Chapter 9
An hour had passed since Cirrian left, and Belham hadn’t got back to me with a potential translator.
I’d spent that time compiling a list of linguists, historians, and anthropologists from the closest colleges.
Reviewing my carefully composed email in which I asked if I could get a consultation on a text in a book I’d recently acquired, I was pretty sure writing, “I have demon text in a very old language and if you’re able to translate it within the hour, you’ll be the badass of interpreters,” would have been better received.
The email was sent to two professors of language, an anthropologist from LinkedIn with a specialty in Greek civilization whose bio referenced work with the Etruscan civilization, and a private linguist with their own company.
My inquiry sent me to their website with extensive work and language specialties.
Google and determination fueled my own attempt at a translation. It was useless. A search engine and fortitude couldn’t replace years of education, research, and fieldwork. I wanted to do more, but this was the best I could.
My phone pinged with a message. Blinking through eyes blurry from sleep deprivation, I read the response from the owner of the linguist company.
It was encouraging that he hadn’t delegated the task to an assistant.
The urgency, as well as the hint of desperation, must have been conveyed in my email, which would explain his quick response and the steep consult fee.
I set up a meeting without a second thought.
In desperate need of sleep, I didn’t trust myself to drive, so I took a rideshare.
I wouldn’t have to worry about parking or potentially getting into an accident.
The tote I’d stowed the grimoire in remained secured against me throughout the ride, earning furtive suspicious looks from the driver along with his terse conversation.
I treated the grimoire like it was my only hope—because it was.
It wasn’t like spellbooks made by covens and that boasted a title on the front and spine.
Sometimes the title was as simple as the preparer’s name.
Others, Rachel and Amelia both complained, were titled by witches whose whimsical sense of humor exceeded their talent.
The spellbooks had titles such as Book of All Your Spell Needs.
There were two different books named that by two different covens, and after viewing some of the spells, Amelia’s and Rachel’s consensus was that if your goal was to be a basic witch, then they were the spells for you.
This grimoire, however, didn’t have a title, making it impossible to find another even if one existed.
I arrived at the building twenty minutes before the scheduled time of 1:00 p.m., to an office that wasn’t quite what I’d expected.
The friendly-looking woman in her sixties who greeted me had a kind, round face that quickly put me at ease despite the industrial office’s stark white walls making the room cold and impersonal.
I’d assumed the place would be more eclectic and a celebration of the countries they visited and studied.
An office that exuded the experience and the knowledge that warranted the five hundred-dollar consult fee.
Instead of an homage to their scholarly pursuits, this office melded modern and industrial design.
From my position in the waiting area, I could see through grid-style doors made of metal and glass into a meeting room.
Black pendant lamps hung overhead, casting a dim light that seemed inadequate for work.
The conference table, made of light wood with sharp, angular metal legs, was paired with soft cognac-colored leather chairs that had dark metal accents.
Large planters with greenery softened the polished concrete floors in the corners, adding warmth to the room.
The waiting area was a more welcoming extension of the meeting room.
The chairs were a practical but cream soft faux leather with bronze finished legs.
The receptionist desk, shelving, and matching picture frames displaying current staff portraits, short bios, educational backgrounds, accolades, and credentials were crafted of various honey-tone woods.
Although four people worked at the company, my attention immediately focused on the older man I had contacted.
The others hadn’t come up in my research, but their presence offered options if Dr. Bailey failed.
The receptionist handed me a cup of coffee accompanied by a tight, sympathetic smile.
No doubt my face reflected the chaos of my day.
I’d managed a refreshing shower, a change of clothes, a quick restyle of my hair into two neat front flat twists pinned into a bun, and a dab of concealer beneath my eyes, but nothing could hide the evidence that I’d been awake for more than thirty hours.
I gulped down the coffee and she made another without me asking.
Her guarded expression as I accepted the second cup with an appreciative nod hinted at her wanting to ask about my day.
She seemed reluctant to do so, perhaps from fear she’d be pulled into a long-winded account of it.
I didn’t blame her. Her gentle demeanor probably cast her in the role of reluctant confidante too many times.
I was sipping on the second cup of coffee when a petite woman entered the waiting area.
“Ms. Bennett?” asked the small voice of a woman who I placed in her late twenties, maybe early thirties.
Her keen eyes and self-assurance made me think she was older.
Her appearance was a direct contrast to Dr. Bailey.
A slight flush fell over her tawny skin.
Glossy black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with not a hint of gray at the temple or peppered into coifed hair like in the picture of Dr. Bailey on the wall and the one I saw on the website.
She extended her hand in introduction. “I’m Dr. Lily Sung, Dr. Bailey’s partner. When we received your message, I had to meet you and take the opportunity to review the work you need translated.”
I hoped her excitement was a reflection of her ability to complete the translation.
There was a bounce in her step as she rushed out of the waiting area, beckoning me to follow.
We moved down a quiet hallway, passing several closed doors with blinds drawn shut.
The air held a faint scent of lemon and archives.
At the end of the hall, she opened the double doors with a flourish, revealing the type of facility I’d expected.
It felt like an impromptu tour of a curated room in the Smithsonian.
Aged bookcases that covered two walls were filled with books, binders, papers, and a few scrolls in protective coverings.
The smell of aged leather and vellum with a hint of earth filled the room.
My shoulders relaxed and the ball of anxiety unfurled as I took in the room and inhaled the earthy scents.
This was a place where work, tangible work, happened.
A VHS and DVD player, word processor, and an expensive-looking computer were on shelves and desks on another side of the room. In the center of the room was a desk made of aged wood.
When I pulled the grimoire from the tote, Dr. Sung’s eyes pinned on it, anticipatory with excitement.
Her eagerness made me unreasonably optimistic.
The pragmatist in me kept urging not to set myself up for disappointment.
She looked reverent as she examined the cover, spine, and back of the grimoire when I handed it to her.
I looked away when she leaned in and inhaled its scent.
She seemed like she needed a moment. The seconds of inhalation turned into long moments.
This was quickly drifting into weird territory. Needing her to refocus, I took the grimoire from her. “This is the only part I need translated,” I said, opening the book to the spell and pointing to the information Corrine had shown me.
“What is this?”
“A spell?”
“You’re a witch?” More excitement spiked in her voice as she took me in, her face illuminated with interest.
“No.” I could now definitely say that. I was not a witch by any means. Cirrian’s comparison of a garden snake to a black mamba only made things worse. Part of me wished I was just a simple witch.
“Have a seat?” She directed me to one of the chairs next to her and examined the strange language present in the book. “I thought spells were in English and Latin,” she mused.
Surprised that she knew that, I nodded.
“My roommate in undergrad was a witch,” she offered and resolutely returned to studying the book. “They’re a secretive bunch.”
Witches tended to stay to themselves, but no more so than shifters and vampires. The other factions didn’t have any use for humans and didn’t interact with them nearly as much as vampires, who needed them for survival.
She moved to the computer, her fingers quickly skating across the keyboard. “You’ll have the contract in a few minutes,” she told me.
“You can translate it?”
“I can get close,” she said.
Close wasn’t good enough when it came to spells. It couldn’t just be winged, especially spells that involved life and death. If the spell called for the petal of a tiger lily, you couldn’t just use an orange daylily because they looked similar.
My anxiety and dread were slowly reforming. But maybe some usable information would come from the translation, and Belham’s connection could supply the rest.
I nodded because my words would betray how bleak I felt.
Moments later, the contract was on my phone. Slowly reading the terms, I told her, “I can’t allow you to keep a copy.”