The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

bailing me out back there.” I no longer had a suspect, but I’d managed to keep both eyes and my life, which was something. “And for the lift home,” I added.

“Ooh, that reminds me.”

I watched cross-eyed as he pressed an ink-stained thumb between my brows. “What the…? Ow!” I cried as a bolt of energy pierced my forebrain. Though the sensation quickly dissipated, a tingling pressure remained behind. “What are you doing?”

“The wards around the city could detect your magic but not your intentions. Consider yourself stamped.” He said it matter-of-factly. “If you violate any of the mandates, including pursuing the matter with the church, the Order will know. That should tell you how serious they are.”

“And if I do it anyway?”

“You’ll find out just how serious.”

I sighed and got out of the car.

“Everson,” Chicory said before I could close the door. I leaned down and met his eyes, which didn’t seem so frazzled anymore. They appeared dark, almost mercenary. “The Order can seem like an abstraction sometimes, but when it comes to their mandates, they’re rather black and white. Trust me. I’ve had to take care of two wayward wizards this month already.”

I felt the moisture leave my mouth. “You mean…?”

He nodded once. “Don’t test them.”

32

I awoke early Sunday morning, having slept decently for someone who faced a deadline with an NYPD detective, another deadline with a mob boss, and a not-so-subtle threat from his mentor of being put to death if he acted on either. It probably explained the shredded feeling in my stomach.

I dressed, fixed an omelet for Tabitha, who was still snoozing, and headed out for coffee. I had some serious mulling to do.

Except for a handful of neighbors out walking their dogs, the West Village streets were quiet. The weather system that had dumped gray clouds and on-and-off rainfall over the city since last week continued to linger like a nagging cold. I wasn’t feeling so hot myself.

I hustled the three blocks through the damp to my favorite caffeine stop, Two Story Coffee, and ordered a large Colombian roast with two shots of scotch. I paid for it, along with a folded-over Sunday Edition of the Scream, and carried both to a soft reading chair in a corner. Being Sunday, it was too early for the regulars: various artists and practitioners of the esoteric, which the particular energy patterns in the neighborhood seemed to attract.

I took a sip of coffee and sank into the chair in thought.

It seemed all of the decent options were off the table. I was looking at least bad now. To avoid the Order’s wrath, I would have to back off the shrieker case, which meant hiding from Bashi and the White Hand for roughly the rest of my life. I would also have to walk away from the cathedral case—not that I had any new leads at the moment—but what would happen to Father Vick, not to mention the crucial role of St. Martin’s in the city’s balance of power?

One thing I had decided for certain was to skip my hearing at Midtown College tomorrow morning. I refused to give Snodgrass the satisfaction of watching me sink. I wasn’t sure which hurt more, though: the thought of no longer being able to research and teach the subject I loved, or of not having Caroline Reid as a colleague. Would our friendship survive? And what was she going to think of me for not fighting for my position?

I sighed and unfolded the paper across my lap. The headline that took up half the front page blew all thoughts of the college from my head.

Murder And Mayhem At St. Martin’s! Rector Battered To Death! Parishioners Ask, “Who’s Next?”

Despite the Church’s effort, the story had gotten out. Probably a blackmail job. The paper had wanted more money and the Church had balked. The article contained nothing I didn’t already know, the information attributed to a “brave source” who had requested anonymity. I snorted at the irony. I worried, though, what the story meant for Father Vick and St. Martin’s.

The cathedral’s power as a sanctuary against evil depended largely on a collective faith in, well, the cathedral’s power as a sanctuary against evil. Challenging that faith with a graphic depiction of the murder and suggestions that there could be more to come wobbled the central struts.

Maybe exactly what someone was trying to do.

The rest of the article was garbage, something the Scream had unabashedly mastered. At least my likeness wasn’t featured below the article.

I turned the page. Correction. At least my likeness wasn’t featured below that article. Because the god-awful police sketch was back, on page two. I raised my eyes to the headline—and nearly spilled my coffee.

The Eviscerator Strikes Again! Soho! Chelsea! Spanish Harlem! Murray Hill!

My eyes rocketed up and down the columns, grabbing the relevant information, slamming it into something coherent. Four more murders since Friday night. Two men. Two women. The info on the victims was sketchy, but they had all been slain in the same manner as the Chinatown and Hamilton Heights victims—hence my reprisal as lead suspect and creep job.

I closed my eyes to a corkscrew of dizziness. Had those same shriekers reappeared to feed? I shook my head. No, these sounded like the just-summoned variety. No signs of entrance, smashed windows for exits.

“Plan for the shriekers, my ass,” I grumbled as I recalled the assurance Chicory had given me in the car last night. There were now at least six of them loose in the city, up to God knew what, and the Order wasn’t doing a goddamned thing. The thought knotted the muscles in my neck.

And why hadn’t my alarm alerted me? The city hologram should have lit up like a supernova. Cold understanding stiffened my spine. The Order had cut me off from their wards. Hence, the hologram’s silence the last couple of nights.

I took a large swallow of coffee, more for the alcohol than caffeine, and flipped between the two articles in thought. Oh,