His jaw is slack, his wide eyes roaming my body, and he’s tapping his right hand against his leg, a nervous habit he picked up when he was younger and the prosthetics didn’t fit well. Tolliver never could hide his emotions. He’s an amazing alchemist but a shit con artist.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Come here often?”
Tolliver blinks, then scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks going red. “Usually five days a week, except for holidays. So, yeah, I guess, pretty often.”
“That’s not—never mind.”
He’s half a foot taller than me, but something about his eyes makes it look like he’s gazing up at me like a supplicant. It’s the look he gets when he’s about to kiss me. Or, I guess, the look he got that one time he kissed me.
“I’m, like, super stoked you’re here right now.” He takes a step toward me.
I take one step back and pick up a Styx Afterlife tours brochure from a nearby rack and flip through it. “This place is beneath you, Tolliver. What, do they have you brewing up Miracle Max for rich assholes who want to ask Grandma where she hid her jewelry?”
Tolliver frowns. “Not all of them are assholes.”
“You’re better than this,” I say.
And as usual, I’m right. Tolliver could have taken a job with thebest in the business becausehe’sthe best in the business. His version of Kykeon mist is used by almost every heaven hopper in the biz, and probably most of the syndicates as well.
I suppose I should take a moment to explain Kykeon mist. It’s what we call any potion that, once inhaled, sends your soul to the Afterlife. The first heaven hoppers used a fungus that’s mostly found on grasses in a small region of Greece. These days, different alchemical compounds have been created to take its place. Throughout history, there have been several different formulations, some successful, some not. The current iteration of mist is called Miracle Max. It has fewer side effects than its predecessors and has an almost zero percent accidental death rate.
Tolliver didn’t invent Miracle Max, but he did perfect it. He could have gone anywhere after the crew broke up, but he’s here playing travel agent to wealthy thrill-seekers.
He shrugs at my accusation. “It pays well.”
“Please. You’re bored out of your mind.”
“I don’t want another crew, Elle.” He gives me his patented puppy dog look. “I only ever wanted you…all. You all. You guys. Our crew.”
I swallow. “Well, good. Because I’m here to hire you for a job.”
I ready myself to give the pitch, to convince Tolliver to come back and work with us, while carefully avoiding any reference to our last job or the fact that Dante’s death is partially his fault.
But before I even open my mouth, a grin spreads across Tolliver’s face.
“I’m in.”
Nine
Okay, so I haven’t been completely honest. It’s less that I lied and more that I left out some pertinent information. Which, to be fair, is kind of my thing.
Rook Crawford is not just some random person who showed up at my house asking for help. My initial interaction with him may have led you to believe that I didn’t know who he was or that I was hesitant to take the job. That was by design. I, in fact, did know who he was and had every intention of taking the job.
I just didn’t wanthimto know that.
I’ve spent the last year figuring out how to bring my brother back, and Rook was the final piece of the puzzle.
Well.
Rook’s money.
I knew about the Voynich manuscript. I was well aware of the lost resurrection spell. But stealing it was going to be difficult. Andexpensive. I’d already sold off anything of value I owned, so I was going to need a backer. Someone who was just as invested in the endeavor and had buckets of cash to spare.
Remember the steps to any good con?
First is the Groundwork, learning everything you can about your mark. I started doing research on wealthy families in the area who had lost loved ones recently and came across Rook. Nineteen. Recent Harvard dropout. Major undeclared. Last living member of the ridiculously wealthy Cambridge Crawfords since his sister died under mysterious circumstances several weeks prior.
I’d found my mark.
