Book of Night(78)

Charlie scanned through the excerpts from newspapers, histories, and other documents. Whatever she’d thought of how it had been put together, the actual information in the book was compelling.

A warrior in Thebes fell in a field of blood, but his shadow fought on until his killer died.

A member of a shadowy secret society operating around the time of the Order of the Golden Dawn claimed she was able to send her consciousness out of her body at night and discover her enemies in their most private moments. That same account suggested that while her shadow was on a mission, she was vulnerable to other shadows taking control of her body.

A mystic attempted to feed his shadow all of his blood and live on through it.

A woman had woken on a hillside to three elderly folks trying to cut off her shadow at her feet. She shouted and they ran. She never found out exactly what they’d been doing, but she had a sense that if they had succeeded, something terrible would have happened.

A man had nearly choked to death when a dark figure had turned to smoke and gone down his throat. A servant carrying a candle and entering the room by chance caused it to flee before its dread mission was accomplished.

By the time Charlie looked up from the book, the building was quiet. Tucking the book into her bag, she slipped out the door and down the stairs.

She’d have to talk to Liam Clovin, but there was someone she wanted to talk to first. If Red had really murdered Knight Singh, then what was Raven doing with his papers? And if Salt was the very wealthy puppeteer looking for them, why would he be scrambling to get the notes of someone from carapace when he was supposed to be obsessed with the return of the Liber Noctem?

In the car, Charlie turned to the empty seat beside her where her own shadow fell.

“Okay, kid,” she told it. “The universe belongs to the curious.”





23

BEAR CLAWS




Charlie pulled into the parking lot in front of Eclipse Piercing & Shadow Modifications in Amherst around ten that night. It was in a strip mall, positioned between a Korean chicken place and a laundromat. Charlie parked in the back, against a thin copse of trees. The chilly night air carried the scent of beer and fried things from a bar one lot over.

Grabbing a Dunkin’ Donuts bag from the back seat, she went to the door near the dumpster, a red bulb burning above it. She knocked, knuckles hard on the wood. A sliver of light peeked out the edge of blackout curtains hanging inside the window.

Moments later, a Black woman opened the door. She wore a tank top and ripped jean shorts. Her curls were dyed the color of flames, with yellow at the root, red for most of the way, and little licks of blue at the tips. Tattoos covered her arms, from a dark-skinned moon goddess new enough to be shiny with moisturizer to older and less well-rendered spiderwebs, roses, and a skull with a serpent snaking through its eyes.

Folding her arms across her chest, Raven regarded Charlie suspiciously. “I don’t take walk-in clients, especially at this hour.”

“You had something stolen from you recently,” Charlie said. “I want to talk to you about Knight Singh, and his book of observations. Tell me what I want to know, and you can have it back when I’m done with them—less than a week, I promise.”

Raven narrowed her eyes, then stepped back so that Charlie could come inside. As Raven closed the door, Charlie saw the words “El arte es largo y la vida breve” ran down the inside of her left arm in large gothic script.

Scabs dotted her legs, as from fleabites. Marks made by feeding her shadow.

Charlie held up the Dunkin’ Donuts bag. “I brought coffee, if it’s any consolation.”

“Okay, thief, let’s hear what you want.” Raven poked around in the bag, then looked up. “Fuck yeah. You got bear claws.”

The first part of any con was winning someone’s trust, and every conversation was a little like a con. Coffee and pastries couldn’t hurt.

“How did you wind up with his papers?” Charlie asked. “From what I heard, his death was unexpected.”

“You could say that.” Raven raised her eyebrows and took a sip of coffee. “They found him in his home, on the rug near his desk. The walls were painted with gore. The Cabal didn’t want anyone to know details, but I found out.” Raven went on, not leaving space for comforting words or horrified astonishment. “Another gloamist said they heard a man’s voice screaming, someone other than Knight. To do what was done to him required a kind of strength that could only come from a shadow—a very powerful one, glutted on energy and blood.”

“That’s awful,” Charlie said.

Raven nodded. “Knight was the first gloamist I ever met, the one that taught me how to use my magic properly. Got pissed when I decided I wanted to focus on alteration. Said I was chasing money. Maybe he was right.

“The thing was, though, he gave me that book, a week before he was murdered. Told me to keep it safe. He had information that could bring down someone important. Holding it over that person’s head kept him safe, and not just him. I guess he was wrong about that.”

“Lionel Salt?” Charlie asked.

Raven gave her an odd look. “Maybe. That old man is a freak. Stole the shadow he’s wearing. Lots of people are supposed to have disappeared into his house.”

“If that’s common knowledge, how come the Cabal never did anything? How come Knight Singh never used what he had?” Charlie asked.