Blood Tally

Chapter 10

There are a lot of reasons that professionals don’t hire witches for scrying. Confidentiality is a big one: witches share everything with their coven. The stereotype that witches are a bunch of chatty old women – and sometimes men – who will talk about anything with literally anyone is a stereotype for a reason. Another reason involves their chain of command. While there are occasional witches with inherent power, most of them have struck a deal with a powerful Other and that Other will find out why its servant was hired.

For me, it’s trust. Collecting that debt when I was seventeen and then getting hives for my effort has given me a lifelong aversion to any witch. I’m a professional, and I want other professionals to treat me as such. Beyond my own experience, I don’t know anyone who works with the Other that doesn’t have a horror story about the witch next door or the cousin who hired a coven for some such thing.

So witches are always off the table. Or at least, they were.

Olivia Martin’s house was much the same as when I was there a little over a week ago to collect that grimoire. Only one thing had changed: there was a little sign in the window that said CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. CONSULTATIONS AVAILABLE BY APPOINTMENT.

I flinched at that sign, thinking back to how clearly pissed she’d been over the whole Cleveland Coven lawsuit. Me smashing up her kitchen had forced her to close her doors at a time she probably needed her regular income more than normal. I stood on the front step, waiting for her to open the door before I’d even knocked. No one came out to greet me. I could hear the sound of heavy metal playing through the window and someone singing along with it badly.

I’m having second thoughts, I told Maggie.

Don’t come crying to me. I told you this was stupid. Witches can’t be trusted. You’re the one who insisted on driving all the way out here.

The drive over from the west side had let me cool off a bit. I was less pissed at Father Orrock and his thrall runaways than I was with myself now, and only in the last few minutes had I really decided that I might be acting out of anger. But like Maggie said, I’d already driven all the way out here. Before I could change my mind, I knocked hard on the door.

I heard a thump, then a bunch of swearing. A few moments passed before the music turned off and footsteps pounded angrily across the living room. As the door swung open, I heard, “Goddamn it, can’t you read? I’m closed for … oh. It’s you.”

Olivia was wearing an old Jack Daniel’s T-shirt and cutoff denim short shorts. Her hair was tied back by a handkerchief and there was a splash of green paint across her nose. She glared up at me, a paint roller held off to one side. I craned my neck to look over her shoulder. In the last eight days she had disposed of the broken oven and table and all of her hanging racks. The kitchen was empty except for the fridge, the walls taped off for a paint job, everything from the counters piled in one corner of the living room.

“Were you listening to Sabaton?” I asked.

She sniffed. “Yeah. So what?”

“I didn’t peg you for a Swedish historical metal sort of lady.”

“Shocking.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Can I help you with something, Alex?”

“Alek.”

She glared at me.

I smiled back with my best charming smile. It didn’t work. I continued, “I was hoping to hire you for some scrying.”

Her glare softened a little but did not go away. “Since when do reapers hire nondenominational practitioners of witchcraft?”

“The fact that you’re not a coven member helps with the decision. Also because I’m stuck up a tree right now.”

She tapped the roller absently against her leg, not seeming to notice the fact that she’d just gotten paint all over herself. Finally, she pointed the roller back toward her kitchen. “You tell me why Grimoire Lending is giving me the runaround on their insurance, pinning me for six thousand dollars’ worth of repairs on my kitchen, and then we can talk about your bit of scrying.”

“I don’t …” I don’t know almost came out of my mouth, but I stopped myself before it finished. I frowned over her shoulder and took out my cell phone. When she began to ask me what I was doing, I held up one finger. Searching through my contacts, I found one and dialed the number. It rang twice before it picked up.

“Grimoire Lending, Client Outreach, this is Jacob speaking.”

“Jacob,” I said, “this is Alek Fitz from Valkyrie Collections. I need to talk to someone about a recent overdue book collection.”

“Hello, Alek! I can handle that for you.”

“Oh, good.” I put on my very best annoyed businessman voice. “Then maybe you can explain to me why Olivia Martin is threatening to sue both Grimoire Lending and Valkyrie Collections over that goddamn popup demon that attacked me last week.” Olivia gestured urgently at me. I waved her off. “I had to smash up her kitchen to destroy it and your insurance should be paying for the whole thing. So why is she calling me every couple hours pissed as hell?”

There was a long period of time when I only heard the sound of typing on a keyboard. Finally, Jacob said, “She’s really that mad, huh?”

“Wouldn’t you be? Her kitchen was trashed. We were attacked by a cursed book you failed to warn either of us about. I mean, her lawsuit against Valkyrie Collections will get thrown out in minutes. But against Grimoire? Shit, man, that could stretch on for years and it’s going to cost you guys a bunch of money. I’m ninety percent sure if you write her a check immediately she’ll go away. But I’m also sure that if I have to spend the rest of the year going to court cases to testify against you guys, Ada Valk is going to seriously reconsider her relationship with Grimoire Lending.”

Another long silence. “Could you hold, please?”

“Sure.” Instrumental music began to play, and I muted my phone.

“What the hell are you doing?” Olivia demanded. “I’m not threatening to sue anyone. If I pulled some shit like that, I would never be able to borrow another grimoire again.”

I said, “I’ve never worked with Grimoire Lending before, but I know they take their reputation very seriously. It’s a gamble, but …”

“Don’t gamble with my career!” Olivia cut me off. “Look, you smashed up my kitchen, I lost months’ worth of work of herbs, my AC broke two days later. I don’t have time for this.” To my surprise, she slammed the door in my face.

I stared at the door unhappily, still listening to the on-hold music on my phone. Well that went well, I said to Maggie.

She snickered in the corner of my mind.

I need to have a more supportive friend living in my head.

And I need my house stuck on the finger of someone just a little smoother, Maggie replied. We can’t all get what we want.

I was just about to turn away when I heard a phone ringing inside the house. Curious, I stayed and tried to listen. All I could hear was muffled talking. Nothing came of it, so I headed back to my truck. I was at the sidewalk when Olivia’s door opened. I glanced over my shoulder at her. She was eyeballing me with a mixture of irritation and … something. She’d gotten rid of her paint roller and was holding a cellphone.

The music on my phone suddenly switched off. “Mr. Fitz?”

“I’m still here,” I said.

“Jacob here. We’ve taken care of the problem. Ms. Martin shouldn’t be bothering you anymore. Please call me back if there are any further issues.”

I thanked him and then hung up, turning back toward Olivia. I jerked a thumb at my truck. “Should I be running?” I asked.

“No,” she replied petulantly. “Come on in.”

I joined in her in the living room. It smelled strongly of paint, despite all the windows being open. It was also at least ninety degrees. I could see why she had been in such a bad mood when I arrived. “So …”

She set her phone down and whirled on me. “You’re lucky.”

“Yeah?”

“The owner called. He offered me twenty grand to sign some papers promising I wouldn’t sue them. Also gave me two years unlimited, free borrowing if I never say a bad word in public or private about Grimoire.”

“Reputation is king.” I smiled at her. The flicker of a smile crossed her face. I could see the genuine relief in her eyes and guessed that she was stretched even thinner than I thought. I sympathized, I really did. “Sorry about your kitchen,” I said. “I should have tried to help earlier.”

She waved away the apology. “I’m feeling pretty good about that help right now. So tell me what you need scryed.”

I can’t believe that worked, Maggie said in disbelief.

I grinned inwardly at her. See? I can be smooth. Sometimes.

Olivia cleared away some of the mess, and we sat down on opposite ends of her couch. Over the next five minutes, I sketched out the basics of the Michael Pavlovich job. I left out a lot of the details and leaned hard on my own distaste with the job. I’d already decided to be as honest as I could with her about what I was doing and why. The last thing I needed was to regain her trust only to trick her into helping with a runaway – especially because I had no idea how she’d feel about the whole situation morally. I didn’t know why I wanted to keep her trust, but I felt like it was a good idea.

When I’d finished, Olivia pursed her lips and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and thoughtfully. “Tracking down runaway slaves is gross,” she told me.

“I’m aware.”

“On the other hand …” She spread her hands. “A good portion of my income comes from spying on people’s most intimate moments. And I’ve made a love potion or two in my time. I don’t do it anymore,” she hurriedly added, “but I have. So I’m not going to judge. At least not too much.”

Oh yeah. That’s another reason professionals don’t like working with witches. When learning how to make a date rape drug is part of your internship, your profession might not have much moral depth.

“So you’ll do it?” I asked.

“Can you pay in cash?”

I pulled out my roll of bribe twenties and peeled off ten of them, setting them on the coffee table. She raised one eyebrow.

“Give me the pillowcase,” she said.

I handed over the pillowcase I’d taken from the halfway home and leaned back on the couch while Olivia puttered around her living room, checking the boxes of stuff from her kitchen and making a small pile of ingredients on the coffee table. She finally seemed to finish her search. She turned the pillowcase back to the right way out and picked over it carefully for several hairs that she set on a little silver plate. When she’d finished that, she looked up at me expectantly.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Could you wait outside? I know this is weird, but I scry better naked. It’s a nature thing.”

Despite myself, I could feel my cheeks turn a little red. “Of course, of course,” I said, just a little too quickly. I hurried out the front door as she began to draw a pentagram on her coffee table. I returned to my truck, where I busied myself by checking emails and perusing some of the genealogy forums that I’d gotten to know so well over the last week. Maggie and I were in the middle of a discussion over the moral implications of the different kinds of necromancy when Olivia opened her front door and waved me inside. I checked the clock. It had been almost forty minutes.

Her brow was furrowed when I came in, and I saw a book lying out on the coffee table next to the pentagram and other ingredients. I sat down on the couch at her indication. She knelt across from me at the coffee table, not meeting my eyes. She opened her mouth, seemed to think better of whatever she was about to say, and remained silent.

“Something went wrong,” I guessed, feeling my own frustration bubbling when I could see the answer in her expression.

“Here’s the thing,” she said. She drummed her fingers on the book, then flipped it closed so I could see the cover. It was called The Magic of the Common Man. “You said you’ve never actually tracked down a thrall, right?”

I nodded.

“First thing you need to know is that runaway thralls always cover their tracks. It’s surprisingly easy.” She tapped the book again. “This says it’s a tincture of garlic, rosemary, silver dust, and a handful of other junk that they apply to their necks not unlike cologne. It’s a basic protective tincture against vampires used for thousands of years, and it also keeps their masters from being able to find them through the sorcerous link created by their contract. Unfortunately for us, it also protects them from basic scrying. I can tell that Michael is still alive. I can tell he’s scared and in hiding. But I can’t tell where he is or what he’s doing at the moment.”

“Well,” I said, not bothering to hide my disappointment. This whole thing had been a waste of time, and that same depressed anger was starting to come back. “Shit.”

Olivia held up one finger. “I can keep an eye on him. I call it a rolling scry: as long as I renew the spell every twenty-four hours, my sorcery will keep looking for him passively. I can tell you if he moves a great distance – like hopping a flight – and if the tincture wears off I should be able to give you a firm location.”

Information helped me fight off my irritation. “Okay, that could be useful.” I got up, feeling a sudden pressure of pent-up energy. I needed to go for a walk, get some lunch, think this whole thing over. “I appreciate the help. How much will it cost me for this rolling scry?”

Olivia pursed her lips. “I can keep it up for a few days for no extra charge. Longer than that, I’ll need another two hundred dollars.”

“Fair enough.” We shook hands, and I left pleasantly surprised that my interaction with a witch had gone well for a change. I drove to the closest McDonalds, ordered a shitload of nuggets, and sat in a booth, cramming them into my face while I considered my predicament. Olivia seemed fairly confident she could find Michael. But until then? What do you think Boris’s blood tally has that’s so valuable to Jacques? I asked Maggie.

He claimed there’d be evidence of wrongdoing.

There’s got to be something else. A book of contracts could have anything in it.

Maggie hummed to herself thoughtfully. Agreed. Maybe … maybe we forget about Michael for a little while. Olivia is the competent type. She’ll keep her eye out for him to slip up.

And what do I do in the meantime? I asked. Waste more time on genealogy forums?

You could do that, but it’s not quite what I had in mind. Personally, I’d like to know what Boris was doing the day we met him.

I leaned back in my booth, absently counting the McNuggets left in the box and wondering if I should get another twenty to help lift my mood. I thought about this for a while. He had a trifold stand and a bunch of poster boards.

Yeah. And he really didn’t seem to want you to see them, if I remember right. I was going to say something at the time, but he was such a piece of shit it slipped my mind.

Maybe it was just me grasping at straws, but that did seem weird. Auction? I suggested. He might have been selling some antiques.

Maggie didn’t answer. I ruminated on the thought for several minutes, finishing up my nuggets and getting another box of them for the road. Maggie was right. If I couldn’t find Michael, it was time to find out if there was anything out of the ordinary in Boris’s blood tally.