“Could you name any other employees and your regulars?”

“Rebecca Dane is my other employee. Just hired her the day before yesterday. My regulars are Sophie, Arnie, Joshua, and Penelope … I don’t know their last names. They come in first thing every morning for Mobili-Tea, rain or shine. They would have already shown up before this happened.”

“What’s Mobili-Tea?”

“A tea I make that helps with arthritis.”

“Is there any video footage in the store?”

“Yes, I’ll get the tape for you.” He had to have known the answer to that already. My security-camera footage was precisely what Hal was using to sue Tempe in my wrongful shooting weeks ago.

“Any drug use that you’re aware of?”

“No.”

“Any other health issues that he may have exhibited or shared with you?”

“Nothing, dude.”

“All right. Is there anything else you can think of, anything at all, that might have hinted that this was coming?”

Besides my divination that morning? No. A giant flock of guilt flew in and settled down upon my shoulders. “ ‘Not a whit,’ ” I said softly, past a tightening throat. “ ‘We defy augury.’ ”

“Beg your pardon?”

“ ‘There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,’ ” I whispered, my vision blurring a bit, Perry’s still form losing focus.

“Did you say Providence? As in Rhode Island?”

I wiped my eyes and looked at Geffert for the first time, suddenly wary. “No, I meant providence as in the guidance and protection of a higher power.”

“Oh. What was the rest of that? Something about August?”

“It was a private elegy for the deceased,” I said dully. “Nothing pertaining to the investigation.”

He cocked his head sideways at me and said, “Your vocabulary has markedly improved, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

Shit. A couple of lads from the coroner’s office were bringing out a body bag, and I turned to watch them. “Gotta develop the noggin along with the numchuks, dude,” I replied in the same low monotone I’d used since I arrived. “I don’t just sell books, I actually read them too.”

“That makes sense,” the detective said affably, but now that my mask had slipped, however briefly, I doubted he was fooled anymore. “Forgive me. One more question. Have you found your sword since we spoke last?”

“No.”

The detective paused and wrote something down on his notepad that was significantly longer than “No.”

“Okay, that’s all for now,” he said, “but I’d appreciate it if you’d answer your phone in case we need to reach you.”

“Right.” Geffert moved away and sent an officer over to accompany me inside and get my security tape. Even if it showed the witch coming inside to lure Perry out, it would do them no good. I locked up the shop, flipping the sign to say CLOSED. I called Rebecca Dane, informing her of the sad news and telling her to stay home for the next couple of days, then after they’d taken Perry’s body away I rode my bike home, since it was still there from the previous night when I’d left on the wing.

Detective Geffert was already in front of my house, questioning Granuaile and confirming my story for that day and also checking out the bats and balls Granuaile had bought at Target—they’d never caught up with her the previous night to check out my alibi for the night of the Satyrn Massacre. Brilliant as she was with little details, she’d remembered to have Oberon chew on the balls a bit, and Geffert was fingering them with distaste while standing in front of the open trunk of her car as I pulled up. Granuaile was standing next to him and rolled her eyes at me by way of greeting. Oberon was lying down on the front porch and gave me a quick update on what he thought I needed to know.

"The Man is here again, and he still hasn’t tried to pet me. He kinda smells like mildewed socks and tuna fish."

“Ah, Mr. O’Sullivan,” the detective said, tossing a baseball back into Granuaile’s trunk and slamming it closed. “Long time no see.” I said nothing, just nodded to him.

“You arrived at your store earlier on foot,” he said, “but now you arrive here on this bike. Where did that come from?”

“My store.”

“Your store. And why was it there?”

“I left it there yesterday, obviously.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes I like to walk home.” And sometimes I like to fly home. Detective Geffert eyed me steadily, looking for signs of deceit, and I gave him my most placid expression in return. He broke eye contact first, shoving his hands in his pockets and finding something interesting on the tips of his shoes.

“You know, my ears are actually pretty good. I heard what you said earlier. ‘There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,’ you said.”

“So?”

“So that sounded to me like something you were quoting. I called in to the station and talked to our dispatcher, who used to be an English major, and she told me that was a line from Hamlet.” His eyes flicked back up to study my reaction.

“Right,” I confirmed, keeping my expression neutral.

“So what are you hiding, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

He shook a finger at me. “That isn’t true. Yesterday when we searched your house, you walked around like you didn’t have an IQ above eighty. Today you’re quoting Shakespeare off the top of your head.”

My patience evaporated like a dewdrop in Yuma and my anger throttled my better sense. “ ‘Is’t not enough to break into my garden, and, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds, climbing my walls in spite of me the owner, but thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?’ ”

Geffert’s eyebrows shot up. “What play is that from?”

“Henry the Sixth, Part Two,” I said.

The detective frowned. “How much Shakespeare have you memorized?”

“All of it. Dude.” I don’t know why I sneered at him; it wasn’t smart to taunt him like that and make busting me a personal crusade. Yet regardless of how wise it wasn’t, I held his eyes recklessly with a testosterone challenge flaring away in mine, and he saw not only that but confirmed the spark of intelligence he’d glimpsed earlier. Then he knew that I’d sold him a bill of goods the day before, played him and all his cronies for fools. His jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed, which Granuaile and Oberon both noticed.

"Hey, Atticus, ixnay issingpay off the oppercay."

“Will that be all, Detective Geffert, or was there something else?” Granuaile asked.

“That will be just about all,” he said, still holding my eyes. “For now. You have arranged things very nicely, Mr. O’Sullivan. Your girlfriend even showed me the receipt that matches your visit to Target two nights ago. But she could not explain why you were missing your ear in the Target security video but you seem to have one now.”

“I had it in Target too,” I lied.

“The video shows you did not.”

“Then the video is wrong. My ear is real, not prosthetic, and ears don’t grow back overnight, do they? Go ahead and see for yourself, Detective. I give you permission.” I turned my head to the left a bit and gestured up at it.

His eyes shifted to my right ear, and he reached up with his left hand and tugged on it gently, more to discern whether it behaved and felt like cartilage than anything else. Frustrated, he said, “I have an autopsy to attend. Please remain available if I have further questions.”

The three of us said nothing. We simply stared at him until he climbed back into his car and drove off. I spent some time rehashing recent events with Oberon and Granuaile, and it was a somber afternoon of regret and sorrow until Hal came by to pick me up. Though I never thought I’d say it in my long life, I was going to make peace with witches.

Chapter 21

We called ahead to make sure they knew we were coming and all enchantments would be dissolved for the duration of our visit. The entire coven was waiting for us in Malina’s condo when we arrived just after four p.m.

“This is Bogumila,” Malina said, gesturing to a slim brunette who regarded me steadily with one large eye; the other eye was hidden behind a dark curtain of hair that occluded half of her face, and I wondered what I’d see if I peeked behind it. She nodded curtly at me, and the candlelight Malina favored shimmered across the curtain as it rippled gently with the movement.

“You may call me Mila in public,” Bogumila said. “The Americans stare if your name is too ethnic.”

I nodded with a half grin, and Hal—whose full name was Hallbjörn—said, “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Berta is over there in the kitchen.” Malina pointed to another dark-haired woman. Berta, who might be described as “festively plump,” was snacking on some kind of hors d’oeuvre, and she waved casually at the mention of her name. Malina proceeded to introduce the other three members of her coven, all of them blondes. Kazimiera was very tall and leggy, her tan skin and bright white teeth suggesting that she’d grown up on the beaches of California rather than under the cloudy skies of eastern Europe. Klaudia was the petite, waifish sort, with a pair of sleepy eyes and a set of pouty lips, her hair cut short and layered at the neck and her bangs teased around her face in a wet, languorous fashion, giving the impression that whenever you saw her, she had just finished ha**ng s*x before you walked into the room and would now like nothing more than a French cigarette. I used to carry around a cigarette case expressly for the purpose of offering them to women like her, but that social custom lost its luster when people finally realized that offering someone a cigarette was the same thing as offering them lung cancer. Still, I patted absently where my vest pocket would be if I’d been wearing a vest, as in the late Victorian era.

The last of the Polish witches, Roksana, had her thick hair pulled back so tightly from her face that it appeared to be a crash helmet, but after routing itself severely through a silver loop at the base of her skull, it exploded into an untamed curly mane. Her owlish blue eyes regarded me steadily through a pair of round spectacles. She wore a power suit with a white blouse, shoulder-padded purple coat and black pants, and the pointy-toed black boots I’d come to associate with Malina. After a quick survey, I realized they all wore the same boots—and all of them wore something purple, though in Kazimiera’s case it was present only on a brooch she had fastened to her coat above her left breast.

I introduced Hal, because some of the witches had not met him yet. He produced two copies of the nonaggression treaty from his briefcase, all business, and likewise seven extremely sharp quills that we would use to sign it. The witches and I were each given a quill, and the signature pages of the treaties were settled on the black coffee table in front of Malina’s couch. One by one, the witches stabbed their palms with the quill and signed each copy of the treaty in blood. Then it was my turn.

I had argued for some time against signing in blood, when a fountain pen would have done just as well in legal terms; I did not want the coven to have any of my blood, period. The coven had argued vociferously for it, and eventually I gave way. In magical terms, it was much more binding, and those terms were far more strict than the legal ones. “People break the law all the time, Mr. O’Sullivan,” Malina pointed out. “People rarely break magical contracts, and those who do fail to live long afterward. Signing in blood is therefore not only for our protection, it is also for yours.”

Still, now that the moment had arrived, and six bloody signatures darkened as they dried in front of me, I hesitated. Signing it would contradict centuries of what I considered “best practice” in denying witches the opportunity to snuff me. But, truly, I saw no way forward without their help, and I needed it if I ever wished to have peace enough to restore the land around Tony Cabin. The sharp sting of the quill lingered as the blood welled out of my palm, and I did nothing to dampen the pain as I signed the treaties; it was right that I should feel it.

A general sigh of relief traveled around the room as I finished, tension releasing and tightly closeted smiles bursting free.

Berta clapped and said with a grin, “We should celebrate. Who wants chocolate and schnapps?” The suggestion was generally regarded as a fantastic one, and she bustled happily into the kitchen. The other witches came forward and shook Hal’s hand and mine, thanking us for our vision and willingness to cooperate; never had they felt so valued and respected; et cetera.

The hot chocolate and schnapps was served up with a plate of fresh-baked cookies that Berta had somehow produced. Malina rolled up the coven’s copy of the treaty, and Hal took mine and put it back in his briefcase so that the cookies could rest on the coffee table. Half of the coven sat themselves on the couch, and the rest of us pulled up assorted chairs so that we all sat in a sort of rough ellipse, with our chocolate and cookies in front of us and the orange and cardamom candles glowing merrily behind us around the room. It felt like one of the old European coffeehouses, except with far more purple than was advisable or permissible in Amsterdam or Paris.

I complimented Berta on the chocolate, then I said, “Tell me about die Töchter des dritten Hauses.”

The witches all cleared their expressions. “What would you like to know?” Malina said in neutral tones, but only with some effort. She seemed to be controlling her anger against them rather than concealing anything from me.

“Could you perhaps fill me in on the nature of their grudge against you?” I asked. “You said it began during World War Two, but I’m a little sketchy on what you were doing then. I only heard a little bit of the story when we first met.”