Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(31)

After I faked my death with my parents, I was terrified that Luxe or another order would use servitors to track me down, but it never happened. The caliph thought it might be whatever my parents had bred into me during my conception—that my energy was hard to track. Or maybe it was all the magick I did to keep myself hidden. There were dozens of minor wards that would protect someone from being found by another magician’s servitors, and if Riley Cooper was able to control that Pareba, I should expect resistance. But I had to at least try; maybe I’d get lucky.

Creating a servitor to track down Riley Cooper exhausted me, so I slept for a few hours, thinking I’d eventually call Lon and find out if he still wanted to watch me summon the albino demons he’d found. However, I woke up early the next morning with a left-field idea that made me change my plans.

Shortly after my parents and I went into hiding, the Black Lodge slayings were the subject of several talk shows featuring guests who were loosely connected to the killings—mostly former police officers who profiled serial killers and occult “experts.” But two people caused a minor uproar: Mr. and Mrs. Tamlin, former members of the Luxe Order.

On a popular talk show, the Tamlins claimed that the killings were done by a big, bad horned demon. In the human public’s mind, this was the equivalent of saying that they’d been committed by Sasquatch or the Loch Ness monster. Their claim was ignored, but they were so insistent and quirky that their five minutes of fame became a popular internet clip for several months. A few parodies even popped up, along with creatively edited versions featuring comical music.

The Tamlins might have been ridiculed by the public and dismissed by the authorities, but they’d also been booted from the Luxe organization. This fact was only mildly interesting to me back when my only concern was staying hidden; but now that my family’s lives were on the line, I was willing to exhaust every thread of possibility that might get me one step closer to finding the albino demon. And just maybe the Tamlins lost their membership because they had actual information that Luxe wanted to cover up.

I did some quick research and discovered that the Tamlins were now living in San Francisco, only a couple of hours north of Morella. I gave them a call in the morning, posing as a reporter covering the recent appearance of the Duvals on the security tape in Texas. I said that I believed their story from years ago and wanted to speak with them in person. Surprisingly, Mrs. Tamlin agreed immediately and asked me to come before dinner … which was at four. Some days I hadn’t even eaten breakfast by that time. But I consented and made the trip north in a rental car.

I arrived in San Francisco around three and threaded through a couple of beautiful old neighborhoods until I found their address at the bottom of a long hill in Noe Valley. Even though I loved the Bay Area, I detested parallel parking on steep inclines; in my new rental car that had a spiffy park-assist feature, though, I felt a little invincible. And with my deflector charm on a new chain and the large ward that I’d drawn on the hood of the rental car in clear ink, I also felt safe. Well, somewhat.

I staked out a parking space up the hill, then made my way back to the Tamlins’ address on foot. It was a small, blue Victorian row house with bay windows and crackled white trim. The front stoop was in disrepair and the windows were dirty.

After knocking, I stepped back as locks clicked. A tiny elderly woman peered from behind a cracked door, then smiled when she saw me and opened it. With white hair pinned in a bun, she was dressed in a pink sweater and had a painful-looking hump on her upper back. She squinted up at me in the afternoon sun.

“Hello,” I said with a smile. “Are you Mrs. Tamlin?”

“I am. Are you the reporter?”

“Yes, Amy Smith.”

“Oh, that’s right. Come in, won’t you?” Mrs. Tamlin led me through a narrow entry into a formal living room and called out to her husband. “Frank! The girl on the phone is here.”

A tired grunt came from another room, and shortly after, Mr. Tamlin emerged. Not much taller than his wife, Mr. Tamlin was a bald man with thick white eyebrows. He sported a red polka-dot bow tie.

“Frank, this is …” She looked up at me apologetically.

“Amy,” I finished, and held out my hand.

“Oh.” He looked me over, then said with profound disappointment, “A blonde.”

I’d worn a long wig and glasses to complement my new role as reporter. Better safe than sorry.

“She’s not here for your entertainment, Frank,” Mrs. Tamlin said angrily. “Angie, please sit. Would you like tea?”

Angie, Amy. It didn’t really matter. I declined her offer of tea and sat in the worn armchair she offered as they slowly sank into a pink love seat across from me.

“Where did you say you were from?” she asked once they got settled.

“Sacramento.”

“Oh, yes. We’ve never been there. More familiar with the southern part of the state.”

“That’s right; you haven’t lived in San Francisco all your life, have you?”

“No, we’re from San Diego. After we left the Luxe Order, though, there was no reason to stick around there. Our grandchildren live up here and in Portland.”

“Speaking of the Luxe Order, can you tell me exactly why you left?” This seemed as good a place to start as any.

“Oh, we were dismissed,” Mrs. Tamlin said.