Chapter Twelve

 

I fell asleep.

Deeply, dreamlessly.

That’s the simple truth. The last twenty-four hours had been the most exhausting and emotionally draining of my life, and despite my plan to head straight for the Creaky Attic once I knew John was out, I fell asleep before he did.

I woke a little after three, startled out of a near-coma by someone shouting my name.

I sat up, wide-eyed and listening. My ears echoed with the sound of that cry. I glanced over: John still slept beside me, face half-buried in his pillow. I realized that the voice had been inside my head.

A summoning spell.

Oliver.

Oh no. Oh Goddess. How could I have forgotten? How had I let myself fall asleep?

Oliver had been terrified at the idea of going to the Creaky Attic at all, and I had left him to do it alone.

I put my face in my hands, concentrating, trying to reach out to him…but there was nothing.

A blank emptiness.

No Oliver.

No anyone.

Not only was no one reaching out, no one was even listening.

I edged cautiously off the mattress, feeling for my clothes in the darkness. I could see Pye’s eyes gleaming from the window seat.

Pouvez-vous m’aider?

Two narrow green flashlight beams pinpointed my crumpled black jeans and discarded black T-shirt.

Merci.

I snatched them up, dressing quickly, quietly—freezing every time John sighed or shifted—and tiptoed downstairs. There was a doorway in the armoire, naturally, but the hinges squeaked a little, and I could not take the chance of John’s sharp ears registering any furtive noises.

It was hard to believe no witch had lived in that house in eighty years, but so it was. There were no other doorways in the house. I had previously declined to create them, determined not to use any magic once I was married to John, but now I was second-guessing that decision.

I slipped out the front door, locking it behind me. The windows in the townhouses across the way were all dark, a hundred panes reflecting the moon’s sharp smile.

The night air was scented of smog. Crickets and distant traffic were my accompaniment as I hiked up the driveway and down the street until I came to a familiar side street.

I raised my hands, spoke the words, and the door appeared. I walked through and stepped out on Valencia Street.

A strong enchantment protected the store itself from the city’s network of netherworld doorways, which was why once again I had to enter half a block down from the Creaky Attic and walk up the street.

I had pretty much forgotten all about the dark presence that had followed me on Thursday night, and it was not waiting near the postern. But when I was within a few feet of the store, I sensed it drawing close.

I stopped walking.

“Spirit show thyself,” I said.

Across the street, traffic lights changed colors. Caution. Stop. Go. Caution. I continued to wait. A crumpled Doritos bag scraped its way down the sidewalk. Nothing else happened.

Yet it was there. I could feel it hovering. Feel the charge of black emotion: unhappiness, anger. There was no graveyard nearby. How had it come to be here? A violent death on the street? A traffic accident perhaps? Some tragedy had left this poor soul stranded.

But no. This was not simply a lost soul. A ghost, yes, but not only a ghost. There was magic at work here, there was…witchery in this.

It was too great a coincidence that this spirit lingered just a yard or so from the Creaky Attic. Had it been brought here through some article in Seamus’s store—and then banished to the street outside?

On impulse, I said, “Fantôme, montre toi.”

A silhouette began to take shape in front of me, the inky outline of…I wasn’t sure. Tall, slight…

A chill slid down my spine.

A witch. More alarming, in life she had been Abracadantès.

“Qui es-tu?”

The vague black mist wavered, rolled. A sudden flash of crimson illuminated the black and featureless face. Not good. Never a good thing.

The street lamps and traffic lights all turned red and began to blink on and off. Blood-red shadows pulsed against the buildings and sidewalks in silent, angry heartbeats.

The dark presence vanished, pinched out, like cold water on a hot ember.

I wiped my damp forehead.

Ohhh-kay. The spirit of a wicked witch was trapped on the street outside the Creaky Attic. After this, a little breaking and entering ought to be a piece of cake.

I continued to the front door of the store. Crime-scene tape stretched across the entrance. I snapped my fingers, and it ripped down the middle.

I raised my hands, said, “Ticktock, turn the lock.”

The handle turned to the right, turned to the left, but the door stayed locked.

Damn.

I tried an oldie but a goodie. “Open locks, whoever knocks.”

The door banged in its frame but held fast.

This was probably Ciara’s work. Not that I blamed her for throwing a few barriers up after the catastrophe that had occurred here.

Okay, so a formal incantation was required. Cadence. Concentration. Full sentences.

 

Open the door that is always there

Grant my passage through thin air

The secrets that may lie within

Are now my own, now let me in!

 

The locks clicked, the handle turned, the door to the shop swung open. I crossed the threshold cautiously, prepared for… I wasn’t sure what.

My nose twitched—the non-magical way—at the mix of scents: incense, furniture polish, crime-scene chemicals.

Déjà boo. Last time I did this, it didn’t go so well. I can’t deny I was on edge, uncertain—and that had been before I ran into the dark presence.

“Oliver?” I called.

Tonight, there was no light to guide me. Shadowy, ungainly forms stood at the head of crowded aisles. I passed the Secor wooden barrel chest, the empty square where the Broadwood upright piano had stood, a gold-painted grandfather clock that I could tell, even in the dark, had been made in China.

As soft as my footsteps were, they sounded loud in the stark silence.

“Oliver?”

My nerves jumped as the Wicca figure candles in a box on the other side of the aisle burst into flame.

 

I pledge no harm, but claim this right;

Now douse your flame and say good night

 

The candle flames wavered and went out.

“Oliver?”

I was pretty sure by then that Oliver was not in the store. I wasn’t even sure Oliver had summoned me. It seemed logical because we had agreed to meet, but never assume. He was probably tucked up in bed right this minute, the tassel of his nightcap bobbing in the wind of his peaceful snores.

I reached the closed door of Seamus’s office. I had to give myself a moment.

That was just good old-fashioned atavistic dread. I didn’t sense any threat on the other side of the doorway. I was just…afraid.

But I had planned on searching the store with or without Oliver’s help, and that was what I was going to do.

I raised my hands, but before I even spoke the words, the door unlatched and swung soundlessly wide.

It didn’t soothe my anxiety any.

I stepped into the room.

To my relief, there was no scintilla, no lingering aftereffect of dark magic, no resounding echo of recent, violent death. I had sensed nothing the first night either, but I’d put that down to my own shock. Now I saw that my first impression was correct.

That meant two things. Seamus had died without guilt and without regret. And he died by mortal hand. Or, more precisely, no magic had been used against him.

I spoke a quiet prayer for him. I should have done it the night I found him, but I’d been too rattled, and then there had not been time.

The niceties out of the way, I began to search his office.

You know, on TV everybody seems to have great luck conducting searches. I did not. It probably didn’t help that I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew what I was looking for, but that was all I knew. I didn’t have a system. I opened every drawer, every cabinet, and searched every shelf. I used every finding spell I knew. Nothing. Nada. Le zero.

I did not find the Grimorium Primus. I did not find any grimoire of any kind. Nor did I find the shadow lantern that had cast that paralyzing image of an old-timey witch on a broomstick.

As I stood by Seamus’s desk, defeated and dusty, trying to think whether I should tackle the sales floor on my own or wait till I could gather reinforcements, the door to the office slammed shut with a force that shook the entire building.

I jumped and swore. I was hoping it was the wind, but I knew it was not. For one thing, it would take more than the little summer breeze tickling the closed blinds to swing shut a propped door. My light—just your basic, atmospheric ghost light—went out.

I said, “Light, light, I hate the night.”

It didn’t work.

Now maybe it didn’t work because it was an idiotic spell even for someone who’d gotten into the bad habit of using kiddie Craft. It was both nonspecific and inaccurate, and magic requires aim and intent. Or maybe it didn’t work because someone better prepared than me was ready for my response.

Whatever the reason, it was a jolt.

I pulled out my Takeflight pen—an early gift from John, who had been appalled to learn I frequently walked around town unarmed at night—switched on the flashlight, and recited:

 

Open the door that is always there

Grant my passage through thin air

I wish to leave, I cannot stay,

Open door and clear the way.

 

The door began to rattle in its frame so hard, the tall shelves in Seamus’s office bounced and began to weave back and forth as though we were having an earthquake. Boxes began to fall. A file cabinet tipped over. Or maybe that wasn’t a spell. Maybe we were having an earthquake. That would be about my luck.

But no. The desk drawers flew open, and a tornado of papers whirled up and flew in my face. I batted them away.

 

Open the door I see right there

Stop my passage if you dare—shit!

 

I ducked as a heavy brass knuckles paperweight just missed my head.

It’s hard to think clearly when you’re really frightened. That’s why they call it scared out of your wits. My wits were as scattered as the papers flying around Seamus’s office, but I knew one thing for sure. If I didn’t get out of that room, I was dead.

I crouched down, protecting my head from the pens, pencils, paperclips, stapler, tape dispenser, letter trays, every fucking item on that fucking desk being hurled at me, and shouted, “Open the door, I need a noun. Open the door or I’ll burn it down!”

The spell was terrible, maybe the worst yet. I think what did the trick was my pointing my flashlight at the door and saying, “Ignem.”

The small circle of light began to smoke.

The door flew open, and I scrambled up, racing out of the room. I ran for the front door as the canyon of shelves began to topple over like dominos. The crash of wood and glass was horrendous. I expected any moment to be crushed.

I could see the streetlights—now back to their normal comforting white—shining through the windows. And I could see the bars of a security gate pulled across and barring my exit.

So it had been a trap all along. And I had walked right into it.

The normal spells would be anticipated. I gathered all my strength, all my focus, and cried, “Open Sesame!”

Because a classical education is all well and good, but so is familiarity with pop culture—as in movies, television, and comic books.

The security gate shoved to the side with an accordion-like screech, the door swung open, and I dived out. I sprinted down the street, summoning the postern as I ran, and jumped through the shining rectangle that appeared before me.

I landed on Greenwich Street, sweating, shaking, but mostly unharmed.

That had been way too close. I assumed my attacker had been Ciara. There was no question she wanted me dead, and while she wasn’t the only person who knew how desperately I wanted the grimoire—desperately enough to risk returning to the Creaky Attic to hunt for it—she was the only person I could think of who would be willing to nearly wreck the place trying to kill me, but stop short of letting it be burned to the ground.

It was possible Oliver had set me up, but what would be his motive? And I was the one who had come up with the idea of searching the store. He had not been in favor of it—and he had been right.

Of course, the third possibility was that whoever had killed Seamus, had tried to kill me by luring me to the Creaky Attic with that clumsy summoning spell. But why? Because they thought I knew something about the crime that I hadn’t yet told anyone? Because they couldn’t find the grimoire and hoped I could? I hadn’t succeeded, though, so in that case, why kill me? Because they didn’t like me on general principles? For some other unknown reason?

I puzzled it over as I walked back to the house.

When I let myself in, I was nonplussed to see the amber and bronze chandelier in the dining room was on.

Had I left it on? No, I was pretty sure I hadn’t turned on any lights. I walked toward the staircase, glanced over at the sofa, and saw John sitting there, watching me.

I know the jump I gave was visible—and visibly guilty.

“Oh.” I gulped. “Hey. You’re awake!”