The Darkness of Shadows (17 page)

She stood in stunned silence for a few minutes.

“I’m … with you.”

I tucked several pieces of kindling under and around the papers. I flicked the Bic and the flame licked the corners, not quite catching. Then the dried wood took over.

The pages burned, the ashes dancing in the gentle October breeze. His precious work turned to cinders and disappeared. The grimoire would never be completed.

“What kind of leverage does that leave us?” Val said.

“Not sure.” I tapped the H&K. “But it’s tragic when someone dies from a case of lead poisoning.”

“What now?”

I stabbed a few marshmallows and handed her a skewer. “Good night for s’mores.”

I
stood at the kitchen window. It was open just enough to let in the cold sunshine while keeping out any winged visitors. I was trying to decide whether or not to do something about one of those nagging feelings I was having.

I was interrupted by an annoying doorbell. I hobbled to the front door.

Tina stood on the porch, hip cocked, snarky demeanor at the ready. Whoo boy! If she bent over in that outfit, she’d be showing off the good china for sure.

“Mom wanted you to have this.” She pushed past me and dropped the gift and another box on the floor. “That was out there too. And I need a dessert for my boss.”

“Please come in.” I picked up both boxes and placed them on the coffee table.

Tina surveyed the house. “I don’t know how you can live like this. It’s almost Amish.”

Sure, subtract the horseless buggy and the electricity and I could join a community toot sweet.

“I’m on vacation.” I pointed to the door.

“My boss says she dreams about your carrot cake.” She continued her stroll, eyeing everything.

I followed her into the kitchen. I scribbled a few names on a pad and ripped the page off.

“These bakeries are excellent.”

She looked at the paper like it had a communicable disease.

“Only yours will do. God knows why.” She flipped open one of the folders on the table.

I helped her close it. “Let’s try this again. I. Am. On. Vacation.”

“Figured you’d be grateful for the work.” She pinched a corner of the paper between her talons so she wouldn’t soil her fingers with something I touched.

I was contemplating wrapping my new cane around her neck as a trendy fashion accessory when she finally started to saunter toward the front door.

“Ungrateful,” she said. Followed by a few other things I didn’t hear.

Ah, the privileges of being Tina.

I plopped down on the couch and looked at the boxes: Mrs. G’s was magnificently wrapped and the other was a brown shipping box. I hadn’t ordered anything. I went with curtain number two and cut the tape on the plain box and opened the flaps.

Marco’s Magic Box of Tricks
lay before me.

A cartoon man with a top hat and a pencil-thin mustache beamed from under a thought bubble that told me there were hundreds of easy magic tricks waiting to be performed, with simple instructions and so much more!

I sighed and opened the envelope. The typewritten note said:

Nat,

Saw this and thought it would help :)

—V

I knew she meant well, but Val was starting to piss me off.

My paranormal self-study program was like walking over LEGOs in your bare feet. What could my father gain by bringing the dead back to life? I needed to talk to Walter. He was more than a little weird, but he seemed to know his stuff.

I dialed the number.

“Walter Young here.”

“Mr. Young, it’s Natalie Gannon.”

“Oh, Natalie! How are you?”

“Fine thank you, sir. And yourself?”

“Good! So nice to hear from you!”

“I was wondering if you might have some time to meet with me.” I was playing with the cane handle out of pure nervousness.

“You have some timing. My last conference call was just canceled. How about this afternoon?”

The café was all but empty. Walter was waiting at a table in the back corner, dressed in white even after Labor Day. I thought there was some kind of international fashion law against that.

“Natalie! All shall be well. How are you?”

“Fine, sir. And you?”

“Great! Have a seat. I’ve ordered us some green tea and a few sweets.” He indicated the chair next to him, I choose the seat across instead. And green tea? Yuck!

“Thank you for meeting with me.”

The waitress brought the tea and cookies.

“Excuse me. May I have a Coke please?”

“Sure thing, hon.” The waitress returned in a jiffy with my soda and disappeared.

“I have some more questions, sir.”

He took a sip of tea and smiled. “What would you like to know?”

“The whole altar of the mage’s consciousness. I don’t really understand, and I was hoping you could shed some light.”

“Ah, that can be confusing. Let me think.” He pointed to the plate of cookies. “Aren’t you going to try one?”

I can spot a fake when I see one. Those things came straight out of a commercial tub of dough, despite the “fresh baked” promise in the window. Nothing wrong with it, but I’m picky about baked goods.

“Maybe later,” I said.

“A mage is a practitioner of magic. There are different avenues one pursues, according to one’s gifts. Take your father, for example. He was a Necromancer so his powers and studies were relegated to that field only.”

Something was nagging at me. “I thought you said …” What
had
he said? I struggled to remember our meeting at his house. “Something about free will? About things not being like the old days?”

Walter waved his hand. “I only meant that, should mages not wish to avail themselves of their gifts, they would be free to ignore them. As for practicing magic outside of one’s birthright, well … that would be highly unusual.”

That triggered another memory, from my grandparents’ correspondence—something the Gannons said to my mother’s family.

“What about mixing magic? Say … necromancy and … something else?”

“Oh no, certainly not!”

“Why not?”

“It’s preternatural law!” He smiled. “We wouldn’t want bastardized magic out there, would we?”

No, of course we wouldn’t. “So a Healer can’t mix magic with a Necromancer?”

“Correct. Magic, in general, is an inherited affair. Though the strange thing is, you never know what your children’s particular gifts will be. Perhaps a Healer, a Necromancer, or a Protector, to name a few.” He took a sip of tea.

“Now back to your original question,” he said. “If you remember the quote—‘From the threads of these four energies a knot is tied on the altar of the mage’s consciousness. This fifth energy, this secret knot now tied, is the true sigil’—this can be read many different ways.

“This is just my understanding, mind you. Imagine you have these four energies, and you wish to combine them. The fifth energy—this is the knot that ties them all together. It’s the most powerful of them all. Think of it as a passageway where the energies gather for the mage’s use.

“The mage in this case is a Necromancer. For the most part, a Necromancer’s job requires mobility. He or she must be able to leave to at a moment’s notice. Traveling from place to place, setting-up, preparing, and performing the ritual. The simpler the better. When the job is done, the circle and its contents are erased.

“But what your father has created is enormously complex. It would take too long to create on the fly. The symbols pull from different beliefs that your father intertwined with his own. He’d need to create a permanent bond, something that couldn’t be eradicated.” He took a short breath.

“Sir, are you okay?” He looked to be of heart attack age and I didn’t know CPR.

“Yes, yes. Fine. Something just occurred to me. If I’m interpreting the drawings correctly, sans the missing pieces—” He shifted forward.

“Sir, please just tell me.”

“An imperishable bond would allow him to bring the long dead back.”

I’d figured as much.

“What could he stand to gain if he did this?”

“Notoriety, for a start, but I may be misconstruing this entirely.”

I met his gaze. “Do you really believe that, sir?”

He pursed his lips and said nothing.

“Is this what magic’s all about, power and death?” I said.

“It’s hard to explain,” Walter said.

“Try.”

“Magic’s a force that can’t be categorized. It’s not a magician pulling a bunny out of a hat. It’s not for entertainment. It’s for survival.”

In an unconscious movement, my hand went to my right temple and started a gentle massage.

“Learning things that are new to us can be disconcerting. But I can help you solve this puzzle, if you let me.”

Walter’s hazel eyes were sincere. His body language mimicked the good will.

I was hitting stone walls on my own—maybe I should risk it. Val said there’s nothing wrong with asking for help. But if I did, I would have to trust him a little. I only trusted Val. Aye, the conundrum!

“I’ll get back to you on that, sir.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. I brought some books from the shop that may be of some help.” He reached under the table and presented me with a canvas bag.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Consider them a gift.”

“Sir, as much as I appreciate the thought, I can’t accept them unless I pay for them.”

Walter hesitated and pulled a handwritten receipt from his blazer pocket. I had to shove my eyebrows down when I saw the total.

“Um, can I mail you a check?” I said.

He smiled. “Of course. Higher education comes with quite a price tag.” He sipped his tea. “There was a lovely article about Rita in this morning’s paper. A woman that knows her convictions, and gets them too.”

“Didn’t see it, sir.”

“She hasn’t changed a bit.”

Mrs. G said she and Walter had chaired a few charity events together, but this sounded like he was talking about an old friend.

“How do you know her, sir?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? The Guerreros, your parents, and I all attended the same college.”

“No, sir, I didn’t.” This guy could really drop a surprise.

I watched his eyes. Down and to the left meant he was lying. Down and to the right meant he was recalling something.

Down and to the right.

“Of course, Rita was a bit more boisterous back then.” He chuckled. “She and your father! The stories I could tell you! Ha!” He clapped his hands.

“Sir, back it up a minute. Mrs. Guerrero and my father were friends?”

“More than that. They were quite a charming couple.”

A couple. My headache was really gaining momentum now.

“Rita Betancourt Guerrero?” I held my hand in the air to approximate her height.

“Oh my, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. You’re so close to her family …”

I stared at the soda can.

“I’m sorry … I didn’t mean anything by …” His cell phone beeped. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I need to go. Perhaps we can discuss this further? Call me.” He put money on the table and rushed out.