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Could he be telling the truth?
A grimoire is a witch’s most prized possession. It’s not just a collection of spells, but a running tab of tips and tricks on everything there is to know about witchcraft and a family’s history using the spell.
There’s no way Grand-Mère would leave such a valuable heirloom behind… and she certainly wouldn’t leave it with a warlock.
Callius must read the disbelief on my face because he flashes me a saucy grin. “Don’t look so judgy. I said she left it to you, not that I have it in my possession.”
“Where is it then?”
After hearing of Grand-Mère’s death, he must’ve known I would come. If it’s in a safe deposit box, he could have at least retrieved it when I requested a meeting. The banks aren’t open until Monday, and by then I’ll be back in England.
“I can’t say where it is. All I know is what is in this will.” Callius taps the stack of papers sitting between us. “No one has laid eyes on the Dumont grimoire since Claudette swept you up and fled town. For all I know, it’s lost or stolen.”
Stolen?
The idea of generations of magical knowledge and know-how going missing—or worse, falling into the wrong hands—has my stomach churning.
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. When that doesn’t work, I take a long gulp of water, ignoring the way my hand shakes. Focused on holding the glass to my lips, I try to rein in my anxiety.
Now is not the time for my magic to go all screwy.
But the abundance of magic here is so overwhelming…
The pyrotechnics display begins right on cue, the lights overhead flickering and flaring wildly. One bulb bursts, and the rest follow, one by one, spreading through the warlock’s house like a wave. Even the fire alarm blares, and the sink spews water at full blast.
Oops.
When the theatrics die down and my magic wanes, I open my eyes and thank Gaia the only damage I did was burst light bulbs, a broken glass, and a wet floor.
Callius tilts his head at me, his brows drawing together. Witches in New Orleans must not have magical mental breakdowns very often. “Are you done?”
I ignore the question and move things past my lack of control. “Where was the Dumont grimoire last seen?”
The warlock doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring at me as if he’s trying to finish a Sudoku puzzle in his mind. “Are you aware of the disquiet spell shrouding you?”
I blink at him. “The what?”
Callius’ look of confusion morphs into one of fascination. “Claudette always was a crafty witch.” He’s talking to himself more than responding to me. He looks me over again and grins. “She has Frankensteined a few spells together to make one that suited her needs.”
I shake my head. “You’re mistaken. My grandmother never cast spells on me.”
If she had, I would certainly remember it… right?
A slight brush of magic tingles against my skin and calls me from my thoughts. I jump, slamming down every mental wall I have to block out the sudden mental touch. “Don’t do that!”
Mentally, I bat him away while physically, I recoil from the slither of warlock magic delving deep inside of me. It invades my privacy in every sense of the word.
Callius continues to grin, unphased by my reaction. “That’s Claudette’s magic signature, all right. Still, there’s something not quite… May I have your hand?”
“Why?” I shift further away from his outstretched hand and earn an eye roll for it. Somehow, that puts me at ease. It makes Callius seem more human.
When he doesn’t push or retreat, I realize we could dance this dance all day long and I haven’t got the time or the patience.
I sigh and place my hand on his, slowly lowering my mental walls to let him in. If there’s something going on, I want to know what it is. My grandmother was an excellent judge of character, and she trusted this warlock with her most prized possessions—how bad can he be?
His eyelids flutter and he gasps. “Huh.”
I blink as he releases my hand. “Huh? What does that mean? What did you see?”
