Page 23 of The Devouring Time

I start deeper into the shop, Adrian behind me. Colorful volumes lay heaped on tables, and I automatically stop, my mind trying to catalog them before recalling that’s no longer my job.

Adrian catches me. “Sterling? Is something wrong?”

I shake my head—an obvious lie—and move forward again, past the rows of shelves and the occasional book-related knickknack, like the truly terrible bust of Shakespeare that James bought for reasons beyond my comprehension.

Maybe he’ll take me back as his partner if I explain what happened. Not that I have any idea myself.

James’s desk sits halfway down the length of the store, neat as always and quite deserted. My desk is—was—as far away from the door as possible, hidden from the view of casual shoppers. Perhaps he’s working on something there, since he’s had to take over my duties as well.

Or hired someone to replace me. I push the thought aside for the moment.

“James?” I call, navigating around the barrier formed by a display cabinet filled with our most fragile tomes, ones we don’t want handled by greasy-fingered customers. “I need to speak to you. I⁠—”

My desk comes into sight, and my entire body goes cold.

It’s much neater now than when I left—my brain seizes on that detail, as though it might protect me from the rest. All of my clutter is gone, replaced by a small stack of books and a piece of paper. Both are spattered with blood.

James sags in the chair, a knife thrust into his neck, blood still dripping gently from his collar.

16

“James,” I whisper.

I’ve seen so many dead men—dead friends, even. But that was in the war.

Not here, in the place we worked together. In the very chair I sat in, before I left for reasons I can’t remember.

“Stay here,” Adrian orders, and takes out his gun.

My heartbeat quickens, but calm sweeps over me. The murderer might still be here.

A stuffed marmot perches on a shelf overlooking my desk—it came in one of the first shipments of books we received after opening the shop, and James insisted on keeping it for luck. I grab it and hold it out in front of me like a shield.

Adrian gives me an incredulous look, but doesn’t say anything, probably not wanting to give us away to any lurking assassin. He only nods, then slips silently past the display case into the shop proper. I follow.

He goes right, toward James’s desk, so I take the other half of the shop. A part of me feels as though I’m in a shattered forest in France, on alert for enemies as my unit pushes forward. I almost expect to turn my head and see Emerson. The dead version, not the living, eyes glowing in the fog…

We meet back at the front door, and Adrian throws the lock. I put the marmot on the nearest shelf. We’re alone.

“Whoever did this must have left just before we arrived,” he says grimly. “The blood is still dripping.”

“Then we have to call the police!” I reach to unlock the door. “There’s a call box just down the street⁠—”

“Wait.” Adrian’s steady voice stops me in my tracks. “We need to search the store first.”

“What? Why?”

“We came here to find out more about what happened to you, to your memory. What you might have done with the Key of Mithras. Now Mr. Olden—whom you fell out with—is dead.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with this!”

“Sterling.” Adrian reaches out and grips my upper arms with his hands. His fingers are firm, but gentle. “Think how this will look to the police, especially if they start digging into your background. A man outbid you at an auction, then was murdered and the book stolen. Now your former business partner has also been killed.”

My heart sinks. “You can give me an alibi—I was with you when James died. The porter can attest to the fact I was on the train.”

“What if you hired someone else to do your dirty work?” He lets go of me. “I don’t think you killed Mr. Pearce—the man who outbid you for the Key—with your own hands.”

His words make me feel queasy. “But you do think I had him killed.”