Chapter Two

A BULGING ACCORDION folder under his arm, Ravi lopes toward the front entrance of Constance’s magic shop. Before he reaches the door, it swings open with a pleasant chiming of bells, and out barrels a girl with her hair up in twin afro puffs, dragging her parents behind her.

“It’s Ravi!” she squeals and skips up to him, then stops and blushes straight up to her hair roots.

Twelve is a weird age. “Hey, Lucy.” He smiles. Ravi shares a friendly nod with Fiona and Ethan, Lucy’s parents. “How was the lesson today?”

“I learned how to make Griswold blue! And I gave him cool ears.”

“And what else, Lucinda?” her father reminds her wearily. Having a kid who can rearrange bodies must be a harrowing ordeal for a parent, especially if that kid is approaching her teen years all too soon.

“I learned about personal responsibility,” Lucy says as if by rote, rolling her eyes.

“That’s good,” Ravi says. “Very important.”

Lucy frowns a little. “It is?”

“Of course.”

“Oh,” Lucy says thoughtfully.

Fiona clucks her tongue. “Typical. Won’t hear a word of it from us, but anything you or Dr. Corbin say…”

Ethan leans toward Ravi with a stage whisper, “She’s hitting her boy-crazy phase.”

“Dad,” Lucy hisses, appalled. Despite her mortification, Lucy leans into her parents’ hands as they rest on her shoulders, softening the tease, the gesture easy and automatic. The casual intimacy of a real family.

Just witnessing it makes Ravi feel like an intruder, an unwelcome guest. He looks away, feigning sudden interest in the folder he’s carrying. “Good to see you three. I need to get this to Constance.”

Ethan nods courteously. “Good to see you too. How have you been? Had some late nights?” A polite way of saying that Ravi looks like shit. The dark smudges under his eyes won’t go away. If he could just get some sleep; he can’t even remember the last time he got more than a couple of consecutive hours.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Fiona checks her phone. “We’ve got to run too. If you see Harry, tell her to call! We’re overdue for a brunch.”

“Will do.”

They say their goodbyes and Ravi watches after them for a few minutes, scanning the street for hidden threats or ambushes before heading into the store.

Griswold jumps out stiff-legged from behind the counter. “Aha, ’tis thee, witch-hunter! A fine day to thee.” Constance spares a glance up from a massive book. She tosses him a quick wave and a smile before sinking back into her reading, transcribing notes and making small sketches in her grimoire.

“Hey, Griz.” The cat isn’t blue, so Lucy must have turned him back, but he does now sport long tufted ears, like a little lynx. “Nice ears.”

“Quite fine, are they not?” Griswold struts a bit, then sits atop a table to lick his paw. Ravi keeps a polite distance, so he won’t be set off sneezing and joins Constance at the counter.

“I don’t have any matches,” he tells her with slight smile.

She snorts, then pulls her nose out of the thick tome and rubs vigorously at her eyes. “Alas, thou couldst have alit a bonfire under mine canions to improve mine addlepation.” She makes a face and shuts the book in a swirl of dust, her diction catching up on a few centuries worth of grammar. “Some of these demon accounts are most tedious, to my eyes. I thought I might make some headway after young Lucy’s somamancy lesson, but in truth, I welcome the interruption. Need you anything?”

“Actually, I’ve brought something for you.” Ravi slaps the folder down in front of her.

Constance opens it. “What is all this?”

“Everything The Trust has on demon princes. Cross-referenced with any mention of the name Hartnell, or the Heart’s Last Knell. Sorry, there isn’t more.”

Constance’s face brightens with delight. “Your aunt has been agreeable, then!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ravi mutters. “I’m not going to get real access to intel at least until the…until the engagement is official.” He clears his throat, fixing his attention on the plethora of mushrooms growing in bell jars on the back wall. One of them looks new, glowing faintly green.

Constance nods, attention divided as she skims through a few reports. “This is enormously helpful, Ravi. Between this and what Nathan will be able to dredge from folklore, that flensing cur shan’t evade us for long.” She sets the folder aside. “Tea?”

He checks his watch, but he’s got nothing pressing the rest of the day aside from hitting the boxing gym much later. “Coffee?”

She wrinkles her nose a little, leading him away from the counter. Griswold jumps up to a nearby shelf and helpfully bats the store’s sign to Closed. “I have chicory. ’Tis much the same.”

“Sacrilege.”

A peal of merry laughter. “I only jest. Harry has left a French press and fresh grounds.” One of the back rooms has been set up as some kind of mix of classroom and fortune teller’s tent. Constance pulls aside a star-strewn tapestry, revealing a small kitchenette. She sets the water to boil. “Just coffee? I have some lovely herbs that may ease thy spirit.”

Ravi arches a brow. “By herbs, do you mean drugs?”

She clicks her tongue. “I mean medicine, whatever it is named in this bizarre age.”

He can’t blame her for trying. She’s a healer by nature, with a different view on mind-altering substances. “Just the coffee, thanks.”

“So,” she says once they are seated at the table, drinks in hand. The steam from her tea smells like mushrooms roasting on a campfire. “I have told Robert Hernandez to remove himself from service. Now that we know my nemesis is no mere lesser demon, it is no longer safe for him to stalk the demon’s steps.”

“Yeah, I was going to ask. He checked in last week. Mentioned the trail had run cold.” They’d had a brief meet-up wherein Robert had mostly regaled Ravi with his more amusing stories on the Boston police force in the ’70s and ’80s. Every time Robert asked about Ravi, he’d successfully managed to divert the conversation away from himself.

“Aye.” Constance sips her pungent tea. “It might behoove us to contact James. We know he resides in the future, but not when or where. I had thought to maybe carve a huge granite edifice? That should last a fair while, yes?”

“You want to, what? Etch a note into a mountain that says call me?”

She makes a face. “Well, do you have any better ideas? How does one reliably contact a…” She minces warily through her question, as if she half-expects Ravi to fall apart at the mere mention of time travel. “—a time traveler?”

He shrugs with a barren little smile. “No idea. I’m just grateful no time travelers have tried to contact me. Thanks again for that threshold spell.”

After the eternally long, immeasurably bad day a month ago in August, Constance had magically shored up defenses on everyone’s place of residence. Now no one can find them without an express invitation. The downside was everyone had to get a PO Box for all their mail and deliveries, but hey, no Jehovah’s Witnesses either.

“Ravi. You are well, are you not?”

“I’m fine.”

Her fingertips ring against the ceramic mug. “It is all right to not be fine.”

Ravi can feel annoyance creasing his forehead as he takes a drink of his coffee, welcoming the jolt of caffeine. “Are you fine?”

Constance meets his gaze and says plainly, “I am awash with remorse that I have unleashed a powerful evil into this world. Had not acted as I had, Hartnell would have long since been defeated by a more skilled hunter than I and sent back to Hell. This day and age would be safe from him, and those he has slain would still be alive.” She picks up her mug and blows across it. “But alas, I cannot undo it. All I can do is move forward.”

“We’re going to find him, Constance. We’re going to get him.”

Constance smiles warmly and pats Ravi’s hand. “Well said. Thou’rt stalwart.”

In token protest, he shakes his head, dropping his gaze to a deck of cards on the table. Idly he picks it up and flips over the first couple of cards. “Is this tarot?”

“’Tis! There was no such thing in my time, but customers have been offering to pay me for readings, so I have learned. Like any other method of divination, it is mostly psychology and the subconscious working in tandem through the means of archetypal representations.” When he glances up at her, she scrunches her nose into a cute grin. “I mean, oh la, good sir! I am but a simple peasant girl, thine world is strange and confusing to mine primitive eyes, and so on and such forth.”

A laugh startles out of Ravi like a bird from the brush. “Right.” He drains his coffee, debating whether another cup would even help his exhaustion. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, but I managed to get one more thing from my aunt I was hoping you could help with.” He passes her a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “This is a list of all the magical artifacts that Cayenne stole from a Trust family. When you have time, could you look it over?”

Just saying their name brings a stab of guilt and remorse, and beneath, an undercurrent of longing that carries with it even more guilt. But knowing what powerful enchantments Cayenne has access to will be a big help. No reason to have an info broker in their pocket if the man can’t alert them if certain artifacts pass through the black market. Maybe it’ll provide a lead, a hint at where Cayenne will first strike.

Constance hesitates before looking it over. “These items were obtained from practitioners? Taken from witches and so forth?”

“Confiscated from warlocks. Not all of them, but many. Some are from various monsters or demon cults, but most are family heirlooms, I believe.” The Bhagavatis can’t trace their lineage back quite as far as the Abhiramnews, but they’re still one of the oldest of the Trust families, joined well before the consortium had been formed with the Europeans. They’ve had a lot of time to accrue items of power.

Constance worries her lip. “Your Trust,” she begins, tentative at first, then growing in surety. “Thou art very nearly an Inquisition, Ravi.”

“We are not—” He swallows his automatic reaction to consider things from her perspective. “I…can see how it looks similar—”

In the past month Ravi has had this problem often. The team can see he’s passionate about the future of The Trust, but no matter how he tries to explain, no one can see what he sees. He can tell they’re all wary and distrustful, and it troubles him. The Trust has gotten tarnished over time, but Ravi can fix it. He can shape the existing structure back into what it should be the way a blacksmith forges a blade.

“Constance, I’m not blind to its flaws and its faults. But I can also see what it could be, and I…I can almost see the path to get there…” He sighs in frustration. Words aren’t his strong suit.

She traces a finger through a few errant drops of tea on the table. “The Trust has long taken down witches and such, yes, as well as monsters? Humans with magical abilities?”

He tries not to think of Cayenne. “You mean warlocks. Constance, we’ve taken down humans who misuse magic. The team, I mean. That guy with the dollhouse, shrinking people. And the woman who killed people with all those crystal bug assassins.”

“Indeed! An important task. Shaws have often done such.”

“You said as much back at the…last month. My aunt said Shaws used to hunt other magic users?”

“Many of us were mages ourselves, which is why it was of paramount importance that we keep our eyes on others. On ourselves, even.” She smiles, a dangerous edge to it. Cut-throat. “Oh, we Shaws hath slain many a monster, but the line between man and monster does get fuzzy betimes, especially among those that practice the Art. Often my family would gather at our Moots to discuss if a fellow practitioner had grown sufficiently cackling to count as a demon. A monster, I should say; taxonomy is important, as our good professor would say.”

She’s been working very hard on her modern speech, but Ravi wonders if she’s using some Old English word he’s unfamiliar with. “Cackling?”

Abruptly Constance wrings her hands together and demonstrates an evil cackle like a storybook witch. Ravi jumps a little at the sudden sound.

“Aye, cackling. Gone too far down the path of wickedness. An ever-present danger, for often those of us who crave knowledge find it impossible to know when to stop.” She looks away, a shadow falling over her face. “It was far, far better for the task to fall to us, their fellow mages, than to call the attention of the Church, or superstitious townsfolk, or…”

“Witch-hunters,” Ravi finishes, softly.

“Yes,” Constance says. Then she sighs, tipping her head to one side. “You yourself kept my young pupil Lucy from The Trust’s clutches when her powers were discovered.”

“It’s not clutches; she was just too young. I’ve…got a thing about kids being trained up too young. The Trust wanted to keep her safe, to keep others safe from her until she can be guided to—”

“Was that also what they intended with your former paramour? To keep them safe?”

Ravi goes completely still.

He is not an angry person by nature. Fierce, maybe. Protective, certainly. He enjoys the thrill of battle, the successful execution of his hard-won skills, helping people. Rarely is it accompanied by anything like anger.

But here in this little room smelling of sage and old books, he curls his hands tight enough around the edge of the table to make his fingernails go pale. He has to draw a deep, slow breath to cool the white-hot torch of his rage.

Don’t be a child, his aunt had told him when he grilled her about it after the airport, refusing to dignify his accusations, do you imagine that we are above using any means to keep the world safe?

Cayenne could have been lying about their abduction. The torture. Just one more lie to spice up the banquet of falsehoods they kept serving Ravi. But they knew too much for him to discount it entirely, their vengeful fury too genuine.

If it was true, had his mother known? Was this the legacy she had always intended to leave him?

Padme wants to know who sent the urumi to Harry’s door, who’s meddling with The Trust and their family’s legacy, with his birthright, wants to know why Ravi isn’t itching to find the enemies lurking in the shadows.

He’s more concerned with why The Trust has those enemies in the first place. If they deserve them.

Ravi has always been a light sleeper, but now he jolts awake every night, heart pounding and fists white-knuckled.

With a shaky sigh, Ravi rakes a hand through his hair. Graciously, Constance gives him a moment to collect himself, her attention on her cup of tea.

“If you can change any of that, then I wish you well of it, of course.” She picks up the conversation easily, as if Ravi hadn’t just had a small breakdown across from her. “I shall assist if I can. I think you shall be a valiant nephew, and a courageous defender of my niece.”

His ears grow hot. “I, uh. Thanks.”

“Do you want me to read your cards, nephew-to-be?” Constance playfully waggles her eyebrows and takes the cards from Ravi. He hadn’t noticed he’d been absently shuffling them.

“I thought you said they were just psychology.”

Constance’s fingers flutter in a stage magician’s flourish. “Lackaday, sirrah, you do not believe in such things, with all the magic you’ve seen in your life? What about astrology and chakras and such things my customers are always asking about?”

“Hey, my people invented chakras. And we’ve got our own horoscopes, thank you very much, astrology is kind of a big deal over there. But no on both counts. That stuff is…not for me.” Lots of magic is real, Ravi knows from very personal experience. Vampires, lycanthropy, fairies, time travel, energetic fields, portals to other dimensions; sure. But the concept that some star billions of miles away means you get born with a certain personality? He’s got to draw the line somewhere.

Sure, he’ll read the horoscopes every morning, but that’s just tradition.

“Indulge me, Ravi,” Constance wheedles, setting the deck in front of her.

He tips his head back to demonstrate a beleaguered sigh. After a moment he gestures for her to go ahead.

Constance grins in delight and shuffles the cards. “Do not look so dour! This shall be most amusing. I have devised mine own method of spreading the cards, so it should not take over-long.”

“Good.” He settles into the chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Constance draws herself up, taps ink-stained fingers on the deck. “This first card is you.” She flips it and lays it between them, the illustration facing Ravi. A golden painted sun shining its rays down to a flowery meadow. “The Sun.”

Ravi shoots Constance a suspicious look. “That’s me, huh.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “So sayeth the cards. Two more cards to better hone the central one…” Another pair of cards go on either side of the Sun card. “Here we have the Hermit and the Page of Pentacles. You, my good fellow, radiate courage over the many evils of the world, and though thy body is young, thy mind is older. Thou often draw away from the world and enclose thyself in solitude.”

Ravi frowns in mild irritation. “This is just what you think of me, Constance.”

“It is certainly my interpretation of what the cards are said to mean, but I am not inventing anything.” Her palm goes up in an eloquent gesture. “’Tis the nature of tarot to be vague enough to resonate with anyone.”

Ravi looks at the Sun card again. Coincidence, after all, and not the result of Constance figuring out how to run a search engine or a translation app.

“Next, we have thy opposition. Thy struggle.” Constance drops her voice low and sepulchral with a teasing smile. She flips a card, and her smile drops. “Oh.”

Ravi eyes the card. The Moon.

“I…I swear thee I did not rig this,” Constance assures him, grimacing. “By my troth. Perhaps this was a foolish idea.”

“Well, now I’m curious. What’s a Moon mean?”

She gnaws her lip a moment and sighs. “One who changes their face and walks in deception.”

Ravi looks away, heart missing a step.

She flips two more cards and mutters to herself, “So many major arcana.” One fingernail taps the edge of a new card. “The Tower. And here, The Devil.” She frowns at that one. “All three together would indicate that you are caught in an impossible illusion, trapped there and held hostage. The Tower means destruction wrought by an unwillingness to change, by the clinging of old ideas and falsehoods.” Constance swipes her tongue over her lips. “Those are…bad cards.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “I gathered.”

“The next set represents thy strength.” A bit hesitantly, Constance lays down the next three cards. “Ah! Good news at last. The Lovers.” She laces her fingers under her chin, batting her lashes. “A fulfilling romance is in the cards for you.”

Ravi rolls his eyes, relaxing a little at the change of mood. “Now there’s some classic fortune-telling. Will I meet a dark and handsome stranger?”

“Ravi, you are a dark and handsome stranger. Here, the other two are the Ace of Cups and the Page of Wands. Thou must face thy fears to dispel them, and in doing so you will meet one whose passion is equal to thee and know an overflowing abundance of love in your future.” She simpers, saccharine sweet.

Ravi rolls his eyes. He’s learned from his mistakes. He’s not going to rush blindly toward the first person who’s nice to him again, not going to hand a stranger his heart on a silver platter just because they say they want him. It’s far safer to return to his old habits. Keeping to himself. Keeping his guard up. “Okay, is that it?”

“Patience, my fellow, one more set. This one represents thy road, the way forward. One extra card for this batch.”

Ravi inspects the last four cards. Some crowns, some swords, a set of scales, and a man hanging upside down from a tree. Despite his vulnerable position, the man’s face is drawn with an air of serenity.

“More major arcana. Thou hast an unusual overabundance of those. Justice flanked by the King of Wands and the Knight of Swords. The Hanged Man is your final card. Most interesting.” Constance steeples her fingers and considers the cards for a long moment. “Wrongs have been committed against you, and against that which you call yours. You must beware of covert forces, and prepare to meet with your enemies, to make sacrifices. However, your cause is noble, and to succeed you must transform the fight into one of compassion instead of violence.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate. Violence is the only thing I’m good at,” he half-jokes.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Constance replies, her diction slipping back into her more archaic cadence, always harder for Ravi to follow. “Thou bearest a strategic mind and a kind heart under yon warrior’s armor. ’Tis how I knowest thou will make the right decisions dealing with that red-capped skamelar.”

Ravi looks away, arms tight over his chest. “Apart from trying to get something useful from that vampire in New York, I’m not sure there’s anything I can do. So far, you’re the only one who’s figured out how to suspend a chronomancer’s ability, possibly ever. We…we don’t even know if Cayenne has already changed things, and we’re all just stuck in that new timeline completely unaware.”

Yet another popular nightmare for his seldom-slumbering mind to dredge up; he’ll awaken unsure if any of his memories are real, whether anyone he knows still exists or are only echoes.

“Hmm, mayhaps, although that seems beyond even their prodigious abilities. My wonder is what thou shall choose to do when they do show their many-masked face again.” Her earnest hazel eyes meet his, her hands propped underneath her chin.

Everything she’s said, how she interpreted his cards… Ravi looks away, skin prickling. “You think…you think I should forgive them.”

“Piffle,” Constance snorts contemptuously. “Forgiveness is such a modern concept. ’Tis merely a ploy thought up by the powerful to keep the abused from seeking their rightful vengeance. Nay, I think ye should demand Cayenne’s fealty.”

Surprised, Ravi barks out a laugh. “Fealty?”

“Aye. They have wronged you most egregiously and done great dishonor. ’Twere it I, I would bind the chronomage to my service.” She gives his arm a little pat, then gathers up the cards into a neat stack.

“I can’t…I can’t bind anyone, Constance.”

Constance hesitates, looking at the Devil card, then makes a sour face. “Thou may be right. Mayhaps thou can find a better path?” She inspects the Hanged Man closely, then shrugs.

“What are you saying? What should I do?”

“God’s blood, man, I cannot tell you that! Nobody can. Only thou mayest decide. None are going to give ye orders for this.”

Ravi bites his lip. “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck and stands up. “Thanks, Constance.”

She waves away his thanks. “Soon we shall be as good as blood, whence thou marry Harry. Go ye well, Ravi. Mine gramercies unto thee for—yes, sorry, got a smidgen ‘ye olde,’ as Harry would say. Thank you for the files.” She grants a little smile he half-heartedly returns as he buttons up his suit jacket.

“If you figure out what those artifacts can do, let me know.”

“Get some sleep!” she calls after him. He rolls his eyes, and the soft tinkle of bells follows him out of the door.