Chapter 4
As for the Benevolent Society itself, there is only one, and it’s located right here in San Francisco in Lower Nob Hill, not more than a fifteen minute walk from Stryker’s office.
According to their website, it’s “a spiritual community inspired by the transformative journey of Saint Cyprian of Antioch.” They offer transcendental workshops and study circles and “believe in the power of redemption, the profound wisdom of ancient practices, and the eternal light of Christian teachings.” They’ve been around for over a hundred years and, while they keep their activities private, they have made sizable monetary contributions to almost every one of City Hall’s charitable efforts.
Any mention I was able to find about them in the press have come from local politicians throughout the decades thanking them for their exceptional generosity.
Sounds like it could be legit. It also sounds like it could be a cult. Either way, they’re definitely worth a visit.
The house is in the ritzy Lake Street district, but it looks old, practically abandoned.
The dark, gothic towers on its corners, blood-red trim, and arched, stained-glass windows completely clash with the renovated, high-end designs of the rest of the buildings on the street, but it figures I’d have to break into the freaking Haunted Mansion.
I’m sure the rest of the houses all have modern alarms. I bet there’s a neighborhood watch, too.
I briefly consider trying to be sneaky and making my way in through the back door, but I honestly can’t see any way to get to the backyard from the street.
The spaces between the house and its neighbors are blocked by tall iron fences with sharp, pointy tips.
There’s no way these stubby legs are going to get my tender bits past those architectural spear tips in one piece.
So I decide that rather than skulking around, it’d be better to just walk right up the front steps and into the house like I belonged there. Much less suspicious-looking, and the elf did say the door would be unlocked.
As soon as I get on the small porch, I’m confronted by a tarnished brass serpent-head knocker with open-jawed fangs.
Its warning isn’t limited to an I-will-devour-you glare—I can immediately see it’s magicked, which as I mentioned is super-rare.
The energy tastes crisp, like a sour apple, and it feels protective—defensive, even.
Maybe it just triggers a loud alarm if it recognizes you as a serious threat, like the elf said.
Or maybe it blasts a murderous flood of hellfire at intruders, which would make mine officially the shortest criminal career ever.
For a hot second, I consider calling the whole thing off, but then I feel the Obligation. I’d been completely unaware of it all day while I was going along with the plan, but now that I’m hesitating, it wraps its cold, boney fingers around my heart and squeezes.
Ouch.
Right. A promise is a promise. Especially to a fae. There is no turning back.
I take a deep breath, slide my fingers around the door handle, give it a small turn, and brace for impromptu barbecue.
I practically wet myself when the serpent’s eyes widen and flash gold, but all that happens is the sound of a bolt unlocking with an angry clack.
Not from the latch I turned, mind you, but rather from a heavy deadbolt above and inside the door.
Then another heavy lock turns. And another.
I cringe back, certain that the current owner of the house is about to confront me. But there’s no motion or light coming from the space at the bottom. In fact, the whole house is still dark. And even after several seconds, the door doesn’t open.
Which means the elf was right. No one’s home.
It also means the door specifically unlocked, with magic, just for me. (And if that doesn’t feel full-on “‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider,” I don’t know what would.)
I wrack my brain, trying to think of some not-deathtrap reason why a powerful spell would be in place to let a stranger enter someone else’s home. Could the elf have planned this? A spell he cast on it at a distance or something?
There’s no way to know for sure. What I do know is if the neighbors are watching, then the longer I stand out here, the faster I move from “looks like that guy could belong” to “you think we should call the cops, hon?”
I push on the door and go inside.
Just as I’d expect, the old hinges squeal, horror-movie style.
So, I quickly close the door behind me and take advantage of the only other real party trick I have access to as an incubus who has never fed: low-light vision.
I can see in pitch-black almost as clear as day.
(Trust me, it’s nothing special. Pretty much every paranormal has it.
Creatures of the night and all that. But I’ll admit, along with not getting colds ever, that is one of the few things I dig about what I am.)
I’m in a large foyer with a wide set of stairs leading up to the second floor. There are high ceilings with intricate but crumbling moldings. Tall windows covered by tattered lace drapes. Peeling wallpaper with faded blue roses. The smell of old wood—dusty pine.
Back in the day, this is where guests would have been received, but there’s no furniture.
I suddenly remember the door unlocking by itself so my eyes shoot up to the ceiling to make sure there’s not a huge net or something ready to land on my head, but I only see a very expensive crystal chandelier. Nothing there.
I force an exhale. I can’t keep freaking out. Not only is it way not cool, but any real PI will tell you that you always need to keep your eyes open. You can’t do that if you’re constantly cringing in fear.
I deliberately slow down and look at what’s around me.
There are doors to the left and right, both open, and both lead to large, empty rooms. My gut nags at me to try to figure out what the deal is with this house.
It doesn’t look like someone lives here.
It’s so empty, it looks like the place has already been burgled, and then meticulously cleaned up after.
But the longer I’m inside, the more time there is for something to go sideways. And if you haven’t figured it out, I could easily be, like, the prince of sideways. I need to find this watch and get out. And the elf said it should be easy to track down.
There’s no obvious magic in sight, so I move to the darkest corner of the foyer, take a deep breath, close my eyes, extend my mind, and try to feel if there’s any magic around me.
Other than the scary door, there’s nothing else on this floor.
Nothing special under the hardwood beneath my feet.
Nothing in the side rooms. Nothing on the stairs. Nothing up—
Then, I see it. Like a beacon in my brain.
Usually, I don’t get visuals when it comes to magic, I just sense whatever is around.
But this flares up in my awareness like a point so bright, it almost hurts to think about.
And its taste— Well, I actually have no idea what it tastes like!
All I’m getting is pure, cold power. It’s like crunching down on unflavored ice, brain-freeze and all.
Even working with Ms. Stryker, who owns some pretty badass toys, I’ve never encountered anything so strong.
This has to be what the elf is looking for. And it’s in one of the rooms upstairs. Much farther into the big creepy house.
Yay.
I slowly make my way on tiptoes up the staircase, afraid of creaking a floorboard and alerting…
I don’t know what. Another automatic door?
Ghosts? Flying monkeys? There really doesn’t seem to be anyone here.
And it doesn’t even matter, because the old wood underneath the blue velvet carpet whines and moans regardless of where I step.
It looks like I’ll just have to suck it up and accept that I’m going to make noise no matter what I do.
I just need to get this thing and go.
I turn right at the top of the stairs and make my way to the room that’s all the way down at the end of the empty hallway.
There’s more of that faded flower wallpaper along the walls.
Doorways to vacant rooms that feel like gaping mouths.
The intricate baseboards are chipped and covered in a thin layer of dust.
Like the rest of the hallway, the door ahead of me is also open, but unlike everywhere else, this room is fully furnished.
I’m immediately faced with a large gray steel desk.
A big gamer-style recliner is shoved to the side.
Bookshelves are loaded with dozens of leather-bound books, with a few more spread out on the floor.
In the far corner of the room is a closet with another wide-open door.
It’s completely empty except for one thing—embedded into the floor of that closet is a safe.
That’s where the bright magic is coming from.
The safe door itself is about a foot and a half by two feet.
Polished burgundy metal with intricate scrollwork.
In one corner, the word “Diebold” is engraved.
In the center of the safe’s lid is an emblem—yet another serpent, but unlike the one on the front door, this one is gilded in gold leaf.
And just like the door knocker, this barrier also has protective magic.
Part of the reason I didn’t sense it before is that it’s eclipsed by whatever powerful artifact the safe contains.
But the big reason is because the door itself has been torn wide open by God knows what.
It’s actually resting on its side against an inner wall of the closet.
Whatever job that spell was supposed to do, it failed, and there are only sputtering remnants left.
I’d be worried that someone else got here first, but that bright point of light is still blaring out from just over the lip.