“It’s one of the Temple’s guards. Please don’t knock it over. I’m on thin ice with the Temple as it is.”
Curran braked. The vehicle rolled to a slow stop. The golem didn’t move. The magic was down.
Without it, the Temple protector was just a clay statue.
Curran shrugged. “I guess from here we go on foot.”
The Temple sat at the very end of the road, a solid red brick structure with a white colonnade, flanked by some utility buildings and a wall decorated with enough names of angels and magic symbols to make you dizzy. We crossed the yard and walked up the white stair to the reception area. The woman behind the receptionist’s desk saw me and paled. The mirror behind her offered me our reflection: we were both smeared with blood and dirt. A big red stain marked Curran’s sweatshirt over his chest—he had taken a bullet just under the clavicle. Lyc-V would heal the damage, but I’d had to pull the bullet out and the wound had bled after he put the sweatshirt on. My pale green turtleneck was splattered with something that looked suspiciously like someone’s brains, and a big print of a bloody hand marked my stomach, where someone’s fingers had clearly dragged over the fabric.
“The Beast Lord and Consort, to see Rabbi Peter,” Curran said.
The woman blinked a couple of times. “Will you wait?”
“Sure.”
Curran and I sat in the chairs. The receptionist spoke in a hushed voice into the phone and hung up.
Curran leaned to me. “You think she’s calling the cops?”
“I would.”
“Just letting you know, I’m not in the mood to be arrested and if they try it, they won’t like it.”
Why me?
I picked up a copy of a cookbook from the side table and flipped through it. Chocolate rugelach.
Hmmm. Chocolate, sugar, almonds . . . Curran might like those.
“We sell those,” the receptionist said, her voice hesitant. “They are recipes from the congregation.
Would you like to buy a copy?”
I looked at Curran. “Do you have any money?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. “How much are those?”
“Ten dollars.”
Curran flipped through the bills.
I leaned to him and whispered, “What are you doing?”
“Looking for one that’s not bloodstained. Here.” He pulled a ten-dollar bill out.
I offered it to the receptionist. She took the money carefully, as if it were hot, and gave me a small smile. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for the book.”
Curran glanced toward the hallway. Someone was coming. A moment later I heard it too, a quick patter of feet. Rabbi Peter emerged into the lobby. Tall and thin, with a receding hairline, a short, neatly trimmed beard, and wearing large glasses, Rabbi Peter should’ve looked like a college professor. But there was something in his eyes; they brimmed with curiosity and excitement, and instead of an aging academic, Rabbi Peter resembled an eager young student.
He saw us and paused.
We stood up.
Rabbi Peter cleared his throat. “Um . . . welcome! Welcome, of course, what can I do for, eh, you, Kate, and, eh . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know how I am supposed to address you.”
Curran’s eyes sparked. If he told the rabbi to call him Your Majesty, we could kiss cooperation with the Temple good-bye.
Curran opened his mouth.
I elbowed him in the side.
“Curran,” he said, exhaling. “Curran will do.”
“Wonderful.” The rabbi offered him his hand. Curran shook it, and then I did. “So what may I do for you?”
“Are you familiar with Elijah the Unbeliever?” I asked.
“Of course. Here, why don’t we go into my office. We’ll be much more comfortable there.”
We followed the rabbi down the hallway. Curran rubbed his side and gave me an evil look. I mouthed
“Behave” at him. He rolled his eyes.
The rabbi led us into an office. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, bordering the single large window so tightly that it looked cut out of the thickness of books.
“Please sit down.” The rabbi took a seat behind his desk.
We landed in the two available chairs.
“Would you like anything, tea, water?”