Heath felt his joy at the evening ebb away.

  “And no one needs to,” he said in a hard voice. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave.”

  “All right, all right,” she said, a mocking smile edging her lips as she let go of the backpack. “It’s my duty as door guardian to remind you that you’ve been threatened twice tonight. Once explicitly by Mandrake. Once implicitly by Vizinha. As soon as you pass though this door, I am no longer responsible for you. So try not to get killed.”

  That last made Heath blink, but she must have seen his quizzical expression because before he could ask she added, “I’m not eager to see my granddaughter cry, and I think she’d miss you.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Halloran.”

  The old bat said something noncommittal as she moved off, and Heath opened the door, though he took a moment to gather himself before stepping across the threshold. He should have thought to prepare for this in advance. Instead, he couldn’t leave without improvising. And it had to be something quick and easy, or he’d draw the attention of the whole bar again.

  He dug through his backpack past the candles and bags of herbs and other paraphernalia for his pure silver, ten-ounce flask. He uncapped it and waved it back and forth in front of himself, where the cinnamon flavoring of the thrice-blessed rum could tempt his own nose as well as the spirits.

  “Papa Legba, tap your cane. Distract my enemies so they don’t see me as I pass.” He poured some rum on the sidewalk. “Papa Legba, tap your cane. Confuse my enemies so they can’t hear my footsteps as I pass.” More rum. “Papa Legba, tap your cane. Help me get home swift and safe.”

  One last jigger of rum on the sidewalk, then Heath capped the flask and started walking toward the Max station with a confident stride. He slipped the flask into his bag, and just on the edge of his hearing he began to detect a distant tapping sound.

  The lights were green for Heath, and he reached the Max station and boarded his light rail train just as the doors were closing so it could depart. All the bench seats of the car around him were empty, but the air felt foggy. Misty almost. And syncopated with the bumps and jolts of the rolling train heading west, he could hear a distant tapping as of wood on concrete.

  That tapping continued as he left the train and walked through a sleepy northwest neighborhood to his apartment near tremendous Forest Park.

  Once upon a time, Heath’s apartment had been a guest house, or perhaps an in-law house, in the backyard of a good-sized home. But that family was gone now, and whoever bought the land had gotten the permits to turn the house itself into four apartments. And the management company, well, they seemed to have gone and forgotten about that little guest house.

  Oh, Heath was sure they hadn’t forgotten it entirely. But they hadn’t raised his rent in six years, and he didn’t pay any of his own utilities. Not even cable, Internet or telephone. In fact, Heath suspected he could have stopped paying rent and G&H Management might never have noticed.

  But that would have been wrong. And Heath had no intention of offending whatever spirits were keeping him in a spacious, standalone one-bedroom apartment with its own loft and basement for five hundred fifty dollars a month. So every month he paid his rent, and when he did he set out an extra offering to those unnamed spirits.

  Wouldn’t do to be ungrateful.

  Monthly gardeners kept the local native plants in line in that backyard. Ferns, roses, rhododendrons, Oregon grapes, and of course tall, mighty Douglas fir trees. A half-dozen of them. Heath’s apartment was practically situated in the woods. He even liked to sit on his little front porch on a nice spring evening when he did his carving.

  Unlike the bar, Heath’s front door was white, with a hand-painted, black, equal-armed cross and old fashioned key. Not as formal as the veves of Vodou, but it served as his own connection to Papa Legba at the threshold.

  Heath heard the tapping all the way to that front door, and it didn’t stop until that door was closed and locked behind him.

  “Thank you, Papa,” Heath whispered, leaning back against that door in the darkness.

  Someone knocked.

  The sharp sound made Heath jump, but he dropped his backpack by choice. He kept the lights off, and reached down beside the doorframe for his tire thumper. Eighteen inches of aluminum bat.

  “Who’s there?” he said through the closed door, smelling the Hefeweizen on his own breath. Surely no one could have followed him. Not with Papa Legba tapping his cane.

  “Could you open the door, please, Mr. Cyr?” Man’s voice. Someone used to authority. Didn’t identify as police, though, which Heath considered a good thing. He’d never had uncalled-for police show up at his door for a good reason.

  “It’s closing in on eleven o’clock at night, and I’m not expecting any visitors. That means you’re trespassing. So I’d appreciate it if you left without my calling the cops.”

  “You’ll have a hard time proving trespassing, Mr. Cyr. Since I own the land.”

  Heath shook his head and turned on the porch light. He opened the door, not trying to hide the tire thumper in his grip. The man standing there was wasn’t too much older than Heath. He had a thick, Scottish jaw and nose, and hair black enough to vanish against a midnight sky. He had the kind of white skin that had red undertones.

  And he was wearing a black suit, with an unwrinkled white shirt and a black tie.

  Who wore suits at this time of night?

  With the door open, Heath could hear the frogs and crickets discussing this strange man on his porch. They didn’t sound like they liked his presence any better than Heath did.

  “I suppose you have a deed or some other kind of proof of that, do you?” said Heath.

  “I do.” The man patted the left side of his chest, implying paperwork in a jacket pocket. “But rather than dig it out, let me prove it this way. Six months ago I was auditing the work of my management company and noticed that more money was coming in from this location than expected. Would you care to guess how much?”

  Heath got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Six months ago would have been at about the height of the problems Vizinha had sent his way during their war.

  “Well, I did a little digging and found an old rental contract that everyone else seems to have forgotten about. Looks like you’ve been enjoying quite the bargain, wouldn’t you say?”

  “If you’re here to evict me—”

  “Perish the thought.” The suited man said the words just the way Heath’s daddy used to say them, which made Heath wonder if the suited man had lived in New Orleans. “I’ve done some checking around about you. You seem to be a model tenant, for what that’s worth. Never any noise complaints, no calls to the police. Your checks have arrived on the third day of the month like clockwork, and if you’ve ever needed a plumber or anything, I can’t find a record of it.”

  “So you just wanted to meet me?” Heath smiled, but deep down he knew he couldn’t get rid of the suited man this easily. “Well, I’m glad to make your acquaintance. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “But that wasn’t all I found out.” The man tilted his head to the side. “Rumor has it that you make your money selling Voodoo charms.”

  “No, that’s not right.” Heath shook his head with the certainty of absolute truth.

  “But I heard about a conjure hand you put together for a man named Jenkins—”

  “Hang on.” Heath narrowed his eyes at the suited man and got a smile for his troubles. “Most of my clients don’t even know the term ‘conjure hand.’ Not in this part of the country. They all call them mojo bags, and so does Jenkins. What do you know about it?”

  “The question, Mr. Cyr, is what do you know?”

  Heath stared at the man and sighed. He stepped out on the front porch and locked the door behind him, tire thumper still in one hand. Just in case. In the background the frogs and crickets got worked up over this development.

  “Why did you try to snow me with Vodou talk? Obviously you know I’m a conjure man.”

  “I haven’t lived in New Orleans since I was a kid,” the suited man said. “I can’t keep all the terms straight.”

  “Well,” and Heath realized he was raising the tire thumper in what might have been interpreted as a threatening manner, but he didn’t lower it. “Hoodoo is magic and Vodou is religion. Seems pretty clear to me.”

  The suited man stared at the glistening aluminum of the tire thumper.

  “I hope I haven’t given offense.”

  “Not to me.” Heath shrugged and lowered the tire thumper. “But if you go telling people I claim to practice Vodou, you’ll likely offend them on my behalf. Then you and I will have a problem.”

  “All right,” the suited man said, raising his hands in surrender, then straightening his tie. “Mind if I get to the point then?”

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  “Mind if we go inside? This is a private matter.”

  “Nope.” Heath shook his head. “I don’t discuss business in the house.”

  The suited man grimaced and looked about, and Heath began to think he’d get the rest of the evening to himself after all, but the suited man finally nodded.

  “All right then. Here it is. I presume you know who Saint Cyprian is?”

  “Which one?” Heath stifled a yawn. He was just about talked out for the night.

  “You know which one. Revered by practitioners of the ars magica. They call him the patron saint of—”

  “Necromancers. Sure. Cyprian of Antioch.” Maybe Heath could find a way to speed this along. “Not that the Church would agree with the common folk about that patronage. What about him?”

  “Do you revere him?” The suited man got intense with that question, holding his breath and staring at Heath as though he could see through to Heath’s soul.

  “Can’t say I’ve had much to do with him. I use Saint Cyprian oil when it’s called for – and I make my own oils – but that’s about it. I’m not one of those guys who keeps a statue of him and goes through the whole annual nine-day ritual to him or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  The suited man continued staring for a moment, tempting Heath to raise the tire thumper again. But finally the suited man nodded.

  “I believe you.”

  “Well thank God for that,” said Heath. “It was going to keep me up all night. Can I—”

  “And I want to hire you. The true Black Book of Saint Cyprian has been found, and I want you to get it for me.”

  The frogs and crickets stopped chattering.

  2

  Heath stared at the strange, suited man by the yellow light of his front porch. In Granddad’s stories, the devil was always a white man with black hair, wearing a black suit. Just like this man in front of him.

  That couldn’t be a coincidence. And Heath would have sworn there was a chill in the air that he didn’t usually feel on a nice July evening.

  The garlic fries and beer shifted uncomfortably in his belly.

  “You’ve got the wrong man,” Heath said at last. “Having problems with your woman? Or man, I don’t judge. I can help you out. I can help you find one too, if you’re lonely.” Heath leaned his tire thumper against his shoulder. “You need some protection, or a little luck, or the solution to any one of those problems that make life unbearable, I can do the job for you for a fair price.”

  He shook his head. “But I’m not some kind of treasure hunter and I’m not a detective. And I’m not going to go running around like your errand boy. You want a book, I suggest you go to Powell’s. It’s right down Burnside. You can’t miss it.”

  “Mr. Cyr, I realize that this sounds … unusual—”

  “No,” Heath said slowly. “Unusual is what puts food on my table. What this is, is a waste of my time. I can name you three translations of Saint Cyprian’s grimoire off the top of my head. And I can pretty much guarantee Powell’s will have at least two of—”

  “Forgeries!” The suited man paused to straighten his tie again, and seemed to recover himself in the process. “The Catholic Church has allowed those forgeries to circulate because they contain just enough magic to convince hopefuls of their veracity, and too little to be useful. Or to make anyone look outside the Church for miracles.”

  “What,” said Heath, listening with half an ear for the frogs and crickets to pick up their conversation, “you’re going to tell me the true grimoire was hidden in some secret Vatican vault?”

  The suited man raised his eyebrows in the clearest “duh” expression Heath had seen this side of the downtown hipsters.

  “Why do you think Pope Benedict left office so soon?” the suited man asked. “He screwed up. The Black Book was stolen on his watch, which proved him fallible even when acting on behalf—”

  “You’re saying he was kicked out? Because this book was stolen from secret Vatican vaults?”

  The suited man nodded, once.

  “Have you tried telling Dan Brown?”

  “Mr. Cyr, I—”

  “Look, Suit, you want a spell to bring you this book? Fine. I’ll charge you a special landlord rate and give you my best effort. But if it’s as in-demand as it sounds like, I’m not going to guarantee results. Too many others will be throwing spells after this like it’s—”

  “No.”

  Suit looked Heath up and down, and in that moment Heath cursed inwardly. He’d let this stranger get to him. Given him a nickname.

  Giving personal nicknames was a practice Heath usually reserved for clients. Every client got a nickname, that way it never mattered if he learned their name or not. He had a designation that would prove more than accurate enough if he had to send something to a client’s window at night for non-payment.

  The only non-clients who got nicknames were strangers who pissed Heath off enough that he was seriously considering hexing them.

  But hexing his landlord was not Heath’s idea of a good way to promote a long and healthy landlord-tenant relationship.

  “Mr. Cyr, I have not come to you for a spell. As you say, right now there must be hundreds of people trying to draw the Black Book to them by magic. And when that many attempt it, the chances of any of them succeeding—”

  “Fall away to zero.” Heath stretched his face in thought as he looked closer at Suit. Memories of Granddad’s stories flitted around the back of his mind. “So you know a thing or two, do you? Don’t feel like you have much juju to you though.”

  “I have not yet rung the astral bell.”

  Heath snorted. Of all the ridiculous, highfalutin expressions…

  “Look,” said Heath. “I’m going to tell you something I’d tell anyone in your position. Something I wish I’d been able to stop and think about with a clear head when the time came for me.”

  Heath leaned a little closer, free hand open in a soothing gesture and tire thumper held down and away so it didn’t threaten.

  “Walk away. Just turn your back on all this magic stuff and go live a safe life. You’re obviously a rich man, so buy yourself a hobby. A yacht, a sports team, whatever the hell you rich people do. Buy a spell or a conjure hand if you want to feel a thrill and dance on the edge while you make changes in your life.”

  Heath let out a slow breath, wondering if he was getting through to Suit at all. Suit’s face looked just as blank as the ocean – he could tell something was going on under the surface, but he had no idea what.

  “But don’t set your first step down this path. Because once you start, you don’t get to stop. And you’re going to find out there’s a whole lot more to this world than you ever wanted to know.”

  “I appreciate the warning, but you will not dissuade a man who prizes knowledge with the argument that there are things man was not meant to know.”

  “Meant to know, hell. I’m talking about things you don’t want to know. I sure don’t want to know them.”

  And just like that, Suit closed up. Heath hadn’t thought he’d seen much expression on that ruddy-pale face, but it smoothed completely as Suit straightened and adjusted his tie again. Like someone had flicked his switch.

  “Mr. Cyr, I appreciate that you regret choices you have made in life, but those regrets are immaterial to this conversation.”

  “Fine,” said Heath with a shrug. “I’d say this conversation is over anyway. I’ve got some roots I want to grind before midnight—”

  “We are not done yet.”

  Heath raised his eyebrows and settled his tire thumper casually against his shoulder.

  “You were worried about eviction, but I think you know I have no legal reason to seek that. However, I am well within my legal rights to raise your rent. But that’s not all. Were you aware that utilities are not mentioned anywhere in your rental agreement? I can have them turned off immediately, and they would not be turned on again until you manage to set up your own accounts and get technicians out here to handle activation. Could take days. Maybe weeks. Hate to see you go that long without water, heat, electricity…”

  Suit had the gall to blink innocently. “Also, I spoke with my lawyer this afternoon. I might be able to pursue a claim against you for back utilities, given that I never had any legal obligation to provide them. Also—”

  “Pretty sure I get your point.” Heath smiled his old retail cashier smile, the one with a strong fuck-you undertone. “And you could do all that. Of course, karma’s a bitch. The universe might smack you down for this sort of thing. You know. Ruin your businesses, make you impotent, hit you with one nasty disease or another. All sorts of troubles raining down on your head.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “Does it?” Heath scratched his chin. “Here I just thought I was telling you how the universe doesn’t like nasty people. I mean, if I wanted to threaten you I’m already holding a bat. And besides, legally speaking, there’s no such thing as magic, right?”

  “My point is, matters need not come to this. I am prepared to offer you a deal that I think will serve us both much better.”

  “A deal where I have to dig you up a book I don’t believe exists?”