Chapter 5

Jenkins's reading room hid behind a purple curtain—velvet, of course—at the back of his house. Salt lamps and herb-scented candles softly lit the massive bookshelves that lined the walls. In the middle of the space was a low, circular, glass-topped table surrounded by a trio of wooden chairs.

Three chairs… almost like Jenkins had predicted he'd soon have two guests.

"Please take a seat," he murmured. As we obeyed, the diviner narrowed his eyes at me. "I did not expect you to be in league with the MPD, young man."

Lienna opened her mouth, possibly to explain how I was a subjugated prisoner coerced into aiding my captors at the risk of an eternity in solitary confinement, and I snuck her a warning look. She shut her mouth.

If we wanted answers from this guy, I needed to control what we shared with him or he would clam up like Al Capone's most loyal lackey. Not that him clamming up was all that big of a deal, but I had an act to maintain.

"Special circumstances," I replied quickly. "Quentin is in danger. I'll do anything—or work with anyone—to help him."

Jenkins frowned. "In danger? What kind of danger?"

"He escaped MPD custody yesterday—but you know that, because he came to see you."

Jenkins blinked in surprise, and I suppressed a triumphant grin. What do you know? I'd guessed right.

I leaned forward. "Did he tell you what he's after?"

"After?"

I studied his startled expression, weighing the likelihood of sincerity, and decided he was totally out to sea. Good.

"He escaped for a reason," I continued smoothly. It was entirely possible I wasn't lying. Quentin always had a plan. "And whatever he's going for next—it's gonna be nasty stuff. Plus, Quentin wrecked the precinct on his way out. He's this close"—I held up my finger and thumb an inch apart—"to a big fat bounty on his head."

"Once the guilds start hunting him, he won't stand a chance," Lienna added, catching on to my tactic. "But if we find him first, we can protect him—from the MPD, from a bounty, and from himself."

Worry creased Jenkins's forehead. "I see."

"What do you know about KCQ?" she asked.

"They are a psychic guild parading as a law firm—or were, I should say. They were disbanded, were they not? Hardly a shame. Thieves and con artists, the lot of them." He clicked his tongue. "I advised Quentin more than once that he should extract himself. It was foolish of him—and you as well, Kit—to get involved."

A little late for that advice, Judgy McJudgerson.

"The guild's fall was quite dramatic," he went on in a reminiscent tone. "A guild master murdered by another guild? The celestial spirits were in a tizzy."

Quitedramatic was a massive understatement. Around a month ago, another guild, the Crow and Hammer, had caught wind of KCQ's more creative endeavors. Quentin had ended up in MPD custody as a result—and our guild master, Rigel, had proceeded to lose his mind. He'd been obsessed with Quentin's power and blamed the interfering guild for his super-empath's arrest.

And, like a genius, he'd launched a vendetta against them.

We psychics have cool powers and all, but in direct combat, mages and sorcerers kick our asses every time. Needless to say, our GM's attack on the much grittier Crow and Hammer had been an unmitigated disaster-circus. Rigel had been killed, our new office had burned to the ground, and our guild had been disbanded. Cue my doomed flight from the city.

The whole thing was insane. You could write an entire book about that shitshow.

"You don't know the half of it, man," I told Jenkins. "Now MagiPol is trying to save face, and if Quentin causes any more trouble, they'll make an example of him whether he deserves it or not."

Ignoring my badmouthing of her precious employer, Lienna kept her focus on the diviner. "If we can get to Quentin first, we can help him escape serious charges and get his life on track."

Jenkins pondered everything we'd said, and I let him stew over it. Silence was a powerful tool if you knew how to use it. As it stretched into uncomfortable territory, Lienna glanced at me. I gave my head a tiny shake. Just wait.

"I saw Quentin yesterday at around nine p.m.," Jenkins admitted. "He came in for a reading."

Lienna leaned forward. "Do you know where he is now?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion."

"What sort of reading did you do for him? Tea leaves? Tarot cards?"

Jenkins wrinkled his nose. "Nothing so crude. For Quentin, I typically employ a more complex methodology."

"Scrying?" she guessed.

"Bibliomancy."

I was sort of insulted. During my few visits with Jansen Jenkins, I'd qualified only for his "crude" tactics.

"Oh." She hesitated. "How does that method work?"

"Perhaps you would find a demonstration educational. You have already paid for a reading, and you may gain some useful insight for your investigation."

She opened her mouth.

"Sure," I said before she could turn him down.

She threw me a "don't you dare" glower, but Jenkins was already nodding agreeably.

"Perfect," he said. "Please select a handful of books from anywhere in the room."

I looked around. There were a shit-ton of books in here. "Does it matter how many?"

"Whatever speaks to you."

Standing, I headed for the bookshelves, Lienna's gaze following my every move.

As I pretended to contemplate the leather spines, I considered the real reason I was here. Regardless of my and Lienna's story weaving—which had been surprisingly fun—finding Quentin was extremely low on my priority list. The dude could take care of himself. He'd made his escape and I had zero desire to see my friend locked up again.

The real reason I was out in the burbs, across the inlet from the MPD precinct, was to manufacture my own escape.

All I needed was a solid distraction where I could slip the shark-tooth artifact off my neck. My powers would return, and I could be gone in a blink. The problem, however, was what came next—I'd be on foot in a residential neighborhood I didn't know well. And Lienna and her collection of weaponry would be right behind me.

Maybe it was best to bide my time.

I returned to the table with three books: a collection of Shakespearean plays, because one of my foster parents had shipped me off to theater camp one summer and I'd returned home speaking exclusively in iambic pentameter; an illustrated edition of the Kama Sutra, because I wanted to see Lienna's and Jenkins's faces when I handed it over; and a leather-bound Bible, because… did it really matter? I had my reasons.

Jenkins stood the three books upright on the table. My Kama Sutra selection didn't get a reaction out of the old guy, but it did elicit an extra special eye roll from Lienna.

Mission. Accomplished.

With the books precariously standing on their ends, Jenkins had us close our eyes while he stoically whispered in an ancient-sounding language. This was something he did at the beginning of all his readings to "communicate with the spirits in the ethereal world." Apparently, the spirits spoke Latin or Sanskrit or whatever.

I cracked an eye open and peeked at Lienna. Her eyes were firmly shut, her mouth twisted in a frown. Hmm. Take off the necklace now, perhaps?

Before I could decide, a book tilted over and landed with a thump. Jenkins halted his chant, and he and Lienna opened their eyes to study the big ol' Bible lying on its face, while the other two books stayed right where Jenkins had set them.

"Are you religious, Kit?" he asked in a musing tone.

"Hell no. Have you ever met a mythic who is?"

His bony shoulder lifted in a small shrug. "You might be surprised."

I waited for him to ask why a Christian Bible would hold significance for me, prepared to evade the question, but he merely pondered the book.

After a moment, he directed me to place the Bible spine down on the table, holding the front and back cover with my index fingers very gently. Then he told me to close my eyes and let go.

I did. The book flopped open. Under his instruction, I raised my right hand and placed it on an exposed page.

"Thank you," he said. "You may open your eyes now."

The diviner took the Bible and squinted at the passage that had been under my palm.

"‘Who is this coming up from the wilderness like a column of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and incense made from all the spices of the merchant?'" he read. "‘Look! It is Solomon's carriage, escorted by sixty warriors, the noblest of Israel, all of them wearing the sword, all experienced in battle, each with his sword at his side, prepared for the terrors of the night.'"

He looked from me to Lienna and back, possibly hoping for some amazed oohs and aahs. Neither of us reacted.

Closing the book, he gently set it down. "King Solomon of the Israelites denotes wisdom, and this particular text presents him as a powerful warrior with an army of experienced allies. The spirits suggest you will need assistance from those who are wiser and more experienced than you."

Lienna pressed her lips together. "Can the spirits be… more specific?"

"Conflict is in your future. I am sensing a battle, as the text states. A dangerous fight during which you will need allies by your side."

"Sixty of them?" I asked.

"The specific number is irrelevant. I should note the obvious romantic implication, as well. This passage is from the Song of Solomon, also known as the Song of Songs. It is a love poem. A highly erotic one at that."

Mouth slightly agape, I glanced at Lienna, who caught me looking and replied with a dark glare.

"What about the smoke?" she asked Jenkins. "And the spices?"

"That is an interesting component. Quentin's reading also involved smoke. The selected text was from a Rudyard Kipling poem. I believe the line was, ‘A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.' There was more, though I can't recall it. I do not waste my recreational time reading colonial poetry."

I drummed my fingers thoughtfully on the table. This whole "investigation" was just a means to an end, but I couldn't help feeling intrigued. "What do you think his text meant? What was your interpretation?"

"A woman will play an integral role in his future, although not as integral as the metaphorical cigar and its smoke." Jenkins gave a modest shrug. "I am uncertain about the significance of the smoke, but its mention seemed to please Quentin."

I was sure it had.

Lienna shifted in her chair. "Is there anything else you can tell us about Quentin's reading?"

"Those were the significant particulars."

With a quick glance to see if I was planning to say anything useful, she rose to her feet. "Well, I appreciate your help."

The diviner raised his skeletal frame from his chair and issued her a sardonic smile. "Anything for the MPD."

The three of us single-filed down the hallway toward the front door, with Lienna leading the exodus and Jenkins bringing up the rear. Midway through our journey, I felt the old man's hand slip into my back pocket, which was startling for all the wrong reasons.

I flung a "what in the gropey hell was that, you old creep" look over my shoulder, but his expression was solemn and he placed a shushing finger over his lips.

That didn't make me feel better.

I put my hand in my back pocket and felt a small piece of paper. He hadn't copped a feel; he'd slipped me a note.

As I bent down at the front door to tie my shoes, I stealthily pulled the note from my pocket, eyeing it as I fumbled with my laces. It was his slick, professionally designed business card: "The Kitsilano Klairvoyant. Vancouver's Premiere Psychic Services." But the phone number printed on the card was crossed out and he'd scratched another one above it.

I flipped the card over and found a handwritten message that made my eyes pop. It simply read, "For when you escape."