“Okay. If you’re sure.” Her smile safe behind the cardboard barricade, Thia continued on her way.
When she got to what she estimated was a few steps shy of the door, it opened to admit a chill breeze, and she immediately stopped. Eclectica didn’t have automatic doors and no one had passed her on their way out—therefore someone was coming in. She eased herself to the side of the aisle to make room to go by.
No one did.
Puzzled, she looked down. Just as she located two beaded slippers at the threshold, an unmistakeable, patchouli-based fragrance crept around the boxes. “Hello, Madame Demetka.”
“Thia, darlingk!” The accent was unidentifiable. Perhaps something Eastern European. Perhaps not. “You carry very much for one, yes?”
“Maybe a little.” Thia shifted carefully and, peering around the boxes, brought the town’s most popular spiritual medium into view.
Wild, burgundy hair swirled around a middle-aged face caked with foundation and painted with bold strokes of color. Dark, almost ebony eyes glinted beneath lashes so coated with mascara as to be nearly united―one giant lash per lid.
“Are you reading today?” Thia asked, sidling past her and out the door. “I didn’t think you were scheduled until–”
“Oh, but miri kushti, you are not leaving now, yes? I have come most urgently to speak with you.”
Strong fingers latched onto Thia’s wrist, initiating a brief, ill-fated dance. With her automatic step back, the box mountain began to topple and Madame Demetka, instead of letting go, tightened her grip and pulled.
The topmost boxes flew while the middle tier slid. Dropped. Larger, heavier boxes landed with a solid thump on the cement while the smaller ones bounced, scattering. In a matter of seconds, Thia held only one box—the former foundation of her careful construction—while the rest rocked to a stop at her feet.
Pall Mall, London
Eight in number, they sat motionless at the round table, their attention rapt on a trio of fat white candles. There was no other illumination, no sound but the sharp hiss of flames consuming dry wicks, their reflections dancing on the highly polished dark of the wood.
“We humbly seek to know of Leticia Phyllis McDaniel,” Beatrice said at last, her voice solemn and, to Quentin’s ears, unwelcome. One more reminder of a night he often thought he’d do anything to forget. Her voice had gone out into the dark for that ritual, too. Right before all hell had broken loose.
He took a slow breath, concentrated on the task at hand. Emotions, especially the volatile kind, had no place here.
The beeswax melted slowly at first, then more quickly, running down the sides of the candles to mar the table’s surface. Knowledge always came with a price. Sometimes small, as in the finish of a table. Sometimes not. And all too often, in Quentin’s experience, unexpected.
The three flames began to twist, snapping and spiraling frantically as they rose and fell in the still air.
“What of Leticia?” Beatrice asked again.
The flames immediately paused their dance. Breaths caught. Clasped hands tightened, including those gripping Quentin’s own, their fingers crushing the fine leather of his gloves. He gritted his teeth, tried to tamp down his resentment. By rights, he shouldn’t give a damn what happened to the organization; yet here he was, concerned.
Someone cried out as, in a crackling rush, the flames elongated. Growing strong and bright, they reached an impossible height above the small wicks. Golden light filled the room, illuminated the tense faces beneath their woolen cowls. Quentin had time to note that Beatrice’s mouth gaped, an unusual sight on a woman known for self-control, before the flames winked out.
Not one flame, but all three.
Several voices exclaimed in the sudden dark, then fell silent as the divination’s message sank in. Confirmation that Quentin’s vision had not been of a potential future but of a particular past. One event, unchangeable and—now—undeniable: Leticia McDaniel was dead.
Murdered.
He pulled his hands free, the first to break the circle. He heard the rest follow suit.
“Lights!” barked Arthur, retaking control.
With the snap of fingers, the room was bathed in the opulent light of its crystal chandelier, painting rainbow-edged shapes onto dark wood and robes of silver-shot white while thin tendrils of smoke drifted up from the dead wicks.
Hoods were pulled back, and Quentin wondered if his expression showed any less shock than he read on the others’ faces. To imagine a Brigantium without Leticia was difficult enough, but to imagine that she would be murdered? Even having experienced flashes of it in his vision, it was hard to accept this pronouncement as fact.
He looked to Arthur, sitting motionless, his head bowed. The older man was either paying his respects to their fallen associate or gathering his thoughts (or both), but because of the table’s mirror-like surface, he appeared to be frowning at himself.
Quentin drummed his fingers, the action winning a glare from Beatrice. It lacked its usual force, however, diluted as it was by tears.
With her ice-blue eyes deeply shadowed despite the skillful application of make-up, she looked tired. Old. She seemed not to care that her hood had frizzed her iron-gray hair, tugged it loose from the confines of her habitually and intricately woven plaits.
Feeling a tingle of...something, Quentin stilled his hand, shifted his gaze to the woman staring at him from her seat to Arthur’s left. Cassandra Swinton. If he wasn’t mistaken, her brown eyes were bright with a very particular kind of interest. He acknowledged it with a slight nod. Her full lips quirked, not unattractively, before she broke contact, turning to listen to something her brother murmured to Eben, Head Archivist and their mentor.
“Don’t even think it,” came Beatrice’s harsh whisper.
Turning toward her, Quentin lifted a brow in inquiry. Damian, unlucky enough to be seated between them, made a point of staring straight ahead.
“You know very well what I mean.” Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Just...don’t. She’s more than a pretty face.”
“Very much more, indeed,” he quipped. It was almost knee-jerk with her, his arguing. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
She made a quiet sound of exasperation, then wisely let the subject drop.
He looked down at his hands, resting easily on the table when what they wanted to do was throttle someone. The rumors were true; the twins were being groomed for positions of high rank—perhaps even chancellorship should Arthur get around to taking his due retirement. Not so long ago, that had been him, Quentin thought with a surprising amount of jealousy. Some dreams, it seemed, were harder to kill than the rest.
At the snap of opening locks, he looked up to see Arthur remove a stack of papers from his attaché case. Once they’d been arranged to satisfaction on the table, he cleared his throat and, in his formal, dispassionate voice, began.
“When Lettie last reported, she claimed to be headed for Edinburgh to visit one of her dealers concerning some documents and”—he checked his notes—“maps. Through our search of her home, we have since learned that she believed she was on the trail of something connected to the Cailleach. A relic.”
Damian raised a hand. “Of her followers or—”
“Of the goddess herself.”
And wasn’t that a particularly nasty