Stonecast

Ten

Alexandra

I never liked being down in the Wall Street area in the evenings. Once the suits and market makers had left, the neighborhood always became a bit of a ghost town. That night, however, it was a shame because as Desmond Locke’s driver pulled up in front of an abandoned and dilapidated church that sat in the shadow of Trinity Church on Trinity Place, I would have loved there to be a crowd around so that the three of us might stand a chance of escaping into it.

Instead, Desmond Locke stepped out of the car first, then gestured us out of it with the business end of his gun.

I stared up at the old church in front of us, the building one of my great-great-grandfather’s, but one that was relatively unfamiliar to me. It was more garish than his usual design, lacking the Gothic integrity of most of Alexander’s work in Manhattan, which I suppose made it no surprise that the building looked completely abandoned.

Its heavy wooden doors were boarded over with a mishmash of slats and boards, but despite their appearance, Locke guided us toward them. Once in the shadowy arch of the cruciform base of the church, he moved to the boards blocking the door. He grabbed at one of the solid beams, then easily lifted it on a hidden pivot point, which allowed him to swing open the mass of boards, revealing a cleverly disguised entrance into the building behind them. They swung away as one, and Locke, again gesturing with the gun in his hand, forced us in through them.

Once inside, he secured the door before he turned and motioned us forward through the entryway into the church proper.

I pushed through the inner doors, but what greeted me was nothing like what I expected. The large open nave I thought would be filled with rows and rows of pews and kneelers was instead bustling with activity that gave it more of an office-warehouse vibe. The left side of the enormous area was filled with office space and cubicles behind a half wall, and people working in there. The other side was stacked high with caged-off shelves crammed with boxes, books, and sundry other items I couldn’t identify from where I stood.

I stepped into the space of the main aisle down the middle of the room, taking it all in as the four of us walked along.

“This doesn’t exactly scream church to me,” I said.

“Nor should it,” he said, continuing on. “Let’s just call this a different affiliation of mine.”

I threw him a suspicious look. “I take it my father isn’t part of this particular religious affiliation?”

Desmond Locke shook his head.

“I should say not,” he said. “And I wouldn’t exactly call the Libra Concordia a religious endeavor, although its roots can be traced back through various denominations of Christianity.”

I stopped walking. “Libra Concordia?”

“Balance,” said Marshall, stepping forward. “With one heart.”

“Very good, Mr. Blackmoore,” Locke said. “You know your Latin.”

Marshall shrugged. “Dead languages and gaming go hand in hand.”

Locke laughed at that. “Apparently, they do.”

“What is this place?” I asked.

Rory stepped over to one of the open gates of the caged-off area and reached through it for one of the boxes on the shelves. “What is all this?”

Locke reached for her hand to stop her, but Rory’s reflexes were quicker, and she pulled away before he could grab her.

“We call it the Hall of Mysteries,” he said, “for lack of anything more imaginative, and it is just that.”

“How did you accumulate it?” I asked.

“We’ve amassed a great many findings over the years, things the Church might look upon as . . . miracles.”

“Or damnation,” Marshall added. “If any part of this is what I think it is . . .”

Desmond Locke folded his hands together, the gun still in his right one, but lowered now. “And what do you think this is, Mr. Blackmoore?”

“I think you have a whole lot of what you say . . . mysteries. But if the Church caught wind of this collection of yours, it could go one of two ways.”

“And those would be . . . ?” Locke smiled.

“If I go by history,” Marshall continued, “one perception would be that anything of power could be seen to be tools of the Devil by your Church, the types of things that got people burned at the stake or flayed alive.”

“What other way would the Church react?” Rory asked. “Going with that strategy seemed to get them through the Salem witch trials just fine.”

Marshall stepped to the restricted area, raised his hands, and looped his fingers through the gate itself, eyes looking at the contents behind it. “Well, some might see all this and reckon it as definitive proof of God. Technically, everything ‘magic’ here is a miracle. Either way, I’m pretty sure the Church wouldn’t want the world to know about any of this.”

“Marsh, you’re sounding conspiracy-crazy,” Rory said. “Like tinfoil-hat territory.”

Was it, though? I turned my attention back to Desmond Locke, who was standing there looking like he was almost enjoying all of this.

“Who are your people?” I asked. “What is a Libra Concordia?”

“We are the Libra Concordia,” he said, gesturing to indicate the entirety of the activity within the church. “Long ago, the Church decided in its wisdom that while much of its trade was invested in the idea of ‘miracles,’ there was much in the world that didn’t fit with the Church itself that could also be called ‘miraculous.’”

“Magic,” I said.

“As clever as your friend here,” Locke said with a nod. “So while some thought it best to burn witches and warlocks—their books, charms—there were also those in the fold who thought it best to keep track of such things instead of destroying them. Thus was the Libra Concordia born.”

Rory laughed, but there was bitterness in it. “And the powers that be are just fine with all this? Doesn’t it amount to blasphemy in their eyes?”

Desmond Locke gave a tight smile. “Let’s just say that the ideology of some of our members does not fall in line with many of the current administrations; I hear we are quite unpopular in Vatican City.”

“So you’re outlaws,” I said. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Locke.”

“Such an ugly word,” he said. “The early members of the Libra Concordia set about going underground centuries ago, men and women with a more . . . long-term view of what may or may not be gained by having such arcane knowledge.”

I smiled at that. I had always dismissed Desmond Locke as a religious fanatic, doing what he was told within the confines of the religion with which he held sway over my father, but it seemed there was more to him than just that. Desmond Locke was a freethinker and, in the eyes of his own religion, a bit of a heretic.

Locke raised his gun once again, but not at us, the barrel instead pointed straight up into the air. He wagged the firearm back and forth. “I trust I can dispense with this, Miss Belarus?”

“Preferably,” I said.

“Good,” he said, sliding the gun inside his jacket. “Dreadful things. Necessary at times, I suppose, but dreadful nonetheless.” He turned away from us without looking back and once more started down the center aisle of the church.

I looked to Rory, then Marshall, who half looked like he was ready to run for the doors. I raised my hands out in front of me, palms down.

“Steady,” I whispered. “Whatever these people are, we need to see this through.”

Marshall made to argue, but Rory elbowed him.

“Relax,” she said. “I’ve got your back.”

“You didn’t a second ago when there was a gun pointed at us,” he grumbled.

Rory went to argue back, but I laid a hand on her shoulder. “Save the bickering for home,” I said. “The gun’s put away. That’s a step in the right direction, yes?”

This seemed convincing enough for Marshall, and he walked off after Desmond Locke, Rory and I falling in behind him as quick as we could.

Marshall’s eyes fixed on the rows and rows of shelves off to our right as we continued down the aisle.

“So is there, like, an Arc of the Covenant down here?” Marshall asked.

Mr. Locke turned to look back at him. “I’ll have to check,” he said, “but I doubt it.”

Halfway down the waist-high wall of dark wood to our left, Locke swung open a hinged half door and ushered us into an area beyond it that was fill with a desk, several plush leather chairs, and a couch that sat to our right. He stepped behind the desk, gesturing to the empty chairs directly across from it. Marshall and I took the chairs while Rory sat on the edge of the couch, perched and ready for action at a moment’s notice.

“So why have you brought us here?” I asked.

“Do you know how your father and I met?”

I shrugged. “Bible study camp?”

Locke laughed. “No, not that young, I’m afraid,” he said. “I was already in my late twenties and working for this organization when we he and I met. I learned of him because the Libra Concordia keeps its ears to the ground when they hear rumors of strange things happening in the world.”

“Like when the image of Christ appears in a tortilla out in New Mexico?” Marshall asked.

Locke nodded. “Or a weeping statue of Mary or any variety of such things reported to us, yes.”

“Sounds tedious,” I said.

“Truthfully?” he said. “It is. But if discovering the great mysteries of the world were easy, everyone would take to our calling. Sadly, our numbers are few.”

“But why come after my father?” I asked, steering him back to the point of his original question.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Forgive me. I first came to New York decades ago, chasing down a particular story that was passing in hushed whispers throughout the churches here—that of a young boy who claimed he had seen an angel.”

I tried to hide any reaction to his words. “My father’s gone on and on about that all my life,” I said. I left out the part where only this past year I learned it had been the work of Stanis saving him from Kejetan’s cronies. Still, Locke definitely had my interest. What I needed to know was how much he and his Libra Concordia knew about the truth of it all. “Forgive me if I seem a bit bored hearing about my father’s angel again.”

“Your father was a persuasive man,” he said. “More so back then. By the time I tracked him down, and he told me his tale, I knew I had met someone special.”

“I won’t argue that,” I said. “Every girl thinks her daddy is special, after all.”

“Naturally,” he said with a patient smile. “But the Church’s official stance on miracles such as a visitation by the divine is a bit dismissive. They know there are those among their flock who simply make up stories or, in their fervor, believe they have actually seen such things. The Church doesn’t usually move on something until a whole village has seen a weeping statue or some such thing. But with my grander interests, well . . . I like to give even the craziest of tales due diligence. See how they play out.”

“You don’t sound like you believe in miracles,” I said.

Desmond Locke shrugged. “In my profession, you see proof of what falls in line with the arcane more than you do the divine.”

“And you don’t consider any of that miraculous?” I asked.

Locke shook his head.

Marshall cleared his throat and spoke. “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” he said.

I turned to look at him. “Did you just make that up?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “That honor belongs to Arthur C. Clarke.”

“But Mr. Blackmoore is more or less correct,” Locke pointed out.

“Care to explain?” I asked.

Marshall paused for a moment in thought before speaking. “Back in the good ole witch-burning days, people took the things they couldn’t explain and called them magic. Eclipses, magnetism, earthquakes. But over time, as we’ve discovered the how and why of things through science, the magical mystery of it all is sort of rolled back.”

“Precisely,” Locke said. “To my way of thinking, magic is simply a science we have yet to fully understand.”

“But what does that have to do with my father and angels?” I asked. “Angels still fall in the miracle category, right? Divine servants of God and all that?”

“And there’s the thing,” Locke said, leaning forward in his chair, whispering conspiratorially to me. “I don’t think your father saw an angel. I think it might have been something else.”

“Such as . . . ?” I said, holding on to the arms of my chair, my stomach clenching as I feared hearing Stanis’s name come from his lips.

“Of that I am not quite sure,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “That is where you come in.”

“If you’re so concerned about Alexandra’s father and what he saw, why not ask him?” Rory asked.

“Religion is an easy way to find the unexplainable at times,” Locke said. “I studied your father for years as we became friends. His belief in this divine angel was so strong that I was always reluctant to broach discussion of magic with him. I thought that if it was magic that was surely at hand, it would reveal itself over time, but your father never spoke of it.”

I laughed at the idea of my father’s having any working knowledge of the arcane world.

“But then,” Locke continued, “strange things started happening around him. The death of your brother, Devon, in that building collapse, the damage to the burial site beneath your family home, the damage tonight in your great-great-grandfather’s studio, and I thought to myself that perhaps your father wasn’t the best person in the family to be asking questions to.”

I shrugged and put on my best innocent face. “I know even less about my father and angels than you probably do,” I replied.

Desmond Locke’s eyes ran slowly over my face, no doubt looking for some hint of deception, but I didn’t think he’d find one. Technically, I knew nothing of my father and an actual angel. Had Desmond Locke been asking specifically about a gargoyle, my face might have told a different story, but I simply stared back at the man.

“Really, now,” he said. “I find it hard to believe that you, Alexandra—named for your great-great-grandfather—know nothing.”

I held up a finger and smiled. “I didn’t say I knew nothing.”

“So . . . what can you tell me?”

I held my tongue. If one of the rules set upon Stanis centuries ago had been to keep his gargoyle form hidden from humanity, who was I to screw that up? It was impressive Stanis had managed to pull it off for all this time in a city of millions, with security cameras and iPhones.

At that point, I wasn’t convinced that telling Desmond Locke or his Libra Concordia anything about the gargoyle was a smart idea. At least not on a first date.

Desmond Locke looked to Marshall, then to Rory, but as I suspected, neither of them was offering up anything either. He sighed.

“Very well,” he said. “I can perhaps understand your reluctance. These are dark and important matters, not to be taken lightly. But think of this: Something destroyed your family’s catacombs and your great-great-grandfather’s studio. If you’re as smart a girl as I think you to be, then you’re probably smart enough to be scared. The Libra Concordia has ways to help you with that.” He gestured to the caged-off area behind us. “We have the resources to help you, Alexandra, but you have to give me something.”

“How can I trust you?” I asked. “You claim to be a man of God yet you pulled a gun on us. You also know about the arcane world. How can I believe you when you’re a man of conflicting ideologies?”

He smiled across the desk at me. “You can be a man of God and believe in magic,” he said. “Or, as your friend Marshall called it, a science we do not yet fully grasp. After all, who gave science to us but God?”

It made a sort of sense, and I wanted to believe him, especially if it meant he might be of some help in getting Stanis back.

“I need some time to think,” I said. “I’m not the trusting sort.”

“He could have already shot us,” Rory whispered from behind me.

I spun around and glared at her over on the couch. “Not a compelling argument there, Ror.”

“Perhaps this will help,” Locke said, standing up. He walked to the edge of his office area and called out toward an area filled with other workers farther down the aisle. “Caleb!”

A figure rose from a shadowy corner of the offices farther along and stepped forward, heading down the aisle toward us. This Caleb stepped into a pool of light, revealing his muss of blond hair and long brown coat. They hadn’t changed much since I had last seen him in my great-great-grandfather’s guild hall.

The potion thief.

“You!” I shouted, only to get looks from the other people working around the office.

The strange man paused in the aisle, looking both sheepish and panicked at the same time. The hesitation lasted only for a second, but then he hurried down the aisle toward me, rolling his legs over the low wall and stepping into Locke’s office space. Rory was on her feet in an instant, but Marshall was taking his time, not having actually seen the man that night.

Mr. Locke gave him a raised eyebrow. “You two know each other, Mr. Kennedy?”

“We’ve met,” he shouted out before I could get an answer out. “Big fan of her great-grandfather’s work.”

He moved across the space quickly as he came to join us.

“Great-great-grandfather,” I corrected.

“Yes, of course,” he said, not missing a beat, laying his hands on my shoulders. “Great-great-grandfather. She and I met at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We were both studying some of his statues there. So good to see you again.”

Caleb Kennedy’s eyes stayed with mine, locked, the smile on his face wide and forced, wavering slightly. His hands on my shoulders dug in hard, almost causing me to cry out, but I held it in, trying to read this man who—last time I had seen him—had knocked Rory unconscious.

Examining his face as best I could in our short reintroduction, I decided to play along. We were both of us in mixed company at the moment, and I doubted much could happen that was harmful this time, so I went along with whatever he was doing.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course. I remember.” I turned to my friends. “Rory, Marshall. This is . . .”

“Caleb,” he said to them. The blond’s face washed with relief, and he let go of my shoulders to vigorously shake hands with both my friends. Marshall, who had never seen him before, took Caleb’s hand and shook first, but Rory only did so reluctantly, and when she did, there was a burning fire set deep in her eyes.

Caleb mouthed the word “sorry” to her, but it did nothing to change her expression, and he quickly dropped his hand away from her before stepping back toward Desmond Locke.

Locke eyed Caleb with a hint of suspicion, but the blond’s face didn’t falter. He simply stared at his boss, waiting.

“As a token of trust,” Locke said, “I want you to help Miss Belarus here in one of the reference rooms with anything pertaining to her family.”

Caleb’s eyes went wide like those of a child. “Really?”

“You can handle that, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation, and turned. “Please follow me.”

Rory, Marshall, and I fell in behind him, but Desmond Locke’s words stopped us all.

“Just Miss Belarus,” he said. “For now.”

I looked over at him. “Why not all of us?” I asked.

Caleb stopped as well and turned back to Desmond Locke.

“The things we keep record of are precious to us,” Locke said. “And since you’re being a bit tight-lipped with me about your father’s angel, Miss Belarus, I will do the same in return. As I said, this is a token of our trust, one that may turn into a mutually beneficial arrangement, but it is just that. A token. So for now, only Miss Belarus may have access to our records. If things go well, I promise your friends will be welcome in the future.”

Rory shook her head and stepped up to Locke. “I’m not leaving Lexi alone with him,” she said.

I laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be fine,” I said, pulling her away from him, then lowered my voice. “Do you really think blondie’s going to start trouble here?”

Rory didn’t look convinced, but she relented and went to stand by Marshall.

Caleb turned and again started off down the main aisle of the converted church, and I followed him all the way to the back of it, leaving my friends and Desmond Locke behind us. I only hoped they would be safe with him.

Past the caged-off area to our right lay a series of doors, and Caleb headed for the one farthest back. I remained silent as we stepped in, and he shut the door behind us, which left the two of us alone in a stylish one-room book-lined library with a wide reading table at the center.

Locke’s man smiled at me with such a level of smugness that I couldn’t help but run to him and slam him up against the wall until I was pressing my forearm across his throat. “You want to tell me why you lied to Desmond Locke and his Libra Concordia about how we previously met?” I asked. “Or maybe why you attacked us?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he croaked out, already trying to struggle his way out from under my arm, but I wouldn’t let up. He was probably stronger than me, but I was riled and pushed even harder as he tried to wrench my arm away from his throat.

“So that wasn’t you who gave my good friend Rory a concussion, then?” I asked.

“Okay, fine, yes,” he said. His hands slid between my arm and his throat, and he pried himself free with a mighty shove, forcing me back from him. He held his hands up in the air. “But I can explain!”

I walked away from him and leaned back on the reading table in the middle of the room, careful not to knock over one of the gorgeous green banker’s lamps on it.

“This should be interesting,” I said.

The man let out a long sigh and straightened his long brown coat while he collected himself. “I did break into your building,” he said, “but that’s not something I want the Libra Concordia to know.”

“Oh no?”

He shook his head. “I’m not really part of them,” he said. “I’m more of a freelancer. Yes, I do a lot of jobs here for them, but there’s much I do on the side, some things I suspect the Concordia would not like to hear about. By the way, thank you for that save out there with Locke.”

“Why wouldn’t they like to hear about your other jobs?” I asked, ignoring his thanks. I wasn’t quite sure whether or not I was going to regret that decision just yet.

Caleb paused, and I saw him struggling to find the right words.

“They would consider much of my life outside them a bit too proactive in the magic department,” he said. “They’re more of a watchdog group. They generally shy away from, you know, actually interacting with the arcane. Me? I’m much more of an . . . interacter.”

“And Desmond Locke trusts you, a freelancer?”

Caleb held his hand out flat, moved it back and forth. “They trust me well enough,” he said. “Locke and his people are not really fans of getting their hands dirty. So they hire freelancers when it comes to their more arcane or shady dealings.”

“And breaking into my building isn’t shady dealings?” I asked.

Caleb’s face screwed up into a look of indecision. “It is, and it isn’t,” he said.

I folded my arms across my chest. “So tell me how breaking and entering both is and isn’t shady.”

Caleb walked past me to the other side of the table and settled himself into the large leather reading chair there. “It’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose. Eight months ago, your family’s lot on Saint Mark’s was a pile of collapsed rubble, and before that it was a building no one had touched in decades. It was vacant. No one lived there, but there was something special to be had at that location for someone in my line of work.”

“And what exactly is your line of work?” I asked.

He pulled open his coat, revealing tubes and vials lining it in a well-stitched array up and down both sides.

“Alchemy,” he said.

Hearing the word actually gave me pause.

Many of the roots of Alexander’s Spellmasonry were in alchemy. Despite Caleb’s having been an intruder in my home, I couldn’t help but soften a bit, focusing on the fact that I was dealing with a fellow practitioner of my solo endeavors in an arcane art. I couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Is there a secret handshake I need to know?” I asked.

He smiled back.

“We could make one up, I suppose,” he said, “but as far as I know? No.” He closed his coat and leaned forward. “So here I am, a year ago, an alchemist who discovers an unguarded, unattended stash of one of the great lost alchemical properties in the world. Kimiya. Do you know what a find that was to an alchemist? It changed everything as far as my profit margin was concerned. It’s a universal conductor in so much of a specific line of magic. Finding that stash of it on Saint Mark’s made a lot of my freelance work child’s play comparatively. Potent stuff, that.”

“And in limited supply,” I remind him. And mine, I thought to myself.

“And in limited supply,” he repeated with a nod, leaning back in the chair. He crossed his hands over each other. “And here we are.”

That smug look was back on his face, only this time I was more curious than angry. “So what now?” I asked.

Caleb shrugged. “Well, you heard Desmond Locke,” he said. “He wants us to work together. He and the Libra Concordia are concerned with this ‘angel’ that watches over your family, but we both know that’s no angel.”

“It isn’t?” I replied, not wanting to give anything up too willingly.

The man shook his head. “I’ve seen things in this city,” he said. “I’ve seen your golem, your winged stone man. When your building collapsed on Saint Mark’s months ago—cutting me off from my supply, by the way—I watched that site with a very vested curiosity for some time. I’ve seen you and your friends there, including that flying automaton of yours. Yes, I’ve seen him, too.”

My heart jumped. He’d seen Stanis? I tried to keep my face reactionless. He stared at me in silence, and all I could do was meet his eyes, not talking. I still didn’t trust this stranger. I already felt violated enough that we had been spied on.

When I offered him nothing, he sat up and spoke once more. “Look, I don’t care about whatever that golem is to you,” he said. “Frankly, I was glad he was around to help you clear all that rubble, which made it possible for me to once again access the Kimiya kept in that impervious room of yours. But I’m imagining right about now you and I share a very similar problem, alchemically speaking.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“I haven’t been able to figure out how to make Kimiya,” he said. “And I bet you haven’t, either. The Concordia has some notes on Alexander Belarus, but they are speculative, incomplete . . . They don’t provide a recipe or the ingredients I need to create that elixir. I’ve thought about trying to reverse engineer it, but there are too many unknowns. Your great-great-grandfather has kept this secret well, Alexandra.”

“The man loved him some puzzles,” I said, a pained smile coming to my lips as I recalled the shattered statues and boxes back in the art studio.

“Between the two of us, I sense potential for some real genius happening,” he said. “I’ve got access to a lot of information here at the Concordia, and I’m sure you’ve got some family knowledge, right? I can feed Locke some dead ends looking for this angel of his, and the two of us can find your great-great-grandfather’s secret. Think about it. We won’t have to rely on what little Kimiya is left in Alexander’s legacy. I wasn’t lying when I said I was a big fan of his work.”

Part of Caleb’s needs were the same as mine. I was going to need more Kimiya; Rory, Marshall, and I were going to need it if we were ever going to push through the arcane creative wall of creating other large-form animated statues. All we had was Bricksley to stand against Kejetan and the Servants of Ruthenia. Spirited though he was, I didn’t think he was going to cut it as the “army” Stanis had instructed me to prepare in his time-buying absence. Trusting an admitted thief went against my grain, but Caleb might prove helpful both in figuring out how to produce Kimiya and in using it to move past our army of one.

“No more breaking and entering?” I asked.

Caleb shook his head. “Consider your home off-limits,” he said, crossing his heart. “Besides, I’m pretty well stocked up right now.”

The smile faltered on my face. “Don’t remind me,” I said.

He leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “And it’s probably best if we don’t let Desmond in on any part of this plan of ours.”

I looked to the door, making sure it was still closed. “I would prefer he not know anything about our family’s ‘angel,’” I said. “For now, anyway.”

“Locke is going to want something from you,” Caleb said. “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.”

I nodded, conceding the point. “I figured that out when he pulled the gun on me earlier tonight,” I said. “But there’s some bones I can throw him, some leads in our family’s private archives about actual angel statues that Alexander carved in Manhattan. That should keep him misdirected for a bit.”

It felt strange choosing to trust the guy who had broken into my great-great-grandfather’s guild hall. Still, it beat trusting the man who had brought me to this church at gunpoint.

Caleb was the first active practitioner of any kind of alchemy that I had met, and that went further in the trust department than a secret organization working clandestinely within the confines of organized religion to gather magic and keep it on a shelf.

“Let’s get to work,” I said. “Do you keep an alchemy lab here?”

Caleb rose and went to the door, checking to see if anyone was around. When he seemed confident we were alone, he turned back to me. “We can’t set up here,” he whispered. “They frown on actual magic use on the premises.”

“So you don’t you have a lab for all this?”

“I had a lab,” he said, a bit testily, I thought. “But somebody made the building it was in collapse.”

I thought about calling him a squatter in my family’s building but decided to let it slide. Chastising could wait. We needed a place to set up, and although I trusted him more than I did Desmond Locke, I did not trust him enough that I wanted him back in my home again.

“Come with me,” I said, heading over to him for the door. “I think I know a place.”

Caleb pulled the door open with a low, gentlemanly bow. “After you, m’lady,” he said.

I couldn’t help but smile at that, continuing out into the church proper.

“Will it be safe?” Caleb asked, falling in step at my side.

“Based on my personal lack of prowess?” I said. “Probably not, but we can worry about that later. We’ve got enough to worry about now.”

“Why?” he asked. “What do we have to worry about now?”

“Right now?” I said, my mind still trying to absorb the totality of the evening’s events so far. “Right now I need to convince Marshall that he won’t need to take out an extra fire-insurance policy to cover us.”

“Hope you’re convincing,” Caleb said.

“Hopefully, I can fake it.”