A short bus ride, a transfer, and a longer ride later, Christian hopped off the bus.
The stop was right outside a small strip mall, a plaza of four businesses with a dozen or so parking spaces out front: a convenience store, a pet store, a video rental business, and a pizzeria. Christian knew they’d run out of bread, and it was unlikely that Mark would think to buy any, so he crossed the parking lot to the store.
The panhandler sitting on the pavement, leaning against the wall, looked up and said, “Spare any change?”
Christian reached into the pocket of his jeans. Considering the weight, he’d been collecting one-dollar loonies again, and probably a couple of the much-newer two-dollar toonies that he wasn’t quite used to yet and tended to forget about until he cleaned out his pockets. He found a loonie by touch and pulled it out. He paused, just about to toss it into the offered plastic cup.
The panhandler grinned at him. “Problem, witch?” The lowering sun glinted off skin even more golden than the coin, smooth and metallic. It was a dramatic mismatch with the battered khaki shorts and faded black rock T-shirt, rough clothing on a sculpture of Apollo.
“No, of course not. Just surprised.” He completed the motion with the coin. “I assume everyone else is seeing you as human.”
“I’m not one of the sort who get to decide that. Non-witch humans who can see me for myself are rare.”
That was actually more common than the ones who had any control over what humans saw. Many had never been documented as being visible to non-witches at all, though it remained unclear whether that was by choice.
“And I’m hoping you don’t have ulterior motives.”
“Oh, but I do,” the liminal said, still with that grin.
“What intentions?”
The golden panhandler laughed. “I’m giving people a luck boost or a jinx, depending on how generous they are. I can tell whether they’re being stingy or really can’t afford it.”
Christian frowned. “I’m not sure I should be letting you do that. What kind of jinx or boost?”
“It only works on wealth and it’s very small-scale. No one’s going to win a million-dollar lottery because of me, or lose the family fortune. But they might win a couple hundred dollars, or lose their wallet. It’s inconvenient to replace credit cards and bank cards and ID, and might have some small fees, but they’ll only lose any cash, and the chance does still exist of someone kinder returning it. Small things. And only the unkind and uncharitable. After all, compassion for each other is an idealized human trait.”
“Idealized but definitely not universal,” Christian sighed. “All right, I won’t stop you, but keep it small and quiet and play fair. If I have any reason to think that you’re breaking your own rules or you’re stirring things up too much, I’ll have to track you down and stop you.”
The golden liminal inclined his head. “Thank you, witch. You might want to buy yourself a lottery ticket while you’re inside.”
Christian hesitated only briefly. Ethically, in human terms, it might be questionable to accept that—did it count as a bribe? He was setting himself up for a jinx if he refused the offer and insulted a liminal, though. He didn’t have to keep whatever he might win, after all, and the intentions were probably good.
Besides, he didn’t have the energy right now for a serious disagreement.
“Thank you, I will.”
He used part of the money he’d just made to buy a loaf of bread and a scratch ticket. He lingered to play the game on it.
“We’ve had a few winners today,” the clerk commented, more surprised by the two-hundred dollar win than Christian was. “Just sign the ticket, please, and fill out your contact info. Here’s the money. Do you want more tickets?”
“No, I’m going to just appreciate the good luck. I have a bunch of feral cats that I look after, this’ll buy a lot of food for them.” And possibly some new cleaning gear for the domovoi, domovikha, and their brownie helpers—that would please them, and they deserved it.
“Cool.” The clerk handed over the money as Christian slid the signed ticket across the counter. “Have a great day.”
“Thanks.” With any luck, his day was mostly over, but it had been a generally good one so far, and there was no need to split hairs.
The golden liminal was still there when he emerged.
“Thank you,” Christian told him, dropping another loonie into the cup. “On behalf of my feral cats and my house’s resident liminals, who are going to get the good from it.”
The golden liminal ducked his head in a kind of bow. “You’re a kind and generous person, witch. Good fortune to you always. Enjoy your evening.”
“You too.”
Christian oriented on home with hardly a thought. It was, after all, only across the busy street they were currently on, and a further two and a half blocks even though they needed a bit of zigzagging.
The great limestone house, built in the 1850s when the city was much smaller, looked vaguely out of place among the newer houses that had grown up around it. Even the broad yard encircling it on three sides, shaded by great old trees, couldn't entirely insulate old from new.
The sidewalk, added by the city much more recently, had devoured most of what had been a limited front yard, leaving the front of the house much closer to the street. Jacob had turned that space into a rock garden blooming all summer with colourful wildflowers, welcoming to bees and butterflies. They needed an occasional watering if there’d been no rain lately, but for the most part they looked after themselves with no need of weeding or other care. They respawned themselves every year without intervention. In the centre, on a large rock, a bronze cat reared up to swat at some invisible target.
A tall wooden privacy fence shielded the yard from the street and the neighbours, only a hand’s width from the sidewalk on one side, farther back on the other to allow for a single parking space, but oak and maple and chestnut loomed over all of it. The yard bore his father's touch, and had since Jacob's childhood here; Christian couldn't visualize it any other way, though he'd seen early photographs.
Every witch who lived here, it seemed, left their own mark on the house, outside or inside. Presumably the same was true for the four generations before his grandparents, though he had no idea how he'd recognize that.
It still felt a bit strange, that he was now the witch of this house, the most recent in the chain. What would his own contribution be?
He stepped up onto the small porch and unlocked the front door, closing and locking it behind him. He kicked his running shoes off and left them on the waiting mat, before following the runner carpets along the central corridor of the whole house.
The formal sitting room was on one side, rarely used; the dining room was on the other, which had been home to his Dungeons and Dragons group and still served him well for private Tarot readings; the tiny half-bath made that even easier and kept the deeper part of the house more private.
The windowless den was behind the sitting room; he’d learned in his early teens how to activate the passive protections to turn it into a kind of short-term magical saferoom. The huge kitchen was across from that, linked to the dining room.
Behind both was the living room, the warm sprawling heart of a house that was intrinsically bound up with Christian’s family. Many of his earliest memories were set here, with his grandparents and great-aunt and parents all around him.
In the living room, his grandmother Cecilia's hand showed heavily. Crocheted and knitted afghans were everywhere, the colours varying as widely as the magic worked right into their construction: one that shaded from a red centre through violet into a blue border for driving off illness, one that was rippled grey and white and soft blues for calming stress and aiding sleep, one in bold sweeping stripes of primaries for courage and strength, and countless others. The embroidered curtains seeped protection and prosperity right into the building itself. Subtle, practical, gentle magic, for the care of her loved ones, lingering despite her own absence.
Some of the afghans, though washed multiple times since the last of Ruth's cats had followed her, still had feline fur embedded into the fibres, a reminder of the cats making use of their power for themselves.
Mark glanced up immediately. The TV displayed a nature show involving tigers; the Chinese food on the coffee table explained why he was in the living room, rather than up in his own room. Given Mark's largely nocturnal schedule, it was probably more breakfast than dinner.
There was nothing remotely magical about his housemate, save perhaps those eyes, a golden yellow the colour of liquid honey. His aura was that of a perfectly ordinary non-witchblood human, nothing at all to offer any clue. There should have been at least a subtle giveaway on some level of witchblood or liminal nature, after a month or so of sharing a house—even if they had been off to a painfully slow start on more than passing contact.
As far as Christian could determine, Mark was unable to see or hear the domovoi and domovikha and brownies. Since the single most consistent ability that went with even trace witchblood was seeing liminals and elementals, that more or less confirmed that Mark was not a witch like the Terevans.
They, in turn, seemed reluctant to spend much time near Mark, but the presence of a non-Terevan in the house changed the rules and that could easily account for some uneasiness. More to the point, they didn’t treat him the way they did any liminal friend of the Terevans. Liminals could, as a rule, see each other even when hidden from humans, so that was apparently further confirmation.
He topped Chris' moderate height by two or three inches, and had the lean-muscled build of a dancer beneath black jeans and a black T-shirt with a dragon printed on it, emphasizing the contrast of dark hair with startlingly light skin.
“How was work?” Mark asked amiably.
“Pretty good, medium-busy. I noticed someone today I think might have just a touch of witchblood, but it's marginal and obviously untrained, which is about all I ever see. I’m not sure it’s even enough to let her see liminals or elementals consistently. If there were other witches in town, I'm sure I would've spotted them ages ago. I kinda wish there were, though. I actually have no idea what I'd say to the one other witch I know of on this side of the Atlantic. I mean, she's old enough to be my grandmother and lives far enough away that she and my aunt Ruth mostly wrote letters.”
Mark shrugged. “Maybe your family didn't want other witches around.”
Christian let himself drop into one of the overstuffed chairs, since Mark was stretched out full-length on the couch and looking remarkably like a lazy cat. “If witches couldn't get along, there'd be no more witches,” he pointed out. “Mix witchblood with non-witchblood and in three or four generations you've got so little left it's no use at all. There's a reason we're always a very small minority in any part of the world.”
“Large predators are territorial and still keep going.”
“True, but other than a few who might want the library or something, why would it be a problem?”
Another shrug. “How should I know? Just a thought. Glad to hear the job's going so well.”
“Mmhmm. I think I'm getting a reputation. So far, anyone who's asked me to come look at their homes for things going bump in the night have been regular customers, and all except one I had done at least one Tarot reading for before that. I've never had two requests in one day before. One was a regular. The second one was a woman who's never been in the shop before but she was looking for me. She's sure her house is haunted. She offered to pay me if I'd come check it out and either reassure her that it isn't or do something about it if it is. I couldn't today, I was already committed.”
“She doesn't know you're a witch, though.”
“No, of course not. Not in the real sense. I'm careful that no one does.” He couldn't recall Mark ever bothering to ask before about what he did. That might be a promising step. “When I'm doing Tarot demos at the shop, I don't say most of what I see, just enough to establish that it's not cold reading or broad generalization, and obviously I warn them if I see something big. When I do private ones here I put more into it and tell them more, but these are people who have no trouble accepting the idea of high intuition and psychic abilities without assuming I'm hiding something more. Or, at worst, without anyone taking them too seriously. When I do housecleaning visits for them, I know where I stand and what I can say and how best to say it. I really have no idea how to handle this woman since I don't know her or anything about her. Even doing a Tarot reading or two wouldn’t really give me enough.”
“So tell her you don't want to do it.” It sounded less like a recommendation than the simple presentation of an obvious option.
“She's pretty unsettled by the whole thing and I don't have the heart to refuse.” Christian nibbled a thumbnail thoughtfully. “Maybe a ghost, maybe just bad energy. If it's a non-human presence, well... I'm pretty good at basic summoning and banishing, and I'm familiar enough with liminals and elementals that I can talk to most things. I mean, I spent more of my time after school hanging out with liminals than I did with kids my own age. But from what she described, and the age and location of the building, I'm almost sure that it's just residual impressions. For a few years, Dad wouldn't let me help him with yard work in that part of town because I was picking up too much. He said there were multiple ley lines in that area and I was reacting to them without consciously recognizing them.”
“Mm. Aren't there liminals that like to live where there's a high level of ambient energy?”
“Yes, a bunch of them do. And I'm going to do some research tonight about the ones that specifically like ley energies and might account for the specific manifestations she described. I don't intend to get careless or stupid. Whatever it is, better me than someone who thinks they have the answers to the universe thanks to the magic of crystal purification and might get someone hurt or killed if it isn't just bad vibes. Or someone who might straight-up take advantage of her.”
“True. When are you going?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, as soon as I close at the shop, just like today.”
Mark nodded; Christian got the feeling it was as much to himself as an acknowledgement of Christian's reply. “I'll be up by the time you get there, then. I'll make sure I don't go out until I hear how it goes, so I'll be in hearing of the phone. Speaking of which, your grandfather called earlier, he wants you to call him collect. Phone number's in the kitchen.”
“'Kay. I'll call in the morning, it must be way too late there right now. I'll go start on that research. It feels like it's going to storm soon. You might want to consider staying home tonight from wherever you go. I don't know how much fun it'll be in the rain.” It was a gentle hint, though he had little hope of it getting him an answer; this was simply another enigma.
Without his grandfather's insistence that there was nothing to worry about and that he should get to know Mark on his own terms, advice he'd heard all his life about how to build a positive relationship with liminals, he'd have been highly apprehensive about the situation. He often did less well at building relationships with humans, but with Mark, so far the same approach was working. So as it was, it was simply odd. He kept trying to remind himself that it hadn't really been long and he should be patient, but at moments, it was frustrating.
If he saw Mark early in the day, it was because his unexpected roommate was just getting home after being out all night. It was hard sometimes to know whether Mark was awake or not, since he spent much of his time in his own bedroom. As far as Christian knew, there was a PlayStation involved, but how much time could anyone really spend on that kind of thing?
Sometimes, like now, he found Mark in the living room, eating takeout and watching TV or a movie—thrillers or action alternating with nature shows about predators or history that always seemed to be about violent periods and events. Always easygoing and noncommittal during interactions, and increasingly receptive to company, he never sought out either.
And every night, as the sky darkened to dusk, he went out, with no hint as to where or why. Sometimes, he had a flat-bottomed black bag over one shoulder on a long strap, the sort of thing that would probably be useful to take to a gym; Christian had no idea what was in it and hadn’t seen anything that made him think of sports gear or workout clothing in the laundry. He trusted his family that Mark wouldn’t be here if he were doing anything illegal or suspicious. The whole situation, however, remained a nagging mystery.
“I'll keep that in mind.” Mark bit into a chicken ball with even white teeth, regarding Christian thoughtfully while he chewed and swallowed. “Why don't you at least fill up a plate before you disappear into the library?” He gestured at the array of containers in front of him.
Startled, Christian hesitated. “That's yours.”
“There's way more than I'm going to eat. And half of it doesn't taste as good warmed up. Help yourself. Up to you, if you'd rather stay here or take it with you.”
“We usually try to keep food out of the library.”
“Then have a seat and learn something about tigers.”
Christian got the hint. He fetched a plate, and knelt to fill it with a mixture of dishes before settling himself back into his chair.
Show over and food gone, Mark gathered up the empty containers. “Good luck tomorrow. I doubt I'll see you before.” He vanished into the kitchen without waiting for a reply.
Christian headed for the library instead.
It was on the second floor, accessible via two hidden doors—neither of which he felt safe telling Mark about yet, and Mark had no apparent interest in learning how to reach it. One was in the den, giving access to a second stairway up. From the living room, it was simpler just to go up the regular stairs, since they started here. In the second floor hall, three shallow sets of shelves had been built into the wall, filled with an eclectic mix of books and knicknacks. Automatically, Christian let his hand drop to one of the lower shelves on the right-hand set, releasing a hidden latch that allowed him to push it inwards. He stepped into the library and, without even needing to think, made sure the hidden door clicked properly back into place behind him.
Two storeys above, through the skylights, he could see the dark storm-clouds. Heavily-laden bookshelves lined two opposite windowless walls, from the floor all the way to the edge of the loft above; on this level, the only furniture consisted of a wooden table and two hard chairs, plus a stepstool for reaching higher shelves. Much of the floor was covered by a large circular rug that must have taken Cecilia ages to make, but it effectively insulated the inlaid summoning circle beneath it that dominated the floor. The walls that lacked shelves had a wall fixture each, offering some light to supplement that from the skylight, but there was a lamp on the table as well.
The same wall that held the stairs down to the den also had stairs up to the loft that ringed the library on three sides.
The books here ranged from mass-market accounts of significant hauntings and the unexplained, through popular science and scholarly works on many subjects, to those that were the reason the library was kept so secret. Generations of witches, sharing their knowledge and experience, had amassed quite a body of information that was entirely too dangerous to allow into the wrong hands. Seth and Vadin had reorganized the library into categories and subcategories that Christian knew extremely well, and they had created a card catalogue of sorts, incorporating and expanding on the earlier system, to make research on a given subject as comprehensive as possible. Since this was a fairly straightforward issue, Christian had no need to resort to it in order to collect an armload of books.
He took them with him up to the loft. Near the stairs were a couch and an overstuffed chair that matched only in being equally well broken-in, along with a couple of small tables bearing lamps, and that was all. At least, aside from the omnipresent afghans and rugs.
Quickly, he sorted through the books, wondering which to start with. He chose a book that proclaimed itself to describe the experiences of a quartet of loosely-affiliated witches who specialized in apparent hauntings, one of whom was almost certainly an ancestor. The same principles should hold true, despite the book having been translated from 18th-century German. Coiling himself comfortably on the couch, a familiar position, the rest stacked on the floor next to him, he settled in for a long read.
A short bus ride, a transfer, and a longer ride later, Christian hopped off the bus.
The stop was right outside a small strip mall, a plaza of four businesses with a dozen or so parking spaces out front: a convenience store, a pet store, a video rental business, and a pizzeria. Christian knew they’d run out of bread, and it was unlikely that Mark would think to buy any, so he crossed the parking lot to the store.
The panhandler sitting on the pavement, leaning against the wall, looked up and said, “Spare any change?”
Christian reached into the pocket of his jeans. Considering the weight, he’d been collecting one-dollar loonies again, and probably a couple of the much-newer two-dollar toonies that he wasn’t quite used to yet and tended to forget about until he cleaned out his pockets. He found a loonie by touch and pulled it out. He paused, just about to toss it into the offered plastic cup.
The panhandler grinned at him. “Problem, witch?” The lowering sun glinted off skin even more golden than the coin, smooth and metallic. It was a dramatic mismatch with the battered khaki shorts and faded black rock T-shirt, rough clothing on a sculpture of Apollo.
“No, of course not. Just surprised.” He completed the motion with the coin. “I assume everyone else is seeing you as human.”
“I’m not one of the sort who get to decide that. Non-witch humans who can see me for myself are rare.”
That was actually more common than the ones who had any control over what humans saw. Many had never been documented as being visible to non-witches at all, though it remained unclear whether that was by choice.
“And I’m hoping you don’t have ulterior motives.”
“Oh, but I do,” the liminal said, still with that grin.
“What intentions?”
The golden panhandler laughed. “I’m giving people a luck boost or a jinx, depending on how generous they are. I can tell whether they’re being stingy or really can’t afford it.”
Christian frowned. “I’m not sure I should be letting you do that. What kind of jinx or boost?”
“It only works on wealth and it’s very small-scale. No one’s going to win a million-dollar lottery because of me, or lose the family fortune. But they might win a couple hundred dollars, or lose their wallet. It’s inconvenient to replace credit cards and bank cards and ID, and might have some small fees, but they’ll only lose any cash, and the chance does still exist of someone kinder returning it. Small things. And only the unkind and uncharitable. After all, compassion for each other is an idealized human trait.”
“Idealized but definitely not universal,” Christian sighed. “All right, I won’t stop you, but keep it small and quiet and play fair. If I have any reason to think that you’re breaking your own rules or you’re stirring things up too much, I’ll have to track you down and stop you.”
The golden liminal inclined his head. “Thank you, witch. You might want to buy yourself a lottery ticket while you’re inside.”
Christian hesitated only briefly. Ethically, in human terms, it might be questionable to accept that—did it count as a bribe? He was setting himself up for a jinx if he refused the offer and insulted a liminal, though. He didn’t have to keep whatever he might win, after all, and the intentions were probably good.
Besides, he didn’t have the energy right now for a serious disagreement.
“Thank you, I will.”
He used part of the money he’d just made to buy a loaf of bread and a scratch ticket. He lingered to play the game on it.
“We’ve had a few winners today,” the clerk commented, more surprised by the two-hundred dollar win than Christian was. “Just sign the ticket, please, and fill out your contact info. Here’s the money. Do you want more tickets?”
“No, I’m going to just appreciate the good luck. I have a bunch of feral cats that I look after, this’ll buy a lot of food for them.” And possibly some new cleaning gear for the domovoi, domovikha, and their brownie helpers—that would please them, and they deserved it.
“Cool.” The clerk handed over the money as Christian slid the signed ticket across the counter. “Have a great day.”
“Thanks.” With any luck, his day was mostly over, but it had been a generally good one so far, and there was no need to split hairs.
The golden liminal was still there when he emerged.
“Thank you,” Christian told him, dropping another loonie into the cup. “On behalf of my feral cats and my house’s resident liminals, who are going to get the good from it.”
The golden liminal ducked his head in a kind of bow. “You’re a kind and generous person, witch. Good fortune to you always. Enjoy your evening.”
“You too.”
Christian oriented on home with hardly a thought. It was, after all, only across the busy street they were currently on, and a further two and a half blocks even though they needed a bit of zigzagging.
The great limestone house, built in the 1850s when the city was much smaller, looked vaguely out of place among the newer houses that had grown up around it. Even the broad yard encircling it on three sides, shaded by great old trees, couldn't entirely insulate old from new.
The sidewalk, added by the city much more recently, had devoured most of what had been a limited front yard, leaving the front of the house much closer to the street. Jacob had turned that space into a rock garden blooming all summer with colourful wildflowers, welcoming to bees and butterflies. They needed an occasional watering if there’d been no rain lately, but for the most part they looked after themselves with no need of weeding or other care. They respawned themselves every year without intervention. In the centre, on a large rock, a bronze cat reared up to swat at some invisible target.
A tall wooden privacy fence shielded the yard from the street and the neighbours, only a hand’s width from the sidewalk on one side, farther back on the other to allow for a single parking space, but oak and maple and chestnut loomed over all of it. The yard bore his father's touch, and had since Jacob's childhood here; Christian couldn't visualize it any other way, though he'd seen early photographs.
Every witch who lived here, it seemed, left their own mark on the house, outside or inside. Presumably the same was true for the four generations before his grandparents, though he had no idea how he'd recognize that.
It still felt a bit strange, that he was now the witch of this house, the most recent in the chain. What would his own contribution be?
He stepped up onto the small porch and unlocked the front door, closing and locking it behind him. He kicked his running shoes off and left them on the waiting mat, before following the runner carpets along the central corridor of the whole house.
The formal sitting room was on one side, rarely used; the dining room was on the other, which had been home to his Dungeons and Dragons group and still served him well for private Tarot readings; the tiny half-bath made that even easier and kept the deeper part of the house more private.
The windowless den was behind the sitting room; he’d learned in his early teens how to activate the passive protections to turn it into a kind of short-term magical saferoom. The huge kitchen was across from that, linked to the dining room.
Behind both was the living room, the warm sprawling heart of a house that was intrinsically bound up with Christian’s family. Many of his earliest memories were set here, with his grandparents and great-aunt and parents all around him.
In the living room, his grandmother Cecilia's hand showed heavily. Crocheted and knitted afghans were everywhere, the colours varying as widely as the magic worked right into their construction: one that shaded from a red centre through violet into a blue border for driving off illness, one that was rippled grey and white and soft blues for calming stress and aiding sleep, one in bold sweeping stripes of primaries for courage and strength, and countless others. The embroidered curtains seeped protection and prosperity right into the building itself. Subtle, practical, gentle magic, for the care of her loved ones, lingering despite her own absence.
Some of the afghans, though washed multiple times since the last of Ruth's cats had followed her, still had feline fur embedded into the fibres, a reminder of the cats making use of their power for themselves.
Mark glanced up immediately. The TV displayed a nature show involving tigers; the Chinese food on the coffee table explained why he was in the living room, rather than up in his own room. Given Mark's largely nocturnal schedule, it was probably more breakfast than dinner.
There was nothing remotely magical about his housemate, save perhaps those eyes, a golden yellow the colour of liquid honey. His aura was that of a perfectly ordinary non-witchblood human, nothing at all to offer any clue. There should have been at least a subtle giveaway on some level of witchblood or liminal nature, after a month or so of sharing a house—even if they had been off to a painfully slow start on more than passing contact.
As far as Christian could determine, Mark was unable to see or hear the domovoi and domovikha and brownies. Since the single most consistent ability that went with even trace witchblood was seeing liminals and elementals, that more or less confirmed that Mark was not a witch like the Terevans.
They, in turn, seemed reluctant to spend much time near Mark, but the presence of a non-Terevan in the house changed the rules and that could easily account for some uneasiness. More to the point, they didn’t treat him the way they did any liminal friend of the Terevans. Liminals could, as a rule, see each other even when hidden from humans, so that was apparently further confirmation.
He topped Chris' moderate height by two or three inches, and had the lean-muscled build of a dancer beneath black jeans and a black T-shirt with a dragon printed on it, emphasizing the contrast of dark hair with startlingly light skin.
“How was work?” Mark asked amiably.
“Pretty good, medium-busy. I noticed someone today I think might have just a touch of witchblood, but it's marginal and obviously untrained, which is about all I ever see. I’m not sure it’s even enough to let her see liminals or elementals consistently. If there were other witches in town, I'm sure I would've spotted them ages ago. I kinda wish there were, though. I actually have no idea what I'd say to the one other witch I know of on this side of the Atlantic. I mean, she's old enough to be my grandmother and lives far enough away that she and my aunt Ruth mostly wrote letters.”
Mark shrugged. “Maybe your family didn't want other witches around.”
Christian let himself drop into one of the overstuffed chairs, since Mark was stretched out full-length on the couch and looking remarkably like a lazy cat. “If witches couldn't get along, there'd be no more witches,” he pointed out. “Mix witchblood with non-witchblood and in three or four generations you've got so little left it's no use at all. There's a reason we're always a very small minority in any part of the world.”
“Large predators are territorial and still keep going.”
“True, but other than a few who might want the library or something, why would it be a problem?”
Another shrug. “How should I know? Just a thought. Glad to hear the job's going so well.”
“Mmhmm. I think I'm getting a reputation. So far, anyone who's asked me to come look at their homes for things going bump in the night have been regular customers, and all except one I had done at least one Tarot reading for before that. I've never had two requests in one day before. One was a regular. The second one was a woman who's never been in the shop before but she was looking for me. She's sure her house is haunted. She offered to pay me if I'd come check it out and either reassure her that it isn't or do something about it if it is. I couldn't today, I was already committed.”
“She doesn't know you're a witch, though.”
“No, of course not. Not in the real sense. I'm careful that no one does.” He couldn't recall Mark ever bothering to ask before about what he did. That might be a promising step. “When I'm doing Tarot demos at the shop, I don't say most of what I see, just enough to establish that it's not cold reading or broad generalization, and obviously I warn them if I see something big. When I do private ones here I put more into it and tell them more, but these are people who have no trouble accepting the idea of high intuition and psychic abilities without assuming I'm hiding something more. Or, at worst, without anyone taking them too seriously. When I do housecleaning visits for them, I know where I stand and what I can say and how best to say it. I really have no idea how to handle this woman since I don't know her or anything about her. Even doing a Tarot reading or two wouldn’t really give me enough.”
“So tell her you don't want to do it.” It sounded less like a recommendation than the simple presentation of an obvious option.
“She's pretty unsettled by the whole thing and I don't have the heart to refuse.” Christian nibbled a thumbnail thoughtfully. “Maybe a ghost, maybe just bad energy. If it's a non-human presence, well... I'm pretty good at basic summoning and banishing, and I'm familiar enough with liminals and elementals that I can talk to most things. I mean, I spent more of my time after school hanging out with liminals than I did with kids my own age. But from what she described, and the age and location of the building, I'm almost sure that it's just residual impressions. For a few years, Dad wouldn't let me help him with yard work in that part of town because I was picking up too much. He said there were multiple ley lines in that area and I was reacting to them without consciously recognizing them.”
“Mm. Aren't there liminals that like to live where there's a high level of ambient energy?”
“Yes, a bunch of them do. And I'm going to do some research tonight about the ones that specifically like ley energies and might account for the specific manifestations she described. I don't intend to get careless or stupid. Whatever it is, better me than someone who thinks they have the answers to the universe thanks to the magic of crystal purification and might get someone hurt or killed if it isn't just bad vibes. Or someone who might straight-up take advantage of her.”
“True. When are you going?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, as soon as I close at the shop, just like today.”
Mark nodded; Christian got the feeling it was as much to himself as an acknowledgement of Christian's reply. “I'll be up by the time you get there, then. I'll make sure I don't go out until I hear how it goes, so I'll be in hearing of the phone. Speaking of which, your grandfather called earlier, he wants you to call him collect. Phone number's in the kitchen.”
“'Kay. I'll call in the morning, it must be way too late there right now. I'll go start on that research. It feels like it's going to storm soon. You might want to consider staying home tonight from wherever you go. I don't know how much fun it'll be in the rain.” It was a gentle hint, though he had little hope of it getting him an answer; this was simply another enigma.
Without his grandfather's insistence that there was nothing to worry about and that he should get to know Mark on his own terms, advice he'd heard all his life about how to build a positive relationship with liminals, he'd have been highly apprehensive about the situation. He often did less well at building relationships with humans, but with Mark, so far the same approach was working. So as it was, it was simply odd. He kept trying to remind himself that it hadn't really been long and he should be patient, but at moments, it was frustrating.
If he saw Mark early in the day, it was because his unexpected roommate was just getting home after being out all night. It was hard sometimes to know whether Mark was awake or not, since he spent much of his time in his own bedroom. As far as Christian knew, there was a PlayStation involved, but how much time could anyone really spend on that kind of thing?
Sometimes, like now, he found Mark in the living room, eating takeout and watching TV or a movie—thrillers or action alternating with nature shows about predators or history that always seemed to be about violent periods and events. Always easygoing and noncommittal during interactions, and increasingly receptive to company, he never sought out either.
And every night, as the sky darkened to dusk, he went out, with no hint as to where or why. Sometimes, he had a flat-bottomed black bag over one shoulder on a long strap, the sort of thing that would probably be useful to take to a gym; Christian had no idea what was in it and hadn’t seen anything that made him think of sports gear or workout clothing in the laundry. He trusted his family that Mark wouldn’t be here if he were doing anything illegal or suspicious. The whole situation, however, remained a nagging mystery.
“I'll keep that in mind.” Mark bit into a chicken ball with even white teeth, regarding Christian thoughtfully while he chewed and swallowed. “Why don't you at least fill up a plate before you disappear into the library?” He gestured at the array of containers in front of him.
Startled, Christian hesitated. “That's yours.”
“There's way more than I'm going to eat. And half of it doesn't taste as good warmed up. Help yourself. Up to you, if you'd rather stay here or take it with you.”
“We usually try to keep food out of the library.”
“Then have a seat and learn something about tigers.”
Christian got the hint. He fetched a plate, and knelt to fill it with a mixture of dishes before settling himself back into his chair.
Show over and food gone, Mark gathered up the empty containers. “Good luck tomorrow. I doubt I'll see you before.” He vanished into the kitchen without waiting for a reply.
Christian headed for the library instead.
It was on the second floor, accessible via two hidden doors—neither of which he felt safe telling Mark about yet, and Mark had no apparent interest in learning how to reach it. One was in the den, giving access to a second stairway up. From the living room, it was simpler just to go up the regular stairs, since they started here. In the second floor hall, three shallow sets of shelves had been built into the wall, filled with an eclectic mix of books and knicknacks. Automatically, Christian let his hand drop to one of the lower shelves on the right-hand set, releasing a hidden latch that allowed him to push it inwards. He stepped into the library and, without even needing to think, made sure the hidden door clicked properly back into place behind him.
Two storeys above, through the skylights, he could see the dark storm-clouds. Heavily-laden bookshelves lined two opposite windowless walls, from the floor all the way to the edge of the loft above; on this level, the only furniture consisted of a wooden table and two hard chairs, plus a stepstool for reaching higher shelves. Much of the floor was covered by a large circular rug that must have taken Cecilia ages to make, but it effectively insulated the inlaid summoning circle beneath it that dominated the floor. The walls that lacked shelves had a wall fixture each, offering some light to supplement that from the skylight, but there was a lamp on the table as well.
The same wall that held the stairs down to the den also had stairs up to the loft that ringed the library on three sides.
The books here ranged from mass-market accounts of significant hauntings and the unexplained, through popular science and scholarly works on many subjects, to those that were the reason the library was kept so secret. Generations of witches, sharing their knowledge and experience, had amassed quite a body of information that was entirely too dangerous to allow into the wrong hands. Seth and Vadin had reorganized the library into categories and subcategories that Christian knew extremely well, and they had created a card catalogue of sorts, incorporating and expanding on the earlier system, to make research on a given subject as comprehensive as possible. Since this was a fairly straightforward issue, Christian had no need to resort to it in order to collect an armload of books.
He took them with him up to the loft. Near the stairs were a couch and an overstuffed chair that matched only in being equally well broken-in, along with a couple of small tables bearing lamps, and that was all. At least, aside from the omnipresent afghans and rugs.
Quickly, he sorted through the books, wondering which to start with. He chose a book that proclaimed itself to describe the experiences of a quartet of loosely-affiliated witches who specialized in apparent hauntings, one of whom was almost certainly an ancestor. The same principles should hold true, despite the book having been translated from 18th-century German. Coiling himself comfortably on the couch, a familiar position, the rest stacked on the floor next to him, he settled in for a long read.
