back of my neck and turned to Sophie. “Do you want a ride to the dojo? It’s almost time to head over there anyway.”
“No. I’ve got my mom’s car. I’ll meet you there.”
Ben and Sophie left, and I went to gather my stuff up for the rest of the day. I’d need my gi and I’d want a snack. I’d probably also want some clothes to change into after I was done teaching. I might as well take the little box I’d found under Neil Bossard’s bed, too.
I pulled it out of the pocket of my blazer, where I’d stuffed it the night before. It looked innocuous enough. Brown paper wrapping. Cellophane tape. Neil Bossard’s name and address written in Sharpie in block letters on the front.
I set it down on the counter and sat in front of it. The vibration off of it was weaker here than it had been in Elmville. Whoever had made it was probably farther away now than they were when I’d been at the memorial service. Like Ginnar’s axe, whatever was in the box was losing power as it got farther and farther from its maker.
The buzz might be less, but it was still there. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me, and a cold shiver ran up and down my spine. I didn’t like whatever was in there. It didn’t have a nice feeling to it, not nice at all. I snapped my eyes back open and closed off my senses a little. I like a little buffer between me and malevolent things and this thing definitely felt malevolent. And witchy. It didn’t do anything. It just sat there, humming its little hum of power that felt distinctly witchy to me.
I used to not be able to distinguish between various kinds of power. A buzz in my head, the lifting of the hair on my forearms—it all felt the same, whether there was a vampire nearby or a ghost or a troll. Well, generally I can smell a troll, but that’s not any big power. Pretty much anybody can smell a troll. Most people think a sewage system is backing up somewhere or that someone is dumping garbage under a bridge, but it’s a troll.
Over the years—and while I’m only twenty-six years old, I have been at this job for close to twenty-three of those years—I have become more of a connoisseur. The subtle gradations of different supernatural beings are hard to describe. There’s a coppery tang that reminds me of blood to a vampire vibration. Werewolves have a bit of a musky scent. Witches tend to have a bit of a cinnamon taste to their vibration. I got a bitter cinnamon bite from this package.
I don’t know how else to describe it. I could be wrong, but while this item had been made by someone who wielded power, I didn’t think that person was supernatural. I thought about the woman I’d seen crying behind the tree at the graveside service. I’d gotten a similar feeling from her. I wished I knew who she was. I hadn’t exactly had a chance to follow up on that, what with being kicked out of the memorial service, having my boyfriend tell me he loved me and then immediately afterward being attacked by a cadejo.
The next best thing would be to find out what this thing was and I knew just who to ask.
I stuffed everything into a bag and dialed Meredith’s number. “What do you need, Melina?” she said, without bothering with a hello. Sometimes I hated Caller ID. At least, I’m pretty sure Meredith has Caller ID.
“I want you to look at something I found.” Two could play the up-front and honest game. I don’t know what it said about me that up-front and honest was now some sort of maneuver, but I didn’t run into it nearly as frequently as I wished I did.
“Found where?” she asked. Interesting that she was more interested in where it came from than what it was.
“Under a dead man’s bed.” “Man” might be stretching it a little. Bossard was barely a man. “Dead boy” didn’t sound right to me either though.
“Nine o’clock at McClannigan’s?” she suggested.
“Sounds perfectly lovely.” It could potentially be a little tense, depending on where in Meredith
“No. I’ve got my mom’s car. I’ll meet you there.”
Ben and Sophie left, and I went to gather my stuff up for the rest of the day. I’d need my gi and I’d want a snack. I’d probably also want some clothes to change into after I was done teaching. I might as well take the little box I’d found under Neil Bossard’s bed, too.
I pulled it out of the pocket of my blazer, where I’d stuffed it the night before. It looked innocuous enough. Brown paper wrapping. Cellophane tape. Neil Bossard’s name and address written in Sharpie in block letters on the front.
I set it down on the counter and sat in front of it. The vibration off of it was weaker here than it had been in Elmville. Whoever had made it was probably farther away now than they were when I’d been at the memorial service. Like Ginnar’s axe, whatever was in the box was losing power as it got farther and farther from its maker.
The buzz might be less, but it was still there. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me, and a cold shiver ran up and down my spine. I didn’t like whatever was in there. It didn’t have a nice feeling to it, not nice at all. I snapped my eyes back open and closed off my senses a little. I like a little buffer between me and malevolent things and this thing definitely felt malevolent. And witchy. It didn’t do anything. It just sat there, humming its little hum of power that felt distinctly witchy to me.
I used to not be able to distinguish between various kinds of power. A buzz in my head, the lifting of the hair on my forearms—it all felt the same, whether there was a vampire nearby or a ghost or a troll. Well, generally I can smell a troll, but that’s not any big power. Pretty much anybody can smell a troll. Most people think a sewage system is backing up somewhere or that someone is dumping garbage under a bridge, but it’s a troll.
Over the years—and while I’m only twenty-six years old, I have been at this job for close to twenty-three of those years—I have become more of a connoisseur. The subtle gradations of different supernatural beings are hard to describe. There’s a coppery tang that reminds me of blood to a vampire vibration. Werewolves have a bit of a musky scent. Witches tend to have a bit of a cinnamon taste to their vibration. I got a bitter cinnamon bite from this package.
I don’t know how else to describe it. I could be wrong, but while this item had been made by someone who wielded power, I didn’t think that person was supernatural. I thought about the woman I’d seen crying behind the tree at the graveside service. I’d gotten a similar feeling from her. I wished I knew who she was. I hadn’t exactly had a chance to follow up on that, what with being kicked out of the memorial service, having my boyfriend tell me he loved me and then immediately afterward being attacked by a cadejo.
The next best thing would be to find out what this thing was and I knew just who to ask.
I stuffed everything into a bag and dialed Meredith’s number. “What do you need, Melina?” she said, without bothering with a hello. Sometimes I hated Caller ID. At least, I’m pretty sure Meredith has Caller ID.
“I want you to look at something I found.” Two could play the up-front and honest game. I don’t know what it said about me that up-front and honest was now some sort of maneuver, but I didn’t run into it nearly as frequently as I wished I did.
“Found where?” she asked. Interesting that she was more interested in where it came from than what it was.
“Under a dead man’s bed.” “Man” might be stretching it a little. Bossard was barely a man. “Dead boy” didn’t sound right to me either though.
“Nine o’clock at McClannigan’s?” she suggested.
“Sounds perfectly lovely.” It could potentially be a little tense, depending on where in Meredith
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