An old 1950s-style metal desk rested in middle of the floor, with a computer humming away on top, an ancient-looking landline phone, and a label printer. Loose paper carpeted the floor, as though recently pawed through.
Charlie walked from one end to the other, inhaling the powdery dust of old books. A locked glass cabinet had been smashed and the shelves inside emptied. A single bookshelf rested on the floor, books seeping out from underneath.
She went back to the desk, sat down, and moved around the mouse in a circle. After a moment, the computer monitor sprang to life, showing a ridiculously cluttered screen. She opened a search window and typed in “name:Noctem.” Nothing came up. She replaced it with “name:Blight,” and that got nothing too.
Then she tried “inventory” and got an .xl file. When she opened it, she found a list of books Paul Ecco had in the store, with short summaries, the price Paul paid for them, and the price he’d sold them for.
She typed “Noctem” into the search area of the file. No results.
Frustrated, Charlie took out her cell phone and called Balthazar. He answered on the third ring.
“Darling,” he said, drawing out the vowel. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“What if I want to take the Knight Singh job?” she asked, kicking the file drawer and making the chair spin.
“Too late, alas. I hear someone got the folio already. Regretting it? Don’t worry. I have a half dozen other jobs. A few out of state, if you’re willing to travel. A few impossible, if you’re looking for a thrill.”
“Always,” Charlie said. “But who wanted them?”
“Wanted which?”
“Knight Singh’s papers.” Idly, Charlie began to open the drawers of the desk. They made a grating metallic sound.
Balthazar hesitated before answering. “Is there something you ought to tell me?”
“I don’t think so.” In the files drawer she found dozens of manila folders, all labeled with the dull needs of business: bills, rent, takeout menus, insurance, bookseller organizations with acronyms: ABA, IOBA, NEIBA. “It was a puppeteer, wasn’t it?”
“There were several underlings from carapace who wanted the folio, and yes, a puppeteer. A very wealthy puppeteer.” He paused, as though troubled. “Now do you want to tell me how you knew that?”
She fought down the urge to show off, to mention that she was aware Raven was the one they’d been taken from.
“It’s my job to know stuff,” Charlie said innocently. She ought to thank Balthazar, hang up, and leave things at that, but she owed him something in the way of information. “Remember that job you said I should do, finding the Liber Noctem? Salt basically told me he’d kill me and everyone I love if I don’t.”
“Good thing I’m not likely to find myself in that category,” said Balthazar.
“Oh, I don’t know. You’re growing on me,” she told him as her fingers went to the far back of the files in the bottom drawer, stopping on a thin folder marked “Porn.” It was empty.
“You’re trouble, Charlatan,” he said, but with fondness.
“Goodbye, Balthazar,” she told him, and hung up.
Turning to the computer, she typed “Porn” into the search bar. A folder came up. Inside, were a half dozen .jpgs, three .mov files, and another folder marked “Geriatric Porn.” That contained a single .xl file. When she clicked it, a new inventory opened, listing a collection of occult books that might be of interest to gloamists. This spreadsheet included the year created, the specialty of the gloamist, whether it was a one-off or mass printed, whether there were other editions, what shelf it was on, and how Paul had acquired it.
Then there was a list of gloamist ephemera. To hide knowledge from one another, gloamists had taken to writing out their secrets in nontraditional ways. Stitched into the lining of a leather coat. Written in tiny letters inside of artwork. Objects whose real value was disguised so thoroughly that they might be thrown out or sold for pennies at a flea market.
And then there were NFTs. Popular among the wealthy, and still far from commonplace among most gloamists. Paul had one in his inventory, and seemed to have listed it for a hundred grand two weeks ago.
Charlie scanned down the list of sellers, looking for Remy, Edmund, Vincent, Red, even Salt. But the only name she recognized was Liam Clovin.
Liam Clovin, MD. Vince’s old school chum.
It looked as though he’d sold Paul Ecco three books within a week of the time that Edmund was supposed to have died. According to the entries, two were memoirs from the eighteenth century, worth five hundred bucks a piece, which had been kept in the shattered glass cabinet—clearly, those were gone. The third was Umbramagists Through History, self-published through Lulu in 2011. Instead of a shelf, the book was marked as being in a cardboard box on the other end of the room marked with a “7-A.”