Christine Warren: Huntress

Time to lay the tarot cards on the table.

“I was hired to retrieve the book by a client who claims that it was stolen from him.”

Aaron barked out a laugh. “You’re trying to tell me that you think Uncle Alistair was a thief? Lady, I don’t know who your ‘client’ is, but you need to go back and explain to him that my uncle wasn’t the type to cheat on his taxes, let alone steal from someone. You’ve come to the wrong place.”

Lilli watched his face as he spoke. He clearly believed what he said. In fact, his expression so clearly telegraphed his thoughts, she had a fleeting hope that he never acquired a taste for gambling. He’d suck at poker.

“Actually, I don’t think I have,” she said steadily. “I’m not a take-his-word-for-it kind of girl. I did a little research before I came out here, and from what I hear, Alistair Carruthers was asking some pretty detailed questions in the last couple of weeks before he died. The kind that wouldn’t just tell him what the manuscript was and where to find it, but the kind that could help him decide what to do with it if he happened to have it in his possession.”

Aaron shrugged, but a crease had appeared between his brows. It gave him an intent and worried sort of look. “So what? Asking questions about something has nothing to do with owning it. I can ask questions about the Book of Kells, but I think Trinity College and the Irish government would have something to say if I claimed to have it in my basement.”

Hm, he had books on his mind, did he? Maybe that was a sign. “Oh, and did you visit Dublin just a few days before they noticed the book was missing?”

He stilled. He hadn’t been moving, but stillness suddenly gripped him like a fist, tightening before her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Lilli hesitated only a second before she laid it all out. No guts, no glory. “My client claims that he has evidence that Alistair Carruthers was on his property a few weeks before his death. He would have had ample opportunity to find and take the codex and to conceal it before my client got around to noticing its absence.”

“If that’s true, then it’s likely any number of people would have also had access and opportunity in that same time frame. How does your ‘client’ intend to prove that my uncle was the one who actually stole it?”

“Um, I’m not sure he’s really worried about offering proof …”

“Well, he should be. Unless he’s prepared to produce a bill of sale or some other documentation of his claim of ownership, I doubt there’s a court in existence that would support a claim of theft and order the artifact be returned to him.”

She snorted. “Record keeping is not my client’s forte. Mr. Bullard, while I didn’t see a bill of sale, my research turned up no evidence proving your uncle’s ownership, either; so I have no reason to dispute S—, um, my client’s claim.”

“Well, I do. I know my uncle, and I know he was not a thief. I’ve seen the man give back a penny of change to a store clerk if it was a penny too much. His family has lived in this town since it was founded. Heck, his family founded it. Honor and honesty were everything to him. But he was supposed to have broken into your mysterious client’s house and made off with an item as valuable and unique as the Praedicti? I have no reason to doubt that my uncle came by his ownership of the text in a completely innocent and above-board manner.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you some kind of lawyer?”

“No, a curator. Why?”

“No reason.” Lilli shifted and sighed. “Look, this obviously isn’t getting us real far. I came here to get the book. I was hoping I could do that quickly and discreetly, but we both know that didn’t happen. Now, we could turn this into a legal battle and pit you against my client and let you two duke it out to see who can prove they really own the thing, but I doubt anyone would want to do that. My client wants the manuscript. I have a feeling he’s willing to do a lot to get it. Why don’t you tell me how much you want to sell it back to him? I’ll run the number by him and see what we can do.”

“I don’t think I feel comfortable with that. Not when I know so little about your client. You haven’t even told me his name. He could be completely the wrong sort of person to allow to take control of the Praedicti .”

“There’s a right sort of person?”

“Absolutely.” When she opened her mouth below a rather offended glare, he bowled right over her. “You’ve already admitted that I know more about the codex than you do. Given the context of this conversation, I’m going to take it to mean that you also fail to understand what exactly the Praedicti is capable of.”

“It’s a book. I pretty much figured it was capable of lying there and being read.”

“And that’s it?”

She scowled. “I already made sure that it wasn’t cursed or enchanted in any way. And it’s obviously not a spellbook. So what else could it do? Prophecies don’t cause future events, they just speculate on what they might be.”

“In general, yes, that would be the definition of predictions; but the predictions in this book aren’t general. They are highly specific and are divided into two groups: the first set predicts events like the spread of the plague across Europe, the Norman Conquest, even the execution of Joan of Arc.”

“Right. I don’t see how that’s the sort of thing that becomes dangerous in the wrong hands.”

He ignored her. “The second set predicts the course and outcome of a great apocalypse brought about by the unleashing of the fury of Hell upon the mundane world.”

“The Revelation of St. John does the same thing,” she pointed out impatiently.

“Yes, but St. John doesn’t preface his vision with a recipe for how to accomplish that unleashing.”

Lilli froze, felt herself go cold. “The Praedicti does?”

“Add a sprinkle of brimstone and bake at three-fifty until golden brown.”

She closed her eyes and groaned.

“Well, shit.”

The coffee had gone cold while Aaron and Lilli tried to kill each other, but it didn’t take long to boil the kettle and fix another pot. Pouring a cup for each of them, Aaron set Lilli’s in front of her and then slid into his own chair across the kitchen table.

“Thanks.”

“I suggest starting at the beginning.”

“That would take way too long. There’s just too much.”

“Sum up.”

She took a drink, lingered over it, obviously stalling. “A few years ago, I was doing a job that involved tracking down a particularly bloodthirsty goblin.”

“I thought you said you were a bounty hunter.”

“I am. I specialize in non-human tracking, capture, and rendition.”

“Non-human?” Aaron repeated. “You mean visitants.”

She made a face. “I’ve always hated that term. Doesn’t it imply that they’re visiting from somewhere else? Because I can guarantee that most of what I go after is completely homegrown.”

“I think it has to do with their ability to visit to or from those planes that humans normally can’t.”

Her shoulders shifted in a shrug. “Anyway, yeah. I go after the nasties. Mostly I contract out with the police, the courts, bail bondsmen. When a non-human doesn’t show up for court or when the police lack the expertise to handle a supernatural creature, I step in and get them or return them to custody.”

Aaron nodded for her to continue.

“A few years ago, one of the things I was after—a goblin—thought he would be able to give me the slip if he beat a path into Hell.”

That made sense to Aaron. Hell was the nickname given to the parallel plane of existence inhabited and controlled by nine devil princes, immortal beings of great power and no discernible redeeming qualities. Devils lived to accumulate wealth and power, and one of the ways they did so involved the enslavement of unsuspecting humans and visitants alike. Aaron had never paid the plane a personal visit, and he intended to continue to stay very far away. If he’d been following someone who had ducked into Hell to evade him, he’d have waved goodbye and headed out for ice cream.