Grimoire of the Lamb by Kevin Hearne Page B

something extra to keep him on top of his players. It was similar to Mental Acui-Tea, which was my most popular blend around midterms and finals. During those weeks, students from Arizona State would file into Third Eye Books and Herbs and buy plenty of sachets to get them through the week—their rationale being that one week of real studying would make up for a semester spent staring at the bottom of a red plastic kegger cup instead of their books. Word of my “sick tea”—where
sick
had somehow been transmogrified into a positive adjective rather than an indicator of disease—had spread throughout the Greek societies after it helped one frat member pass his finals. This testimonial, along with some others, had given my shop the nickname of “Sick Hippie’s” amongst the wasted dude crowd, as in, “Bro, I need to pass or I’ll be cut off from my trust fundage. Let’s go get some tea at Sick Hippie’s.”
    For the record: I am not a hippie. But I guess in today’s world a knowledge of herbs and a counterculture vibe was enough to earn me the label.
    I happily lost myself in the daily needs of the shop and thought nothing more of the Egyptian, until he walked in a week later.
    When he crossed my threshold, I knew immediately, because the wards on my shop warned me that a magic user had entered my personal space. That’s about all they did, though; I hadn’t set up anything to shut down Egyptian magic systems—the odds of having to deal with that in Arizona were pretty slim.
    He was a middle-aged man with a lengthy but well-groomed beard; it was forked and fell below his sternum. He had wrapped the “tines” of the fork in strips of leather, allowing a puff of hair to explode out the ends. An unabashed unibrow protected deep-set eyes, which flicked about nervously. His hair was hidden underneath a rounded white brimless hat halfway between a skull cap and a fez, the sort commonly seen in North Africa. His kaftan and pants were similarly white, though the kaftan was embroidered with gold thread around the neck and the buttons in the center, and also around the edges of his sleeves. It was a look, in other words, that suggested he was a devout Muslim. I suspected that was a convenient disguise for him, though, or hewouldn’t be tripping my alarms as a magic user.
    After a quick scan of the shop, during which he determined that I was the only employee currently working, he looked disappointed and approached me at the tea station. “Pardon me,” he said in his accented English. “But I am looking for Mr. O’Sullivan.”
    “That’s me.” A twitch of the unibrow indicated his surprise. I look like I’m twenty-one and far too young to be an expert on anything, much less rare books. But he recovered quickly.
    “Excellent! I am Nkosi Elkhashab. We spoke on the phone about the Coptic book full of lamb recipes.”
    “Ah, yes, I remember,” I said. “I assume you wish to see it.”
    “Yes. If it is indeed the book I seek, I hope we can come to some profitable agreement.” He was all smiles and charm.
    “I’ll be happy to show it to you,” I said, “but after lunch.” His face fell. “The book is not currently on-site,” I lied, “but in a secure location. If you come back this afternoon, I will have it ready. Enjoy Tempe, in the meantime. Mill Avenue has many diverting places to shop and eat.”
    The unibrow dipped in the middle, signaling his displeasure, but it smoothed out as he realized that anger would do him no good under the circumstances.
    He nodded curtly and said, “Until this afternoon, then.”
    I nodded back. “See you.” I watched him leave and then picked up the phone to call one of my attorneys, Hal Hauk. As a lawyer, he had his hands in more than a few kinds of pies. As a werewolf, he had his paws in some additional pies made with supernatural ingredients. Some of them were shady. Seedy, even.
    “Hey, Hal. It’s Atticus. Need everything you can dig up on a character calling