25. Island of Misfit Toys Population 1 More

In the darkened hall, I got my first glimpse of Bracken around my Mom's shoulder. He was older than I'd been expecting. When Gran wanted me to find his son and talk him into seeing him, I'd assumed the guy would be Mom's age. He looked more like Gran's age.

Shoulders hunched, shuffling through the broken glass and tea leaves covering the floor, he mumbled to himself. "One and a half. Two. Three. Inconsistent. Subpar materials." He had a shock of white hair that glowed in a beam of light coming from a high window. He wore a brown tweed blazer that was too big for him. The leather patches at his elbows were worn. His tan trousers were creased at the back of his knees, as though he'd been sitting for quite some time. Incongruously, on his feet he wore charcoal Vans, the slip-on sneakers normally favored by skateboarders.

Shuffle, shuffle, eyes trained on the ground, the muttering got louder. "Sybil, I hope you didn't pay the same price for each of these jars. The thickness of the glass is alarmingly dissimilar. If you did, you've been cheated. Some of these jars are only one and a half, perhaps two millimeters thick at most. But these others over here are a much hardier three millimeters."

His shuffling feet had created meandering lines of uncovered wood floor in the utter chaos. "Of course, the thicker glass has broken into far more dangerous shards, but it's the workmanship I take issue with. Some of this glass has a slight tint to it as well, which makes no sense at all. You need to be able to see the tea leaves properly to ensure freshness. Which may be why the leaves over in this corner are in bad shape. Perhaps the seals weren't tight enough because of thickness variations. Moisture got in. The scent should have tipped you off, though. You really need to sniff each and every jar every day to make sure you're brewing the best teas. None of this was poisoned, by the way. Mary told me you were concerned and that I should come right away to check, so I did. No poison, but there was mold starting in the jar in the corner, bottom shelf. Not that it matters anymore. It'll all need to be thrown out. When you purchase new containers, though, you have to use a reputable company. The thicknesses should be consistent. Unless you intentionally purchased cheaper glass, in which case, I suppose you got what you asked for. Also, did you know the floor has a four percent incline toward the door? You've been walking up and downhill every time you came into this storage room. You need to pull up the wood and have the subfloor leveled. And these shelves—no doubt as a result of the floor not being level—are themselves about four to five degrees off. I'd venture to guess these jars, over time, have begun to slide ever so slightly to the right. I also noticed—" He finally looked up from the floor, his gaze going right past Mom before locking on me. A sigh escaped on an, "Oh."

She looked over her shoulder and moved out of the way. "Bracken, this is my daughter Arwyn. Arwyn, this is Bracken."

I stepped into the room and watched his furrowed brow relax, his Corey green eyes soften. How odd. They'd told me he wasn't one of us. He wore gold-rimmed round glasses perched on his long, thin nose. Pale, as though he spent little to no time in the sun, his concerned expression turned dreamy.

"Beautiful." He shuffled toward me.

I took his hand and led him from the chaos that seemed to be making his mind spiral. "Hi. Let's come out here, where it's not so bad."

He nodded, following like a trusting child.

Once back in the main room, I took him to a table by the large window, moved a chair so he could look out at the park, the huge tree, and the lighthouse. I moved a second chair, ignoring my mom's throat clearing of annoyance that I was altering the crime scene. I sat across from Bracken and his gaze shifted from the park to me.

"I know it's impolite to stare," he said, "but looking at you is restful for me." Lowering his voice, he leaned in, his gaze traveling over me. "When there's too much, it's like all the musicians in a symphony testing their instruments. Discordant. Cacophonous."

He lowered his voice even more. "I was building to a panic attack. I felt it coming, but everywhere I looked, there was more disorder." He swallowed. "And then I saw you and my mind cleared. Your face is perfectly symmetrical. Your hair is a harmonious blend of brown, red, and gold." He shook his head. "Extraordinary. Now, with the light from the window behind you, there's almost a halo of blue around it."

He took another deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I find your perfection relaxing. Thank you."

Grinning, I said, "Well, thank you." Mom was puttering behind the counter, paying little attention to us, until I asked, "Do you have a place to stay? Mom and Gran have guest rooms, if you need one."

Mom looked panicked for a moment.

He shook his head, still staring. "No, thank you."

She relaxed and went back to taking photos with her phone. When another customer came to the door, alarm and confusion clear on her face, Mom walked to the shattered door, explaining she'd be closed for a couple of weeks to make repairs. The woman said she was sorry and left.

"I'll make you a sign, Mom." Going through my backpack, I pulled out a sketchbook, a black chisel-tipped marker, and a set of colored pencils.

CLOSED due to unforeseen and extraordinarily rude vandalism. We'll open again soon!

I drew a tea pot in one corner and a steaming cup of tea in the other, with a few tea leaves around the page.

"Closed is probably enough, darling." Mom had moved closer and was watching.

Before I could respond, Bracken said, "Nonsense. She's creating art while telling a story. Your customers will understand why you're closed, and they'll return happily when you reopen, buying more than they need to show their support."

She patted my shoulder in apology. We probably both heard the unspoken bad habits.

"That door needs to be boarded up," I said, finishing the sign and handing it to her.

She taped it in the front window. "Your Uncle John is on his way with plywood, screws, and a drill."

"Good." I put my things away, returning my attention to Bracken, who had yet to take his eyes off me. I know that sounded creepy, but it wasn't. I recognized the desperation in his eyes. I could see what he was going through. If staring at me helped to settle his mind, so be it.

Mom gave Bracken a wary look and then answered her phone. It sounded like she was talking with Gran. Her gaze kept shooting to Bracken as though he were a problem she was trying to figure out how to deal with.

I understood my mother better after last night, but that didn't mean I gave her a free pass. Bracken had come right over to check on her business and she was treating him like he was unwanted. I loved my family. Many of them annoyed the crap out of me, but I still loved them. Well, not Colin.

This was the problem, though. They didn't understand or sometimes even try to accommodate those of us who were often viewed as weirdos.

They wanted us to hide what made us unique. Intellectually, I understood it was probably because wicches had been hiding their existence since the beginning. Anyone who drew attention was a danger to the coven. No one wanted to die by fire or at the end of a rope. While I might understand the origin of the impulse, that didn't make it any easier to deal with.

"I think Gran said you're a writer. Is that correct?"

He nodded. "Historian, actually, though I do write books." His hands were clasped on the table but his knuckles were no longer white, so he was easing down.

"Which historical period do you study?"

Shoulders straightening, he said, "All of them. It's fascinating. All of human—and magical—history unrolls in every direction around us. I like to follow the lines."

"Lines?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Whatever interests me. Sometimes I follow the history of one family. Sometimes it's a country, a political movement, a type of weapon. It could be an abstract emotion like love or loyalty. I trace how different cultures in different ages viewed and expressed that abstract idea."

"And you write books about the things you study?" I pulled out my phone and looked up Bracken Corey.

"Yes. Exactly. If it's a topic I find particularly interesting and few, if any, have written on it, I write a proposal and my agent sells it."

I scrolled the results. "You're a best-selling author. How did I not know this?" I gave my Mom the stink eye but she was still busy talking with Gran and therefore wasn't paying any attention to me.

"Yes. Thankfully many of my books have sold well. I don't know how I'd support myself if they didn't. I'm not suited to doing anything else."

I couldn't even think about a life without my art. "I understand completely." I considered a moment. "You said you wrote magical histories. Those can't be traditionally published. How do people—members of the magical community—read them?"

The way he regarded me changed. Instead of staring at a painting, he was looking at the person he was speaking with. Hopefully, that meant the chaos swirling in his brain was slowing down and dissipating. "There are wonderful tools created for nontraditional authors, programs that allow me to do the formatting for ebooks myself. And there are other services that enable writers to upload their digital books and distribute them. Thankfully, I make enough from my human histories that I can distribute my magical histories free of charge."

"I'd love to read them," I said. Coreys were all about secrets. I wanted to know the whole truth, not what had been cherry-picked and fed to me in order to gain the desired result.

"Of course." He patted his pockets and came up with a business card. Sliding it across the table, he added, "Go to that address and use that password. You'll see all the magical histories and can download whichever you want."

I glanced over the directions on the back. "Perfect. Thank you!"

Nodding, his focus shifted to the window. "Lovely park. It looks as though two of the trees needed to be removed. I wonder why."

Glancing over my shoulder, I studied the tall trees but didn't see the pattern break he had. "Is that what puts you on a research path? Noticing a pattern, or a break in one, and wondering why?"

He laughed. "Yes."

"I have a question for you then."

His gaze became intent, but not in the desperate way it had. More, the idea of a research question excited him.

"I'm not sure if Gran explained, but we're dealing with another sorcerer."

"Sylvia's child. Yes."

"A man—a half demon, half Corey—suggested there might be a black magic family grimoire that was passed down from sorcerer to sorcerer. Have you ever heard of anything like that?"

Mom had stopped and was listening avidly.

Bracken had begun nodding before I'd finished the question. "Oh, my, yes. I told your grandmother Mary—or was it her sister Margaret—all about it years ago. I believe there to be a correlation—I won't say causation because there are too many factors—but a correlation between the preponderance of sorcerers in this family and what is essentially a black magic training manual with instructors dedicated to passing along the secrets."

He leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "You say you know a demon, a Corey demon at that. How in the world did you meet him, and do you think he'd speak with me?" Bracken pulled out a small notebook, like the kind Detectives Hernández and Osso favored, and began scribbling notes in what looked like shorthand. "I have so many questions."