Something dark was following him.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn’t notice at first.
When he did, he was not unduly concerned. It was an old part of town, a dark part of town—and Valencia Street ran through one of the darkest of the dark parts. Not in the sense of street lamps—or beings—missing a few light bulbs, though yes, come to think of it, it was a Stygian sort of night in the Mission District. The witch’s moon peeping slyly through the purple-edged girders of clouds shed little light on the closed shop fronts and wide empty streets. Deep shadows crawled from the mouths of alleyways, loitered by doorways.
A good night to get yourself mugged. Or magicked.
Neither thought worried him overmuch. He was running late. As usual. His main concern was that Seamus might grow impatient and leave—or worse, take offense and change his mind entirely.
In fact, it was hard to believe Seamus had invited him to this private viewing in the first place. They were not friends. Not even friendly.
Not after the incident of Great-great-great-uncle Arnold and the Louis XVI rococo hanging mirror.
Maybe offering Cosmo first chance at the grimoire was Seamus’s attempt to make amends. Though that was unlikely. There was no more arrogant son of a warlock than Seamus Reitherman. It was doubtful he believed he had anything to make amends for.
No, this gesture, if sincere, would be nothing more than a calculated effort to get the best price possible.
Which he would. If this was the real thing, Cosmo had no intention of quibbling over money. Let alone magic.
In three long strides he reached the darkened storefront of the Creaky Attic. His heart sank.
CLOSED read the sign in the front door. It was gently swinging, as though it had only been turned over a few moments ago.
Oh, but then the shop would be closed. It was well past midnight. Cosmo reached for the door handle.
Wrong again. It was locked.
He swore softly, studying the front of the store for movement within the indistinct interior. With the exception of the swaying sign, nothing moved. Even the playful night breeze stilled. Cosmo took a step back, absently considering the flowery white and gold script that flowed across the top of the unlit bay window: Antiques and the Arcane.
Though the lights were off, he could see straight down the crowded, shadowy center aisle to a sales desk—and the black outline of a doorway beyond. Pale lamplight glowed from within Seamus’s office.
Cosmo raised his hands before the front door. He murmured, “Ticktock, turn the lock.”
Simple magic. The kind of thing they learned as children. He didn’t expect it to work, but like the mortals say, it’s the little things. The locks turned—there didn’t appear to be any wards or enchantments protecting the entrance at all—and the door swung silently open as though pushed by an unseen hand.
Cosmo stepped inside. “Hello? Seamus?”
The shop smelled of old books and furniture polish and incense.
Barring the incense, it smelled like his own shop, though there was a sharp, unpleasant undernote he didn’t recognize. But then disagreeable smells were part of the antiques dealer job description. More often than not, the past stank.
“Sorry I’m late,” Cosmo called into the resounding silence. “Hello?”
No one answered. Nothing moved.
Yet the shop did not feel empty.
Framed in the office doorway, the lamp on Seamus’s desk shined with cheery disregard, a sharp black silhouette against the red walls. Cosmo walked soundlessly down the aisle, passing a Secor wooden barrel chest worth a couple grand, a late 19th century Broadwood upright piano in an ebonized and satinwood decorated case. The ivory keys rippled a ghostly little tune as he passed. Fauré’s “Clair de Lune.”
On the other side of the aisle he could make out Goddess boxes, smudging kits, and figure candles in the gloom. Seamus sold both the cheesy and the costly with equal aplomb.
“Seamus?” This time Cosmo did not call out. Something in the listening silence made him uneasy.
He remembered the presence he had felt on the street outside. But no, whatever that had been, it was still behind him. Unable to cross the shop’s threshold? Perhaps he had been wrong about the lack of wards and enchantments on the front door.
He reached the old-fashioned wooden circulation desk, went behind it, and entered the office. He froze on the threshold.
Seamus was on the floor, lying prone in twin pools of lamplight and blood.
Cosmo stared and stared and yet couldn’t seem to make sense of it.
Every detail was imprinted on his mind—the strands of gray in Seamus’s long ponytail, the silver glint of the ring on his hand, his staring bloodshot eyes—and yet he couldn’t seem to take in the whole picture. He felt strange. Cold and far, far away. Not astral projection far, far away. More Am I about to faint? far away.
Seamus was…dead?
Dead?
Not just deceased. Violently dead.
He could not see a wound, but all that blood had to be coming from somewhere. Some opening not intended by Goddess or nature. He swallowed his rising sickness.
An ebony-handled athame—the double-edge blade black with gore—lay a few inches from Seamus’s outstretched hand.
But this was not suicide.
Murder?
Who? Why?
Cosmo’s stricken gaze lit on what appeared to be yellow chalk markings above Seamus’s head. He moved closer for a better look, and his scalp prickled in horror.
The first strokes of a sacred symbol. Had someone begun to draw a pentagram?
No. This was truly unthinkable. Seamus had been slain by someone within the Craft. Cosmo knelt to reach for the dagger but remembered in time—all those hours spent watching television finally going to good use—and drew back.
He must touch nothing. He must leave. Now.
But those markings. He should make some record. He should… He felt for his phone.
A rustling sound overhead made him look up.
The image sliding across the low ceiling was straight out of his childhood, out of a lot of people’s childhoods: the sharp black silhouette of a witch on a broomstick. His relationship with that symbol was vastly different from most people his age—most people of any age. Even so, ridiculously, the sight of that profile—crooked hat, crooked nose, crooked chin—paralyzed him for a second or two.
“SFPD. Don’t move!” a voice bellowed from the doorway behind him—and Cosmo jumped.
“Keep your hands where I can see ’em. Do. Not. Move. A. Muscle.”
After his initial start, Cosmo did not move a muscle. He did not dare so much as breathe. Even with everything that had happened in the last four minutes, he could not believe he had not sensed the cop’s approach. Fool. Fool. Fool. He really was out of Practice.
“Facedown on the floor and lock your hands behind your head.”
Cosmo said urgently to the blinding white light, “I haven’t touched him. I found him like this—”
“Get on the floor. Facedown. Now.”
There were two of them. Two flashlight beams hitting him square in the eyes, and although the room was not in total darkness, it was disorienting. With time and cover there were evasive actions he could have taken, but he had neither.
The shock of finding Seamus dead had chased everything else from his mind. Now he remembered. The grimoire. Where was it? Was it in the shop? Had Seamus’s assailant taken it?
“Last chance. Get on the fucking floor, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
They were as frightened as he was.
He could not be arrested. There had to be some way—
Getting shot was not a viable alternative.
Though possibly preferable to having to explain…this.
Cosmo placed his hands on the floor, surreptitiously wiping the heel of his hand across the yellow chalk. He lowered himself, trying to avoid the spreading cobweb of Seamus’s blood weaving across the channels of woodgrain.
He blinked into the glare of the flashlights, forcing his soft voice to an even quieter and more soothing tone, seeking to reach them, to convince them. “This is a mistake. I’m not who you’re looking for. I just got here—”
“Hey,” the voice behind the second flashlight beam interrupted. “Isn’t that…”
“Isn’t that what?” demanded the first cop.
No, no, no. He tried again to reach them, keeping his voice so soft, so soothing… “This is a mistake. I’m not—”
The second cop said in a wondering tone, “Holy shit. I think I know him.”
“Well, who the hell is he, then?”
Goddess, no. Please no. He gulped. “Just listen, will you? This is not what it appears—”
“Holy shit,” the second cop repeated. Then in that same slow, incredulous voice, “Isn’t he the guy Commissioner Galbraith is supposed to be marrying this weekend?”
