Yes, there is such a thing as too many books. And no, I didn’t believe I'd ever say that either.
In the back room of Lenore's bookstore, my sister sagged over a stack of books and hung her head. Her blond hair spilled over a cardboard box. “This could be real evidence, but does there have to be so much of it?”
I pulled out a paperback and showed her the cover. “Valuable or not valuable?”
“Not. And we're supposed to be looking for clues in Trevor’s books, not value.”
“I promised Puck and Greg. But you're right. What we really need are old journals or... Oh damn.”
“What?”
“What if he made margin notes?”
We both groaned.
“Maybe a quick flip through?” I suggested, fanning the paperback’s pages.
An index card fluttered to the floor.
Pulse speeding, I bent and plucked it from the concrete.
“What is it?” Lenore asked breathlessly.
“Broccoli, onions, butter,” I read. “A shopping list.”
My sister rolled her eyes. “This is impossible.”
“Maybe the books were a bad idea.”
“No, no. It was a good idea. I just wish we had Jayce.”
“What about Connor?” I asked.
“He's working tonight.”
“I meant, did he hear anything about Trevor's death?”
“Only that the bullet that killed him was a twenty-two,” Lenore said. “They think he was killed with a small handgun. That would explain the entry hole in the front of his skull, and the lack of one at the back. Oh, and that he was shot once in the head and twice in the chest.”
“Oh.” Gruesome.
“What are we really looking for?” she asked.
“Evidence Trevor was in a Black Lodge, or planning to join a Black Lodge, and how we can find it.”
Lenore froze, one hand over an open box. “Find it? Find the lodge?”
“Aren’t you tired of waiting around for them to find us, of all the creeping and hints and dire warnings? Someone left a nightmare catcher on your house last summer. We need to know who these people are and how we can stop them.”
She glanced at my backpack, propped against a metal bookshelf and loaded with evil spell book. “Have you and Jayce done a body swap? She’s usually the one with the hair-brained schemes.”
“Knowing who we're dealing with can only help us.”
“But to seek them out? We're not ready for that. This is a Black Lodge. Their whole point is to study and practice the dark arts, and we're...” Lenore motioned around the cramped, concrete room.
It didn’t exactly scream, bad-ass witch works here!
“We haven't done that badly,” I said. “And I'm not saying we need to go after them now. But it's good to be prepared.”
“Is that you talking, or is it the book?”
“It's me.”
“I hope so, because it’s a little disturbing you’ve taken to carrying it around.” She glanced again at my backpack.
“Leaving it in my shed, where it might influence my kids, is more disturbing.”
Her gray eyes glinted silver in the overhead light. “Has it affected them?” she asked quietly.
I rubbed my thumb over the paperback's foxed pages. “I'm not sure. I found Emmie in my shed. She seemed to be trying to get at the book.”
“I’ll take it back,” Lenore said quickly.
“No. You and Jayce have carried it enough.” And they’d both paid a price. “It's my turn, and it will all be over soon.”
“But—”
In the other room, the bell above the bookstore’s front door jingled.
“I’ll be right back.” Lenore grabbed a box of books and hurried from the room.
Glum, I stared at the remaining stacks of boxes. Taking the books had seemed inspired at the time. Now it seemed like a fool's game. I lifted free a book on sigil making and flipped through it, looking for margin notes and finding none.
The sun had fallen behind the mountains when I finally left the bookstore, my fingers dusty and ink stained. The backpack with the possessed book dragged down my shoulders.
Why had I resisted returning the black book to Lenore? I'd told myself it was a sense of duty—my sisters had both gone through their own hells with the book. But I also knew they'd go through it all again if it meant keeping their niece and nephew from harm.
I trudged down Main Street, Christmas lights shimmering in the shop windows. And why was I wasting my time looking through old books? I was a witch. There had to be something better I could do to learn about Trevor. How had he even gotten to Doyle?
I stopped short. How had he gotten here? The bus service was awful. And if he'd come alone, by car, the car would still be here. Doyle wasn’t a big town. The car couldn’t be far.
But he'd been killed five days ago. If a neighbor or shop owner had complained about an abandoned car, it might already be towed.
Or it might not.
Excitement bubbled in my chest. Finding lost objects was a specialty of mine. I could find his car.
Heat spread between my shoulder blades. I stiffened, swallowed.
I was being watched.
Pausing beside a wrought iron bench, I bent and pretended to tie my shoelaces. Casually, I glanced down the covered sidewalk, illuminated by twinkle lights and shop windows.
The man I’d called the cops on yesterday leaned against a wooden post. He watched me through narrowed eyes.
I straightened and hurried down the sidewalk. My shoes thumped hollowly on the wood planks.
A soft set of footsteps followed.
I was the queen of bad timing. Trevor’s car could be impounded any minute, if it hadn't been already. I didn't have time to waste. And I couldn't lead my watcher to the car.
I needed to lose this jerk.
Slipping off my backpack, I hurried to my SUV and got inside. I tossed the backpack to the floor and started the car, fumbled with my seatbelt. Odds were, my watcher’s car was somewhere further down the street, too far for him to—
Headlights flared behind me.
My stomach dropped to the brake pedal. So much for magical thinking.
I drove down Main and turned onto a thickly wooded residential street. The car followed.
My hands tightened on the wheel. I had an advantage—I knew Doyle. My watcher, whoever he was, wasn't from around here. If he had been, I'd know him.
I turned down a winding road. There were fewer streetlights here, and darkness pressed against my car.
Two pinpricks of light glittered in my rearview mirror.
I rounded a sharp bend and accelerated. Turning off my headlights, I swept into a narrow, private drive. I slowed and pulled behind a high hedge.
Pulse thudding in my ears, I waited.
The boxy shadow of a car glided slowly past.
I sat there for a good thirty minutes, the car ticking as it cooled, the night thickening around me.
Finally, I pulled from the driveway. I kept my headlights off, crawling along until I reached the corner. Then I turned them on and drove to the parking lot behind Antoine's Bar.
Chili pepper shaped strands of lights decorated the rear of the old-west bar. Customers in cowboy hats and parkas wound through the busy lot.
I parked and twisted in my seat, pulling a canvas carrier bag from between the children's car seats.
Roughly, I unzipped it and pulled out a toy car, an age-inappropriate gift for Mitch from one of Nick’s relatives. But the toy came in handy now. I didn't know what Trevor's car looked like. I'd need an object to serve as a focal substitute and to represent his.
I held the toy between my hands and imagined a tiny Trevor driving it. Centering myself, I exhaled slowly.
I visualized a golden cord wrapping around the car and stretching between my heart and the toy.
“Trevor's lost car, now is found.”
There was a gentle tug on my solar plexus, pulling me away from the bar.
I pocketed the toy, grabbed my backpack, and stepped from my SUV. Slowly, I walked toward the edge of the lot, the edge of the light, and shrugged into my backpack.
Another tug pulled me toward a looming patch of pines.
“Do you have to lure me into the creepy forest?” I muttered. I had a mini flashlight in my pocket, but if I used it, its energy might disrupt the fragile spell. Besides, I'd rather let my eyes adjust to the darkness.
I blew out my breath and walked beneath the trees. A branch cracked. I stilled, straining my eyes.
A feminine giggle floated through the night air. A woman who looked way too young for Antoine's stumbled from behind a tree with a lanky cowboy.
I nodded and strode onward. I'd worry I was turning into my mother, but since I'd never known her, I couldn't blame mom for my judginess. Maybe it was my own new-mom hormones.
The golden cord pulled me toward a small slope. I trudged upward to a clearing with high, dry grasses.
The moon emerged from behind a cloud, flooding the clearing with light. A Toyota Corolla sat at its southern edge. I trotted to the car, the cord in my heart humming with energy.
When I reached the Corolla, my spell evaporated. This is it.
I tried the handles. Locked, of course. “Because when you're a Doyle Witch, nothing is simple.”
I held my palm up to the lock and visualized a silver cord extending from the center of my palm into the mechanism. The door lock popped up.
I clapped my gloved hands together. “But sometimes, things do come easy.”
Which should have made me suspicious, but I was too excited for omens or foreshadowing. I'd found Trevor's car. It could be filled with all sorts of useful clues about where he'd been. I slid into the front seat and turned on the overhead light.
The floor was clean, but I found a parking ticket for a San Francisco garage in the cup holder.
I pumped my fist in the air. “Yes.” I took a photo of it with my phone and replaced the ticket, then twisted to scan the back seat.
A manila folder lay on the floor, behind the driver's seat. This was no parking receipt. Hands trembling, I picked it up.
A light shone through the car window, blinding. Something metallic banged against the door, and I twitched.
“Hey,” a man said. “What are you doing in there?”
Squinting, I raised my hand against the light. “Hello?”
“Karin Bonheim?”
The light lowered slightly, revealing a white-haired man with a wide, frog-like mouth.
“Mr. Henderson?” I rolled down the window.
“Is this your car? You had no right to leave the car here.”
“I'm sorry, I—”
“Sorry? You're sorry? You're taking advantage is what you’re doing. I wanted to tow your car, but the police said I couldn't because I didn't have any no parking signs on the lot. Said I'd have to hire a private towing company, and then they couldn't tow you either because the signs weren't there. Well, the signs are up now, and you've been given warning.”
“It's not—”
“This is private property. I should call the police right now for trespassing.”
The scent of raspberry tobacco wafted through the open window. “Oh, I wouldn't do that,” a gravelly voice said.
Mr. Henderson started and dropped his flashlight.
Mrs. Steinberg, in a long black parka and galoshes, puffed an e-cigarette. “I told her she could leave it here.”
He grabbed his flashlight off the ground and glared, clutching it to his sunken chest. “You did? You had no right—”
“You're really going to argue rights with me?” the old lady asked.
He stammered and backed away. “Well... Don't do it again.” He turned and strode toward a ramshackle house at the other end of the field.
I stared after him. “What was that about?”
“Forget Henderson. He'll forget you if he knows what's good for him. What are you doing here? And no more nonsense. I know you and your sisters are up to something, and magic's involved. It has to do with that book you destroyed, doesn't it?”
I gulped and shifted, my back pressing awkwardly into the seat.
Her nose twitched. “There's bad mojo on this car.”
“Mojo? That's real?”
“Of course it's real. It's just another word for what's real. And don't change the subject. Did this car belong to Trevor?”
“Yes. I found it.”
She sniffed. “You went looking for it, you mean.”
“I think Trevor might have been a member of the Black Lodge that was after this book,” I blurted.
“Oh? What if he was? Why would a Black Lodge be interested in Doyle now? The book was destroyed.” Her eyes narrowed. Smoke wreathed her head. “Wasn't it?”
“But there's no way we can prove it’s gone,” I said hastily.
“I should have thought of that.” She cocked her head. “No, they wouldn't believe it was gone—they wouldn't want to.”
“And we can't prove something doesn't exist when it doesn't... exist.”
“Certainly you can,” she said. “Well, I can. I will.”
“You what?”
“It's the least I could do,” she said gruffly. “Don't think any more about it. I'll cast the spell proving it’s been destroyed, get word to my people. They'll get word to the other side, and you and your sisters will be off the proverbial hook.”
“You will?” I asked weakly. What if her spell revealed the truth—that we hadn't destroyed the book?
“It will take three days, but I'll start tonight.”
“Oh, you don't have to start tonight. It's so late.”
“No time like the present.” She glanced up. “It’s a full moon. It will be waning tomorrow. The stars, as they say, are aligned.”
“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “This spell, how does it work?”
“It’s a proof of life spell, but for the book.”
“Proof of life?”
“If it’s alive—or exists—I’ll know.”
“Oh.” Damn. “Thanks.”
“No need for thanks. I'll let you know when it's done.” She strode away, her cane thumping on the soft earth.
“Thanks,” I whispered. In three days, Mrs. Steinberg and her lodge would know we hadn't destroyed the spell book.
We had to destroy that book. Fast.