Her hands shook as she told me how she’d picked up the strange book in her ex-boss’ office by mistake, how her supervisor had been killed, and how she’d gotten sick whenever she tried to tell someone about the book.
I wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, my protective nature rising to the surface again. “To think I’d assumed that being an unwitting Date-A-Wolf contestant and learning that the world is filled with supernatural creatures were the most stressful things you’d experienced lately.”
She nestled in closer, and I tucked her head under my chin. I’d have pulled her onto my lap if not for my wet crotch.
“I actually feel pretty safe here,” she murmured.
I hopedheremeant ‘here with me’ and not just ‘on the island.’
“Whatwereyou doing in Wickedville, Daphne?” I asked, breathing in her scent and acutely aware of my erection straining at the seams. Maybe it was good I didn’t have her on my lap after all. I’d be liable to take her right here in public.
“I was trying to find the address of someone who may know something about that dumb book.” She sighed. “It sure feels good to say that to you without worrying about tossing my cookies.”
A huge weight lifted from my shoulders that Daphne’s strange behavior was because of a book and not because she was in cahoots with the Crutchfields. It was a relief to switch gears from a suspicious asshole to a determined one, wanting to help her get some answers.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing her hand. “You’ll be safe with me.”
Once we returned to Nightmare Alley, we soon found the address she’d been looking for. I pushed open the door of adusty little shop called Dismal Devices and stepped aside to let her in first.
Wobbly stacks of manual typewriters, adding machines, rotary phones and phonographs stretched to the ceiling. We followed a pathway through the stacks, taking care not to bump into anything. At the end, sitting behind a gargantuan desk, was a skinny man with tiny round spectacles and an oversized handlebar mustache.
To spare Daphne from getting sick, I’d planned to do the talking, but she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “This feels...different. I think I can do it.”
“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind.”
She gave me an appreciative smile that stirred me up again. “Positive.”
The man—Dr. Eisenhorn, according to the business cards on his desk—cleared his throat impatiently and squinted at us through his thick lenses. “Why are you here? Did you not see the sign? By appointment only.”
Daphne squared her shoulders at his rudeness and retrieved the book from her beach bag. “My friend Portia sent me. Said you’d know what to make of this.”
He inhaled sharply when she plopped the ancient-looking book down in front of him and stared at it for a moment. Then he pulled out a pair of white cloth gloves from a desk drawer and began to examine the tome.
“What do you think it is, Dr. Eisenhorn?” I asked. “And why?—”
“Stop with the interruptions!” He thrust a finger at his business cards without looking up from the book. “Can you not read? Or do you just choose not to? It’s Dr. Eisenhorn THE THIRD.”
Daphne and I exchanged a quick glance. This guy was really something. Per that same business card, he was also a professorat the Darkaway College of Magical Arts. I was glad I’d attended school elsewhere.
He asked Daphne a variety of questions that she dutifully answered, and he recorded it all in a dot-grid ledger.
Who had the book before her? Was Mr. Griffin born on a Tuesday or a Saturday? Did she recall what time of day, down to the minute and second, it had come into her possession? What had she eaten for breakfast that morning? Was she right-handed or left-handed?
Finally, Dr. Eisenhorn the Third removed his specs and rubbed his eyes. “This is a dark magic spell book. Very powerful. The likes of which I can’t say I’ve ever seen before.”
Daphne brightened. “Great! You can have it then. I am so ready to be done with that darn thing.”
The professor shook his head. “No.”
Her face fell and she took a step back, looking as if she might cry.
Anger rushed through me, and I put a hand on her shoulder, but I held my tongue so she could say what she needed to say. I wanted to convey to her that I had her back.
Her hip brushed mine in acknowledgment. “Why not?” she asked. “I’ll just give it to you. For free. It came into my possession purely by accident. Portia says there’s some really bad juju in there.”
“There is,” the man said with a condescending laugh. “But I can’t take it.”
Can’t or won’t?
