Pure Blood Part 17

I left him muttering about Wylie's many character flaws and kept walking toward the university. Shelby had said her relatives stole something from the Blackburns a long time ago. A spellbook, the written workings that are supposed to be memorized and burned? Some sort of blood focuser that would allow a caster access to daemon magick? Whatever it was, the O'Hallorans were using it, which meant they were no longer playing fair. If I figured out exactly what had been stolen, I'd bet my yearly salary we'd break Vincent's case.

Not that betting my my salary is any kind of grand gesture. I turned up my collar against the September wind, and headed for the university grounds. salary is any kind of grand gesture. I turned up my collar against the September wind, and headed for the university grounds.

The faculty offices at the university were nearly as cold as the outside air. Somewhere far away a radiator clanked and groaned, doing little good. I climbed to the third floor on foot, figuring it would warm me up, and rapped on the door marked Jacob hoskins- Jacob hoskins- MYTHOLOGY. MYTHOLOGY.

"Who is it?" Hoskins's voice was nervous, with no inflection. He's one of the twitchiest people I've ever met, but also one of the most honest. In my line of work that's about as rare as a chaste call girl, so it might explain why I like him so much.

"It's Detective Wilder, Professor." I knew better than to just walk into his office-such a trespa.s.s would send Hoskins into cardiac arrest. Plus, there was that promise I'd made last time we talked to never darken his doorway again, or something equally dramatic.

"Ah." I heard brisk footsteps and the door opened exactly an inch. I put a game smile on my face.

"Hi, there."

Hoskins pursed his lips and opened the door all the way. "If you were going to disappear for an entire summer, you might have written me a postcard. Even something via that dreadful e-mail would have sufficed."

"Why, Professor, I had no idea that you cared."

He snorted. "You are at least compelling, Detective, which is more than I can say for this year's crop of freshmen. Come in, please."

Having been given pa.s.sage to the inner sanctum, I stepped over the threshold and into Hoskins's painfully sterile and organized s.p.a.ce. All of his books lined up exactly one inch from the edge of the shelf. His tribal masks and paintings were displayed in rows along the wall. The large desk held no papers, no evidence that anyone even worked there except for a flat-screen computer monitor and a gold pen resting precisely next to a blotter.

Hoskins returned to his desk and removed a stack of essays from the middle drawer. He clicked the pen to life and began marking them in handwriting so small it could have been mouse tracks. "What brings you here, Detective? How do you find yourself?"

"Fine," I said, deciding a recounting of exactly how c.r.a.ppy the past week had been would just waste time. "I needed to ask you something about the Blackburn family."

"Well and good," said Hoskins, making a neat slash through an entire paragraph on the page he held. I felt sorry for the student. "But I am a professor of occult mythology, not history."

"This is in your area, believe me," I said. Hoskins had some experience with the practice as well as the theory of magick. He had taught the Cedar Hill Killer, a blood witch trying to summon the same daemon Alistair Duncan had succeeded with, many years ago. The affair still made the veins on Hoskins's neck bulge if you brought it up.

"Then continue, Detective," he said, writing some scathing remark on the last page of the essay and setting it aside.

"A long time ago-I don't know how long-the O'Halloran caster witches stole something from the Blackburn family. I need to know what it was."

"Ah," said Hoskins. "You are speaking of the murders which resulted in the founding of the university."

"I guess," I said. "Was that why Gertrude Blackburn ended up dead?"

Theodore Blackburn, the first scion to settle in Nocturne City, was a wealthy man, depraved and ruthless by all accounts, who had turned to blood magick to increase his profits. Siobhan O'Halloran, the family's maid, had taken it upon herself to slash Madame Blackburn across the throat and leave her body as a message for Mr. Blackburn, a sort of polite missive that the white witches of the city weren't going to take his c.r.a.p anymore.

Unfortunately, Gertrude had gotten off a magick shot before Siobhan managed to kill her, and Theodore returned home to find them both dead. He was so devastated that he turned to drink, lost his fortune, and ended up losing his estate to the city, who turned it into the university. Or so the PG-13 version of the story went.

"I will only say this," said Hoskins. "After Gertrude's death, the Blackburn family went into a tailspin, and the O'Hallorans went from immigrants in shacks by the waterfront to powerful bankers in less than a half century. Use your own deductions."

I sighed. "But you have no idea what the object actually is." is."

Hoskins shook his head. "That is a carefully guarded secret, in the Blackburn family as well as with the O'Hallorans."

"c.r.a.p," I muttered, seeing my easy closure to Vincent's case dart away, laughing. "Thanks anyway."

"You might try the collection," said Hoskins. The way he emphasized the last word was ominous, the way Doctor Doom might say "the lair."

"What collection?"

"The books the Blackburn family left to the university. Or were seized along with their property, I should say. Quite a phenomenal resource."

"And the collection would be ... ?"

Hoskins pointed toward the main part of the Blackburn mansion. "The library."

I like libraries. They're orderly, and very human. Unless it's an occult bookstore, the energy running through the place is clear and benign-nothing to give a magiphobe like me p.r.i.c.kly skin.

The girl manning the reference desk was very pale, with stringy brown hair falling over big John Lennon-style gla.s.ses. She blinked up at me. "Yes?"

"I need to see the Blackburn collection," I said. She frowned.

"I'm sorry, only faculty and thesis students are allowed access to those stacks."

My badge elicited another series of rapid blinks. She licked her lips and said, "You can't just show me that and expect me to give you all of our information."

"Look," I said, trying to remain calm and sisterly. In my jeans and boots and black long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, I probably looked like the Gestapo to her. "I don't care about anything except the books. They may have information pertaining to a homicide investigation."

She perked up. "Like on Law and Order?" Law and Order?"

"Yes," I said patiently. "Just like that." I'd sing the theme song from Cop Rock Cop Rock if it would make her let me into the stacks. if it would make her let me into the stacks.

"Wow. That's new." She took a key ring from her desk drawer and walked around me, leading me into the rows of books. "This way."

The Blackburn books were in a small climate-controlled tomb behind philosophy Kafka-Nietzsche. My guide unlocked the gla.s.s door and went in, picking a pair of cotton gloves out of a bin and handing them to me. "Put these on to handle the books. Please lay them flat to read. And let me know if you need anything else, Detective. My name is Lauren." She blinked again. "Do you need to take down my information for the case file?"

"Not unless you're a witness to a crime," I said.

She perked up. "Somebody stole a Sumerian translation text from the reference section two weeks ago."

"What's the world coming to?" I commiserated, shutting the gla.s.s door. She looked disappointed.

The gloves weren't really cotton, they were some sort of special fiber that I a.s.sumed kept my bad nasty skin off the old books. They itched. I resolved to make this quick and scanned the neatly aligned shelves for anything useful.

The Blackburns had been well read, for their time. Most of the books were high quality, covered in leather, d.i.c.kens and Verne and one scandalous Stoker. On a low shelf, a series of leather-bound volumes with no t.i.tles on the spine caught my eye. The tasteful plaque informed me they were blackburn family diaries. blackburn family diaries.

"Scandal," I murmured happily. I pulled the first ledger off the shelf. Some sort of household records, lots of notations about buying soap and flour and killing cows.

The second diary had Property of Theodore Lucius Blackburn Property of Theodore Lucius Blackburn on the inside flap. I set it down carefully on the table and flipped to the first entry. on the inside flap. I set it down carefully on the table and flipped to the first entry.

June 18,1886 My wife purchased this journal for me at the market, noting that my previous one had grown full in the admittedly dull recounting of my various endeavors. That she believes my writings will be held for posterity is rather a touching sentiment, though I would never voice such a thought.

The diary spanned more than two years, and in that time Blackburn traveled to Africa, the Caribbean, and China, keeping a meticulously detailed account of his travels. Once or twice, he talked about circles or the phases of the moon, but if an unwary eye had been reading, no one would have ever guessed he was a powerful blood witch. I supposed it would have been bad for him if some nosy servant had read all about blood workings and what they entailed in Theodore's crystal-neat handwriting. Who wants to buy dry goods and lumber from a black magick user?

February 13,1889 On the foredeck of steamer Star of Shanghai, Star of Shanghai, bound for San Francisco and then home. I am pained that I will not be with Gertrude for St. Valentine's Day. None of her letters have reached me in months due to my rapid exodus from the Orient. bound for San Francisco and then home. I am pained that I will not be with Gertrude for St. Valentine's Day. None of her letters have reached me in months due to my rapid exodus from the Orient.

I must recount something, for this page is my sole confessional these many months. I purchased the object from an antiquities dealer in Beijing, thinking it nothing more than an amusing fake trinket peddled to foreigners. However, I came to recognize the writing as some form of ancient Arabic text, and began to fear, instead of doubt, the object's authenticity.

Blackburn's handwriting, normally as easy to read as print, grew shakier with every word. Whether the pitching s.h.i.+p was making him quake, or the subject matter, I didn't know.

I feel feel it inside my mind, mad as that surely sounds, and when I look too long at the letters carved into its surface my head begins to ache. The translator informed me it was a relic known as the Skull of Mathias. A human skull, every inch of it covered in these runic scribblings that hold such a terrible power I can barely stand to remain inside my cabin. I conceived to throw it over the side, but the night I thus decided, a squall hit us and three of it inside my mind, mad as that surely sounds, and when I look too long at the letters carved into its surface my head begins to ache. The translator informed me it was a relic known as the Skull of Mathias. A human skull, every inch of it covered in these runic scribblings that hold such a terrible power I can barely stand to remain inside my cabin. I conceived to throw it over the side, but the night I thus decided, a squall hit us and three of my traveling companions were lost. After that I have simply been making my sleep scarce, although even when I am not below deck I see it, staring at me with empty eyes ...

I drew my hands away from the page as though they'd been burned. Empty eyes. Empty eyes. I traced Blackburn's last sentence and muttered, "I found you, you son of a b.i.t.c.h." I traced Blackburn's last sentence and muttered, "I found you, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Outside, where I was permitted to use my phone, I called Sunny. Rhoda answered. Typical of my luck.

"Luna," she said icily when I identified myself. "What do I owe this call to?"

"You don't owe it to anything," I said, silently adding, you shriveled old bat. you shriveled old bat. "I need to talk to Sunny." "I need to talk to Sunny."

"Sunflower is not available," she said in that same tone. I got the feeling I ranked about one notch above a telemarketer.

"What, are her lips sewn shut?" I mentally slapped myself in the head as soon as the comeback was out. p.i.s.sing off my grandmother wouldn't get Sunny on the line.

"She's at the grocery store," said Rhoda. "Perhaps I can help you, since I know you only call when you want something?"

"Actually, if I had a choice, I wouldn't call you at all," I said cheerily. "I have better things to do, like poke myself in the eye with a stick." Suck on that, you hag. Suck on that, you hag.

"Very well," said Rhoda. "I'll refrain from telling Sunflower you called in this state. It would only upset her."

I'd like to say I had a good-cop brainwave at that point, but really I was just angry and looking for a little payback. "Wait a minute," I said. "If you're so smart, then yeah, you can help me. What's the deal with the Skull of Mathias?"

She wouldn't know. Rhoda prided herself on her complete disa.s.sociation with dark magick. She was a sn.o.b that way, the same way that made her treat her non-witch relatives like s.h.i.+t.

A long silence stretched and I grinned. She'd have to admit she was at a loss, and then my day would get better. I might even go have a cheeseburger for lunch. G.o.ds knew I deserved one.

"The Skull is fiction," said my grandmother. She sounded subdued, almost wary, like I'd just told her I knew she was really a man. Not that she is. That I know of. "It is reputed to be the head of the first blood witch, Mathias, who was given his power from a daemon. His skull was inscribed with every incantation and working he learned. Daemon magick, unrefined."

"That sounds about right," I said.

"But of course it doesn't really exist. A caster witch would have known that." She was back to the arrogance again, and I clicked the phone shut gently. I knew at least one caster witch who believed the Skull was real enough to use it to kill, and another one who would tell me all about it, whether she liked it or not.

CHAPTER 20.

Shelby had been moved to a private room on a higher floor of the hospital, one that had been redecorated in this decade. Flowers and balloons filled the place with cloying smells, and I sneezed. She looked up from her magazine and gave me a cautious smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I slid one of the plastic visitor chairs to the side of her bed and straddled it backward. "You can tell me about the Skull of Mathias."

Shelby shrugged. "I don't know what that is."

"Come on, Shelby." I tapped my fingers on her bedrail, and saw her follow my every move. She was nervous as a virgin bride. "I let you get away with that poor-little-innocent-me c.r.a.p before, because at the time, you told me what I needed-that your family stole something from the Blackburns. Now I know what, and I need you to tell me the particulars."

"I don't know!" Shelby exploded. "n.o.body tells tells me anything, they just expect me to shut up and be a good daughter! You think they me anything, they just expect me to shut up and be a good daughter! You think they trust trust me? Get real, Luna." me? Get real, Luna."

She had a point, and my bulls.h.i.+t meter wasn't pinging off the charts like the last conversation we'd had. Besides, I felt sort of sorry for Shelby-we'd had parallel lives, both of them c.r.a.ppy.

"So I take it you have a lead?" she asked me, breathing deeply and getting back under control.

"Yeah," I said. "But you're not going to like it."

"You think someone in my family killed Vincent Blackburn," she said. I tried not to show I was startled. Poker face, Luna. Poker face, Luna.

"Well.. . yes. I do. Your family or someone very close to them."

Shelby moved her bed into the sitting position and regarded me with those cold blue eyes, the same expression I'd seen on Seamus on her. "Then you have an obligation to pursue your lead. But don't ever ask me to help you convict a member of my own family, Luna. I won't do it."

"They're killers," I said, getting angry, thinking back to see if I had ever held any such loyalty to my grandmother and my parents. Never had. "How can you protect them?"

"They're my family," said Shelby. "They're my blood. And no offense, but this whole thing is something that you're not part of, and don't fully understand."