She tucks the mobile back in her purse before dabbing again at her eyes, but this time, there’s at least a flicker of hope in them. “Okay. Thank you. Thank you for believing me.”
I nod, straighten my shoulders, and meet her eyes with what I hope resembles quiet confidence. She’s been through a lot, so I try to look like someone she could rely on.
It’s, of course, another lie. There’s no guarantee that Stryker will listen to me. She barely trusts me to go through her junk mail and, most of the time, she acts like I’m an annoying encroachment on her space. Even the “homework” she gave me before she left might have been nothing. Just a bone she decided to throw me for when I was looking all pathetic. Or a test she doesn’t expect me to pass, so she can finally wash her hands of me. (The reality is, she hasn’t said word one about training me before today. And there’s no guarantee I’d feel anything, even if I could do what she told me to do. I’ve certainly never been able to feel any mana inside me before!)
But that elf was right. For whatever reason, I am extra sensitive when it comes to detecting magic, and if I could somehow show that a bunch of evil wizards had set up shop in her town, Stryker wouldn’t dismiss it. She couldn’t. I would have discovered something, on my own, that she truly needed to know about. I’m not going to be able to make out with a stranger, but this could be the exact thing I need to do to prove myself to her. To prove that I really am worth training.
And maybe, if I really am able to help this woman find her kid, prove to myself that Icanbe more than a monster.
4
After Nicole leaves,I pull out my own phone and spend the rest of the day doing a little Internet research about the Benevolent Society of San Cipriano. Turns out that Saint Cyprian of Antioch, the dude on the candle, was some kind of Turkish sorcerer who converted to Christianity in the 4th century. Even though the Catholic Church stopped recognizing him as a saint in 1969, he still has a “feast day” in the Eastern Orthodox Church. (October 2nd.) And in some parts of the world, like Spain and Latin America, he is directly petitioned for matters related to magic, protection against curses and, what would probably matter most to a teen trying to control her magic, to gain occult knowledge.
As for the Benevolent Society itself, there is only one, and it’s located right here in San Francisco in Lower Nob Hill, not more than a fifteen minute walk from Stryker’s office. According to their website, it’s “a spiritual community inspired by the transformative journey of SaintCyprian of Antioch.” They offer transcendental workshops and study circles and “believe in the power of redemption, the profound wisdom of ancient practices, and the eternal light of Christian teachings.” They’ve been around for over a hundred years and, while they keep their activities private, they have made sizable monetary contributions to almost every one of City Hall’s charitable efforts. Any mention I was able to find about them in the press have come from local politicians throughout the decades thanking them for their exceptional generosity.
Sounds like it could be legit. It also sounds like it could be a cult. Either way, they’re definitely worth a visit.
But not today. Tonight, I have a magic watch to steal for an elf, and I can’t afford any distractions. I get back to my apartment a little after 6:00 p.m., scarf down a couple Lean Cuisines, and try to distract myself with doomscrolling the news on my phone while it’s charging until I figure it’s late enough that most people will be asleep. Then I get into the darkest clothes I own (black T-shirt, dark-wash jeans, dark blue windbreaker, and dressy black Oxfords I’ve only used twice), take a night bus, and walk the remaining ten minutes to the address the elf gave me.
Now it’s almost 3:00 a.m., and I’m standing across the street from a large, charcoal gray, three-story Queen Anne wondering if I actually have the nerve to do this.
The house is in the ritzy Lake Street district, but it looks old, practically abandoned. The dark, gothic towers on its corners, blood-red trim, and arched, stained-glass windows completely clash with the renovated, high-end designs of the rest of the buildings on the street, but itfigures I’d have to break into the freaking Haunted Mansion.
I’m sure the rest of the houses all have modern alarms. I bet there’s a neighborhood watch, too. I briefly consider trying to be sneaky and making my way in through the back door, but I honestly can’t see any way to get to the backyard from the street. The spaces between the house and its neighbors are blocked by tall iron fences with sharp, pointy tips. There’s no way these stubby legs are going to get my tender bits past those architectural spear tips in one piece.
So I decide that rather than skulking around, it’d be better to just walk right up the front steps and into the house like I belonged there. Much less suspicious-looking, and the elf did say the door would be unlocked.
As soon as I get on the small porch, I’m confronted by a tarnished brass serpent-head knocker with open-jawed fangs. Its warning isn’t limited to an I-will-devour-you glare—I can immediately see it’s magicked, which as I mentioned is super-rare. The energy tastes crisp, like a sour apple, and it feels protective—defensive, even. Maybe it just triggers a loud alarm if it recognizes you as a serious threat, like the elf said. Or maybe it blasts a murderous flood of hellfire at intruders, which would make mine officially the shortest criminal career ever.
For a hot second, I consider calling the whole thing off, but then I feel the Obligation. I’d been completely unaware of it all day while I was going along with the plan, but now that I’m hesitating, it wraps its cold, boney fingers around my heart and squeezes.
Ouch.
Right. A promise is a promise. Especially to a fae. There is no turning back.
I take a deep breath, slide my fingers around the door handle, give it a small turn, and brace for impromptu barbecue. I practically wet myself when the serpent’s eyes widen and flash gold, but all that happens is the sound of a bolt unlocking with an angry clack. Not from the latch I turned, mind you, but rather from a heavy deadbolt above and inside the door. Then another heavy lock turns. And another.
I cringe back, certain that the current owner of the house is about to confront me. But there’s no motion or light coming from the space at the bottom. In fact, the whole house is still dark. And even after several seconds, the door doesn’t open.
Which means the elf was right. No one’s home.
It also means the door specifically unlocked, with magic, just for me. (And if that doesn’t feel full-on “‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider,”I don’t know what would.)
I wrack my brain, trying to think of some not-deathtrap reason why a powerful spell would be in place to let a stranger enter someone else’s home. Could the elf have planned this? A spell he cast on it at a distance or something?
There’s no way to know for sure. What I do know is if the neighbors are watching, then the longer I stand out here, the faster I move from “looks like that guy could belong” to “you think we should call the cops, hon?”
I push on the door and go inside.
Just as I’d expect, the old hinges squeal, horror-movie style. So, I quickly close the door behind me and take advantage of the only other real party trick I have access to as an incubus who has never fed: low-light vision. I can see in pitch-black almost as clear as day. (Trust me, it’s nothing special. Pretty much every paranormal has it. Creatures of the night and all that. But I’ll admit, along with not getting colds ever, that is one of the few things I dig about what I am.)
I’m in a large foyer with a wide set of stairs leading up to the second floor. There are high ceilings with intricate but crumbling moldings. Tall windows covered by tattered lace drapes. Peeling wallpaper with faded blue roses. The smell of old wood—dusty pine.
Back in the day, this is where guests would have been received, but there’s no furniture. I suddenly remember the door unlocking by itself so my eyes shoot up to the ceiling to make sure there’s not a huge net or something ready to land on my head, but I only see a very expensive crystal chandelier. Nothing there.
I force an exhale. I can’t keep freaking out. Not only is it way not cool, but any real PI will tell you that you always need to keep your eyes open. You can’t do that if you’re constantly cringing in fear.
I deliberately slow down and look at what’s around me. There are doors to the left and right, both open, and both lead to large, empty rooms. My gut nags at me to try to figure out what the deal is with this house. It doesn’t look like someone lives here. It’s so empty, it looks like theplace has already been burgled, and then meticulously cleaned up after.
