Into the Fire Page 13

  Above us, a domed skylight took up half the ceiling. Stained glass depicted a pale sky full of stars arranged as constellations. None of which I recognized. Walls stretched up to a second skylight where the sun filtered through. Given the third floor, this must cut right up like a well to the roof.

  Nevil had a book open before him, his right hand on the right page while his left held a pen above a sheet of paper snugged atop the facing page. He’d written some notes on the page, but I couldn’t make out the words from my vantage point.

  “Astrological symbols,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The skylight. Astrological symbols.”

  I saw it now: Taurus, Leo, Virgo, etc. “That’s cool.”

  “This used to be the ballroom,” he offered.

  “Really?” I asked, taking in all the bookshelves. “Who puts a ballroom on the second floor of a house?”

  “Jack’s grandmother,” he answered. “She enjoyed dancing, music, and hosting lavish parties. So much so, his grandfather built this room in his remodel of the house.”

  “And now it’s a library,” I commented.

  “Jack’s father had to reinforce the supports and foundation to bear the extra weight of the books and the third-floor expansion.”

  A pair of dark eyes stared at me through a crack between bookshelves. I moved over to find a mirror. It stretched floor to ceiling and seemed to run the length of the room. My imagination removed all the bookshelves, Nevil and his table, and filled this room with people dressed for a speakeasy, drinking, smoking, and dancing to a jazz band in the corner, sparkly light from the skylight dome twinkling in.

  The whole image made me smile. Once, Banba had been filled with music and laughter. Only in that moment did I realize what a pall blanketed the place. Like it slept, waiting for someone to come and wake it up again.

  A thought occurred to me. “Isn’t there a fireplace in the middle of the room downstairs?”

  “Oh, that? Blocked off long ago. If you have an urgent desire to start a fire, don’t do it in there.”

  “Shame it isn’t still a ballroom,” I said.

  “I rather like it as a library,” he said. “If you want music, they moved the piano into storage downstairs. I’m sure Jack would dig it out for you.”

  At no point so far had Nevil taken his nose out of his book.

  I did love pianos, but I never learned how to play. “I don’t play,” I said.

  “Pity,” he replied.

  I traced my finger along an etched pattern in the glass of the mirror. Vines similar to the ones on the gate. Maybe that was a thing with the Mayfair family?

  Moving away from him, I walked through the shelves. Energy pulsed in this room like it might burst into song at the drop of a hat despite all the books. And there were a lot of books. None of the titles interested me or sounded familiar. Only a handful appeared to be in English—or modern English, anyway. The organization stumped me. Didn’t seem to be alphabetical by title nor author. And none had Dewey decimal system labels on them.

  “I said not to touch anything.”

  My thumb came away from a book’s spine thick with gray dust. I sighed. How had he known? Did he have some magical ability to spy on me from the center of the room?

  Thinking about magic made me blink. My headache. I’d gotten so used to having one, when it vanished I hadn’t even noticed. Until now. Had it died the moment I stepped into the library? How could that happen?

  In answer, my stomach growled.

  Stupid body.

  “What are all of these?” I asked, standing before a random shelf of books. Something told me confiding in Nevil would bite me in the ass, so I didn’t mention the headache or the nosebleed or any of the stuff Mayfair and I had talked about. Idly, I wondered if I could find a book to explain the one Mayfair had. Or something about healing. Or teleportation. Or what bullets can kill around here.

  “Books,” he replied flatly. “They contain letters arranged into words, then the words are put together to form sentences, sentences into paragraphs. Didn’t they explain this concept in whatever American public school you attended?”

  What a dick. I wanted to give him a shot to be a decent human being, but he really didn’t make it easy. He could either meet me halfway, or screw him. Deep breath. “How about an answer without the smartass commentary?”

  The sound of a chair scraping on the floor echoed, and I winced, imagining the poor ballroom floor full of scratches and scuffs when it should be shiny and waxed. He walked softly enough I never heard him approach, only sensed the shift in air and temperature when he stepped up beside me. Oddly, he carried a scent of heavy spice and alcohol—the rubbing kind, not the drinking kind.

  He reached out and ran his fingers across the spines of the books in front of me.

  So he can touch but I can’t?

  “Histories,” he said softly, sparing me a glance out of the corner of his eye.

  Something about his glance made my skin crawl.

  “All manner. Some cover centuries; others, single events. I daresay it’s the best collection this side of the Atlantic,” he added with pride.

  Mayfair had said something about Nevil and books. Maybe he was Wizard, Ranger, and Librarian all rolled into one? Wrangrarian?

  “Is there anything on Avalon?” I asked suddenly. I don’t know why I asked, it just came out.

  Mouth agape, Nevil did a double take. With a sharp click, he closed his mouth and reached beside me to pull a nondescript book from the shelf. I noted it came from beside the one I’d just touched. Nothing weird about that at all. Nope.

  “This one,” he said, handing the book to me. “Strange you would ask about it. Very strange.”

  “Oh?” I asked as I took the book. Blessedly, the text on the pages appeared to be English. I flipped through the pages. Well, mostly English. Old English mixed with modernish English. God! People used to talk like this?

  “Yes.”

  He turned and disappeared back down the aisle, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor causing me to wince again.

  Dismissed, I took the book he’d handed me and wandered around until I found a chair snuggled up with a tall lamp against a raised platform or stage area. Must’ve been where the band set up back in the day. Books had been piled in the shadows there, too. I sat down, turned the lamp on—it cracked and popped for a second—then flipped the book open.

  More there than I thought. Some sort of compilation of stories, some from eyewitnesses who were nearly giving testimony, to put it into a modern context. Each story written in a different language had an English translation following immediately after the original text. And the stories had the flavor of colloquial nuances in the language.

  The publication date inside the cover read 1893. Why had I wanted a book about Avalon? The only things I knew about the place came from an old King Arthur story. Flipping through the pages, I had this nagging feeling I couldn’t let go. Somehow, Avalon was important.

  I thumbed through the pages ’til I found something interesting titled “Franciscan Translation, Seventh-century Fragment, Greek Scroll.”

  “… between the (arch of the stones) did I see (the castle, the house). Bathed in sunlight though the (moon) rested high above us, an island in the mists (rain) and a (woman, matron, mother) of (high) status (birth) standing upon the far shore. She beckoned (called, spoke, sang) to me.”

  That’s it? That didn’t help at all! At points, words had notations, as if the translator didn’t know for sure what they really meant. What the hell? I turned more pages, searching and not exactly knowing what for. The other translations weren’t much better, most from some ancient something or other or that long-dead robe-wearing guy no one has ever heard of before. None of it helped quiet the nagging in my head, and none gave more than a passing and cryptic description of a “mist-covered island” someone could almost see. Some were even worse, like this one:

  “… a (battle/war) had
(been fought or taken place); the (stone arch) lay broken as if tossed by giants; the (arch gone); the (path/trail) forever lost. Dirt (earth, sand) became glass (crystal, shiny, stone), the lake frozen (ice, snow) solid in summer.”

  Under “particularly helpful” in the dictionary, there isn’t a photo of this book.

  I tapped my lower lip and tasted nasty old book. Bleh. Wait—unless it meant the entrance, this stone arch, had somehow been destroyed? But what could freeze a lake in summer? I mean, sure, lakes freeze, but usually in winter. What could drop the temperature of a lake enough to freeze it, yet turn sand to glass as if blasted by heat? We’re talking massive amounts of heat and cold at the same time and the same place. How was that possible?

  “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  Nevil had come up without me hearing. Again. Now he loomed over me, staring down his nose. I hate it when people do that.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “When I saw all these books, Avalon just sort of popped into my head, so I figured I’d ask.”

  “Greater than you have tried to find the remnants of Avalon,” he snapped. “I would think you’d have better things to do with your time than muck about up here. Aren’t you supposed to be training?” He said it like he didn’t believe it before actually snatching the book from my hands and walking away.

  “Hey!” I said and jumped from my chair. “Hey, I’m reading that.”

  I took three steps after him, and he spun around so fast I had to stutter-step back. Wielding the book like a sword, he forced me to backpedal until my back hit the stage.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you? No one stays hidden, not from us. Why are you here? Who do you work for?”

  “I don’t work for anyone,” I answered.

  “Did he send you? The Dark Uncle? Are you one of his strays? Answer me!” he hissed, reaching out to clamp my arm down in a vice grip. His eyes sparked as if lightning danced inside.

  “Let me go,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Or what?” he barked a laugh. “You’ll incinerate me? I think you’ll find me much more capable of defending myself than a lone, witless Werewolf.”

  He leaned forward, hot breath on my face. His nose nearly touched mine. Something snapped in my head. His eyes bulged wide when my knee came up and found his balls. Blood rushed into his face, and his grip on my arm slackened enough for me to pull free and give him a little push. With a guttural sputter, he fell backward onto the floor and lay there, hands between his legs, book forgotten where it fell on the floor.

  I crouched beside him and tapped the cover of the book.

  “I don’t really know the whole magic thing yet,” I said, “but this works just as well, don’t you think?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Jack Mayfair stood a few feet away. How long had he been there?

  I smiled sweetly at him. “No problem, just a misunderstanding regarding personal space. Nevil and I worked it out. Isn’t that right?” I patted him on the shoulder, but he only stared daggers up at me through bugged eyes. “Did you say something about food?” I asked Mayfair.

  “I did. That’s why I came to check on you.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing. I walked to Mayfair, who fought a smile. “I could eat.”

  “Come down when you, ah, are ready, Nevil,” Mayfair said.

  When Nevil didn’t respond, we walked back through the stacks to the door.

  “Who is the Dark Uncle?” I asked in a whisper.

  Mayfair shook his head slightly. “I have absolutely no idea.” He gave me a sideways glance with arched eyebrows.

  I kept walking. My life had become a giant puzzle, and nobody seemed to have all the pieces. Not even me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’m not the best at small talk. At least, not with women. I don’t know what it is; maybe I’m missing the small-talk-with-women gene or something. I’ve just never been very good at it. There are a few exceptions to this, like my best friend Jenni. She and I can talk into the wee hours of the night about absolutely nothing and walk away feeling closer than when we started. My sister-in-law, Pam, is another one I can totally relate to. But when it comes to the general population of women, I can’t relate. I don’t know why.

  Which is how I found myself sitting at the kitchen table across from Kylie, enjoying an awkward silence while Jack Mayfair, Wizard, assembled turkey and ham sandwiches for us. I noted his generosity with the meat, cheese, mayo, and mustard as he built his little masterpieces with the care and attention of a master craftsman. Men and sandwiches—what is that about, anyway?

  “So.” I broke the silence as I nursed my coffee. Patience while waiting for the sandwiches is pretty hard, so I might as well give the small talk a shot. “I don’t think we ever actually talked about what you do around here, Kylie. Are you like Nevil? A Wrangrarian?”

  She sputtered her tea, laughing. “A what?”

  “Wizard Ranger Librarian. Wrangrarian,” I said.

  “Oh, he will hate that,” she said with a wicked smile sparkling her eyes. “And no, I’m not like Nevil or Jack or you. I’m a Mystic. Mostly, I talk to dead people.”

  My turn to sputter, though I did it with my coffee.

  She laughed a little harder. “Sorry. Too much?”

  I shook my head. “No, no. I just—well, that’s a new one.” I suddenly had images of guys in suits on television conning people into believing they were delivering messages from beyond to poor saps for the price of a $50 ticket to the show. “How, exactly, does that work? Do you see dead people?”

  “I was five years old when I started seeing dead people,” she said. “Shades, shadows, and Ghosts. They’d come to me. Sometimes I could feel them nearby—no more than impressions, really. Like strong emotions pushing in on me. As I got older, it grew more intense. Once they realize you can see and hear them, they push all the time. Really, spirits only want to have someone hear them, know their pain, help them move on. For a child, it’s scary. That’s when the Ranger came.”

  She swirled her tea, eyes lost in the memory. “My parents were thrilled to learn their little girl hadn’t gone insane. I’d been through a lot of testing and doctors and medications, none of which made any of it go away. The Ranger helped me by introducing us to Josephine Fouche, a Creole woman down in the Louisiana swamps. I spent several summers with her learning how to use my abilities. She taught me control, how to lock them out when I didn’t want to hear them, and how to call them when I did. If not for her, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. I’d probably be locked up in an asylum somewhere.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, anyway,” she said.

  “Sometimes it’s a Wizard; sometimes it’s a sensitive,” Mayfair interrupted.

  I instantly forgave him for both the interruption and for taking so long as he slid plates before us, each piled high with food.

  After I wolfed a few bites down, I asked, “What’s a sensitive?”

  “I am,” Kylie answered. “If my life depended on it, I could never throw a fireball. Can’t really do much at all with magic except I am sensitive to Spirit, and through it, the spirit world, which is why I can talk with and summon dead people. Well, the ones who hang around. I can also manage a charm or two—simple protection stuff.”

  I frowned at my coffee. Coffee, great for breakfast or doughnuts or long nights sitting in a police car waiting on a suspect or just something to drink when you’re thirsty or when you just needed a shot in the arm. With sandwiches? Not so much. Sandwiches needed cold beverages. “Do you have any Diet Coke?” I asked.

  Jack said, “No. If you don’t want coffee, there’s water, tea, and milk.”

  None of which appealed to me, so I drank more coffee.

  At this point, Nevil appeared. Walking stiffly, he made a sandwich of his own, then exited the room as fast as he could. I almost laughed. Almost. Never kick a man once you’ve, ah, kic
ked a man.

  “What’s with him?” Kylie asked.

  “He and Sam had a disagreement,” Jack said in a serious voice.

  “I don’t like people manhandling me,” I offered.

  Kylie looked back and forth between us, confused.

  Mayfair shoved his sandwich into his mouth for a huge bite.

  I took the opportunity to ask Kylie another question. “So, Jack here was telling me about the case you’re working. Weird stuff, right?”

  “Oh, I know!” Kylie exclaimed. “All those poor people crucified, every bit of Spirit drained away from them like a Vampire drains blood! By the time we get to their bodies, I can’t find even a trace of them left in the ether. It’s as if they’re completely consumed by the ritual.”

  Jack Mayfair slammed his hand down on the table, making Kylie and me both jump.

  * * *

  “I told you to leave it alone,” Mayfair said in his quiet voice, which nearly rivaled my father’s. We were back in the basement. “I told you to concentrate on you, but you had to push, you had to force it. Again. You never learn, do you? You are like a rabid dog with a bone. One day, you’re going to be the one who gets hurt, Sam. You’ll be the one in the hospital.”

  Kylie, upon learning Mayfair had not, in fact, discussed his case with me, had such a hurt expression that I did feel bad for tricking her. But really, it’s Mayfair’s fault for clamming up. What did he expect to happen? All he had to do was explain the book to me, and I would’ve let it go. The hospital comment was a low blow, though. Felt it like a gut punch.

  About to explain all of that to him, the words died on my tongue. The weird door leading nowhere opened. A man slightly taller than Mayfair with long, straight, silver hair stepped through and into the room. He closed the door behind him. The door to nowhere.

  He had pale, smooth skin that seemed to glow from the inside. His eyes were almond in shape, set perfectly on his long face. The color of those eyes such a clear crystal blue, it reminded me of photos of the waters in the Caribbean I’d drooled over a couple years ago. Silly me, I’d thought I would be able to take an actual, real vacation, and I’d set my heart on the Caribbean as a destination. Then the stuff with Pop started, and any thoughts of getting away were dashed on the rocks.