hammer. A low, pleasant note rang out, but rather than fading away, it swelled to fill the room—

  —and I could feel the oracle’s presence, out of sight beyond the shelves. “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make the oracle appear. That only happens in the presence of an augury request.” It was the strangest sensation, feeling the oracle’s presence when I wasn’t standing within the stacks.

  “What I did is a sort of mapping magic. It defines the boundaries of an ongoing magical effect. I think it highlighted what’s usually invisible. Walk into it and see if it’s active.”

  I did as he said and discovered he was right. The oracle was still dormant. “That’s fascinating.”

  “Well, the oracle does have an existence in the real world, even if it’s a weird one.”

  Martin walked through the shelves, tapping the gong occasionally. I followed him, marveling how every low tone brought the oracle more clearly into focus without what I privately called “waking it up,” though I still wasn’t sure it was alive in any sense we could understand. Having been the oracle for ten minutes once hadn’t enlightened me at all.

  Finally, Martin seemed satisfied with the results and returned to the counter. “This next part may feel strange to you,” he said. “Lucia says she can feel it when we do it back at the Gunther Node, but I don’t know what that means. Let me know if it’s painful.”

  “It might be painful?”

  “Possibly. I doubt it.” Before I could say anything else, Martin picked up a threaded rod about as thick as my thumb and screwed it through a hole in the base of a glass cup. I immediately felt an itching sensation along my spine. Martin added another rod to his contraption, and the itching redoubled. I leaned against the wall and rubbed my back up and down, but it didn’t ease the itching.


  “Hang on,” Martin said, though he hadn’t been looking at me. He threaded another rod and cup onto the thing, and the itching stopped. I stepped away from the wall and straightened my shirt. “Is that it?” I asked.

  “No, that’s me making the measuring instrument.” I’d had a game of Mousetrap as a child that looked like this did: rods crisscrossing each other, supporting cups that looked as if they should fall off the rods they dangled from. Martin held the contraption in his left hand and began tapping it with the reflex hammer in his right, playing a tune I thought I should recognize. After a moment, I did—it was the theme song from Friends, one of my mom’s favorites. She watched it in reruns while she folded laundry. I opened my mouth to ask him about it but decided he didn’t need the distraction.

  Martin walked wide around the bookcases, his head tilted like an inquisitive, buzz-cut terrier on the trail of a clever mouse. The tune went on, just the first two lines of the chorus, or maybe it was the whole chorus, which repeated the same tune. The fragment of song was the worst earworm I’d ever had, and I had to stop myself humming the song in time with Martin’s music.

  Now Martin was walking between the shelves, sometimes turning sideways to pass them without brushing against the books. I followed him, wondering what he saw with his eyes glazed over and the pupils shrunk to tiny spots. Occasionally he stopped to fiddle with one of the rods, like someone in an old movie tuning a television antenna. Then he moved on. He gave no indication he knew I was there.

  We covered the front part of the bookstore thoroughly, crossing some paths three or even four times. I grew so accustomed to wending my way through the stacks, following Martin, I was almost startled to find myself standing next to the counter. Martin set his apparatus down and turned his neck to pop it with a series of staccato snaps. “There’s something here,” he said, “but it’s not here here, if that makes sense.”