Banishing the Dark (Arcadia Bell #4)(19)

Lon saw me eyeing the restroom. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll just have a look around and see if I can find a couple of things.”

“Food.”

“Food, too. Then we can head to the motel. If we’re stuck here, let’s make the most of it and get a little research done.”

After emptying my bladder and using a criminal amount of paper hand towels to shut off the dirty faucet, I discovered that whatever Lon had in mind involved a tarp—the kind you use to cover a tent when it’s raining—and some spray paint. I started to ask him what it was for, but he shut me up with a packet of smoked almonds. I downed them in the two minutes it took us to drive to the motel.

“Wait in the car,” was all he said, handing me some orange juice. Leave it to him to find the only halfway healthy things in the gas station. Before I could see what else was in the bag of goodies he’d bought, he strode out from beneath the orange neon of the Sierra Woodland lobby and jumped back into the driver’s seat.

“What’s going on? Did anyone know Wildeye?”

“No luck.” He handed me a chunky blue motel key fob with a room key attached.

“Cottage thirteen?” I read from the diamond-shaped plastic.

“They’re all individual cabins. Ours is down this hill.”

A funny sort of panic washed over me as we drove past tiny log cabins to a parking space in front of the one marked thirteen. Thirteen? Really? Not that I was superstitious about numbers, because most of numerology was total bullshit. What concerned me more was the single cabin. And the sharing. I guess I just figured we’d have adjoining rooms or something. But hey, it wasn’t as if we were here to sleep, so what I was so worried about?

I grabbed my overnight bag out of the back of the SUV and opened the cabin door. Lon carted the stuff he’d bought at the gas station inside as I flipped on the light. Sort of musty. All the furniture was the bad end of retro, and the bear-print curtains burned my eyes. At least it seemed fairly clean, and the bathroom had soap and towels. And there were two twin beds—a small relief. “God, I hope this isn’t bedbug country,” I said, setting my bag down on a luggage rack.

“Probably more likely to find those at one of the four-star hotels in Morella. The problem has more to do with the lack of tech.”

“No TV,” I said, realizing. “Wait, no phone, either?”

“According to the German lady at the desk, it’s so you can leave the real world behind and relax,” he said, tossing a motel pamphlet onto one of the beds. “Let’s hope we get a mobile broadband signal.”

“What are we going to do if we don’t?” I said, digging out my phone. “Are there even electrical outlets? I need to charge this thing.”

“I have a signal,” he said. “Barely.

“I don’t.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged out of his thin leather jacket, revealing tightly muscled golden arms. Never in my life had I been around a man whose body wound me up the way Lon’s did. Not even salacious parts of him, either. Just everyday parts. His arms and hands. His feet, even—how absurd was that? And I couldn’t even bring myself to think about his bare chest without having a hot flash. I’d seen that chest, in my backyard, when we’d built my house ward. I had the strangest feeling I’d seen it other times, but the exact when, why, and how were a little fuzzy.

Why was I even thinking about this? Empath, hello! He could hear what I was feeling, so I might as well be whistling and catcalling as if he were some stripper for my own personal amusement. They were just arms, for the love of Pete. Every man had them.

“I brought some research material.”

“Oh?” I said, trying to sound terribly interested. Focus, Bell. Focus.

He opened his bag and rummaged around for two cloth-wrapped books. Both of them were moldering Goetic tomes, illustrated encyclopedias of demons, written by medieval magicians who painstakingly cataloged each demon’s attributes, seal, class, innate powers, bargaining favorability, and so forth.

“That’s one of the books you stole from the Vatican when you were in the seminary,” I said, walking over to the small writing desk where he had laid them both out. “You found the name of the albino demon in that. It’s . . .”

“A Goetia of female demons,” he said in a low voice, eyes flicking to mine.

“But—” Oh. Yes, I understood now. He was looking for me. Or the essence of whatever was inside me. The building block my parents had used in their conception spell. “Have you looked through it? Is there an entry for something called Mother of Ahriman?”

“I’ve run across plenty of demon classes with serpentine attributes but haven’t read the entire book. I was too busy worrying you wouldn’t wake up from your coma.”

“Oh.” I busily scratched my arm, feeling overwhelmingly grateful. “Thanks. You know, for everything. For looking out for me. No one’s ever done that before.”

A strange look passed over his face, fading as quickly as it began. He gave me a curt nod before turning away. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said, pulling out the tent tarp and spray paint. “I need you to help me re-create the sigils I painted on the ceiling in the bedroom.”

I cocked my head. “Not getting it. What do the Goetias have to do with warding magick?”