Song of the Ancients (Ancient Magic Book 1) (21 page)

Nicholas pulled out an axe and leather gloves and stomped away into the woods. I let him go work off his mood. He had a weapon, and I'd already witnessed his lack of control when angered. The rest of us trailed behind, looking for a tree for Maya's front room.

Within a quarter hour, we found a perfect specimen, a little over ten feet, damp, and fresh-smelling with a straight trunk and dense foliage.

Nuin whistled and Nicholas returned with the axe. He chopped a notch into the base of the tree's trunk. Nuin picked up a saw to help, but Nicholas waved him off and continued to chop with rhythmic strokes, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead and dampening his hair.

Lilith watched him intently, edging ever closer, the tip of her tongue captured between her teeth. When Nicholas gave the trunk a final blow and the tree toppled, the branches brushed Lilith's booted toes as she side-stepped to stand beside him. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve and handed her the axe, no longer looking the slightest bit angry.

Nuin and Nicholas picked up the tree by tip and trunk and carried it back to the pickup. While we placed it in the bed and tied it, Maya poured cups of hot cocoa from a thermos. We dropped the tailgates of both trucks and sat across from each other, sipping the scalding sweet brew.

I watched Nicholas as we relaxed, trying to be inconspicuous and not stare. He sat next to Lilith, his head bent down to hers, laughing. His pale face was flushed from cold and physical exertion.

Rumor nudged me and I reluctantly turned away from the scene. "So, do you have your Christmas shopping done?" I asked her with a too-bright smile.

"Sam, are you okay?"

"Of course." I kept the cheery smile glued on my face. "I haven't even started mine. Want to try to get some done soon?"

"There are a couple of shops here in Flagstaff I'd like to see," she said. "Why don't we go from here?"

I hesitated. "But I rode up with Nicholas."

She jumped down from the pickup. "Let's go tell him you can go back with me. Oh, and I heard Lilith ask him for a ride home earlier. You two can just switch. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

I glared at Rumor.
Traitor! Don't you remember anything of our conversation last night?
This was not the day's end I had envisioned. "I'm quite sure she won't mind," I fumed.

Lilith's sly smile confirmed it

Chapter 31: Three Wise Men

I was miserable on the drive to Flagstaff. Rumor was contrite."I didn't think about Lilith," she lamented. "But don't worry about Nicholas. He's crazy about you. Lilith doesn't stand a chance."

I appreciated her support, but didn't share her optimism.

"What are you going to give him for Yule?"

She slanted me a quick glance.

Another dilemma. What did one get a man who had traveled and lived on two continents with magical family members? I didn't know much of his tastes and most of what I did know had come as a surprise.

Complicating matters further, I wasn't sure he'd get anything for me. We'd all drawn names out of the cauldron, and I had drawn Maya's name, not his. Still, he was my teacher, so I should get him something. I decided to start with the easy gifts and worry about Nicholas later.

At the Calico Cat I bought plaid holiday collars–green tartan for Magic and red plaid for Shadow–each with its own little bell. Perhaps if they jingled we'd be able to keep track of them.

Maya's gift presented itself to me as we walked down a side street looking for a vegan restaurant Rumor had read about and wanted to try. At the junk shop next door, a bright flash caught my eye. I returned for a closer look.

Nestled in the folds of old fabric decorating the window sat a small crystal sphere: a snow globe on a wooden base carved with leaves and acorns.

I stepped inside the shop and picked up the glass orb. Shaking it gently, I watched the glittering crystal snowflakes subside to reveal a goddess-woman in a forest meadow. She seemed to be dancing, and flowers of every color dotted the meadow floor beneath her bare feet.
Kitschy eclectic,
I thought.

I called Rumor over to look and shook the globe again.

"Oh cool, bees," she said, staring into the globe.

What
? I looked again. This time the crystal snowflakes had been replaced with a swarm of tiny golden honeybees, circling the goddess' head as she bent to pick the flowers growing at her feet.

Puzzled, I shook the globe a third time. Swirling fall leaves, sparkling orange and red, filled the globe. The goddess figure was no longer a young woman, but middle-aged in a dark green cape, smiling as she held her hands over her head.

Rumor looked at me over the globe. "Maya," we said in unison.

The man tending the shop had been watching us in amusement, leaning against the doorframe as we giggled in front of him.

"I am Theodore Dyer," he said, with a little bow of his head. "It's an unusual gift, don't you think?" He gave me an exaggerated wink. "It will be perfect for your Yule gift. I know these things."

I didn't even ask him how much the globe cost, just handed it to him to ring up.

"Seven dollars please," he told me as he carefully wrapped my find in layers of tissue and put it in a silver gift box.

"Now if I could have the same luck finding something for Nicholas," I told Rumor as she locked our packages in the trunk of the car. We walked next door to the restaurant she had spotted earlier.

"What is Nicholas interested in?" Rumor asked over our lunches of spicy soup and curry potatoes with green pepper.

"Hmm, he's a tough one. Cooking? Wreath making? Fire starting?"

She gave me a questioning look.

"Don't ask." I shook my head. "The only places we've been are his house, my house and the Christmas tree lot." I envisioned Nicholas's house, mentally moving from room to room and cataloguing the contents for clues.

"Wait! I have an idea." I opened my phone and typed in a search for "bookstores." New or used? I had a thought about Nicholas's library. Used, I thought, running my finger down the list. There were several bookstores since Flagstaff was a college town, but only one entry for rare books. I jotted down the telephone number and pulled up directions on GPS. "Eat up, we have more shopping to do."

* * * * *

We climbed the wooden steps to Ravenscroft Rare Books. The dark red lettering on the ornate sign proclaimed "Antiquarian and Intriguing Books." A small bell tinkled softly when we opened the door and entered the stuffy interior.

An elderly gentleman with thick white hair and a monocle sat at an antique desk near the front of the store. Under the light of his green banker's lamp, he examined a small leather book with gold-leaf edging. He raised a thin-veined hand in greeting at the sound of the bell but did not look up.

Ravenscroft's smelled like a church—a combination of aged paper and incense. It was crammed to the rafters with books bound in vellum, speckled calf and deep red Moroccan leather, all lovingly polished and waxed, adding to the rich scent of the room.

We wandered the narrow aisles and read the subject sections, pointing out topics to each other in whispered voices: Ancient Culture, The Classics, Religion and Occult. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but I knew I was in the right place. As in Nicholas's study, I prowled the aisles, trailing my fingertips along the long rows of books. This time, I closed my eyes, pulling out a book here and there at random. I would open it to any page, read a few lines, and try to conjure an image of the book's former owner. I imagined many a wealthy bibliophile had passed from this world and willed his vast library of gems to Ravenscroft for eternal safekeeping, knowing his beloved friends would be in caring hands.

I heard a footstep behind us, and a small sound of a throat being cleared.

"I'm Noah Ravenscroft. May I help you find a selection?"

Below the bush of white hair, Mr. Ravenscroft's pale blue eyes were bright and intelligent.

"I really have no idea what I'm looking for," I told him, "except something dealing with magic or the occult."

He led me around a stack of books to an unmarked row of volumes. Peering at the titles through his monocle, he walked slowly down the row, muttering to himself. "I know it's here, but I haven't shown this volume in years…ah, yes."

He pulled three pairs of white cotton gloves out of his pocket, handing one pair to me and one to Rumor. Gingerly, he picked up a copy of a thin book bound in mottled green leather that looked as if it had once been a lizard. "I rather think your gentleman would enjoy this volume," he said softly, handing it to me.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar enough with his library to know what he already has," I began hesitantly.

The birdlike little man rested a gloved hand on my arm. "I can assure you he does not have this particular volume. It's one of a kind."

The title, inked by hand on the spine in spiky black script, read,
The Sinister Tradition
. I opened it carefully. Inside the front cover was an inscription:
Potestatem obscuri nescitis.

He squinted, considering the translation. "You know not the power of the dark."

I slowly raised my eyes to meet his. "And you think this is an appropriate gift because?"

"This volume is for the gentleman staying at the Orenda house, is it not?"

I exchanged a surprised look with Rumor before asking, "How do you know who it's for?"

An enigmatic smile flitted across Ravenscroft's face and quickly disappeared, but the bright eyes behind the spectacles never wavered from mine. "These communities are small, my dear. Many of us have lived around here for decades. People talk. I listen and hear things." He flicked his hand through the air as if shooing away a fly. "Take it. No charge. If your friend has no use for the volume, bring it back."

He stepped toward the front counter, but stopped. Giving us a stern librarian's look, he held up his gloved hands and waggled his fingers. "Keep the gloves and use them
every
time you touch this volume. Same goes for Mr. Orenda."

As Ravenscroft wrapped my gift in brown butcher paper, I pulled out the business card I'd found stuck between pages of the grimoire.

"Are you familiar with this store?"

He took the card and read it, shaking his head. "This shop has been closed for several years." Seeing my disappointment, he smiled and added, "But Jaco still lives here. Would you like his address and number?"

* * * * *

On the street outside, Rumor tugged my arm. "Wow. He was weird and so was the store. And
don't
ask me to help you wrap that book." She shuddered.

"Yeah, well, welcome to my world," I muttered, pulling out my cell phone to dial the number Ravenscroft had written down for me.

A thick-accented voice answered. "Jaco Hunsley."

"Mr. Hunsley," I began, "you don't know me but –"

"Then why are you calling?"

"I got your name from a client, Bella Orenda."

A pause. "Orenda. I did some work for a Renard Orenda."

"Bella's mother," I said. "Did you make a piece of furniture for her?"

The silence went on for so long I began to wonder if he had hung up. I pulled the cell phone from my ear and looked at the display. The call seconds had ticked to forty when he finally replied. "Are you familiar with my work?" The voice on the other end had changed from brusque to downright suspicious.

Now it was my turn to pause, thinking quickly. "Not exactly, but..."

Jaco Hunsley cut off my explanation. "I think it would be best if we finished this conversation in person. Come by in an hour."

"I don't want to inconvenience you," I began.

"You already have," he replied. "I want to see you in person." The line went dead.

Frowning, I turned to Rumor. "Could I borrow your car while you finish shopping? Pick you up in a couple of hours?"

She looked concerned. "Of course. But, Sam? Be careful. I mean it."

* * * * *

I looked around Jaco Hunsley's family room, with hardwood floors and cathedral-shaped wall of windows framing the forest outside, thinking this looked like the house of a man who loved both wood and the outdoors.

Hunsley was an older man, early seventies maybe, with wavy white hair nearly long enough to look unkempt. His eyebrows, also white, bushed in all directions over brown eyes under wire-rim glasses. Despite his age, his posture was perfect, and his six-foot plus frame carried not an ounce of extra weight. He wore an old apron, powdered with sawdust, over work pants and a denim shirt, the sleeves of which he had rolled up to his elbows. His handshake was firm, his hands covered with nicks, calluses and dried glue.

"I'm a bit of a mess," he said. "In the middle of a project at the moment." He arched his snowy eyebrows at me in question. "Care to see?"

I nodded, so he dusted his hands on his apron and led me to his workshop in a separate building behind the house.

The area was a model of organization. Chisels, rasps, routers and awls hung on the wall, all immaculately cleaned and oiled. In the center of the room stood a gigantic wardrobe with beveled mirrors on each of the double doors. Hunsley ran his hand lovingly down the side of the piece, stopping to inspect a small flaw partway down the side. "Cherry wood."

"It's beautiful."

"Yes, it is a lovely piece." He stepped back to appraise. "In fact, the wood is so nice I have barely had to buff. Just one small nick to even out. Usually the wood tells me where to put its secrets."

It seemed an odd statement. Hunsley looked at me carefully, weighing my reaction to his words. I felt it crucial not to give away the fact I had no idea what he was talking about. Instead I played along. "So you work with the flaw?"

"I can't always," he replied, running his hand again over the tiny nick. "But in this case, a compartment entry could be nicely concealed from the outside."

"A secret entrance?"

"Everyone has secrets, hidden compartments within themselves, if you will," he said softly. "Why should furniture be any different?" Abruptly, he crossed the room to his workbench. Obviously, he was finished sharing personal information.