I'd been there a time or two, but since my reading tastes run more to sleazy paperbacks than collectibles, it wasn't one of my regular haunts. I was able to park in front of the store, next to a handicapped space.
I thought for a moment it had already closed. It was after six and the store looked deserted from the outside. But the door opened easily with a jingle of mellow cowbells.
"A minute, a minute," someone called from the back.
"No trouble," I said. I took in a deep breath to see what my nose could tell me, but there were too many smells to separate much out: nothing holds smells like paper. I could detect cigarettes and various pipe tobaccos, and stale perfume.
The man who emerged from the stacks of bookcases was taller than me and somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. He had fine hair that was easing gracefully from gold to gray. His expression was cheerful and shifted smoothly into professional when he saw that I was a stranger.
"What can I help you with?" he asked.
"Tad Adelbertsmiter, a friend of mine, told me you could help me with a problem I have," I told him and showed him the stick I was carrying.
He took a good look at it and paled, losing the amiable expression. "Just a moment," he said. He locked the front door, changing the old-fashioned paper sign to CLOSED and pulling down the shades over the window.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Mercedes Thompson."
He gave me a sharp-eyed look. "You're not fae."
I shook my head. "I'm a VW mechanic."
Comprehension lit his face. "You're Zee's protégé?"
"That's right."
"May I see it?" he asked, holding out his hand for the stick.
I didn't give it to him. "Are you fae?"
His expression went blank and cold—which was an answer in itself, wasn't it?
"The fae don't consider me one of them," he said in an abrupt voice. "But my mother's grandfather was. I've just enough fae in me to do a little touch magic."
"Touch magic?"
"You know, I can touch something and have a pretty good idea how old it is, and who it belonged to. That kind of thing."
I held up the staff to him.
He took it and examined it for a long time. At last he shook his head and gave it back. "I've never seen it before—though I've heard of it. One of the fairy treasures."
"If you're a sheep farmer, maybe," I said dryly.
He laughed. "That's the one, all right—though sometimes those old things can do unexpected things. Anyway, it's a magic they can't work anymore, enchanting objects permanently, and they hold those things precious."
"What did Tad think you could tell me about it?"
He shook his head. "If you already know the story about it, I suppose you know as much as I do."
"So what did touching it tell you?"
He laughed. "Not a darn thing. My magic only works on mundane things. I just wanted to hold it for a bit." He paused. "He told you I could find you information on it?" He looked me over keenly. "Now this wouldn't have any bearing on that trouble his father is in, could it? No, of course not." His eyes smiled slyly. "Oh, I expect that I know just exactly what Tad wants me to find for you, clever boy. Come back here with me."
He led me to a small alcove where the books were all in locking barrister's bookcases. "This is where I keep the more valuable stuff—signed books and older oddities." He pulled up a bench and climbed on it to unlock the topmost shelf, which was mostly empty—probably because it was difficult to reach.
He pulled out a book bound in pale leather and embossed in gold. "I don't suppose you have fourteen hundred dollars you'd like to pay for this with?"
I swallowed. "Not at the moment—I might be able to scrape it up in a few days."
He shook his head as he handed the book down to me. "Don't bother. Just take care of it and give it back when you're finished. It's been here for five or six years. I don't expect that I'll have a buyer for it this week."
I took it gingerly, not being used to handling books that were worth more than my car (not that that was saying very much). The title was embossed on front and spine: Magic Made.
"I'm loaning this to you," he said slowly, considering his words carefully, "because it talks a little about that walking stick…" He paused and added in a "pay attention to this part" voice, "And a few other interesting things."
If the walking stick had been stolen, maybe more things had disappeared, too. I clutched the book tighter.
"Zee is a friend of mine." He locked the bookcase again and then got off the bench and put it back where it had been. Then in an apparent non sequitur he said casually, "You know, of course, that there are things that we are forbidden to discuss. But I know that the story of the walking stick is in there. You might start with that story. I believe it is in Chapter Five."
"I understand." He was giving me all the help he could without breaking the rules.
He led the way back through the store. "Take care of that staff."
"I keep trying to give it back," I said.
He turned and walked backward a few steps, his eyes on the staff. "Do you now?" Then he gave a small laugh, shook his head, and continued to the front door. "Those old things sometimes have a mind of their own."
He opened the door for me and I hesitated on the threshold. If he hadn't told me that he was part fae, I'd have thanked him. But acknowledging a debt to a fae could have unexpected consequences. Instead I took out one of the cards that Gabriel had printed up for me and gave it to him. "If you ever have trouble with your car, why don't you stop by? I work mostly on German cars, but I can usually make the others purr pretty well, too."
He smiled. "I might do that. Good luck."
Samuel was gone when I got back, but he'd left a note to tell me he had gone to work—and there was food in the fridge.
I opened it and found a foil-covered glass pan with a couple of enchiladas in it. I ate dinner, fed Medea, then washed my hands and took the book into the living room to read.
I hadn't expected a page that said, "This is who killed O'Donnell," but it might have been nice if each page of the six-hundred-page book hadn't been covered with tiny, handwritten words in old faded ink. At least it was in English.
An hour and a half later I had to stop because my eyes wouldn't focus anymore.
I'd turned to Chapter Five and gotten through maybe ten pages of the impossible text and three stories. The first story had been about the walking stick, a little more complete than the story I'd read off the Internet. It also had a detailed description of the stick. The author was obviously fae, which made it the first book I'd ever knowingly read from a fae viewpoint.
All of Chapter Five seemed to be about things like the walking stick: gifts of the fae. If O'Donnell had stolen the walking stick, maybe he'd stolen other things, too. Maybe the murderer had stolen them in return.
I took the book to the gun safe in my room and locked it in. It wasn't the best hiding place, but a casual thief was a little less likely to run off with it.
I washed dishes and mused about the book. Not so much about the contents, but what Tad had been trying to tell me about it.
The man at the bookstore had told me that the fae treasure things like the walking stick, no matter how useless they are in our modern world.
I could see that. For a fae, having something that held the remnant of magic lost to them was power. And power in the fae world meant safety. If they had a record of all the fairy-magicked items, then the Gray Lords could keep track of them—and apportion them as they chose. But the fae are a secretive people. I just couldn't see them making up a list of their items of power and handing it over.