The Dead Path by Stephen M. Irwin Page A

drawer.
    Then there’d been his work around London. He’d always seemed to know which village house would yield the fading valises and old carved bookends he was hunting.
    And, of course, the night in London when he’d sat curled on his couch, miserable with a heavy head cold, only half-hearing his flatmate Martin’s invitation to “get off your lardy white arse” and come to a party off Portland Road. Nicholas felt lousy—it would have been a tight bet whether there was more mucus in his lungs or his stomach—but the moment Farty Marty mentioned the party he knew he had to go. Two hours later, sniffing like a coke addict but dressed in the best clothes he owned, he met Cate.
    Yes, he’d had inklings. Notions. Gut feelings. Until now, he’d given them no thought.
    “What does it mean?” he asked.
    Suzette smiled. He could barely see it in the dusk. “It means I don’t think you’re crazy.”
      T he evening sky was gunmetal gray. Shadows were blue and amorphous. Headlights were diamonds. Her brother’s profile was all dark angles. Finally, he looked at her.
    “You’re a financial advisor, Suze. How do you know all this stuff?”
    “You see the dead. How do you not?”
    “I do go to phone Psychic Hotline but always end up dialing Lesbian Nurses Chat—”
    “Do you have to make fun of everything? It’s bitter.”
    Overhead, a carpet of flying foxes flew west from their mangrove riverbank havens, an armada of black cuneiforms against the cloudless evening heavens, their leather wings eerily silent. The air was crisp, faintly spiced with car fumes and potato vine.
    She took a breath. “It started with Dad’s books.”
    Nicholas looked at her. “What books?”
    She blinked, amazed. “His books? In the garage?”
    He was still staring at her. Finally, he guessed, “In the suitcases?”
    “Yes, in the suitcases! Jesus! Are you saying you never looked in them?” She shook her head. “Honestly, sometimes you can be so thick.”
    For a long moment, he said nothing. Then broke the silence. “So? What kind of books?”
    “Herbalism. Roots and oils. The supernatural. Signs and protections. I’ve left most of them, I borrowed a few.”
    She looked at Nicholas. His face was shadowed, but she could see his frown.
    “What do you mean, though? Dad was … what? A druid?”
    “I didn’t know him, Nicholas.”
    Nicholas turned his sparkling gaze to her, as if finally realizing a hidden truth. “And you … Jesus! All those herbs and rubbish you grew in the garden when you were a kid. I thought you just liked gardening! That was … what? Hemlock and mandrake and double-double-toil-and-trouble shit?”
    Suzette pursed her lips. “You never asked.”
    “Christ, Suze, I thought you’d come up here to tell me I need to see someone who can dope me up with Thorazine, and here you are saying … Fuck, what are you saying?”
    Suzette fought the urge to snap at him. “I’m just saying there’s more to the world than the periodic table.”
    “No shit,” snorted Nicholas. “And the kids?”
    “Quincy, nothing. All she wants to do is look for Saturn’s rings and bring home every creature from the pound. Nelson, though, he’s …” She looked at Nicholas. “He’s like you. Gifted. But ignorant.”
    Nicholas bristled. “I’m not ignorant.”
    “You are about magic.”
    “That’s because I don’t believe in magic.”
    “Nicholas.” She stopped, hands on hips, waiting till he turned around. “You’re haunted. You see the dead. How can you not believe in magic?”
    He turned and kept walking. “I’m happy you have a hobby. Are you a good witch?”
    She caught up with him. “I own three Sydney houses outright and have five negatively geared investment properties. I’m good at everything I do.”
    “I meant ‘good versus evil’ good.”
    “ People are good or evil. Magic is magic. Some is performed with good intentions. Some isn’t. Some is easy. Some is hard. It’s like physics.