I also keep many historical secrets in there—secrets that would be a bugle call for Indiana Jones and his ilk, like the supposedly lost Sotomayor manuscript. I nearly geeked out just thinking about it being there. Pedro de Sotomayor was the scribe for Don Garcia López de Cárdenas, a lieutenant of Coronado’s who took eighty days to make a two-week trip to the Grand Canyon. Garcia is famous today for being the first European to see the Grand Canyon, but, according to Sotomayor, they found a gigantic hoard of Aztec gold that the Tusayans (now known as the Hopi tribe) were keeping in trust for their southern friends under assault by Cortés. Garcia and his dirty dozen took the hoard and hid it, and Sotomayor wrote it all down because they planned to come back and get it later, cutting Coronado out of the deal. None of them ever made it back to the New World, however, and Sotomayor’s manuscript “didn’t survive,” so history only has the word of Castañeda—a guy who didn’t go with Garcia and knew nothing about what really happened—that they found nothing but a geological wonder after nearly three months. The gold is still there, on the Hopi reservation, and nobody’s looking for it. I like knowing secrets like that, and I admit that when I’m all alone in the shop sometimes, I rub my hands together greedily and laugh like a one-eyed, black-mustached pirate to think that I have a bona fide treasure map locked up in my cabinet.
The cabinet looked fragile, but it was a customized job: Behind the wood veneer there was steel plate, and the glass was bulletproof; it was vacuum-sealed to prevent the further decay of the paper and bindings, and the locks opened by magic only. Around the entire thing I had set my strongest protective wards, and of course there were more wards around my entire shop.
The priest and rabbi strolled over there, hands clasped behind their backs, to peruse what I had on display. They would most likely be disappointed. Writers of spell books do not emblazon the spines with easy-to-read titles. Granuaile caught my eye as I moved to follow them, and I put a finger to my lips and then mouthed at her, “Later.”
Perry had already lost interest and was back to restocking the shelves.
“What sorts of books do you have here, Mr. O’Sullivan?” Father Gregory asked when I came to a stop beside him, regarding the cabinet.
“Oh, all sorts,” I said.
“Can you give me an example of what I might be looking at?” the priest asked, gesturing toward a volume bound in the gray skin of cats. It was an Egyptian text written by Bast cultists, which I’d saved from Alexandria. If I waved that in front of a museum curator, he’d promptly lose control of his salivary glands.
“It’s really not a section open for browsing,” I replied.
“My dear boy,” the priest chortled in an avuncular manner, “how do you expect to sell any of it if you won’t let customers peruse your catalog?”
I shrugged. “Most of it’s not for sale.” I sold one purely historical work per year at auction, and that gave Third Eye a healthy balance sheet even if I lost money on the bulk of the store’s business. “I look at myself as more of a caretaker.”
“I see. And how did you come to take care of such a collection?”
“Inherited it from my family,” I said. “If there’s a certain title you’re looking for, I can see if I have it, or maybe I can get it for you.”
The priest looked at the rabbi and the rabbi shook his head briefly. I could see they were getting ready to make excuses and leave, but I wanted to know a little more about them. I slipped in between them and the cabinet, uncomfortably close. They took a step back and I crossed my arms in front of my chest.
“Why did you come here today, gentlemen?” I said, a challenge in my tone. I let the vapid college kid slough away just a wee bit, and they noticed.
Father Gregory looked flustered and began to stammer. The rabbi was not so easily rattled. He glared at me and said coolly in English with a telltale Russian accent, “You can hardly expect us to be candid with you when you have not been candid with us.”
“You haven’t earned it. You’re strangers and you refuse to answer my questions.”
“You answer ours with lies,” the rabbi hissed. Such an affable fellow.
“Perhaps I’d tell you what you want to hear if I knew you didn’t mean me any harm.”
Father Gregory tried to be avuncular again. “My dear boy, we are both men of the cloth—”
“Who have wandered into a New Age bookstore asking strange personal questions,” I interrupted. “And look, you could’ve gotten those costumes anywhere right after Halloween.”
Both of them registered shock at the suggestion they were not truly clergymen—so that was one question answered. I should be able to find them on the Internet somewhere if they were legit.
Father Gregory clasped his hands together in a prayerful attitude. “I do apologize, Mr. O’Sullivan. It appears we have started off on the wrong foot. My colleague and I represent certain interests who believe you may be able to advance their agenda.”
I crinkled my brow in confusion. “Advance their agenda? Well, I have a website. I could put up a banner or something, if they’re looking for publicity.”
“No, no, you misunderstand—”
“Purposely misunderstand, you mean,” the rabbi spat. “Come on, Gregory, this is a waste of time.” He pulled at the priest’s arm and stalked off toward the exit. Father Gregory shot me an apologetic look and followed the rabbi, looking defeated. I let them go, because I had research to do. They clearly knew more about me than I knew about them, and that’s an extremely uncomfortable feeling for an old Druid.
“What was that all about?” Granuaile asked as I rejoined her behind the apothecary counter.
“Don’t know.” I shook my head. “But I’m going to find out soon.”
I brooded and busied myself with preparing tea blends until it was time for interviews. The first two candidates were semi-sentient boys who stared at me with their mouths open whenever I was talking. Their eyes were dead and never lit up until I asked them if they liked video games. They’d probably have difficulty alphabetizing.
Rebecca Dane, the third candidate, was refreshing. She had a strong chin and large eyes that she had seen fit to accentuate with Betty Boop eyelashes. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders, was pulled back and clipped with silver butterflies, and her bangs stopped just above her eyebrows. Her wardrobe was a black pantsuit with a shimmery blue scarf that she let fall straight down her torso, and an impressive tinkling of silver jewelry about her neck proclaimed her to be a member of practically every known world religion. Alongside the cross I saw so often in America, there was the Star of David, Islam’s crescent moon, the Zuni bear fetish, and an ankh. When I asked her about them, she fingered the ankh sheepishly and grinned.
“Oh, I tend to vacillate between belief systems,” she said with a touch of Wisconsin in her voice. “Right now I’m kind of checking out the whole buffet, you know, and maybe in a little while I’ll decide on what I want to put on my plate and chow down on.”
I smiled reassuringly at her. “Belly up to the religion smorgasbord, eh? That’s good, may harmony find you. But how do you feel about people who are looking for a specific book, maybe about a religion you disagree with?”
“Oh, I have kind of a laissez-faire attitude—you know, live and let live. Doesn’t bother me if someone wants to worship the Goddess or Allah or the Flying Spaghetti Monster; they’re all seeking the divine within and without.”
I would have hired her based solely on her healthy attitude and self-awareness, but she proved to be something of an amateur herbalist—enough to be dangerous, to be sure, but also enough to train properly. I had visions of letting her and Perry run the store for days at a time while Granuaile and I tried to restore the land around Tony Cabin.
“You’re hired,” I told her, and her wide mouth split into a huge smile. “You’ll start out three dollars above minimum wage, but learn the apothecary side of the business in a month and I’ll double it.”
She was quite excited, and that m
ade filling out the government paperwork less of a chore. She didn’t know what to think of Perry at first, but he put her at ease once he smiled and proved not to be the stone-cold Goth he looked like.
I enticed Granuaile to hang out with me for a while after work by telling her she could ask me anything she wanted about history and I’d answer to the best of my ability. I gave her full disclosure that I’d make her drive me to the airport to pick up Laksha if and when she called, and we also had the onerous chore of sipping Irish whiskey with the widow ahead of us.
“What’s onerous about that?” Granuaile asked.
“Nothing at all. I was being facetious. You’ll love the widow.”
Granuaile had seen the widow before and vice versa, but they’d never been formally introduced. Granuaile had been sharing her skull with Laksha at the time, and the widow had been preoccupied watching werewolves landscape her front yard. The prospect of introducing them actually made me nervous—what if they didn’t like each other? But I should have known I had nothing to worry about. Mrs. MacDonagh is the soul of hospitality to anyone who isn’t British and doubly welcoming to redheaded freckled gals with Irish names like Granuaile. I made sure to introduce her as my employee so the widow wouldn’t assume, as older citizens frequently do, that the young man and woman must be having loud, acrobatic sex every chance they got.
“Does Granuaile know all yer secrets, then, Atticus?” The widow winked as we settled down with clinking glasses of the Irish. It was a clever way of asking if she could talk freely.
“Yes, Granuaile knows how old I really am. She’s going to become a Druid herself, so you can talk about whatever you like.”
“She’s becomin’ a Druid?” the widow cast a surprised look at Granuaile. “Weren’t ye raised a proper Catholic girl?”
“I’m not a proper anything, I suppose,” Granuaile replied. “Majoring in philosophy kind of turns positive assertions into maybes.” That was the sort of observation I had already come to admire in my apprentice. Her philosophy degree compensated somewhat for starting her training so late. Her mind had not lost any of its flexibility, and she was very quick to pick up on the difficulties she’d face in the modern world as a magic user and a pagan to boot.
We chatted pleasantly until the sun went down, when I suggested I should be getting home to Oberon. I rode my bike and Granuaile trailed behind in her blue Chevy Aveo. I let Granuaile keep Oberon happy on the front porch with a belly rub while I put in a call to Leif.
He didn’t spend time on niceties like saying hello. He answered the phone with, “Have you changed your mind about Thor?”
“Um … no,” I said, and he promptly hung up on me. My disappointment must have shown on my face, because Granuaile asked me what was wrong.
“It seems my lawyer’s feeling unusually bloodsucky,” I replied. “Our cordial relationship may be over.”
“No way to patch it up, huh?”
“Well, no, it’s not like I can send him a box of chocolates. I have scruples about sending him people for dinner. And I can’t possibly do what he wants me to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Kill a thunder god.” Before Granuaile could reply, my phone started ringing in my hand. It was an unknown number.
“I’m back in town, Atticus,” Laksha Kulasekaran said on the other end of the line. “Pick me up on the north side of Terminal Four.”
She and I were going to hunt some Bacchants. I slung Fragarach across my back before Granuaile and I jumped back into her car, because while it would do me no good against them unsheathed, I could simply brain them with the scabbard if necessary—and I can’t count how many times I’ve wished I had it with me when I left it at home.
Chapter 11
The tendency of modern American women to exclaim “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii!” in soprano octaves and hug each other upon sight can be disconcerting to those unfamiliar with it. Laksha was definitely unfamiliar with it, judging by the widening of her eyes and the stiffness of her limbs when Granuaile assaulted her with effusive greetings.
At least, I assumed it was Laksha: Granuaile was hugging a young olive-skinned woman in a black salwar kameez with a gold brocade border at the neckline and sleeves. I recognized the magnificent necklace of rubies set in gold that circled her throat; it was a magical focus she claimed was demon-crafted. There was a black chiffon duppatta, also with brocade on the borders, that Laksha had wrapped around herself intricately and in which Granuaile managed to tangle her arms. I have seen more-awkward hugs in my life, but few so amusing and so clearly perplexing to the person being hugged.
Granuaile finally realized that Laksha probably didn’t know what the hell she was doing, and she switched from ecstasy to embarrassment at about Mach Five.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she apologized, trying and failing to return Laksha’s duppatta to its former graceful sweep. “I keep forgetting you’re not used to American customs yet. Women here always get excited when they haven’t seen each other for a while.”
“But I saw you just last week,” Laksha said.
“Well, yes, but you’ve been so far away,” Granuaile explained.
“So distance must be taken into account when deciding whether to greet someone like this?”
“Um, well, I never thought about it quite that way before, but I guess that must be true, yes,” Granuaile said uncertainly.
I popped the trunk of Granuaile’s car and grinned at Laksha as I picked up her bags. “Welcome back, Laksha. You look fabulous.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan.” She smiled primly at me. Her lips were the color of wine in a heart-shaped face, which was framed with a cascade of glossy black hair. She had a dimple on the left side of her mouth, a diamond stud glinting on the right side of her nose, and her eyebrows were expertly tweezed or waxed or whatever the proper beauty exercise is called. Her dark eyes shone with amusement, and one didn’t get the sense at all that she was used to making deals with rakshasas and transferring her soul from body to body. “I am rather fond of this particular form.” She held up her left hand, adorned with golden bangles on the wrist, and admired it with proprietary pride. “I am thinking I would like to keep it for a while, especially since the previous owner of it yielded it to me so willingly. I have not possessed a body free of karmic debt since the one I was born in, and I confess it holds much attraction for me.”
“There are no problems with it, no scars from the auto accident the young lady was in?”
Laksha gave a small shake of her head. “Nothing on the surface. She suffered some broken bones, but they are all healed. She lost her spleen. The head trauma that put her in a coma is something I can work around for now and perhaps mend with time. Of course, the muscles are atrophied and I still tire easily, but they will strengthen with a little work.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “Let’s continue talking in the car. We’d better go before the TSA guys get impatient with us.”
As Granuaile got us on the eastbound Loop 202, Laksha announced she was hungry for Mexican food.
“I know just the place,” I said, and gave Granuaile directions to Los Olivos, a Scottsdale landmark since the 1950s. It was on our way to Satyrn, and it would give us a chance to talk.
Laksha was fondly anticipating a divorce from Mr. Chamkanni. “Taking off like this without his precious masculine permission will drive him to irrational behavior,” she said, smiling. “He will think he’s lost all control—not that he ever had any—and his friends will egg him on to put me in my place. He will make demands of me when I return. That’s when I will serve him with divorce papers.”
“You already have them after a week?”
“Granuaile suggested a background check on him before I took Selai’s body. He’s been keeping a mistress, as one might expect of a man with a wife in a coma. We have photographic proof and a divorce lawyer already on retainer. I will be keeping the house, I think,” she finished smugly.
Once at Los Olivos—in a room of blue glass
and gray stone, with an indoor fountain splashing in the background—we chatted amiably over chips and salsa about the myriad charms of North Carolina. Over plates of green chile burros, enchilada style, the conversation turned as serious as the food.
“All right, Mr. O’Sullivan. Tell me what you wish of me,” Laksha said.
“I want the Bacchants out of town.”
The witch cackled at me, making a belated attempt to cover her mouth politely. “I see. We begin with the humanitarian option. You imagine I have such powers of persuasion?”
“I hoped you would at least consider it seriously instead of laughing at it.”
“Mr. Chamkanni said much the same thing in bed the first night home from the hospital!”
Granuaile nearly spat out what she was chewing and slapped the table repeatedly as she struggled to control her mirth. I steepled my fingers over my plate, elbows on the table, and waited patiently for the women to wind down.
Laksha finally said with an expression reserved for small children or idiots, “Mr. O’Sullivan, you know I am not the sort of witch who changes minds. I’m the sort that ends lives. That is why I am here, yes?”
“It is.”
Granuaile abruptly ceased to find our conversation amusing. “Wait.” She looked at Laksha and then at me. “Are you suggesting that Laksha should kill the Bacchants somehow?”
“You know precisely how she operates,” I said.
“Atticus, how can you?” asked Granuaile, scandalized. “That would be murder.”
“Not to mention very bad karma,” Laksha added airily. This was a fight I’d seen coming, and I wanted not only to win it but also to teach Granuaile that she could and should question me, especially on questions of morality. Just as the Tuatha Dé Danann look at the world from a Bronze Age perspective, I look at it from the Iron Age, and though it’s tempered by a whole lot of modern scruples and centuries of experience, my original Celtic cultural values don’t always square with American laws and mores.