The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

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      Tallying the boxes—seventeen, many of them packed with multiple items—she did a final check to make sure they were securely sealed, the labels protected. Then she began forming a stack she might conceivably carry the three blocks to the post office.

      When she got back, she’d talk with Abby about moving whatever Tarot decks remained out for sale into one of the locked cases…assuming room could be made. Not in one of the herb cabinets, obviously, since those were currently overstocked in anticipation of a pre-Samhain rush. Maybe they could find a place for the decks at the counter, leave the sample book as it was.

      Her mind on the various problems associated with that, She shrugged into her jacket, took up the unwieldy tower of boxes, and crept out of the office. The store outside was bustling with midday shoppers. Narrow pathways, over-flowing displays―this might prove to be the biggest challenge of her day. She shuffled along, alert for any sign of impending doom. She should make two trips, she knew that. Unfortunately, she also knew she preferred making one difficult journey to repeating several easy ones.

      Anyway, this would be fine. If she craned her head just so and looked out of the corner of her right eye, she could see enough of the ground ahead to avoid obstacles…as long as she took really small steps. Which she was. Inching her way around the stairs, she plastered a humble expression on her face and apologized to the many people she heard move out of her way. “Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you. Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you.”

      “Of course, dear,” came a soft, accented voice.

      Lettie?

      Thia stopped, shocked speechless, and maneuvered her way around to face her great-aunt.

      No one was there.

      “Isn’t this lovely?”

      The same voice, more distant and to the left. Thia turned, saw an elderly woman holding up a gilded Celtic cross. The man to whom she was speaking, her husband probably, nodded appreciatively. Thia had never seen either of them before. She let out a pent-up breath and resumed her shuffling walk.

      She’d been so sure it was Lettie. Why? The slight British accent combined with the voice’s obvious age? Lettie wasn’t due back for another two weeks.

      Thia moved past the main counter where, from the sound of things, a new roll of receipt tape was being loaded into the cash register. The plastic lid closed with more force than necessary—and she knew immediately who was trying to perform what was typically a simple task. Somehow, when Abby was involved, it never turned out that way.

      “I’m going to take my lunch after I get done with this,” Thia said, though she figured any fool could tell she was off on her routine trip to the post office—and Abby, Eclectica’s manager, was no fool. She was also, despite a couple of early disagreements over the online sales process, someone Thia had come to consider a friend.

      “Sure thing,” Abby acknowledged, then swore as the clattering of the register stopped short. Paper jam. “I did not say you could bend, you stupid piece of—”

      “Watch your ‘negative energy,’” Thia warned lightly, thinking of Stefanie. “Don’t give her an excuse.”

      “Oh, hell—I mean, heck. I thought she was still on break.” Something (Abby’s hand, from the sound of it) slammed onto the register hard enough to make the cash drawer bell ding.

      Thia winced. “You want me to give that a try?”

      “No, no.” Paper tore. “I’m going to get this. I really am.” More tearing. “Even if it takes”—click—“all”—bang—“day.”

      “Okay. If you’re sure.” Her smile safe behind the cardboard barricade, Thia continued on her way.

      When she got to what she estimated was a few steps shy of the door, it opened to admit a chill breeze, and she immediately stopped. Eclectica didn’t have automatic doors and no one had passed her on their way out—therefore someone was coming in. She eased herself to the side of the aisle to make room to go by.

      No one did.

      Puzzled, she looked down. Just as she located two beaded slippers at the threshold, an unmistakeable, patchouli-based fragrance crept around the boxes. “Hello, Madame Demetka.”

      “Thia, darlingk!” The accent was unidentifiable. Perhaps something Eastern European. Perhaps not. “You carry very much for one, yes?”

      “Maybe a little.” Thia shifted carefully and, peering around the boxes, brought the town’s most popular spiritual medium into view.

      Wild, burgundy hair swirled around a middle-aged face caked with foundation and painted with bold strokes of color. Dark, almost ebony eyes glinted beneath lashes so coated with mascara as to be nearly united―one giant lash per lid.

      “Are you reading today?” Thia asked, sidling past her and out the door. “I didn’t think you were scheduled until–”

      “Oh, but miri kushti, you are not leaving now, yes? I have come most urgently to speak with you.”

      Strong fingers latched onto Thia’s wrist, initiating a brief, ill-fated dance. With her automatic step back, the box mountain began to topple and Madame Demetka, instead of letting go, tightened her grip and pulled.

      The topmost boxes flew while the middle tier slid. Dropped. Larger, heavier boxes landed with a solid thump on the cement while the smaller ones bounced, scattering. In a matter of seconds, Thia held only one box—the former foundation of her careful construction—while the rest rocked to a stop at her feet.

      

      Pall Mall, London

      Eight in number, they sat motionless at the round table, their attention rapt on a trio of fat white candles. There was no other illumination, no sound but the sharp hiss of flames consuming dry wicks, their reflections dancing on the highly polished dark of the wood.

      “We humbly seek to know of Leticia Phyllis McDaniel,” Beatrice said at last, her voice solemn and, to Quentin’s ears, unwelcome. One more reminder of a night he often thought he’d do anything to forget. Her voice had gone out into the dark for that ritual, too. Right before all hell had broken loose.

      He took a slow breath, concentrated on the task at hand. Emotions, especially the volatile kind, had no place here.

      The beeswax melted slowly at first, then more quickly, running down the sides of the candles to mar the table’s surface. Knowledge always came with a price. Sometimes small, as in the finish of a table. Sometimes not. And all too often, in Quentin’s experience, unexpected.

      The three flames began to twist, snapping and spiraling frantically as they rose and fell in the still air.

      “What of Leticia?” Beatrice asked again.

      The flames immediately paused their dance. Breaths caught. Clasped hands tightened, including those gripping Quentin’s own, their fingers crushing the fine leather of his gloves. He gritted his teeth, tried to СКАЧАТЬ