Neon Blue E Frost (speld decodable readers .TXT) 📖

Tiny symbols fill the interstices. They look Arabic. More of the same characters circle the edge of the signet stone and decorate the band.

I lift an eyebrow. “Given what you can find on the Internet these days—”

Peter nods. “I know. I expected something more dramatic, too. A Totenkopfring or King Tut’s missing signet. This looks like something the goths in my freshman U.S. History class would wear. But I think this is the genuine article, or pretty close to it.” He flips a few more pages. “There was a surprising amount of information on it. It’s called ‘King Solomon’s Seal,’ for one thing—”

“That’s an herb,” I say. A very potent one. Particularly good for wounds. Happily, I haven’t had much call to use it since the local shifter clans declared Mass. General a safe harbor. “Lily family.”

“Yeah, I read that.” He flips a few more pages and shows me a Xerox from a book I have on the bookshelf in my hearth room, The Encyclopedia of North American Herbs. He’s thorough, I’ll give him that. “Where the leaves fall off, they leave a mark that looks like Solomon’s Seal.”

It’s the flowers, but I don’t correct him. I’m too impressed by all the research he’s done to nit-pick.

“Here.” He flips a few more pages, to a thick Xerox that starts with the title, The Secret History of Solomon’s Temple and the Ancient Order of Free and Accepted Masons.

“Freemasons?” I raise an eyebrow. I flip through a few pages. It looks like he’s copied the entire book. “Isn’t that copyright infringement?”

Peter laughs. “If you won’t tell, I won’t. It turns out that freemasonry may have started with the building of Solomon’s Temple. But the interesting thing for our purposes is that there’s some good historical evidence that Solomon’s Seal was real. It may not have done all the things it was reputed to do. Summon angels, banish demons—”

Or maybe it did.

“—but it does seem to be a real ring that was inscribed with this sign. A Star of David.”

“Hexagram,” I say. “Let’s not get all mythological.”

A startled flash of those deep blue eyes. “I, uh, thought a friend of Ro’s—”

“I’m a practical friend of Ro’s. Mostly I just want to find this thing.”

Peter’s face falls. “Well, I can’t really help you with that.”

I put my hand over his where it rests on the edge of the binder. “You already have.”

Later, I sit with the binder open on my bed and look through the pages Peter’s copied for me. There’s a red sticker on the bottom of each page that reads, ‘For educational purposes only.’ It makes me smile. I can’t see Peter carefully stickering each page. He probably had some eager undergrad do the copying.

I flip through the pages, not really reading, remembering his good-bye, which was awkward and sweet at the same time. Not quite a kiss and not quite a hug. He clearly wanted it to be more. So did I, but thoughts of Saul, and of Ro, kept me stiff in his arms. I’m not sure what the etiquette of dating your ex-best-friend’s ex-boyfriend is, but I’m pretty sure that clearing it with your ex-best-friend is a prerequisite to kissing. Maybe even a prerequisite to hugging. Especially if it’s that delicious hugging where the guy’s trying to imprint the shape of your breasts onto his chest.

I squirm a little on the bed, take a sip of my ma huang tea, and turn a page.

A loud knock on the front door makes me spill my tea.

“Shit.” I climb off the wet quilt, pulling my dressing gown around me, and wonder who is knocking on my door at this time of night. It better not be Shah.

I pad down the stairs, peering through the stained glass lites. All I can see is the top of a dark head.

“Shah, if you’ve locked yourself out again, you can sleep on the porch,” I call.

“Tsara, it’s me. It’s Peter.”

My heart begins thumping hard in my chest. Scenes from cheesy Sandra Bullock movies fill my head. Did he come back to sweep me off my feet and carry me to bed? If so, wow, that sounds good. To hell with clearing it with Ro first.

I shed my fuzzy cotton dressing gown and run my fingers through my hair. Wish I had some of Ro’s lingerie. The old t-shirt I was going to sleep in will have to do. At least I’ve taken my bra off. One of those chest-crushing hugs will be all kinds of exciting.

I open the door smiling.

Peter’s standing there, blinking in the porch light. He doesn’t look enticing or sexy or anything like that. He looks scared. And he’s not even looking at me. He’s staring in the direction of my porch swing.

“Peter, what’s—”

“There’s a dog or something over there . . . only, it’s crying.”

A shifter. I push past Peter and rush to the swing. The odor of wet dog, and blood, hits me so hard I gag. Clapping my hand to my mouth, I sink down beside the pile of fur and torn flesh huddled in my porch swing.

“It’s okay,” I say soothingly. Run my hands lightly over the wet fur. Shifters need the comfort of touch, particularly when they’re hurt. “What did this to you?”

“H-ska,” the shifter says brokenly.

Trying to talk with a muzzle is hard.

“Hisaka clan.” Snake-shifters. Very nasty, and usually venomous. “Okay, I need to get you inside. Can you walk?”

The pile of fur stirs, unfolds. It’s amazing what small balls shifters can curl themselves into. Standing, he’s over six feet tall. But he’s all angular arms and legs and bushy tail. When I get an arm around him, there’s nothing to him.

Blood immediately soaks through my tee, hot through the cloth. The snake-shifter’s taken a chunk out of him.

“Tsara—”

Shit, I’d forgotten about my other uninvited, but very welcome, guest. “Oh, Peter, I can explain.” I can’t, actually. But I’m very good with memory charms. “Do you want to come inside for a moment?”

“Sure.” He follows me