Death Magic

NINETEEN

“NONE?” Lily said. “Okay, okay. I’m not arguing, I just . . . yeah, go ahead. Might as well be sure. Thanks, Arjenie.” She disconnected and frowned at her phone.

“Arjenie couldn’t find anyone recently deceased who fits your ghost’s profile?” Rule asked.

She looked over at him. Rule was behind the wheel himself for once. Not that they’d gotten away without any guards, but they were in Lily’s government vehicle because Cullen was AWOL in Rule’s, and Lily refused to sit in her own backseat. Rule refused to sit back there by himself, so Scott was.

Lily shook her head. “Not an agent, not a secretary or a clerk or researcher or janitor. No male working at Headquarters has died lately.” And Arjenie would be able to find out. She might be living in California now to be close to Rule’s brother Benedict, but she was still a Bureau researcher, with access to pretty much any database her little heart desired. “She’s going to expand the search to include frequent visitors to Headquarters.”

“Someone who visited often enough to make going through the checkpoint routine.”

“Yeah.” She drummed her fingers on her thigh. “He wasn’t looking at me this time, just going through the motions, so maybe it wasn’t the same ghost. Some ghosts are more like habits than people—they go through the same shtick over and over until they fade. This could have been that type, and not the same one I saw before. I didn’t see a face. But I did see the wedding ring. It’s got a bit of color, even with the rest of him all filmy and white, so I spotted it.” She paused, frowning. “Though I guess more than one ghost could have a glowy gold wedding ring.”

“You could call the Etorri Rhej and ask her.”

“Maybe.” Rhejes were always Gifted. The Etorri Rhej was a powerful medium, though you’d never guess it to look at her. She was a very medium sort of woman in the unspooky ways—medium young, medium brown hair, medium build, pleasant but unremarkable face. Very Canadian. “I probably will, but not now. Ghosts happen. I’d like to know why I’m suddenly seeing them, but that’s not a priority. I need to finish briefing you about our next move.”

“You got a tip from one of what you refer to as the locals. Something about a missing homeless man, which is why we’re headed for a soup kitchen.”

She flashed him a grin. “You’re cute when you try to use cop talk. Yeah, though it wasn’t so much getting a tip as tracking down someone and wringing a resounding ‘maybe’ from him.” Lily didn’t have any contacts in the local PD, but Cynna did. So she’d gotten a name from Cynna and talked to that lieutenant, who’d passed her to a sergeant in the precinct where they were headed. She in turn had passed Lily to a patrol cop, who’d admitted he was worried about a particular homeless guy who seemed to have disappeared.

“Not that any of ’em can’t up and do that at any time,” the man had said. “But Birdie’s . . . well, if I say he’s different you’ll laugh. He’s a friendly little bugger, and he’s like clockwork. Always at the same corner trying to sell his little pictures from eight to noon. Heads to Twelfth Street Kitchen for lunch. Never goes to any of the others, it’s always Twelfth Street, though there’s another one closer. Heads to the park on Madison after that, where he draws more little pictures. Gets in line at Good Shepherd’s before five. Only he isn’t anymore, and hasn’t for the last couple weeks.”

“Coffee,” Rule said firmly as he signaled for a turn.

Lily grimaced but took out the thermos she’d brought. Who’d have thought she could get tired of coffee? But she sipped because that was the right thing to do. Just as telling Croft about her problem had been right, however much she hated it. The pain bolt she’d been hit with in the car earlier had underscored that.

But this was right, too. Against the rules, and maybe there’d be a price to pay. But she knew how to investigate, dammit, and Drummond was ignoring the bigger picture. Who had the death magic crowd used for practice before moving up to the big leagues?

Lily looked at the buildings around them. More Laundromats in this part of town. Skin joints. Pawn shops. More people other people could overlook, ignore. Nameless people who didn’t smell right, look right, act right. “His name is Birdie,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“The homeless guy. Well, his real name is James Johnson, but he went by—or goes by—Birdie. He likes to draw pictures of birds.” He had a name. A life. Even if it wasn’t much of a life by most people’s standards, it was his . . . or had been. No one had the right to take it away from him.

CULLEN didn’t know much about real estate, but he knew northwest D.C. was pricey. This particular street was all leafy residential—lots of beautifully restored or maintained Craftsman homes with big front porches, well-groomed lawns, and a mix of Mercedes and minivans parked out front. Rule’s car blended right in.

Fagin’s house did not. It was pink. Pink with lilac trim. It had probably started life as turn-of-the-century Craftsman like its neighbors, but somewhere along the line someone had craved a touch of Tudor, adding bulky crosshatched beams in the oddest places. Beams some later owner had painted lilac.

What an odd little wart of a place. Fagin’s neighbors were probably praying he planned to paint really soon. Cullen was grinning as he entered the small front yard . . . and paused, raising one eyebrow. Interesting. Then he mounted the steps and pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened. He rang again. This time he heard floorboards creak, then—slowly—footsteps coming toward the door. It opened. Dr. Xavier Fagin blinked at him sleepily, his bright orange robe drooping around what looked like a woman’s scarf knotted around his middle in lieu of a belt. His hair was more awake than the rest of him, bursting out frenziedly in all directions. “I know you.”

“Of course you do. Cullen Seabourne. We met when you headed that task force. We’ve e-mailed a few times since. You said I could use your library.”

Fagin’s eyes opened wider in mild astonishment. “I believe I did. My library, like myself, was in Cambridge at the time.”

“You moved. I didn’t think that revoked the invitation.”

“I can see why you would think that.” But he didn’t move.

Cullen rolled his eyes, dug in his pocket, and took out a smooth black pebble. For a second it lay in his palm—then began to glow like a firefly. The glow faded quickly and he stuffed it back in his pocket.

“Ah, well, then, come in.” At last Fagin stood aside.

“Who did you think made those things?” Cullen asked crossly as he followed.

“Either you or your wife or both, but that’s an assumption, not something I’ve been told as fact. I dislike acting on assumptions.”

“Huh. Good guess. I make the blanks; Cynna personalizes them. Have I interrupted something?”

“Alas, no. Poor Merry had to leave for work at some horribly early hour. I went back to sleep, naturally. A man my age needs rest after prolonged exertion.” He frowned faintly. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Ten-ish, I think.” Not that he’d paid attention, but the sun had been up awhile. Cullen looked around curiously.

The entry hall was small, giving access to a narrow staircase and the front parlor. The fireplace in the parlor was clearly original, with a beautifully carved mantel no one had desecrated with paint. The faded rose-colored wallpaper might be original, too. The carpet was newer—avocado green seventies shag. Fortunately you didn’t see much of it. The room was buried in packing boxes, some opened, most not. “Prolonged exertion?”

Fagin sighed happily. “Merry is a delightful woman. Do you know how to make coffee?”

“Everyone knows how to make coffee.”

“Without a coffeepot, I should add. I can’t locate mine. I’ve tried simply boiling the grounds, but the results are less than satisfactory.” This sigh was windier and filled with regret. “I do miss Martha.”

Cullen knew Fagin was a widower, but he was pretty sure the man’s wife had died a decade or two ago. It seemed ample time to learn how to make coffee. “I can probably figure something out. Martha was your wife?”

“My housekeeper. She refused to leave Cambridge, unfortunately. I miss Janie, too, but not for her coffee. She made terrible coffee. Brilliant woman, but her coffee was even worse than mine, and that’s saying something. The kitchen’s this way.”

The kitchen was narrow and made narrower by more packing boxes. Most of these had at least been opened. “How long did you say you’d been here?”

“Priorities, dear boy, priorities. I had to work on the library first. Ah, here’s the coffee.” Fagin beamed and held out a foil package from Starbucks. “There’s a pan on the stove that I used to boil previous attempts.”

So there was. Surprisingly, it looked clean. Cullen handed it to Fagin. “Fill it halfway with water. Filters?”

“With the coffeepot, I imagine, wherever that may be.”

Paper towels would do, and Cullen saw a roll of those. “I need a strainer or a funnel and something to decant the brew into. Did you know there’s an earth elemental lurking beneath your porch?”

“A very small one, yes. It took some negotiating, which Sherry was kind enough to handle for me, but it agreed to keep an eye on the place in exchange for the traditional offerings. Will this do?”

Cullen accepted the large mesh strainer Fagin held out and tore off a couple paper towels. “Get the water boiling.”

“That much I know how to do. Why are you here?”

“That damn dagger. The one someone left in Senator Bixton.” Cullen dumped grounds into the paper-lined strainer. “Do you have another pot? A big one?”

“Hmm, yes, I think . . . here.” After clattering around in one of the boxes, he tried to hand the pot to Cullen.

“Put it in the sink. This goes on top.” Cullen followed and balanced the strainer over the pot. “Part of the spell on the dagger is Vodun. Part of it is something that . . . well, it sounds crazy, so I need to check. I went to see a Vodun priestess I know, but she wasn’t helpful.” Celeste had been royally pissed, in fact, when she learned he’d meant those marriage vows he took a few months ago. The offer of cash hadn’t eased her troubled spirit. “You told me you had a journal by Papa Araignée.”

“Oh, yes. It’s not long, but it is quite remarkable. So few Vodun priests write things down, and Araignée was . . . hmm. Twisted, but very bright. Do you read French? Are you sure that’s enough coffee?”

“Yes and yes. Do you have anything by Knoblauch or Czypsser?”

“Just that treatise Armand wrote on Knoblauch, which, as I’m sure you know, is mostly hogwash. However, I’ve got a copy of Czypsser’s Ars Magicka that was supposedly made from the original.”

A thrill went through Cullen. “The entire thing?”

“Alas, only fifty-two of what is reputed to have been eighty pages, and some of them are damaged.”

Fifty-two pages. Fifty-two pages of one of the most sought-after grimoires in the world. Czypsser hadn’t been an adept, but he’d studied under one as a youth. Five years ago, Cullen had paid five thousand dollars for a blurred copy of two pages from Czypsser’s Ars Magicka.

And Fagin was going to let him see fifty-two pages? Cullen twitched all over just thinking about it. “Do those pages include his list of elven runes?”

“Oh, yes. Most of them are legible, and some have brief definitions or notes on congruencies. Do you read medieval German?”

“No, but you do.”

“I’m fairly fluent. That doesn’t look like enough coffee. I’ve been using at least twice as much.”

“And drinking it?”

“I take your point.”

IT wasn’t the best coffee Cullen had ever had, but it wasn’t bad. He sipped from the mug Fagin had washed while they were waiting for the coffee to drip through its makeshift filter and nodded acceptance of Fagin’s grateful praise. Once the man paused Cullen said, “About that journal and the Czypsser manuscript . . .”

“Oh, yes. The library’s right through here.” Fagin headed for a door on the far end of the kitchen.

Cullen followed . . . and stepped into a room that bore no resemblance to the rest of the place.

Large, airy, and orderly, it ran the length of the house. The floor was wood. An area rug marked a reading zone at the far end, where two comfortable armchairs and a square table invited you to sit and browse in front of a bow window. Cable lighting zigzagged over the entire ceiling, but it wasn’t needed now. In addition to the bow window, two tall windows interrupted the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the west wall.

In the center of the room rested a huge, battered desk flanked by a pair of low bookcases. It held the usual sort of detritus, both electronic and traditional: computer, printer, calendar, a small scattering of papers. And at this end, a long library table held court. A single, half-empty packing box sat on it.

There was even a card catalogue. An honest-to-God, old-fashioned wooden card catalog claimed pride of place in a section of wall clearly reserved for it. “Priorities,” Cullen murmured. “Yes. You’re a man after my own heart, Fagin.”

Fagin beamed proudly at his domain. “I had the wall removed and the shelves added. It started out as a bedroom and dining room, you see. This suits me better.” He lumbered into motion. “I don’t have my entire collection in here, but I think I unpacked Papa Araignée’s journal. It should be in the Vodun section . . . ah, yes. Here it is.” He held out a tattered, leather-bound journal. “You can take it with you, if you like.”

Cullen’s eyebrows lifted. That was an unusual degree of trust—but then, Fagin wasn’t a practitioner himself. He tucked the slim journal carefully inside his jacket. “Thank you. And the Ars Magicka?”

“You’re drooling.”

“Hardly at all,” Cullen said repressively. “I have tremendous self-control.”

Fagin chuckled. “The original is in my safety-deposit box back in Cambridge. I recently acquired a safety-deposit box here, but I haven’t made the trip to Cambridge to retrieve the items from my Cambridge box. But perhaps my translation will work better for you anyway, since you have some difficulty with medieval German.”

“I’ve never seen anyone actually twinkle before, but damned if you aren’t doing it. An English translation, I take it?”

“Of course.” Fagin headed for his desk. “It’s a work in progress, mind, not finished, but I have a decent rough draft you can see. I’ll burn you a disc so—”

The front window shattered.

Without blinking or thinking or any of the things there was no time for, Cullen flexed into a deep crouch. A shiny glass shower cascaded into the room. He sprang. A second projectile followed the first as he slammed into Fagin, grabbing him and twisting so momentum would spin them sideways as they fell—the desk, the desk, it will shield us—

The ground reached up and smacked them as the air ignited in a wall of stink, heat, and flame.