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“Curt? Curt bought the tarot cards?”
“You know him?”
“He was at the store when Mallory and I went. We asked him about Mitzy. He didn’t say anything unusual . . .” Something horrible occurred to me, because Mitzy wasn’t the only thing we’d talked to him about.
Ace of Cups. Two of Swords. Three of Pentacles . . . and Four of Wands, something a practitioner of magic might use.
“Catcher,” I said, forcing my voice to not shake. “Where’s Mallory?”
“At home, I assume. Why?”
My heart began to pound. “She talked to Curt about going back to the store. She wants some wolfsbane, and he said they had some on the way.” I calculated the timing. “She was going to pick it up. He tried to warn her off buying it, but she said she knew what she was doing. Didn’t say she was a sorceress outright, but nudged around it. And it’s her favorite shop—he knew her, had sold things to her before.”
I heard only the sound of breathing. “I’m going to call her right now.”
“I’ll call her,” I said. “We’re already in the car and driving.” I gestured to Ethan to start the car, pull out into traffic. He didn’t waste any time. “And we’re on our way to the store.”
“Maybe this is nothing,” he said. “Maybe it’s nothing at all.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, but it didn’t feel right in my gut. And just in case: “Talk to my grandfather. Get the CPD to Curt’s house, too, just in case he’s off today. Maybe this is all a coincidence.”
“Find her, Merit.”
As soon as the call was disconnected, I dialed her number. The phone rang three times, then four, and my chest tightened with fear. Until, on the fifth ring, she answered.
“Hey, Merit—”
“Mallory, thank God.”
“Hey, I’m actually right in the middle of something right now. Can I call you back?”
Shit. “Mallory, are you in the Magic Shoppe?”
“Well, yeah, actually. How did you know?”
Blood roared in my ears, but I forced myself to stay calm, to think. “I need you to turn around and walk out of there, Mallory. Pretend that nothing’s wrong, just turn around and walk out. And don’t ask questions. Don’t ask me why; just turn around and walk out. Right to the door, and then back to the town house. Pretend I called, and I need something. It’s an emergency. Okay?”
I had to give her credit. She didn’t argue or ask questions. I must have sounded like a crazy person, but she didn’t panic.
“Oh, hey, Curt,” I heard her say. “Sorry, but Merit’s got something she needs to talk about right away. Some kind of boy nonsense. Could you hold that wolfsbane for me for a few minutes? I’m going to step outside and try to calm her down.”
“She’s good,” Ethan quietly said, eyes on the road as he took a sharp turn, then squeezed between cars to get a better spot in a different lane.
“You’re doing great, Mal,” I quietly told her. “You’re doing great.”
But her tone changed. “Get your hand off me, Curt. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
I could actually feel the charge of magic through the phone, as if the cell tower had sent an echo of it along with her words.
“Just walk out, Mallory. Just turn and run.”
I don’t know whether she heard me or not. The phone crackled and sizzled with magic and the sound of breaking glass.
“Get your hands off me, you psychopath!” And then the magic deflated, like it had been sucked back through the phone with a vacuum.
“Oh. Shit,” she woozily said. “It’s Curt . . . isn’t it?”
The call went dead.
* * *
I called my grandfather back, hand shaking around the phone, and told him what we’d heard. Ethan drove like the proverbial bat out of hell, my grandfather, Catcher, and the rest of the CPD zooming along behind us.
Ethan squealed to a halt outside the Magic Shoppe, and I had my katana unsheathed before I reached the door. The lights were on, and the door was unlocked. There was a trail of magical destruction behind the counter—a line of broken jars and a lightning strike of broken glass across the mirror.
I gestured Ethan to the right, and I took the left, creeping down the row, checking the cross aisles for signs of life. When we met in the back of the store, he shook his head. I gestured to the door, counted quietly down. “Three . . . two . . . one.”
We went in, katanas in hand, blades pointed and ready for action but ultimately unnecessary. Skylar-Katherine lay on the floor in front of us.
“Shit,” I said, falling to my knees in front of her. I checked her breathing, which was slow but regular. A bruise was rising on her temple. He’d knocked her out.
I patted her cheeks. “Skylar-Katherine. Skylar-Katherine, wake up.
“There’s probably a bathroom,” I said, gesturing Ethan to the back of the store. “Damp towels?”
“On it,” he said, and rose to a quick jog.
After several seconds, her eyes fluttered, opened. She looked around, then focused on me. “What’s going on?”
“Somebody knocked you out?”
“Somebody . . . Curt. It was Curt. I think Curt knocked me out.”
“I think so, too. Can you sit up?”
She nodded, but I put a hand behind her shoulders, helped her move into a sitting position. “My head,” she said, touching her temple gingerly with the heel of her hand.
“I know the feeling,” I said. “Do you know where Curt is?”
“No. There was—someone came to the door. It was your blue-haired friend. He said he had business, and he needed to attend to it. And then he hit me.” Tears rushed to her eyes. “Why would he hit me? We’re friends.”
There wasn’t going to be an easy way to say this, so I didn’t bother sugarcoating it. “You heard about the tarot murders?”
All the color drained from her face. “Sure. Why?”
“We think Curt is the killer.”
It was obvious she wanted to argue; I could see it in her face. The assault had made her enough of a believer. “Is that why he hit me?”
“We think so.” Ethan came back with wet towels, and I pressed them against the bump on her head. She hissed with pain.
“I don’t know him,” she said, leveling him with a suspicious glance. She was clearly coming around.
