NINE
Angela steadied the book on its cradle, careful not to let her breath disturb the tissue-thin gold leaf she was pressing along the pages, where water damage had bloomed through the vellum like an old bruise.
Someone had loved this book once, then it was abandoned before it found its way to a new owner who wanted it restored.
Angela liked this part best, bringing a book back that had once been written off as ruined.
She adjusted her grip on the fine brush and smoothed the edge of the restored filigree, feathering the gold until it disappeared into the original pattern on the book’s cover.
The repair was not meant to be seen. That was the point.
She had learned the skill from countless long afternoons in the back of the shop, killing time after school, while her aunt finished with clients or her mother wrapped up a class.
A retired bookbinder, a regular to the store, had shown her how to mend a torn hinge, to mix paste by feel, and how to know when a book wanted to be left alone.
What started as a way to kill boredom became a way to make pocket money. Then, somehow, requests followed, and with them a reputation she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t certified, and had never formally studied the trade. All she did was rescue books her aunt had declared unsellable.
Yet, through Angela’s hands, they became whole enough to be loved again, where some ended up in auction houses that helped pay for the extras toward her law degree. The same auction house that would send her requests or clients.
Most of all, it helped when her mind refused to cooperate.
Back when she practiced law and struggled with a legal case, she’d sneak into the bookshop and restore a spine or retouch a cover and let the solution surface on its own.
Working slowly on a project with her hands somehow loosened thoughts better than force ever could.
But this book had been a wonderful challenge. A volume with no title and little spine.
The heavy pages had irregular edges, showing a language she didn’t understand. Norse, or Icelandic, possibly sixteenth century. The private collector called them staves, carved-looking symbols and sigils from folklore.
Some of the staves were delicate snowflake designs, while others held rigid geometric grids.
Each was a fascinating magical symbol created either for protection, love, luck, or for warding off evil.
Her quick online research showed that staves were spells created in shapes, and how their patterned repetition held a sort of logic, like variables in an equation.
Of course, her aunt, a lover of all things esoteric, was all over that and had instantly nominated Angela to take the job.
While Angela nodded politely as her waiting list got pushed back.
Now, after three weeks of working on this book, the staves were both beautiful and fierce, that re-creating the right book cover to suit their story took time.
She adjusted her grip on the fine brush and smoothed the edge of the repair, feathering the stabilizer until it disappeared into the vellum. The work was not meant to be seen, but give the impression that the book was still in its original order.
And that was how she knew she’d done the job right.
Satisfied, she set the brush down and reached for the blotting paper as the bell over the shop’s front door rang.
Angela didn’t look up right away. Customers came and went all day.
Only this time, beneath the air rose a scent that didn’t belong to the shop’s usual mix of paper, herbs, and candle smoke.
Angela’s fingers froze.
Out front, Aunt Claudine’s voice was bright and welcoming. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a book on dreams,” an elderly man’s voice replied.
Dreams. Really? Wiping her hands on a cloth, Angela entered the main showroom.
The shop looked the same as always, sunlight washing through the windows, highlighting shelves crowded with books and jars of herbs. Dried bundles of rosemary and lavender hung near the register with other trinkets.
Claudine stood near the esoteric section, smiling at an elderly man. He removed his hat, revealing silver hair. He hooked his cane casually over his wrist and tugged at his bow tie in an old gentlemanly kind of way.
Angela noticed the scent again, stronger now.
It was Zarek.
But it wasn’t Zarek, only an echo of him, the way smoke clings to fabric long after a fire has gone out, like a thumbprint of power that didn’t belong inside this store.
“Is this book for you?” Claudine asked, leading the man toward the back corner. “Or a gift?”
“For research,” the man replied. “Pete Macrombie.”
“Claudine Deveraux.” Claudine glanced at her niece. “Angela, this gentleman is looking for a book on dreams. Maybe you can recommend a title since you’ve been going through them for that nightmare of yours.”
Yeah, right, and none of the books had helped. But she couldn’t say that to the customer.
The man turned, and their eyes met. Of course, there was that expected flicker of surprise, then that look of something wrong. Her mismatched eyes did that every time.
“You know Zarek.”
It caught Pete off-guard. His cane tapped softly against the floor as he shifted his weight. “Who—”
“Did Zarek send you?” Angela pushed for answers.
Claudine’s smile faded as she straightened and faced Pete. “Answer her.”
“Yes.” Pete meekly shrugged.
“Well, tell Zarek that he can come and talk to me himself. There are privacy and stalker laws you know.”
“Angela, this is a customer,” Claudine warned, only to glare at the man. “Are you? She mentioned stalking laws?”
Again, Pete cleared his throat, tugging on his collar as if his bow tie had become too tight. “I meant no offense. I’m a professor who studies—”
“I’m going to get coffee. Do you want anything, Auntie?” Angela turned away before either of them could respond.
Claudine hesitated, her eyes never leaving the man. “No, thank you. But—”
“Back soon.” Angela grabbed her coat and left, the bell ringing behind her.
The cafe down the street was busy, loud, and blessedly normal. She was such a regular that she only had to nod and the staff took her order while she took a seat in the back corner, flicking through the magazines or the newspaper that did the rounds.
Pete arrived a few minutes later, no doubt running from her aunt’s interrogation. Aunt Claudine may seem all whimsical and flirty-fun, but she was protective.
“I owe you an apology from before.”
“Accepted.” Wait? Who was she to speak like this? But then again, this man was snooping about her. “Do you get paid to do this? Like, are you a private investigator?”
“No. I’d fail if I were, obviously.” Pete chuckled, removing his hat before sitting opposite her. “I did this as a favor for someone who never asks for favors.”
“For whom?” Although she could already guess.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
His jaw tightened as his fingers curled against the table.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I’m sworn to secrecy.” He then winced, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Stop it,” he muttered through clenched teeth, as if his own tongue had betrayed him.
“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one snooping about me.” Angela leaned back, observing him.
He gave a meek shrug, as if full of guilt. He would really fail as an undercover detective. The hat and bow tie didn’t help him to blend in either.
“Right then, let’s talk about you. What do you do if you’re not an investigator?”
Pete glanced around the cafe and lowered his voice. “I’m a professor of esotericism who is also a witch.”
“I thought men preferred the title of wizard or sorcerer.”
“Some do,” he said with another meek shrug. “I don’t have the power for that. But you do.”
Angela snorted with disbelief. “You should talk to my aunt. As a witch, she believes in all that. I don’t.”
He blinked a few times, as if he’d misheard her. “You don’t believe in magic?”
“No.”
“Not even after—”
“Evil exists,” Angela cut in. “I smelled it. Touched it. Heard it speak. I don’t need magic to accept that. I know a priest who’d tell anyone that evil doesn’t require belief to be real.”
The look of awe crept into his expression. “You don’t try to understand magic; you just feel it. When you understand it, magic then becomes science.”
She laughed once. “Now you really should talk more with my aunt.”
“Maybe I will,” he said, smiling.
The waitress arrived with her coffee. It was the perfect excuse for Angela to escape.
“Is Zarek good or bad?” she asked before she walked away.
“What do you think?”
Angela leaned closer, lowering her voice. “He’s powerful. Controlled. And I can smell him on you like a brand, a thumbprint left behind.”
Pete stiffened.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Macrombie,” she whispered it like a wish shared.
She headed back toward the bookshop with her coffee warming her hands, bracing herself for Aunt Claudine’s interrogation. He’s a customer, Angela. He’s a person.
Her aunt was right.
Angela peeked over her shoulder to spot Pete sitting at the table all alone.
She’d been rude, which made the guilt nestle in at the base of her ribs.
She almost turned back to apologize, to take the time to sit and listen to his story, which is what they did all day at the bookstore.
Aunt Claudine prided herself on the store being more about community than just customers.
So how dare Angela be mean to a harmless academic like that.
Was it the lack of sleep that made her so snappy? When normally, she’d smile at the customers, hoping they left happy to come back again. Which most of them did.
This behavior wasn’t normal.
But the thought of Zarek, who’d called in a favor to have her privacy invaded, made her stand straighter. Whatever Zarek was after, it was the last thing she needed complicating her life right now.