Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell) - By Jenn Bennett Page 0,72
Identify Magicians was a quirky field guide written in 1955 by an Earthbound psychologist. The only copy I’d ever seen was in my occult order’s library in Florida, but I found another one online. It had hilarious drawings of 1950s occultists and a plethora of helpful tips for Earthbounds: how to recognize magicians by their clothing, a glossary of occult symbols, a chapter on how to avoid a binding trap and what to do if you found yourself caught in one—“don’t panic”—and a list of known occult temples.
“Do you like it?” I asked, curled up on the couch next to him, morning sun spilling across the room from the patio doors. It was a clear day, and the Pacific sparkled jewel-blue in the distance. Near the Christmas tree, Jupe was tearing open another gift from the Holidays, who were in some sort of friendly competition with Rose for the title of Who Can Give Jupe the Most Presents.
Lon carefully turned the pages. “I had no idea this even existed.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Love it.” He flashed me a lovely smile, then pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Ready for yours?” He handed me two things. The first was a bulging manila envelope filled with travel reservations, luxury chalet brochures, and a guide to the French Alps. It was real: we were actually going to go on a vacation. He corrected me, mouthing “sex vacation” when no one was looking, but I think Rose was too caught up in the gift-giving to have noticed anyway.
“And this,” he said, handing me a small, flat box. Inside was a silver bangle bracelet. Two beautifully molded snakes looped around the bangle. Their heads twined at the center over a pair of wings.
“It’s a caduceus,” I said in surprise. One that was designed to fit a circle instead of the usual straight staff. Around the inside was a Latin phrase: quod est superius est sicut quod est inferius. As above, so below.
“It’s reputedly from a medieval mage’s tomb in Rome,” he said as I slipped it on. Good God, this thing was probably worth a small fortune. “It doesn’t seem to have any practical uses, but I thought you might like the aesthetics of it.”
I threw my arms around his neck. “It’s wonderful. I adore it.”
“I’m glad,” he said, definitely pleased with himself. “I have something else for you, but I wanted to wait to give it to you . . .” He nodded toward the mayhem in front of the Christmas tree. “. . . when things return to normal around here.”
“Might be waiting a long time.”
“It’ll keep.”
Once Jupe noticed we were exchanging gifts, he paused his chaotic present-extravaganza. “Get your laptop, Dad.”
Lon reached over me and handed me a computer, while Jupe bookended himself on my opposite side. “What’s all this?” I asked.
“Hold on,” Jupe said, leaning all over me to type an address into the web browser.
I watched a page pop up on the screen. It was Tambuku’s website. But nicer. Way nicer. It wasn’t just a static page with our address and a badly lit photo that Kar Yee had taken when we first opened. It had style. Professional photography. A drink menu. And on the page with our hours, it even said that we were temporarily closed for construction and would reopen after the holidays.
“What? How . . . Who did this?”
“I did!” Jupe announced proudly. “I mean, Dad took the photos and helped me with some of the graphics, and he said that I couldn’t use Papyrus or Comic Sans for the fonts. And that the background up here couldn’t be purple. And that I couldn’t post photos of you and Kar Yee because it just encourages weirdos—”
I gave Lon an appreciative look.
“—but I did most of the CSS and I got Kar Yee to send me the drink menu and I got this little map thingy to work and I wrote all the stuff about the bar and it was all my idea,” he ended, inhaling a big breath.
I clicked around, going back through all the pages.
“Do you love it?” he asked. Not “like,” but “love,” as if he meant “isn’t it the greatest thing in the world and didn’t I do a good job?” It was such a Jupe thing to say, and he was so eager and enthusiastic.
I pressed my forehead against his. “I love it so much. It’s my favorite gift.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Dad’s going to be pissed. His gift cost way more. Like, mine was free, and his—”