Chapter 7. Temple
Temple
In my early days, I was all about appearance.
I’d filled the mahogany bookshelves of my library and workshop with leather-bound tomes and gleaming magical knickknacks.
Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows, shielding my research from outside eyes.
I worked at a one-of-a-kind desk that once belonged to the alchemist Giuseppe Borri, and I used a high-backed antique balloon chair for my reading. Chalk runes covered the bare oak floor.
Over time, my priorities had shifted. Out went the old reading chair, replaced by a more comfortable recliner from La-Z-Boy with a built-in massage function.
Bright, full-spectrum LED bulbs displaced fat beeswax candles.
I ordered thick carpeting with extra cushioning to help with the ache in my bones if I stood for too long.
I still had the desk, though. I loved all the secret drawers and compartments.
The other day, I’d discovered a forgotten pop-out tray I’d last used twenty years before.
It contained an old property tax bill (oops), my notes for adding enchanted sunflowers to the back of the house for security (I never did get around to that), and a recipe for Basque cheesecake.
I used to care about my own appearance, too. Expensive clothes, fancy shoes, and far too much leather. Now I was just another old man trudging around in sweatpants and soft, comfortable T-shirts and hats that protected my scalp from sunburn, and who gave a shit what anybody thought?
Today it was a brown trilby, enchanted to keep the wind from blowing it off my head. It also had a small dimensional rift inside that could be used to store tools and weapons and other miscellany. I’d lost a pair of dentures in there last year.
The point was, appearances and the trappings didn’t matter.
Power could attach to the lowliest, most unassuming of objects.
Like my mother’s old folding card table, which stood by the window between the bookshelves.
Despite the frail-looking metal legs, the table was completely spill-proof.
You could fill a wineglass to the brim and leave it on that table through a seven-point-five earthquake, and not a drop would leave the glass.
It currently held a half-full mug of cold chocolate—it had been hot last night before I forgot about it—along with an old map of Salem, a weasel skull named Yorick, and my copy of Stuart Little.
That had been my favorite book as a child.
Over the years, it had absorbed thousands of other texts, from ancient spellbooks to an old copy of Playboy I’d found when I was thirteen.
And on the other side of that table stood Jenny, patiently waiting for me to respond to whatever it was she’d said before my mind went on a walkabout.
She cleared her throat and repeated, “Ronald Kensington?”
Right—that was why I had Yorick out. The weasel skull was a gift and a trophy from a group of fairies I’d helped in the early nineties.
I’d used it to call in a favor. “The closest Ronald Kensington is two hundred miles away in New York City,” I said.
“His blood doesn’t match the blood Annette got from our guy. ”
“You can test a person’s blood from two hundred miles?” asked Jenny. She was moving slowly and carefully this morning, and I could smell the ointment on her joints.
“I asked a hummingbird fairy to get a sample for me.”
Annette entered and leaned against the wall, a mug of coffee cupped in her hands. She wore a loose silk robe, but much of her exposed skin was almost as red as her hair, covered in dry and cracked blisters. She looked like she’d been microwaved on high for twenty minutes.
My anger bubbled over.
Annette and Jenny could be headstrong pains in my ass. They’d barged into my home and upended my life, opening my doors to tourists, bibliophiles, and every cryptid with a splinter or a hangnail for a hundred miles in any direction.
I couldn’t imagine life without Jenny’s never-ending sunshine or Annette’s stormy sass. I’d never had kids, but if I had . . . I was certain any offspring of mine would have been just as infuriating as these two.
Pages fluttered past in response to my emotions.
They stopped on a spell I’d dubbed Vorpal Axe.
Even in my glory days, this particular spell would have left me bedridden for two days to recover from the power it required.
If I tried to cast it now, it would probably kill me on the spot.
But if whoever had done this to Annette was standing before me, I’d have cast the spell without a second thought, and to hell with the consequences.
I turned back to the section on tracking spells.
“Artemis called him the harbinger,” said Jenny. “Does that give you a way to find him?”
“It’s not a search engine,” snapped Annette. “You can’t just add keywords and hope the spell finds the right result.”
I sipped my drink. The tepid chocolate made me sad. Pages rustled, suggesting a new spell. This one, I could do. I conjured an orange flame to the tip of my thumb and flicked it into the mug to reheat it.
“Ronnie was just a kid,” Jenny grumbled. “How does he have this level of protection? Temple can’t track him. Even Artemis couldn’t see him.”
“You were only thirteen when you got your goddess powers,” Annette pointed out.
“He’s no Hunter.” Jenny touched her necklace. It was an automatic gesture. I doubted she realized she was doing it. “He doesn’t have a god backing him up. I would have felt that. All he has is an old van with an attitude problem.”
I returned to the tracking spells and placed Yorick on the page to keep my spot. The skull chittered in annoyance.
“You say the van had no driver?” I asked.
Jenny nodded. “That’s right.”
I turned to Annette. “Duke told you the van was registered to Ronnie’s mother. Do you know when and how she died?”
“Two years ago,” said Annette. “Officially, she was killed when a tanker truck T-boned her van outside of Atlanta.”
“That van last night didn’t have a scratch,” said Jenny.
“Duke texted me an update,” Annette continued, like Jenny hadn’t even spoken.
“Unofficially, Margaret died performing an exorcism on a two-month-old boy. Margaret had a reputation among the body-snatcher set. Possession, mind control, body swap, it didn’t matter.
She’d evict you so hard, you left an impact crater in your own body.
She worked out of her van, and she decked it out with all kinds of charms and spells.
Kind of like if the Ghostbusters did a makeover on a taco truck. ”
“What went wrong?” Jenny asked.
“Someone booby-trapped the pacifier. As soon as Margaret took the little monster from his mother, he bit down hard, triggering a little poisoned dart that hit her in the throat. Basilisk venom. She died in less than a minute.” She paused, then added, “She was able to save the baby. He was fine.”
Jenny looked thoughtful. “Ronnie tried an exorcism prayer on me. He probably learned it from his mom.”
“Margaret was in our line of business,” I mused. “Our former business, not bookselling.” I’d never heard of her before. Either her work had been too quiet and small-scale for me to notice, or else she’d been very good at keeping off people’s radars.
I lifted Yorick and turned the page. “Margaret died violently. If she’s anything like us, she probably died feeling that her work was unfinished, which could anchor her to this world.”
“Are you saying I almost got run down by a haunted van?” asked Jenny.
“If we’re lucky, yes.” I skimmed the spell ingredients. It had been a decade since I last cast this one. “Ronald Kensington might be shielded from magic, but ghosts are harder to hide.”
One page contained the words of the spell. The other had a whimsical pencil drawing in the style of Garth Williams, the original illustrator of Stuart Little. Though I didn’t think Williams had ever drawn a rope made of candle smoke lassoing the furious spirit of an old woman.
I took a two-inch-wide green candle stub from the shelves and placed it on the card table. Next, I needed Annette’s coffee mug. I ignored her protests and dumped the contents onto the carpet. The house quickly absorbed the liquid, leaving no trace. Exactly as it was supposed to do.
The speed and efficiency of the housecleaning magic nagged at me. Why did the house’s power work perfectly here but not in the basement, where everything had been soaked and moldy?
I set that thought aside for later and put the candle into Annette’s mug. A snap of my fingers created a spark, which jumped to the wick. A cold, black flame appeared.
I recited the spell. The words weren’t inherently magical, but they helped focus my will and clarify the intention of the magic. At the end, I whispered the name “Margaret Kensington” into the white candle smoke.
Nothing happened.
My brow crinkled so hard I could see my own wispy gray eyebrow hairs. “Margaret Kensington.”
Nothing happened. Again. If anything, this time felt even more nothing than the first. I glared at the book. The words were right, the candle was right, the spell was right . . . The only thing that could be wrong was me.
Jenny’s hand touched my shoulder. I jerked away.
“What is it?” she asked.
My face was hot, and my throat was knotted so tight, I couldn’t speak.
I hated this impotent shell of the wizard I’d once been.
I was Temple Finn, damn it. I’d performed harder spells than this in my sleep.
Literally. In my sophomore year at college, I dreamed a fire elemental into existence and nearly burned down my apartment. “It’s not working.”
“Could her ghost be shielded the same way her son is?” asked Annette.
I shook my head.
“What about the van?” Jenny piped in. “We have the license plate. That’s like a True Name, right? Can you find the van that way?”
“A license plate number isn’t a name.” I heard the anger in my voice and hoped Jenny understood it wasn’t directed at her.