Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I woke up wrapped in the hottest blanket. Nick’s breath on my neck tickled and when I swatted at him, he roused with something between a growl and a moan. I didn’t want to make fun, but couldn’t help trembling while trying to contain my laughter.
“I’m up.” His eyes were closed, mouth still on my neck. His dick was stiff against my hip.
“Yeah, you are,” I said.
He chuffed a laugh and rolled onto his back, releasing me. How did I know he was a cuddler? He seemed like the type who would complain about not sleeping well if his partner wasn’t in bed with him. Mushy stuff I’d always relegated to the list of things other people got, but I couldn’t have.
“Last night was fun.” He propped himself up on his elbow and gave me a soft look I didn’t deserve.
“We should do it again,” I agreed. “You want to take a shower?”
He shook his head, and I noticed after two days without a razor, his look was getting shaggy. Running my finger along his beard, I enjoyed the rough feeling on my skin. He nipped at my fingertip when it crossed close to his lips.
“How about breakfast?” he asked.
I was going to suggest breakfast in bed, but his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Immediately, he reached for it and flicked his thumb across the screen.
“Detective King,” he answered. On the other end, I could hear someone speaking rapidly, their voice deep. “Text me the address, I’ll be there in thirty.”
He slid to the edge of the bed, and I got a glorious view of his ass when he stood: round and toned and perfect. With his boxer briefs on, the temptation was immediate to pull him back to bed and strip them off.
“Sorry,” he said after he hung up. “Looks like we found another victim.”
Frowning, I said, “Who?”
“What,” he corrected. “A vampire, and they don’t decomp like the rest of us, so the ME wants to call in an expert to see how long it’s been dead. Maybe he’ll give the department a discount and tell us about the incubus, too.”
He rubbed a hand over his head, but the smile was awkward.
“Sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”
I swatted at his thigh. “Get out of here, go see your dead vampire. Ugh. Vampires. Sociopathic talking rats.”
“I’ll call you later,” he said, pulling on his clothes.
“Now, I have to know, do you have a third suit in your car?” I teased.
“No, but I don’t think anyone saw me yesterday,” he said. “So, I’m good.”
I walked him out, locking the door behind him.
Crossing to the kitchen, Acacia’s picture caught my eye again, and I walked over to my computer, opening up a small scanner I had tucked next to the monitor.
I ran the photo through and uploaded it to the cloud so I’d always have a copy.
Then I put it in my satchel, just in case I needed it.
After changing and choking down some dry cereal for breakfast, I ordered an Uber. If I couldn’t go with Nick to the crime scene, at least I could make progress on the only lead I had. The guy who showed up had Lyft and Uber stickers on his front window and rolled down his window. “Parker?”
With a nod, I opened the car door and slid into the back seat. The driver called back, “You have a music preference?”
“Whatever,” I said, and he turned up the jazz station he was listening to.
“You a college student?” he asked.
“No.” I stared down at my phone.
He seemed to get the message, and the rest of the trip to the university was silent.
The University of California, San Amaro was set towards the edge of town, and had spread across the flat plain between a highway and the hills.
The campus consisted of the original buildings, all boring gray blocks that had been built for functionality in the forties.
As the campus grew, buildings were added and the architecture on these varied widely depending on the decade, purpose, and financial backing.
Over the years, the city had crept up around it, student housing first and then laundromats, cheap food, and bookstores. It still was its own enclave, colloquially known as the College Quarter.
On most major holidays, the Quarter turned into one large street party.
Drinking, revelry, and some incredibly illegal things happened, which had led to more than one showdown between college kids and SAPD cops.
Every city council meeting before Saint Patrick’s day, Cinco de Mayo, July 4th, Halloween, even Memorial Day for some reason, had citizens lining up to worry about the crime increase if a party happened.
Between bouts of bacchanalia, the area was quiet. College kids going about their business for the most part.
The car pulled up inside the campus, in front of a confusing building.
I wasn’t familiar enough with architecture to try to label the style.
It was tall, tan, and had windows inset from the exterior, with each window framed with alternating white and grey rectangles.
Tall beams sprung from the top like ribs caged in by more of the rectangular pieces.
To be frank, it was the sort of place that gave me a headache just looking at.
After thanking the driver and hopping out, I adjusted my satchel and stared up at the building. It was shaped like a giant C, two short legs backed by the longer central building. I headed into the entrance, large double doors under a sign reading “Sallow Hall.”
Inside, I searched the directory with the accompanying map. I’d checked out the department website in the car and it looked out of date compared to the rest of the university’s pages, but it listed Professor Woolworth’s office on the fourth floor of the building.
After getting lost twice, due to the fact that apparently both wings of the building had different entrances than the main structure, I finally found the right floor.
The walls were decorated with artistic photos of different witchcraft and alchemy ceremonies.
I was pretty sure I was in the right place.
The office was on the eastern facing side of the hall, and shades pulled halfway down blocked the morning sun. The view from the fourth floor was expansive: the rest of the campus spread out, ocean in the distance, cars zipping along the highway nearby.
I was a little confused not to see the elderly woman I’d been expecting.
A man sat at the desk taking up most of the office.
His chin-length sandy brown hair fell in his face as he read through some notes.
He looked slightly pink, as though he’d just come off a treadmill, although his breathing was steady.
“Professor Woolworth?” I asked.
His head snapped up, and he squinted at me in the doorway. After a moment, he said, “Office hours are by appointment.”
“I’m not a student,” I corrected. Stepping inside, I offered over my hand. “Parker Ferro, I’m working with the police.”
“Mark Woolworth.” His hand came up, and he squeezed mine. “How can I help you?”
I settled into one of the chairs across from his desk. “I was actually hoping to talk to the, uh, other Professor Woolworth.”
The smile dropped off his face. “I’m sorry, my mother passed away in February.”
“Sorry for your loss,” I said automatically. “I hadn’t heard.”
His lips pinched. “Thanks.”
For a moment, we sat in silence, and then I said, “My questions are more general magical-studies questions, maybe you could help me out?”
“Always happy to help the SAPD,” he said. “What’s this about?”
“Just a quick question about the provenance of a spell.” I pulled out a notepad from my bag and sketched out the spell that had been on the incubus. I left the broken bits intact.
Passing it over, I watched as he examined it, rotating the notepad as he read. A frown pushed his eyebrows together. “You know, my mother would have been the better person to ask. She made her career studying the roots of alchemy and witchcraft.”
“Yeah?” I asked.
He nodded, reaching behind him and pulling down four books. He passed one over to me and I saw the name Dr. Adelaide Woolworth emblazoned on the cover. The title was an obscure reference to the first spell most witches and warlocks learned.
“We Are One?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Woolworth said. “She thought witchcraft and alchemy used to be the same practice, taught to us by the fae. Over time, the two split into distinct practices.”
“You don’t agree?” I asked, flipping through the book.
“I think my mother saw a shared past as something that might unify us now. The reality is, alchemy allowed magic to become more complex and deeper, while witchcraft kept to those naturalistic roots.” He shrugged.
“I think it’s far more interesting to study what’s currently happening in magic than to focus on the past.”
His tone made it clear which practice he preferred, and I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. There was a certain tone of voice you could use that would say, “hey, I’m one of you” even if your words weren’t saying that.
“Alchemy.” I pushed confidence into the words. “Right?”
He snorted and cocked his head. “Yeah, I dabble. To help me with my research.”
If it was just about his research, I’d eat the thick book I was holding.
He was one of those alchemists who couched their preference for the practice in pseudo-intellectualism.
Oh, of course both practices are valid, but, you know, only one allows you to practice intricate, higher level spells.
But they’re both valid! Just one is better than the other.
“I thought your mother was a witch?” I said. “Wasn’t she part of the East Side Witches coven?”
“She was. When they lost their head priestess a few years ago, she went into solo practice,” he said. “She always thought there was a lot more to be learned in actual practice than in research alone.”
“So, the symbol?”