“If you don’t mind, might I have some clothes?” he asked in a raw voice. His heart was still wildly pumping, fueled by his embarrassment. He and Sally regarded each other, then both quickly glanced away. Usually, he was not so modest. He went out running every day, and in hot weather often stripped off his shirt as he dodged through the streets in lightweight running shorts. Once, on a hot summer morning, when the sky was still dark, he’d pulled off his shorts as well to run naked through Hyde Park.
Sally proceeded to the closet where there were white shirts on hangers, along with a few black jackets and black jeans folded haphazardly on a shelf. Ian had so many books that even here there were piles precariously stacked. Sally took a clean shirt and a pair of jeans to leave on the bed, then they all left Ian so that he might have his privacy. Sally was already joining Vincent and Gillian in the front room, and so it was Franny who turned to close the door. Ian stood beside the bed, facing away from her, still naked. Franny paused in the threshold and looked back. A crow was inked across Ian’s wide back as if spanning the sky. It was then Franny understood the lines of Sally’s left hand. Here was the fate she would make for herself.
* * *
After a while Ian managed to join them in his parlor. His inhalations were still shallow, he was sleep-deprived and he limped, his feet burning, as if they’d been held to the fire. He continued to feel caught up in a trance, but his cloudy mind had begun to clear. Sally was distracted, checking her phone, but when he said, “Thank you, Sally. I’m fairly certain I’d be dead without you,” her eyes met his for an instant before she quickly averted her gaze. Why was it only then that he noticed the color red was everywhere? A sheen of it still smudged his hands and feet, and there were large clumsy footsteps on the carpet, as if whoever had hexed him had stepped into his own poison.
“I’ll grab the vacuum,” Gillian decided. Poison was poison and they best be rid of it.
Franny held her back. “That kind of stain won’t come out unless you use bleach. And not without gloves.”
Ian’s research among those who practiced left-handed magic caused many people to dislike him and think of him as a traitor, writing about mysteries that were best not divulged, but what had happened here went beyond that mild emotion. Whoever was behind this brutal attack had been eager to be rid of him. Ian recognized some of the materials—the figure, the bones, the madder root—as those used in an ancient curse he’d written about in The History of Magic, having found the original spell in The Voynich Manuscripts at Yale University on a research trip to New England. It was unbreakable in most cases, for the poison paralyzed the lungs and the heart as well as the mind. Someone was seriously pissed or they wanted something he had badly. Ian thought perhaps it was whoever had been breaking in, stealing his books and his notes. He hadn’t paid enough attention to that, feeling an immediate sympathy for anyone who was a thief. Now he tossed Vincent a heavy set of keys. “The cabinet is on the right. Do me a favor and check for a red book.”
As it turned out, no key was needed; the lock had already been split open, and there, on the carpet, was the rock used to do so. The cabinet was brimming with magic texts, books that carried a bitter scent most mortals loathed. Vinegar, blood, the almond scent of cyanide. As Vincent rummaged through, he came upon several books he’d never seen before, rare editions he wished he had time to study.
“Look for Raueskinna,” Ian urged. “In ancient Icelandic. But don’t touch it.”
Vincent and Franny exchanged a look. Neither was the least bit surprised when Raueskinna was nowhere to be found.
“Oh, fuck.” Ian got to his feet in order to take a look for himself. The text of red magic was indeed missing. “That’s what they came here for. It’s a book of curses I paid a fortune for in Iceland. Fortunately, you need a password to open it.” His notebook was still in the desk drawer with coded passwords listed. Some books refused to open without a key of some sort, a word, an element, a touch of the hand.
Sally cut him off before there was further conversation about the importance of his collection. “My daughter has gotten hold of a dangerous book. The Book of the Raven. Have you heard of it?”