coin dangle freely. “I think my great-great-grandmother was a bit of a huckster. What I do know is that it gets sensitive in places where reality’s gone thin. Just have to concentrate a little, and . . . ”
I took a step toward the closet. Slowly, as if nudged by an unfelt breeze, the coin began to turn.
The closer I came to the closet, the faster it turned, revolving counterclockwise at the end of the chain. Then I stepped inside. The coin spun like a top, and the chain links twisted until they pinched my fingers like tiny mousetraps. The coin hung in the air, straining, trembling.
I stepped out of the closet. The coin went slack. It spun the other way, suddenly lifeless, as the twisted-up chain unwound itself and relaxed. I slipped it back into my jacket pocket.
“It teleports,” I said. “Came in and out of the closet, but it came from somewhere else.”
“Any way to track it?” Jessie asked.
I shook my head. “Not sure. Let me think about it. Maybe I’ll come up with something.”
We poked around the rest of the house, but it was a lost cause. Nothing to see, and the cambion had turned the place upside down. If they’d taken something with them when they ran, we’d never know what it was.
“I’ve got nothing,” Jessie said. “Just an aching lip and an empty stomach.”
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until she said it. “Yeah, sounds good. Let’s call it. Maybe we can come back in the morning, see the place with fresh eyes.”
Out in the front yard, trudging across the scraggly, tangled grass, something by the edge of the sidewalk caught my eye. It was a wicker ornament, about the size of my fist, hammered into the grass at the end of a short iron spike. I knelt beside it and waved Jessie over.
“Have you got a penlight? There’s something here.”
She crouched next to me and shined a thin, steady beam on the ornament. It was like a Möbius strip times ten, one long wicker ribbon twisting around and around and looping inside itself. The light caught the faint, almost invisible traces of needle-thin glyphs inscribed on the wicker, in a language I’d never seen before.
“Think the cambion dropped that when they ran?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Don’t think so. That little spike is holding it into the dirt. Somebody planted it here, deliberately. Should be an evidence kit in the trunk; let’s bag it up and take it with us.”
“Good call. April can check it out. First, though, food. I need red meat and beer, not necessarily in that order.”
It wasn’t easy, this late at night, finding a place with open doors, let alone an open kitchen. We ended up at the Spit and Whistle, a barbecue joint with tables carved from tree logs and lit by strung-up Christmas tree lights. We settled into a booth by the kitchen while Lynyrd Skynyrd rocked out on an old Wurlitzer jukebox.
“The waitresses are wearing brown-felt fox ears on headbands,” I said to Jessie. “I’m a little lost on the theme here.”
“Red meat and beer,” she said, buried in the sauce-stained paper menu.
She repeated herself when a waitress came over, then added, “Specifically, the brisket burger, and all the toppings. Rare. Rare as pirate gold. Just wave a candle in its general direction. What’s on tap?”
“All the classics, plus we brew our own ale on site. It’s an IPA with a medium body, a little nutty—”
“Sold.”
“I’ll have the barbecue chicken salad,” I said when she looked my way, “and a Diet Coke, please.”
“Living dangerously,” Jessie said. When the waitress left, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “How’s your cheek?”
“Stings,” I said. “How’s your lip?”
“Hurts. My pride took a worse beating, though.”
“Jessie, we need to talk about this.”
“My pride?” she asked.
I leaned closer, taking a quick look around.
“I watched you fold a man’s bones like a piece of dirty laundry. And your eyes were glowing when you did
I took a step toward the closet. Slowly, as if nudged by an unfelt breeze, the coin began to turn.
The closer I came to the closet, the faster it turned, revolving counterclockwise at the end of the chain. Then I stepped inside. The coin spun like a top, and the chain links twisted until they pinched my fingers like tiny mousetraps. The coin hung in the air, straining, trembling.
I stepped out of the closet. The coin went slack. It spun the other way, suddenly lifeless, as the twisted-up chain unwound itself and relaxed. I slipped it back into my jacket pocket.
“It teleports,” I said. “Came in and out of the closet, but it came from somewhere else.”
“Any way to track it?” Jessie asked.
I shook my head. “Not sure. Let me think about it. Maybe I’ll come up with something.”
We poked around the rest of the house, but it was a lost cause. Nothing to see, and the cambion had turned the place upside down. If they’d taken something with them when they ran, we’d never know what it was.
“I’ve got nothing,” Jessie said. “Just an aching lip and an empty stomach.”
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until she said it. “Yeah, sounds good. Let’s call it. Maybe we can come back in the morning, see the place with fresh eyes.”
Out in the front yard, trudging across the scraggly, tangled grass, something by the edge of the sidewalk caught my eye. It was a wicker ornament, about the size of my fist, hammered into the grass at the end of a short iron spike. I knelt beside it and waved Jessie over.
“Have you got a penlight? There’s something here.”
She crouched next to me and shined a thin, steady beam on the ornament. It was like a Möbius strip times ten, one long wicker ribbon twisting around and around and looping inside itself. The light caught the faint, almost invisible traces of needle-thin glyphs inscribed on the wicker, in a language I’d never seen before.
“Think the cambion dropped that when they ran?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Don’t think so. That little spike is holding it into the dirt. Somebody planted it here, deliberately. Should be an evidence kit in the trunk; let’s bag it up and take it with us.”
“Good call. April can check it out. First, though, food. I need red meat and beer, not necessarily in that order.”
It wasn’t easy, this late at night, finding a place with open doors, let alone an open kitchen. We ended up at the Spit and Whistle, a barbecue joint with tables carved from tree logs and lit by strung-up Christmas tree lights. We settled into a booth by the kitchen while Lynyrd Skynyrd rocked out on an old Wurlitzer jukebox.
“The waitresses are wearing brown-felt fox ears on headbands,” I said to Jessie. “I’m a little lost on the theme here.”
“Red meat and beer,” she said, buried in the sauce-stained paper menu.
She repeated herself when a waitress came over, then added, “Specifically, the brisket burger, and all the toppings. Rare. Rare as pirate gold. Just wave a candle in its general direction. What’s on tap?”
“All the classics, plus we brew our own ale on site. It’s an IPA with a medium body, a little nutty—”
“Sold.”
“I’ll have the barbecue chicken salad,” I said when she looked my way, “and a Diet Coke, please.”
“Living dangerously,” Jessie said. When the waitress left, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “How’s your cheek?”
“Stings,” I said. “How’s your lip?”
“Hurts. My pride took a worse beating, though.”
“Jessie, we need to talk about this.”
“My pride?” she asked.
I leaned closer, taking a quick look around.
“I watched you fold a man’s bones like a piece of dirty laundry. And your eyes were glowing when you did
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