Bell, Book and Scandal (Bedknobs and Broomsticks #3) - Josh Lanyon Page 0,4

I heard locks turning and door chains sliding. The door swung open, and Ambrose stood in the doorway. A slight, almost frail-looking twenty-one-year-old in ripped jeans and a black sweatshirt. That afternoon his wiry dark hair looked wilder than usual, and he was wide-eyed—not with delight.

“C-Cosmo!”

I said, “Hey. I happened to not be in the neighborhood but decided to swing by anyway.”

He gulped. “I— Didn’t Blanche tell you I had to—that it was a-an emergency?”

“She told me.”

His creamy complexion went ghostly. He raised his chin to meet his fate head on. “Are you here to fire me?”

“I hope not.” I was sincere about that. “But we definitely need to talk. May I come in?”

Ambrose threw an uneasy glance over his shoulder, hesitated, but then moved aside. “I guess so. Yes.”

I stepped inside. The apartment smelled of candles, thyme, and stewing beef. It took my eyes a second or two to adjust to the gloom. The blinds were closed tightly, and the only light came from a small reading lamp at the end of a sagging sofa. A large book lay open on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Next to the book was a calligraphy pen set and a small indigo bottle of ink.

“GramMa is sleeping,” Ambrose whispered. “She had a bad night.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Did you…want to sit down?”

“Thank you. I would.” I went to the sofa, but the book on the coffee table caught my attention. I stared down at a diagram of the Cygnus constellation, looked up to find him watching me warily.

“You’re working on your grimoire?”

He nodded, dark eyes watchful.

Some of my tension eased. In June I had agreed to take Ambrose on as my apprentice in the Craft, which made firing him complicated. It would be difficult to continue as his master if there were hard feelings over his losing his job. Then again, I had started wondering if maybe he needed a different master anyway because we had argued repeatedly over his lack of interest in my training methods—in particular the building of his grimoire. It had turned into such a point of contention that I had refused to teach him another spell until he showed me that he had made some progress on his personal Book of Shadows.

To be honest, he could be so muleheaded, I hadn’t expected to win this battle so quickly. Or at all.

“May I see?”

Ambrose nodded again, moving to the table, picking up the book and handing it to me.

I took it carefully. Handling another’s grimoire must always be done with respect—and caution. But as I turned the fragile pages, I smiled. He had taken a book on natural history from the 1920s and overlaid several pages of text with his own notes, diagrams, and the spells I’d shared with him. The full-color plates of creatures both real and imaginary remained intact. It was beautifully done.

“Is it all right?” he asked gruffly.

“Oh yes. Very much so.” I met his gaze. “Are you happy with it?”

He shrugged, but then smiled reluctantly. “Yeah. You were right. It’s kind of in—”

The door to the apartment’s sole bedroom opened, and Ambrose broke off.

“Who here?” The voice was small and creaky.

An elderly woman swaddled in sweaters and a flannel nightie shuffled a few steps into the living room. She was tiny, fine-boned, and so pale she looked silver, inexplicably reminding me of a chimaera fish. Her white hair was in a braid that reached her waist. Her eyes were white too, and I remembered she was blind.

Ambrose threw me a quick, nervous look. “It’s my boss, GramMa. It’s Mr. Saville.”

“I’m sorry to intrude, Madame,” I said.

She stopped a few feet from us, swaying ever so slightly as though rocked by an unseen current. She began to sniff the air. Which was…a little different.

There was something else a little different about her, and I understood where Ambrose’s talent sprang from.

“There dark powa here,” she whispered.

My scalp prickled.

“No, GramMa,” Ambrose said quickly.

“No, Madame,” I said. “I promise you I mean no harm to you or to Ambrose.”

“You ave come yah to take my son!”

“No. No, really, I haven’t.”

Ambrose pleaded, “GramMa, Mr. Saville is my boss. He’s my master.”

I doubt she even heard him. She pointed at me and began to cast her spell.

Some of the words were French, some English, some…something else. Jamaican Patois perhaps? While words matter in spellcasting, intent matters more, and despite her age and mental confusion, her intent was focused and deadly. As the air began to change, grow