those in power had started to be set free.If there was going to be a Police Federation strike, Sefton had already decided that he wouldn’t join in.
He went to look in the window of the shop.Just displays of completely ordinary Tarot cards and crystals on fake velvet in the window.There was an artificial spring that bubbled from a length of silvered tubing and twinkled as it fell delightfully into the limpid depths below.That might give his team an excuse to stroll in here one day this summer.‘Hosepipe ban, sir.We’re searching the premises for free-flowing water.’Even Quill, open to leaving the rule book behind now that they were working in the wild extremes, might blanch at that.There was nothing of Sighted interest in the window, nothing weighty.
Sefton paused for a moment and found that he was quite calm.He was undercover, he was at home with this sort of tension.He went inside.
* * *
The shop smelt clean and airy.The shelves were white, and enormous posters and paintings decorated the walls.Gentle, tuneless music wafted past.No incense; it would be too hard for the staff to put up with all day.There were those staff, twenty-somethings in black T-shirts with the logo of the shop; two of them were laughing at the till, everyday-looking kids, divorced from the clientele he was after.
He wandered towards the back of the store and realized straight away that this was like walking uphill.There was a precise gradient.Every step he took, according to the Sight, got him into more serious territory.Checking the price tags on the items, he saw that they followed that index too: more expensive with every step.He stopped.That felt … wrong.Why?This shop, logically, attached a higher price tag to items that were genuinely powerful, that had the strength of London about them, that had the age so prized by the small portion of the clientele who knew what they were doing.Presumably, he was heading towards more valuable items that could accomplish things – like the Tarot of London or Book of Changes that Ross had encountered – unlike the jewellery in these halfway cases, which just shone through association, without the feeling that it might leap up and help him or hurt him.So what was the problem with any of that?He realized he was feeling that there was something wrong with linking occult power and money.Something almost … gauche about it.He could feel that embarrassment as a physical effect.It was like … being on a fairground ride, with each foot on a plank that rocked in a different direction … the power and the money were sort of … angry at being chained together.They were resisting each other.What the fuck was that about?He recalled the same feeling from the green thing that he’d run into in Soho when he first got the Sight – that same anger at money.
He shook off the feeling and glanced back to the staff.They hadn’t even looked up.They must be used to people doing weird shit in here.
He kept moving.
There was an area right at the back with glass-fronted cases and narrow walkways between the shelves.It smelt mustier.The design of the shop identified it as the dull bit, for serious collectors only, but there were two security cameras up there, neatly covering everything.It seemed that the owners didn’t find it profitable to bring much in the way of this genuine stuff to the New Age fairs.Sefton’s target was looking into one of the display cases.Ignoring him, Sefton walked up to stand beside him, deciding to fix his eyes on something in there that shone brightly to the Sight: a brass bracelet that looked as if it had spent some time underwater, decorated with rough knotwork.There would be some serious London history to it.There was no label on it; if you were back here, you were supposed to know what this stuff was.There was a price tag, though: £1999.99.He could feel the object kind of itching at its attachment to such a value.He could feel its age.He could also feel that there was
He went to look in the window of the shop.Just displays of completely ordinary Tarot cards and crystals on fake velvet in the window.There was an artificial spring that bubbled from a length of silvered tubing and twinkled as it fell delightfully into the limpid depths below.That might give his team an excuse to stroll in here one day this summer.‘Hosepipe ban, sir.We’re searching the premises for free-flowing water.’Even Quill, open to leaving the rule book behind now that they were working in the wild extremes, might blanch at that.There was nothing of Sighted interest in the window, nothing weighty.
Sefton paused for a moment and found that he was quite calm.He was undercover, he was at home with this sort of tension.He went inside.
* * *
The shop smelt clean and airy.The shelves were white, and enormous posters and paintings decorated the walls.Gentle, tuneless music wafted past.No incense; it would be too hard for the staff to put up with all day.There were those staff, twenty-somethings in black T-shirts with the logo of the shop; two of them were laughing at the till, everyday-looking kids, divorced from the clientele he was after.
He wandered towards the back of the store and realized straight away that this was like walking uphill.There was a precise gradient.Every step he took, according to the Sight, got him into more serious territory.Checking the price tags on the items, he saw that they followed that index too: more expensive with every step.He stopped.That felt … wrong.Why?This shop, logically, attached a higher price tag to items that were genuinely powerful, that had the strength of London about them, that had the age so prized by the small portion of the clientele who knew what they were doing.Presumably, he was heading towards more valuable items that could accomplish things – like the Tarot of London or Book of Changes that Ross had encountered – unlike the jewellery in these halfway cases, which just shone through association, without the feeling that it might leap up and help him or hurt him.So what was the problem with any of that?He realized he was feeling that there was something wrong with linking occult power and money.Something almost … gauche about it.He could feel that embarrassment as a physical effect.It was like … being on a fairground ride, with each foot on a plank that rocked in a different direction … the power and the money were sort of … angry at being chained together.They were resisting each other.What the fuck was that about?He recalled the same feeling from the green thing that he’d run into in Soho when he first got the Sight – that same anger at money.
He shook off the feeling and glanced back to the staff.They hadn’t even looked up.They must be used to people doing weird shit in here.
He kept moving.
There was an area right at the back with glass-fronted cases and narrow walkways between the shelves.It smelt mustier.The design of the shop identified it as the dull bit, for serious collectors only, but there were two security cameras up there, neatly covering everything.It seemed that the owners didn’t find it profitable to bring much in the way of this genuine stuff to the New Age fairs.Sefton’s target was looking into one of the display cases.Ignoring him, Sefton walked up to stand beside him, deciding to fix his eyes on something in there that shone brightly to the Sight: a brass bracelet that looked as if it had spent some time underwater, decorated with rough knotwork.There would be some serious London history to it.There was no label on it; if you were back here, you were supposed to know what this stuff was.There was a price tag, though: £1999.99.He could feel the object kind of itching at its attachment to such a value.He could feel its age.He could also feel that there was
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