At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(54)

And Evan, moving from the windows to the bookcases, failed to find his copies of Beowulf. He owned translations from Heaney, Tolkien, and Liuzza. All of them were gone.

“God’s bones,” Evan said. “I must have loaned them out.” Although he had no recollection of doing so. Not that it was uncommon for him to forget. As much as he loved his books, he was often careless with them, relying on those who borrowed a title to be trustworthy about returning it.

As he scanned the nearby shelves, an old medieval curse rang in his head.

Steal not this Book my honest friend

For fear the gallows be your end

For when you die the Lord will say

Where is the book you stole away.

He reached in his pocket for his mobile, found only lint, and went hunting for the phone, eventually locating the cursed thing under Rhinehart’s translation of the poem as if it had fled there of its own accord. As Evan stared down at Rhinehart’s name at the top of the page, the thought of a scandal once again tickled at him. What was it?

Something surfaced, a small flare from the depths of his mind. Hadn’t Rhinehart’s parents been involved in the rare book trade? Had he taken over the business from them?

There was one person who could perhaps help him with both his missing books and the mystery of Mr. Ralph Rhinehart. As well as, perhaps, his patchwork memory of Viking Age history and cosmology. Evan dialed the number of his old friend and rare books dealer, Simon Levair.

“Evan, my dear friend,” Simon cried when he answered. “Whatever do you need from me on this gloomy night?”

Evan smiled. “You have a suspicious mind, Simon Levair.”

“The fact that it’s after eight in the evening suggests that you’re on the hunt for something. So tell me, what can I help you with?”

“Three things. Beowulf, Vikings, and Ralph Rhinehart.”

“The first is a brilliant Old English poem with delightful kennings and alliterations, not to mention truly astounding poetic meter. And, of course, monsters and heroes, swords and shields. Even a cranky old dragon. Delightful.”

“And the second thing?”

“Vikings are not my area of expertise.”

“I’m shocked to hear you admit it,” Evan said. “And the third?”

“Rhinehart?” Simon snorted. “A scumbag.”

So memory serves. “I need a translation of Beowulf. Any version will do. Plus whatever you might have on hand about Vikings.”

“I have two copies of the Heaney translation and one of Tolkien’s at the shop,” Simon told him. “Come by in the morning and take your pick. As for Vikings, I’ll need to dig around a bit to see what I might have in my Old Norse section.”

“Thank you. And Rhinehart?”

“A deceitful fellow who lives under a dark cloud of suspicion. What are you doing tangled up with him?”

With guilty cheer, Evan wrote the word scumbag under Rhinehart’s name. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it. But I’d appreciate if you’d tell me what you know about him.”

“Happy to. But it’s a bit of a long tale. Can we chat tomorrow? At the moment I’m”—Simon’s voice dropped low—“entertaining a lady friend.”

“Oh.” Evan swallowed his disappointment. Far be it from him to hamper his friend’s love life. Simon had been a widower for seven years. The man was overdue for good company. “I’ll come by your store as soon as you open in the morning.”

“I’m always there by eight,” Simon said. “I’ll have the tea brewing.”

Simon disconnected. The requiem had finished its second loop and moved on to a new set of chants; the wind filled the sudden silence, fluting a mournful dirge down the chimney. In the far distance, something banged and clattered. Evan’s neighbor was doing some remodeling. Maybe a bit of sheet metal had gone astray.

He returned to his chair and picked up the pen.

“It will no doubt offend your sensibilities,” he said once more to the faceless killer whom he imagined standing nearby, listening while Evan recorded. “But allow me to put a slightly modern twist on your word choice.”

2 Thus from my cottage I came, homeland’s ward, for first of five

3 to sacrifice the innocent at night. She takes back her sons and daughters

4 who ripped and tore and peeled [her] flesh like ripe fruit

9 Blessing giver, my blood-feud stillbirths your further crimes

10 Listen up! Mighty men I undo and unto earth I send

11 their water-weighted corpses. I am a damned poet.

12 A death-driven river-plague, the mist that binds up evil.

13 A weary warrior wailing with the fateful man-price.

14 A slayer of the bone-halls breaking Fjorgyn.

15 You know why! Over the sun-swimmer home I came

16 for mine. Mine, mine-gone. Bowel-buried busted by big bosses.

17 That war-crime, sword-shaker, heart of my dwelling entombed,

18 making me Bodulfr, Grendel, and Fierce Enemy, all, bearing the sun cross.

19 What of this bone-cage? This skin-sinner is second of five.

20 At first light I laid him low. Unlucky is he and soon a ghost.

21 In guarding, I regard. Into his mouth of hearing I poured my mead.

22 Tell me! By moonlight I laid it out: tell me this. But