Chapter Six

Morning had broken — apparently over Gabriel Savant’s aching head.

Unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, he wore expensive, wrinkled trousers and silk shirt. He looked, in my opinion, more like the victim in a horror novel than the dapper celebrity who penned them.

“I was hoping that you might have found that disk.” His smile looked like it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I told Friedlander that I don’t think you could have left it here. I’ve looked a couple of times.”

Hollow-eyed, he continued to smile twitchily at me. “It’s very important that I find it. Bobby is very upset.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. If you want to look around —?”

He took out a pack of clove cigarettes and lit one. His hand shook. “There are things you don’t understand.”

Well, yeah, starting with the popularity of reality TV and moving on down to adult men who wear Capri pants.

I said, “I gather it was research for a project you’re working on?”

His eyes seemed to start from his head. “Why would you say that?”

Paranoia: it’s not just for dinner anymore. “I’m guessing,” I said kindly.

He continued to stare at me, then relaxed a fraction. Nodding, he blew a stream of smoke out his nostrils. “Bobby and I meet people. In the course of our work.”

“Sure.” I had to wonder about his relationship with Friedlander. I’d had the impression that Friedlander was sent as an author escort from the publisher, but that seemed to be incorrect. Was Friedlander maybe Savant’s assistant? I considered that diamond stud winking away in Savant’s shell-like right ear, but I didn’t get the feeling Savant was gay or even bi.

He continued, “We take notes. You never know what will be useful. We have a book due every nine months, see?”

“That’s got to be tough.” Surely the hundreds of thousands that he earned in royalties was some compensation.

“We don’t use it all, naturally. Some of our research material is fairly…sensitive.”

Were they blackmailing people? What was the deal here? I must have looked perplexed, because he said, “If you help me, I will help you.”

“You’ll help me with what?” Was he offering to work in the store? I wasn’t sure if I was that desperate yet.

His eyes did this shift from side to side. He whispered. “I know about your…problem…with…” His voice died out, and his lips formed soundless words, “Blade Sable.”

Blade Sable? Was this somebody I should know? Kind of sounded like a gay super hero. “Blade Sable?” I repeated, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

Gabriel eyed me in disbelief, then said, “Think about it, Aiden.”

“Adrien.”

“Whatever. You wouldn’t want to deal with this on your own. These people are very dangerous. Even without the Powers of Darkness.”

* * * * *

By midmorning, when no one turned up from the agency, I phoned and was informed that they had sent someone. The slightly exasperated implication was that the employee was here somewhere — or perhaps that I had carelessly lost the employee and now wanted another one. The woman at the agency did not actually remind me that employees did not grow on trees, but I felt like she wanted to.

Luckily, it was a slow morning. I decided that it wouldn’t matter if I closed for an hour or two to meet the professor. I was entitled to lunch. Maybe a long lunch. What was the use of being the boss if you couldn’t take a long lunch once in a while?

As previously arranged, we met at Campanile on South La Brea Avenue. Recognizable by its distinctive bell tower, the building housing Campanile restaurant and La Brea Bakery was built by Charlie Chaplin back in 1929. Before the building was completed, Chaplin lost it in a divorce settlement. His loss is our gain.

The professor was seated in the green-walled garden area, with its towering glass ceiling and red-tiled floor. He was reading and sipping a glass of wine. He wore jeans and a velvet doublet over a white shirt. His long, silvery hair gleamed like sterling against the claret-colored velvet. He was a striking presence, oblivious to his surroundings.

Even without the powers of Darkness. Well, there are powers, and there are powers.

I rested a hand on the chair across from him. “Professor Snowden?”

He must have been watching my approach from under his lashes, because he looked up out of his book, and without missing a beat, drawled, “Call me Guy.” He set the book aside and offered his hand. We shook. His gaze held mine a few seconds longer than politeness required.

Interesting.

I sat down across from him. “Guy, then. Thanks for meeting me.”

Guy moved his book aside. He had beautiful hands, tanned, graceful, but with long-fingered strength. I could still feel the imprint of his palm against mine.

The waitress appeared. I ordered a glass of the Clos du Bois merlot. When she was out of earshot, Guy said, “I have good news. I don’t think you’ll be…pestered any further.”

“Really?”

“I’ve spoken to the students involved — former students, actually. It was mostly a…misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding? That’s it?”

The remarkable green eyes met mine. “Er…yes.”

Maybe he was happy to let it go at that, but I wanted a little more reassurance that it was truly over.

The waitress returned with my wine. She was one of those pert waifs, flirting reflexively with us while we ordered our lunches. Guy went for the mesclun salad with marinated ricotta, pine nuts, and crostini currants. I opted for a sandwich with smoked meat, provolone, and tangy cherry peppers.

“So what caused this misunderstanding?” I inquired, returning to our original topic of conversation. “Did anyone explain it to you?”

“Yes. And I’m satisfied that it is over.” His gaze found mine again, and he smiled wryly. “I know the kids involved. They got a little carried away, that’s all. You can tell Angus it’s safe to come home.”

“Just in time for finals,” I said. “Unfortunately, I don’t know where he is.”

His eyes never wavered. “You don’t?”

“Nope.”

After that we chatted idly, politely, until our meal arrived. I thought that, although this was not really a social occasion, certainly nothing remotely resembling a date, it was pleasant to be sharing a nice meal with an attractive man — in public. And he was very attractive. Cultured, urbane, witty — exuding an easy, unconscious sexuality. Polar opposite from Jake. I wondered what Jake would make of him.

“What happens when Angus does come back?” I inquired eventually.

“Is he coming back?”

I thought of Mrs. Tum and Lester Naess. “I hope so,” I said.

Glass stem between his fingers, Snowden gently circled the base of the glass on the linen-covered table, warming the wine. “You see, the others believe that Angus is a warlock.”

“Isn’t everybody?” That wasn’t exactly what I meant. “I mean, aren’t they all part of a coven?”

He answered me indirectly. “Warlock is the term for an oath breaker. For one who has lied or broken a pledge of silence.”

“I thought it was a male witch.”

“Partly. It would be a witch who practices the Black Arts. A witch who worships Satan. Most modern witches are Wicca, and Wiccans don’t, you know.”

“So this group or coven is Wicca? Then I don’t understand why an inverted pentagram was painted on my doorstep.”

His brows drew together. “Inverted? Are you sure?”

I removed one of the photos from my day planner, pushed it across to Snowden. He stared at it for a long moment.

“Are you sure you talked to the right people?” I inquired, watching his expression.

His eyes veered to mine. “Certainly,” he said, but he sounded less than certain.

“What’s the Ars Goetia?” I asked.

“Where the devil —?”

I kid you not. “Where the devil,” like you’d expect to hear from Colonel Mustard in The Study. I murmured, “No pun intended?”

He stared at me, but I didn’t think he saw me. At last he said, “It’s the first section of an anonymously-written seventeenth-century grimoire known as The Lesser Key of Solomon. Do you know what a grimoire is?”

“Book of Shadows, right?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me.”

“I had a lot of time to read as a kid.” Not that you would find a copy of the Book of Shadows in your school library — unless you’re attending Hogwarts.

“Then you’re probably aware that the Book of Shadows is a kind of witches’ Bible, only rather more than that. It’s a personal record of rituals and spells and lore, each one unique.”

“But isn’t there a definitive Book of Shadows?”

He grimaced at this ignorance. “No. Different traditions have reclaimed and reedited the most famous source materials into their own grimoires. There are illustrious historical grimoires: The Black Pullet, The Greater Key of Solomon, The Lesser Key of Solomon.”

“So what is Ars Goetia?”

“Essentially it’s the name, rank, and serial number of seventy-two demons King Solomon is said to have conjured and then imprisoned in a bronze vessel fastened with magic seals.”

“And this symbol?” I pointed to the line drawing that Ariel had told me was the signature of a high-ranking demon.

He shook his head. “It’s a sigil. A sign or seal in magic.” He glanced at me and said, “It’s a symbol designed for a specific magical use.”

“This sigil is the name of a demon, isn’t it?”

Reluctantly, he admitted, “That also.”

“And the point of this sigil would be to invoke or conjure this particular demon, right?”

“Correct. The idea would be to summon the demon to do the work of the conjurer.”

“Which of the seventy-two demons is this? Out of curiosity.”

“I have no idea.”

I must have looked skeptical. He said, “Off the top of my head? Don’t be ridiculous.” He sounded unexpectedly haughty. “I’m no expert in this particular arena. If you want to understand the role of modern witchcraft in primitive societies or the devolution of Goddess worship into modern religion, I’m your man. Traditional witchcraft…Satanism…is not my scene.”

“But you could find out?”

“What do you care which demon it is?”

That earned curious glances from our fellow diners. Guy lowered his voice, said, “You need to stay well clear of this.”

“That old black magic gotcha?”

“You may laugh, but the point is not whether you believe in this. The point is that whoever left this on your door believes in it. This is one who wishes you great harm — merely because you got in his — or her —”

“Or their?” I suggested.

“Or their way.”

“I thought you said it was all settled?”

“It is. If you let it lie.”

“What about Angus?”

He didn’t seem to have an answer.

“Dessert?” the waitress asked brightly, materializing beside our table.

I resisted the impulse to ask for devil’s food cake.

* * * * *

Chan was waiting by the front door when I got back to the bookstore. He appeared to have been there a while. He looked tired and frazzled; there was a mound of cigarette butts at his feet.

“Hey,” I greeted him, sliding back the ornate security gate. “What’s up?”

“Adrien —” There was something in his face.

I put my hand out to steady myself on the gate. I’d as soon as not remember the sound I made.

Chan said, sounding kind of frantic, “He’s okay, Adrien. Jake’s okay. That’s why I’m here. In case it makes the news. He didn’t want you to hear it that way.”

I turned to stare at him across a great crumbling distance, hanging on to the gate like it was my spar in a swell.

“He’s fine. I swear to God. Maybe a little concussion.”

“What happened?”

“We were chasing a suspect, and he got hit by a car. Jake, I mean. The suspect got away.”

“Where is he?”

“The suspect?”

“Jake.”

“Oh. Huntington Hospital.” He added as I started back toward my car, “But he doesn’t want you driving down there. Adrien” — he trotted after me — “he doesn’t want you there.”