bookcase’s upper shelves. Well, well, well, Mr. Meritton was definitely a collector.
My cell phone buzzed again, but my attention had been caught by a slim, dull-colored book titled Treatise on the Cultural and Theological Divide Between the Bastai and the Anupu’mesu . The word Bastai had me backtracking in light of the current circumstances. The Bastai—meaning Cats like Harper who could trace their roots (however far) back to the Egyptian goddess Bast. The Anupu’mesu— Anupu being an ancient name for Anubis, mesu being loosely translated in ancient Egyptian to children . So specifically those Warhounds descended from Anubis rather than the Celtic goddess Epona.
My spider sense started tingling. I plucked the graycovered book from the shelf, noting from the magical buzz shooting up my fingers that no expense had been spared to protect its pages by magical means. Interesting. Not all of the arcane-centric books on the shelf had been so well preserved. In fact, most of them hadn’t been, or my skin would have started crawling the moment I got close to the bookshelf. Considering that magical preservation along with the book’s subject, I started thumbing to the table of contents.
Like most cops, I could speed-read with the best of librarians. I ran my gaze along brief but pithy chapter titles such as “History of the Bastai,” “Worship of Bastai in Ancient Egypt,” “Prominent Pharaohs and Their Ties to the Anupu’mesu,” and so on. About halfway down the page, however, my eyes widened and air whistled out through my teeth. Oh. My. Gods. “Bastai Counting Coup and Anupu’mesu Response to Same.”
My pulse picked up speed. That title could mean one thing and one thing alone: the Bastai proclivity for ripping out enemy tongues and the Warhound reciprocation using catnip. The fact that one of Harper’s exes had this particular book could have been coincidence. Or a mere stroke of luck for me since it could provide invaluable insight into the killer’s mind. But what was Paul Meritton? Innocent bystander who just happened to own a rare treatise on an equally rare kind of serial killer’s MO? Or bitter ex-lover who variously lusted after and scorned women, and had gone over the edge after discovering that his whore of an ex had started sleeping with the enemy?
My fingers tapped the table of contents page while a dozen thoughts raced through my mind. One way to get a feel for which theory might be closest to the truth presented itself, causing me to turn and stroll back to Meritton’s desk, expression oh-so-casual. I waited for an end to their discussion—which had been winding down over the past couple of minutes—and took advantage of a lull in the conversation.
“Quite a collection you’ve got over there, Paul.” It almost hurt me to call him that like he wanted, but I took one for the team. I even smiled and subtly batted my eyelashes at him, and that hurt a hell of a lot more. Scott’s eyes narrowed and fire lit inside, until I shifted slightly so he could read the book’s cover. Then realization set in and his anger dissipated.
Good boy.
Meritton blinked at the abrupt change in topic, and then he caught sight of the book in my hands. His reaction—pleased recognition and an eager grin—wasn’t what I expected. “Oh, yes, I see you’re a bibliophile after my own heart.” He stood and stepped toward his bookshelf, seeming interested in his collection as a whole rather than the specific book I held. “Spent a pretty penny collecting these—all first editions, of course. You won’t find a private collection to rival mine, and very few arcane museums house such a treasure trove of magical culture and history.”
“So you’re a—closet historian?”
His eyes sparkled with the first sign of true warmth I’d seen since walking into his office. “My undergraduate degree was in arcane anthropology. I switched tracks in graduate school to an MBA, which was when I met . . . Harper.”
My cell phone buzzed again, but my attention had been caught by a slim, dull-colored book titled Treatise on the Cultural and Theological Divide Between the Bastai and the Anupu’mesu . The word Bastai had me backtracking in light of the current circumstances. The Bastai—meaning Cats like Harper who could trace their roots (however far) back to the Egyptian goddess Bast. The Anupu’mesu— Anupu being an ancient name for Anubis, mesu being loosely translated in ancient Egyptian to children . So specifically those Warhounds descended from Anubis rather than the Celtic goddess Epona.
My spider sense started tingling. I plucked the graycovered book from the shelf, noting from the magical buzz shooting up my fingers that no expense had been spared to protect its pages by magical means. Interesting. Not all of the arcane-centric books on the shelf had been so well preserved. In fact, most of them hadn’t been, or my skin would have started crawling the moment I got close to the bookshelf. Considering that magical preservation along with the book’s subject, I started thumbing to the table of contents.
Like most cops, I could speed-read with the best of librarians. I ran my gaze along brief but pithy chapter titles such as “History of the Bastai,” “Worship of Bastai in Ancient Egypt,” “Prominent Pharaohs and Their Ties to the Anupu’mesu,” and so on. About halfway down the page, however, my eyes widened and air whistled out through my teeth. Oh. My. Gods. “Bastai Counting Coup and Anupu’mesu Response to Same.”
My pulse picked up speed. That title could mean one thing and one thing alone: the Bastai proclivity for ripping out enemy tongues and the Warhound reciprocation using catnip. The fact that one of Harper’s exes had this particular book could have been coincidence. Or a mere stroke of luck for me since it could provide invaluable insight into the killer’s mind. But what was Paul Meritton? Innocent bystander who just happened to own a rare treatise on an equally rare kind of serial killer’s MO? Or bitter ex-lover who variously lusted after and scorned women, and had gone over the edge after discovering that his whore of an ex had started sleeping with the enemy?
My fingers tapped the table of contents page while a dozen thoughts raced through my mind. One way to get a feel for which theory might be closest to the truth presented itself, causing me to turn and stroll back to Meritton’s desk, expression oh-so-casual. I waited for an end to their discussion—which had been winding down over the past couple of minutes—and took advantage of a lull in the conversation.
“Quite a collection you’ve got over there, Paul.” It almost hurt me to call him that like he wanted, but I took one for the team. I even smiled and subtly batted my eyelashes at him, and that hurt a hell of a lot more. Scott’s eyes narrowed and fire lit inside, until I shifted slightly so he could read the book’s cover. Then realization set in and his anger dissipated.
Good boy.
Meritton blinked at the abrupt change in topic, and then he caught sight of the book in my hands. His reaction—pleased recognition and an eager grin—wasn’t what I expected. “Oh, yes, I see you’re a bibliophile after my own heart.” He stood and stepped toward his bookshelf, seeming interested in his collection as a whole rather than the specific book I held. “Spent a pretty penny collecting these—all first editions, of course. You won’t find a private collection to rival mine, and very few arcane museums house such a treasure trove of magical culture and history.”
“So you’re a—closet historian?”
His eyes sparkled with the first sign of true warmth I’d seen since walking into his office. “My undergraduate degree was in arcane anthropology. I switched tracks in graduate school to an MBA, which was when I met . . . Harper.”
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