Jenkins stood the three books upright on the table. My Kama Sutra selection didn’t get a reaction out of the old guy, but it did elicit an extra special eye roll from Lienna.

Mission. Accomplished.

With the books precariously standing on their ends, Jenkins had us close our eyes while he stoically whispered in an ancient-sounding language. This was something he did at the beginning of all his readings to “communicate with the spirits in the ethereal world.” Apparently, the spirits spoke Latin or Sanskrit or whatever.

I cracked an eye open and peeked at Lienna. Her eyes were firmly shut, her mouth twisted in a frown. Hmm. Take off the necklace now, perhaps?

Before I could decide, a book tilted over and landed with a thump. Jenkins halted his chant, and he and Lienna opened their eyes to study the big ol’ Bible lying on its face, while the other two books stayed right where Jenkins had set them.

“Are you religious, Kit?” he asked in a musing tone.

“Hell no. Have you ever met a mythic who is?”

His bony shoulder lifted in a small shrug. “You might be surprised.”

I waited for him to ask why a Christian Bible would hold significance for me, prepared to evade the question, but he merely pondered the book.

After a moment, he directed me to place the Bible spine down on the table, holding the front and back cover with my index fingers very gently. Then he told me to close my eyes and let go.

I did. The book flopped open. Under his instruction, I raised my right hand and placed it on an exposed page.

“Thank you,” he said. “You may open your eyes now.”

The diviner took the Bible and squinted at the passage that had been under my palm.

“‘Who is this coming up from the wilderness like a column of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and incense made from all the spices of the merchant?’” he read. “‘Look! It is Solomon’s carriage, escorted by sixty warriors, the noblest of Israel, all of them wearing the sword, all experienced in battle, each with his sword at his side, prepared for the terrors of the night.’”

He looked from me to Lienna and back, possibly hoping for some amazed oohs and aahs. Neither of us reacted.

Closing the book, he gently set it down. “King Solomon of the Israelites denotes wisdom, and this particular text presents him as a powerful warrior with an army of experienced allies. The spirits suggest you will need assistance from those who are wiser and more experienced than you.”

Lienna pressed her lips together. “Can the spirits be … more specific?”

“Conflict is in your future. I am sensing a battle, as the text states. A dangerous fight during which you will need allies by your side.”

“Sixty of them?” I asked.

“The specific number is irrelevant. I should note the obvious romantic implication, as well. This passage is from the Song of Solomon, also known as the Song of Songs. It is a love poem. A highly erotic one at that.”

Mouth slightly agape, I glanced at Lienna, who caught me looking and replied with a dark glare.

“What about the smoke?” she asked Jenkins. “And the spices?”

“That is an interesting component. Quentin’s reading also involved smoke. The selected text was from a Rudyard Kipling poem. I believe the line was, ‘A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.’ There was more, though I can’t recall it. I do not waste my recreational time reading colonial poetry.”

I drummed my fingers thoughtfully on the table. This whole “investigation” was just a means to an end, but I couldn’t help feeling intrigued. “What do you think his text meant? What was your interpretation?”

“A woman will play an integral role in his future, although not as integral as the metaphorical cigar and its smoke.” Jenkins gave a modest shrug. “I am uncertain about the significance of the smoke, but its mention seemed to please Quentin.”

I was sure it had.

Lienna shifted in her chair. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Quentin’s reading?”

“Those were the significant particulars.”

With a quick glance to see if I was planning to say anything useful, she rose to her feet. “Well, I appreciate your help.”

The diviner raised his skeletal frame from his chair and issued her a sardonic smile. “Anything for the MPD.”

The three of us single-filed down the hallway toward the front door, with Lienna leading the exodus and Jenkins bringing up the rear. Midway through our journey, I felt the old man’s hand slip into my back pocket, which was startling for all the wrong reasons.

I flung a “what in the gropey hell was that, you old creep” look over my shoulder, but his expression was solemn and he placed a shushing finger over his lips.

That didn’t make me feel better.

I put my hand in my back pocket and felt a small piece of paper. He hadn’t copped a feel; he’d slipped me a note.

As I bent down at the front door to tie my shoes, I stealthily pulled the note from my pocket, eyeing it as I fumbled with my laces. It was his slick, professionally designed business card: “The Kitsilano Klairvoyant. Vancouver’s Premiere Psychic Services.” But the phone number printed on the card was crossed out and he’d scratched another one above it.

I flipped the card over and found a handwritten message that made my eyes pop. It simply read, “For when you escape.”

Chapter Six

When I escaped. Not if.

Lienna hadn’t revealed I was a prisoner, but the old diviner seemed to have, well, divined that nonetheless. And he also knew I didn’t plan on staying one.

But what was the phone number? A hotline for fugitives on the run from the MPD? Because that would have been super helpful a few days ago when I was attempting to cross international borders.

As Lienna led me down the Kitsilano Klairvoyant’s front steps, I considered our surroundings. My abjuration chaperone had her back to me and there was probably an alley nearby I could slip into. I wasn’t wearing running shoes, but at least they had laces, so …

No. Not yet. We were a long way from catching up to Quentin, which meant I’d have plenty of opportunities—hopefully better ones—to escape.

Back in the smart car, Lienna started up the puny engine. “Well, that was informative.”

“I’d say so,” I replied, pretending not to notice the sarcasm dripping from her words. “We know to keep an eye out for smoke, and we should ask some old and wise folks for help at some point.”

Scoffing, she found a gap in the intermittent residential traffic and pulled into the lane.

“You don’t believe him?” I asked. “For a fancy abjuration sorceress, you’re sounding a lot like a skeptic.”

“I’m not skeptical of magic.” She accelerated through a yellow light. “I’m skeptical of a man who calls himself a clairvoyant when he’s actually a diviner, cheats unknowing humans out of their money, and has no reason to perform a real reading or give us truthful answers.”

A white box van behind us burned through the intersection as well, garnering honks from the other cars. Vancouver traffic has no chill.

“Who says he’s cheating the humans who come to him for readings?” I studied her profile. “Do you have any basis for your assumption that he’s a conman?”