Banishing the Dark (Arcadia Bell #4)(30)

The Witches’ Garden.

Seemed Rooke displayed plants prized for their medicinal value to occultists and magick workers. Some of them were run-of-the-mill herbs. Sage, pennyroyal, mandrake root, and belladonna. But there were also unusual things, such as bloodvine and valrivia—prized by Earthbounds but not typically featured in a botanical garden.

Magus Rooke had been busy.

And although I was able to find the occasional reference to both his time spent in the E∴E∴ and his alleged Crowley lineage, it was only speculation; one of the articles pointed out that although these salacious tidbits often popped up in his Wikipedia entry, they were almost immediately removed.

For all appearances, he was just an eccentric old rich guy, one who was inaccessible to the general public. He was said to live in a private house on the estate and only occasionally spoke at fund-raisers or lectured at local universities on the history of magical herbs. But I didn’t have time to contact the Rooke Foundation and formally request a meeting with the man. And after Lon and I discussed the pros and cons, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in years. I decided to use my magical pedigree.

As I’ve said, only a few people in the E∴E∴ knew I was still alive. It was risky to expose myself outside of that circle, especially to someone who’d publicly declared himself an enemy of my parents. But because it was starting to look as if it might be easier to contact the spirit of Howard Hughes than to get an appointment with Karlan Rooke, I figured a spectacle might get his attention.

Lon was still adamant that it wasn’t wise to open up a direct channel to the Æthyr with my Heka signature all over it—my mother might pick up on it—so instead of calling Priya directly, I had Jupe send my guardian out to greet Rooke.

Hermeneus spirits had been used as messengers for centuries. In fact, it was the preferred method of long-distance communication between magicians before there were telegrams or telephones or e-mails or texts. Not every magician had a Hermeneus at his or her beck and call, and the ones who did merely heard their Æthyric carrier pigeon, because they couldn’t see supernatural things such as halos and Heka lines and guardian-spirit projections.

But Priya was no projection; he was solid flesh.

And his appearance in Rooke’s bedroom proved to be the attention grabber I’d hoped. Priya reported back that the man was, indeed, shocked to see my guardian, but when Priya pointed out that he hadn’t set off the man’s house wards and therefore was not hostile, the elderly magician listened to Priya’s message and agreed to meet with me.

We arrived at the entrance to Rooke Gardens just before midnight. Down a gated road to our right, lights shone in the windows of a grand mansion that overlooked the grounds from a sloping hill separating the private part of the property from the public gardens. It probably said something about Rooke’s trust in our intentions that he didn’t welcome us into his home with open arms, but I didn’t care.

An old Victorian carriage house served as the public gateway to the gardens. Its Green Man drinking fountain and gargoyle-tipped gutters were pretty charming. Seemed silly to knock, so I ignored both the OPEN EVERY DAY 8 AM TO DUSK sign and the white Heka glow of the low-key protective ward and pushed open the main door into the lobby.

A large mosaic pentagram sparkled over the granite floor. To one side of it sat a quaint ticket booth. On the other was a gift shop, where whimsical esoteric souvenirs filled the windows: kitchen witches, gnomes, and wooden garden signs that encouraged visitors to relax for a “spell” and have a “magical” day.

We didn’t get a chance to do either.

A buxom beauty with black hair and a golden tan appeared from a dark hallway. She might have been Lon’s age, perhaps a little younger, and she gave off a soft-focus centerfold vibe.

“Hello,” she said coolly, heels clicking on the pentagram as she swayed toward us in black slacks and a tomato-red top that showed enough cleavage to make me stare. “I’m Karlan’s daughter, Evie Rooke. You are Sélène Duval?”

Always weird to hear my real name on a stranger’s lips. And she was just that, a stranger. I couldn’t remember ever meeting her or her boobs when I knew her father.

But I extended my hand and said, “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

She nodded curtly and eyed Lon. If she was reserved with me, she thawed for him, projecting a little extra warmth in her smile. This made the muscles in my neck tighten uncomfortably. “I apologize for the urgency of my request,” I said when she’d finished looking him over. “But I’m hoping your father can help me.”

“I suppose that depends on what you need . . . and why. Forgive me, but how do we even know you’re who you claim to be?”

“It’s all right, Evie,” a deep voice said from across the room. “It’s her.”

A tall, thin man with silver hair and black-rimmed glasses stepped into the lobby. His quilted smoking jacket made him look a little like Hugh Hefner’s less decrepit brother. And as he padded toward me in black leather slippers and silk pajama bottoms, I recognized the square jaw and the dark eyes behind the glasses.

“Hello, Magus Rooke.”

“No one calls me Magus anymore. Or Grandmaster, thank the gods. I’m just plain old Mister.” He squinted at me. “Heavens, you’re all grown up. It’s like looking at a living ghost.”