“Yes?” I asked.
“Could you wait outside? I know this is weird, but I scry better naked. It’s a nature thing.”
Despite myself, I could feel my cheeks turn a little red. “Of course, of course,” I said, just a little too quickly. I hurried out the front door as she began to draw a pentagram on her coffee table. I returned to my truck, where I busied myself by checking emails and perusing some of the genealogy forums that I’d gotten to know so well over the last week. Maggie and I were in the middle of a discussion over the moral implications of the different kinds of necromancy when Olivia opened her front door and waved me inside. I checked the clock. It had been almost forty minutes.
Her brow was furrowed when I came in, and I saw a book lying out on the coffee table next to the pentagram and other ingredients. I sat down on the couch at her indication. She knelt across from me at the coffee table, not meeting my eyes. She opened her mouth, seemed to think better of whatever she was about to say, and remained silent.
“Something went wrong,” I guessed, feeling my own frustration bubbling when I could see the answer in her expression.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. She drummed her fingers on the book, then flipped it closed so I could see the cover. It was called The Magic of the Common Man. “You said you’ve never actually tracked down a thrall, right?”
I nodded.
“First thing you need to know is that runaway thralls always cover their tracks. It’s surprisingly easy.” She tapped the book again. “This says it’s a tincture of garlic, rosemary, silver dust, and a handful of other junk that they apply to their necks not unlike cologne. It’s a basic protective tincture against vampires used for thousands of years, and it also keeps their masters from being able to find them through the sorcerous link created by their contract. Unfortunately for us, it also protects them from basic scrying. I can tell that Michael is still alive. I can tell he’s scared and in hiding. But I can’t tell where he is or what he’s doing at the moment.”
“Well,” I said, not bothering to hide my disappointment. This whole thing had been a waste of time, and that same depressed anger was starting to come back. “Shit.”
Olivia held up one finger. “I can keep an eye on him. I call it a rolling scry: as long as I renew the spell every twenty-four hours, my sorcery will keep looking for him passively. I can tell you if he moves a great distance – like hopping a flight – and if the tincture wears off I should be able to give you a firm location.”
Information helped me fight off my irritation. “Okay, that could be useful.” I got up, feeling a sudden pressure of pent-up energy. I needed to go for a walk, get some lunch, think this whole thing over. “I appreciate the help. How much will it cost me for this rolling scry?”
Olivia pursed her lips. “I can keep it up for a few days for no extra charge. Longer than that, I’ll need another two hundred dollars.”
“Fair enough.” We shook hands, and I left pleasantly surprised that my interaction with a witch had gone well for a change. I drove to the closest McDonalds, ordered a shitload of nuggets, and sat in a booth, cramming them into my face while I considered my predicament. Olivia seemed fairly confident she could find Michael. But until then? What do you think Boris’s blood tally has that’s so valuable to Jacques? I asked Maggie.
He claimed there’d be evidence of wrongdoing.
There’s got to be something else. A book of contracts could have anything in it.
Maggie hummed to herself thoughtfully. Agreed. Maybe … maybe we forget about Michael for a little while. Olivia is the competent type. She’ll keep her eye out for him to slip up.
And what do I do in the meantime? I asked. Waste more time on genealogy forums?
You could do that, but it’s not quite what I had in mind. Personally, I’d like to know what Boris was doing the day we met him.
I leaned back in my booth, absently counting the McNuggets left in the box and wondering if I should get another twenty to help lift my mood. I thought about this for a while. He had a trifold stand and a bunch of poster boards.
Yeah. And he really didn’t seem to want you to see them, if I remember right. I was going to say something at the time, but he was such a piece of shit it slipped my mind.
Maybe it was just me grasping at straws, but that did seem weird. Auction? I suggested. He might have been selling some antiques.
Maggie didn’t answer. I ruminated on the thought for several minutes, finishing up my nuggets and getting another box of them for the road. Maggie was right. If I couldn’t find Michael, it was time to find out if there was anything out of the ordinary in Boris’s blood tally.
Chapter 11
I spent the rest of the evening sleuthing, conducting a more thorough search on Boris and his background than I had before, even going so far as to call in a favor with a contact at the Cuyahoga County courthouse. Despite all my efforts, I found nothing beyond what I already knew. Boris did have a thriving antiques business, most of the buying and selling done online. His eBay store, the one run by his thralls, didn’t tell me anything else. It wasn’t until early the next morning, sitting at my kitchen table at home, that a thought suddenly hit me and I called up the Days Inn in Brecksville.
It took three tries to get through to the desk. A tired voice answered with a yawn. “Days Inn, how can I make your stay better?”
“Hi there,” I said in my most cheerful voice. “I was hoping you could help me with a problem. I attended a seminar there on July 16, and I promised the lovely old man who ran the seminar that I’d follow up with him. Unfortunately, I’ve misplaced his business card.”
Lovely old man? Maggie commented wryly.
The receptionist answered with another yawn. “Sorry, our ballroom gets rented out for a lot of stuff. Can’t help you.”
“Oh, surely you can check your logbooks. I was there!”
“Man, look, I’m …”
“If it helps,” I said cheerfully, “I can come down myself this afternoon and help you look!”
I could practically hear the guy roll his eyes. “No, no,” he said tiredly. “That’s not necessary. Give me a minute, I’ll look.”
I was on hold for significantly longer than a minute. I was beginning to think he’d hung up on me when the line switched over. “You still there?” he asked.
“I am!”
“All right. The only rental we had that day was to Humble Beginnings.”
“Gosh, that doesn’t sound familiar.” It certainly didn’t sound like a business run by someone like Boris. “You’re sure that was the only seminar that day?”
“I’m sure. It started at two and got out at four. Sorry, can’t help you any more.” He hung up.
I jotted down the name Humble Beginnings. “Well,” I said aloud to Maggie, “I’m not convinced this is the right thing, but four is when we met with Boris, so the timing lines up.” I typed the name into my phone and hit the search button. I muttered to myself, “Okay, tattoo parlor in California. A job search website. A …” I trailed off, clicking on the fourth website down.
At first glance, it looked like a therapist’s website. It had a tasteful picture of a flower garden at the top. Underneath were the words Have You Ever Wanted to Start Again? The middle of the page was taken up by a long, rambling box of text that went on for some time about how difficult life could be and how life could get better if you just decided to start a new life. I skimmed it, my eyes beginning to glaze over, when Maggie said, Go to the bottom of the page. You see that?