A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(22)



“My first grimoire was that way,” Alexandre said. “It was how I first learned I was a magician.”

“This un’ll be more . . . hidden, like. It won’t want to find just any old magician. It’ll want someone as can ac’chully use it.” Alf sat back in his chair with his wineglass in his hand, thinking, his brows creased. “That don’t mean it’s somethin’ you wanta use, though.”

Alexandre looked at him quizzically. “How do you mean?”

“Issa trap, guv.” Alf winked. “What do you figger would be the best way for a canny old magician to cut down on competition?”

“Oh. . . .” For some reason, this had never occurred to him; perhaps because, aside from Alf’s master, the only other magicians he knew of were those ever-so-lofty Elemental Masters and Mages. But now that Alf had brought it up, it made sense. Spread grimoires around that looked as if they held secrets, let the unwary get hold of them, and when they invoked the wrong creature . . . no more competition.

“An’ accordin’ to th’ old man, there was some as would make deals . . . on’y, the payment come when some poor fool ’ud pick up one of them grimoires they left about an’ used it. So they’d get rid of the competition an’ make payment on their deal at the same time.” Alf finished his wine and looked meaningfully at the bottle. Alexandre obliged him with the last of it.

“So how do you tell if a book is one of those?” he asked.

“By bein’ careful. Ye check over ev’ry word. Ye look inside the cover fer hidden spells meant t’make ye careless. Ye check on ev’ry ward an’ safeguard. No matter how temptin’ this all looks, if somethin’ don’t add up, ferget it.” Alf sipped the wine. “That’s what th’ old man said, anyway.”

It all made sense. Perfect sense. “I get the feeling, Alf, you were a lot more to the old man than just his valet. . . .”

Alf laughed. “Oi ain’t no magician, if thet’s what ye mean. Oi jest paid attention. That stuff ain’t fer me.” He waved his hand, as if to shoo “that stuff” away from him, like an annoying fly. “But it wouldn’t do me no good if the master was t’get et up, so Oi learnt what Oi needed to so’s t’make sure he didn’. An’ speakin’ of et up, how’d the meetin’ with Lawyer Skellington go?”

Alexandre snorted. “That’s a good name for him,” he replied, and his mood darkened. “Damned if I like being made to go through my paces like a schoolboy every quarter. But I told him I was working on transcribing obscure religious texts now, and that seemed to please the old sinner.”

Alf barked a laugh. “Clever! Not a lie, neither.”

“The best lies are always at least half truth. Care to join me by the fire for a brandy and a cigar?” His mood cleared again instantly at the thought of the way he’d bamboozled the old nosy parker.

“Don’t mind if Oi do, guv. Jest let me clear all this away fer the char.” Alf collected the plates, and Alexandre made his way into his little sitting room, his mind wandering back to The Book. He poured out two generous brandies, refreshed the fire, and took his favorite chair. In a few moments Alf joined him.

They sat, sipping the liquor, in silence for a while. We’re an odd pair, Alexandre thought. As far as clothing went, Alf didn’t look like the rough East Ender that he was; he dressed very properly, as any valet would, in a neat black suit, impeccably white shirt, tie, and immaculate waistcoat, although with his master’s tacit permission, he had unbuttoned his waistcoat, loosened his tie and draped his jacket over the back of the chair. Alexandre could see why the solicitor had muttered what he had about Alf terrifying him, though. It was clear once the jacket was off that Alf was a bruiser and could probably win just about any fight with anyone other than a bare-knuckle professional pugilist. From the scars on his face and hands, he’d probably seen his share of fights, too. His short hair was about the same color as faded leather, and it was liberally sprinkled with gray hairs. He had deep-set, shrewd gray eyes that missed nothing.

But he held the brandy glass like a gentleman born; he ate and drank like one too. In all the time Alexandre had employed him, he’d never said much about his past, and Alexandre had never pressed him.

“Why’d you pick me, Alf?” he asked, finally.

“B’cause ye ain’t stupid, guv,” Alf replied promptly. “Ye might not be’s serious ’bout magic as me old master, but ye ain’t stupid. An’ Oi reckoned ’ventually the not bein’ serious ’ud wear off.”

“I think it just did,” Alexandre said slowly.

Alf nodded. “Thought so. Ye had that look when ye started on that book. Fact is, yer smarter’n my old master, Oi reckon. Don’t drink too much, don’t fiddle around with drugs, careful usin’ magic when ye gamble, careful ’bout how ye live so ye don’t get attention fer yerself. An’ if somethin’ needs t’be done quiet, well, thet’s what ye got me fer.”

Alexandre smiled to himself. He was careful. In fact, that, more than the low rent, was the reason he was living here on the north side of Battersea. Things that would be noticed and noted in a genteel, middle-class neighborhood would be ignored here. He could probably have women parading in and out of here every day at every hour of the day and no one would notice.

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