Madison.”
"What? That's ridiculous. Tommy, you’re imagining things." I sounded more confident than I felt. The only thing I was confident of was the need to fall down and sleep somewhere until this night was over and I could go back to being grouchy about havi ng to work while still suffering from tonight's one-woman wake. "Why would anyone want to kill you?"
"I don't know." He mashed his hat a bit more, hands jerking and tense. "I've had this feeling of being watched for the last month, especially in the last week or two. Since the end of October, it’s felt like almost every minute. Then, this morning, I found this slipped under my door." He pulled aside his overcoat, reached into a vest pocket, and fished out an envelope. He swallowed again, then handed it to me uncertainly.
I took the letter and awkwardly wrangled it open one-handed. Inside was a single postcard of stiff, creamy stationery. On it, someone had written a single word in dark red ink: Veniam.
A gust of wind rattled the window, cold rain battering against it with sudden vigor. "Who's coming, Tommy?" I’d bet a C-note he could read the Latin as well as I could, if not better. His father, William, had been one of Meister Gerd's journeymen. William Cooke was probably a better scholar a decade ago than I would ever be.
"I don't know. That's what worries me. It sounds like a threat, and I can't get the feeling of being watched out of my head. I've even started to dream about it, nightmares where I'm running from something I can't see. Something watching me from the shadows." He licked his lips. "Please, Madison. I know this is something like what my father used to be into, I know it. You're the Meister's last apprentice, and you’re a private investigator now. There's no one else I can turn to."
"Go home, Tommy." I hated the sound of my voice, thick with drink and my own darkness. "I stopped doing that sort of thing a long time ago. I was never any good at it, anyway." Lies are poor comfort, but they're better than a jagged truth. "I'm just an investigator now, a flatfoot gumshoe, tracking down bail jumpers and husbands who run off to San Francisco with their secretaries. That letter is just someone's bad joke. It's probably just a prank. Go home and quit worrying so much over nothing."
"It's not nothing, Madison, I know it isn't. Even if it's not something like... like that, though - you're an investigator. A detective, like your father was." He must have seen my expression darken, he pressed on so quickly. "I mean, even if it has nothing occult about it, somebody is trying to get to me. And they have. I'm… spooked. I can't sleep, can't keep food down. I'd go to the police but they'd never understand. You're all I've got, Madison. Please, won't you help me?" He took an anxious step toward me and I held up a hand to stop him. The wrong hand. He looked at my bleeding fingers and his eyes widened.
"My god, Maddie, what have you-" He shot a glance down at the shattered mirror on the floor near the wall, then back at me. "Oh. Oh, it's that night, isn't it? I'm so very sorry, Madison, I had no idea. I would never have bothered you if I'd known-"
Christ. "All right, Tommy. You win. I'll look into it. Just...go home. I'll come by in the morning and you can tell me the rest of it then. After we both get some sleep." I turned away before any more words could slip out of his open mouth and pulled the door open for him. Gentleman that he was, he could hardly say no when a lady asked him to leave. Even so dubious a lady as me.
"In the morning, Tommy." He inclined his head and pulled his hat back on as he stepped uncertainly past me onto the landing. He looked as if he wanted to say something else. I spared him that by closing the door and leaning against it heavily so I wouldn't stagger.
A job investigating non-specific, possibly arcane threats against Tommy Cooke was the last thing I wanted to think about right now. I was done with the Art. I was done with
"What? That's ridiculous. Tommy, you’re imagining things." I sounded more confident than I felt. The only thing I was confident of was the need to fall down and sleep somewhere until this night was over and I could go back to being grouchy about havi ng to work while still suffering from tonight's one-woman wake. "Why would anyone want to kill you?"
"I don't know." He mashed his hat a bit more, hands jerking and tense. "I've had this feeling of being watched for the last month, especially in the last week or two. Since the end of October, it’s felt like almost every minute. Then, this morning, I found this slipped under my door." He pulled aside his overcoat, reached into a vest pocket, and fished out an envelope. He swallowed again, then handed it to me uncertainly.
I took the letter and awkwardly wrangled it open one-handed. Inside was a single postcard of stiff, creamy stationery. On it, someone had written a single word in dark red ink: Veniam.
A gust of wind rattled the window, cold rain battering against it with sudden vigor. "Who's coming, Tommy?" I’d bet a C-note he could read the Latin as well as I could, if not better. His father, William, had been one of Meister Gerd's journeymen. William Cooke was probably a better scholar a decade ago than I would ever be.
"I don't know. That's what worries me. It sounds like a threat, and I can't get the feeling of being watched out of my head. I've even started to dream about it, nightmares where I'm running from something I can't see. Something watching me from the shadows." He licked his lips. "Please, Madison. I know this is something like what my father used to be into, I know it. You're the Meister's last apprentice, and you’re a private investigator now. There's no one else I can turn to."
"Go home, Tommy." I hated the sound of my voice, thick with drink and my own darkness. "I stopped doing that sort of thing a long time ago. I was never any good at it, anyway." Lies are poor comfort, but they're better than a jagged truth. "I'm just an investigator now, a flatfoot gumshoe, tracking down bail jumpers and husbands who run off to San Francisco with their secretaries. That letter is just someone's bad joke. It's probably just a prank. Go home and quit worrying so much over nothing."
"It's not nothing, Madison, I know it isn't. Even if it's not something like... like that, though - you're an investigator. A detective, like your father was." He must have seen my expression darken, he pressed on so quickly. "I mean, even if it has nothing occult about it, somebody is trying to get to me. And they have. I'm… spooked. I can't sleep, can't keep food down. I'd go to the police but they'd never understand. You're all I've got, Madison. Please, won't you help me?" He took an anxious step toward me and I held up a hand to stop him. The wrong hand. He looked at my bleeding fingers and his eyes widened.
"My god, Maddie, what have you-" He shot a glance down at the shattered mirror on the floor near the wall, then back at me. "Oh. Oh, it's that night, isn't it? I'm so very sorry, Madison, I had no idea. I would never have bothered you if I'd known-"
Christ. "All right, Tommy. You win. I'll look into it. Just...go home. I'll come by in the morning and you can tell me the rest of it then. After we both get some sleep." I turned away before any more words could slip out of his open mouth and pulled the door open for him. Gentleman that he was, he could hardly say no when a lady asked him to leave. Even so dubious a lady as me.
"In the morning, Tommy." He inclined his head and pulled his hat back on as he stepped uncertainly past me onto the landing. He looked as if he wanted to say something else. I spared him that by closing the door and leaning against it heavily so I wouldn't stagger.
A job investigating non-specific, possibly arcane threats against Tommy Cooke was the last thing I wanted to think about right now. I was done with the Art. I was done with
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