Lance Cody lived in a bungalow four blocks from the bookstore. I found it with a little internet sleuthing in my car—I sent him a direct message on three social media sites, and he responded within 15 minutes. I rang his doorbell, and he answered right away.
Cody was in his 30s, with blond hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. “Are you Tom Jurgen? What’s going on?”
“It’s about this book.” I held it out to him. “And Marcy Pratt.”
Inside he offered me tea. His living room was large, filled with books, armchairs, paintings, and a long sofa. And more books.
He sat in an armchair, the book on a coffee table next to our tea.
“You were with Marcy Pratt when she bought that book,” I said, seated on the sofa.
He leaned over to look at the cover. “Yes.” He was wary.
“How do you know her?”
“I teach a night class on folklore. It’s an extension course. I do it mostly for fun, and to meet people.” He shrugged. “You know, just to stay in touch with the community.”
“How did you end up helping her buy that book?”
He sat back, thinking. “We were talking about spells in class one night. The kind they use in fairy tales and fantasy novels, and she was curious about other kinds.”
“What other kind?”
“She was interested in, uh, transformation. Metamorphosis. The old myths.”
“Is that what the book is about?”
He opened it up. “‘Breaking the Pillars,’” he read. “Or something like that. I’ve heard of it, but I can’t read it, obviously.” He started turning the pages.
I glanced around. The books on the shelves around us all looked well-read. Some were textbooks, a lot were the classics you’d expect an English prof to have—Dickens, James Joyce, Jane Austen, Doris Lessing—and others, along with works of criticism. Some had titles I couldn’t make out, faded or in languages I’m not fluent in. I know a little Spanish, but not enough to decipher some of the titles running down the spines. Other languages I just didn’t recognize.
Cody held up the sheet of paper. “What’s this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” I set my cup of Earl Gray down. “I can’t read the language. Warren at the bookstore says it’s in Aramaic. Some of the words are missing. Do you have any idea what that could be?”
He frowned. “Not Aramaic, but maybe Chaldean. I recognize a few words here and there . . .” He bent over the table. “This is ‘water.’ This means ‘fire.’ Those are easy. This . . .” He shook his head. “Might mean ‘call for.’ Or ‘summon.’”
“Like summoning spirits?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“How well do you know Marcy?” I asked. “What’s she like?”
He cocked his head. “Smart. Curious. A little impatient—she wanted to skip through things, get to the good stuff instead of really getting to know the material. She took lots of notes, different colored markers for different names and topics. She was a little obsessed.”
“Why did she buy this book?”
Cody looked at me, then looked away. “She was interested in ancient rituals.”
He’d said that just a minute ago. “What kind of rituals?”
“Summoning spirits, like you said. The kind with power. Wild magic, that sort of thing.”
“Demons?”
He cocked his head. “I don’t think of them like that, but yes.” He seemed embarrassed to be talking about it, but he went on. “Over the centuries, cultures developed rituals—spells, if you like—for summoning gods and spirits for strength, wisdom, empathy, sexual performance—”
“And this book tells you how to do that?”
Cody looked down at the cover. “I can’t read it, of course. But I’ve heard about this book. Studied other writers who have read it, ancient and modern. Some say it’s bullshit, or superstitious gibberish, but the older ones, who took spells seriously, have written that this is a source of powerful magic. If you know what you’re doing.”
Oh-oh. “Does Marcy?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. She was just curious. This isn’t the original book, anyway, it’s a reproduction, so it was only 30 dollars.”
A bargain, but it still sounded ominous. “Does the word ‘Miskal’ mean anything to you?”
Cody’s eyes flickered, but he shook his head. “I don’t think so. What is it?”
“Something from an email.” I glanced around the room, trying to think of what to do next. Was this book and the note even important? For all I knew, Marcy had gone to Vegas with a boyfriend to get married, and ‘Miskal’ was his ex-girlfriend’s name.
Cody closed the book, with the paper sticking out. “I think I know where there’s another copy of this. An older version, more accurate.”
That pulled me back. “Where?”
“Bibliotheca Davonia. It’s a specialized library. It’s not part of the college, but I have, uh, privileges there. It’s out of town. I could take you.” He stood up.
I picked up the book. “Okay. Do you have a car? I should follow you. I wouldn’t want you to get stranded in case I have to go off somewhere else.”
He nodded. “Makes sense. Give me a minute.” He started picking up our tea.
“I’ll wait outside.”
Yeah, I didn’t want to leave him behind—or worse yet, have to take him with me—if this library gave me a lead. But the truth was, I wasn’t sure I trusted Cody. I had the feeling he knew more about the book than he was admitting to me. And he seemed a little too willing to help me find a random student.
Out in the car I called Marcy’s roommate. “Was Marcy taking a class in folklore at the college?”
“Yeah, Wednesday nights. She loved it. She thought the teacher was hot.”
Huh. “Did she talk about what they were studying? Did she have any homework?”
“Uh, no. I mean, she was in her room reading a lot. I heard her reading out loud sometimes, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Not that I stood at her door listening, I mean,” she added quickly.
“All right. Thanks.”
“Are you getting close to finding her?”
It had been an hour, but if this was TV, I’d already have solved the case. “Not yet. Thanks again.” I hung up.
Cody came out of the house, tugging a jacket through his arms. He waved. I made a quick call to Rachel. “Anything on Miskal?”
She groaned. “Just the usual garbage from Google. I called a few people.” Rachel has a lot of friends with supernatural experience—wiccans, séance hosts, demonologists. “Oh, and I wrote two sentences on my ethics paper. Yay me!” She hung up.
I’d be in trouble later. I texted her my location and plans, just in case, then started my car and waited for Cody to back down his driveway.
Bibliotheca Davonia had once been a church, with stained glass windows on either side of the front door and a high steeple on top. The red paint on its walls was faded and chipped, but the steps leading up to the front door looked sturdy enough.
Two cars were parked on a gravel lot to the side. Cody pulled his Nissan up beside them and got out. I parked next to him.
“This is it.” He led me up the wide front steps and pressed a button next to the broad doors. A faint buzzing told him to pull, and we went inside.
A woman in a wheelchair sat behind a desk. She had white hair and glasses, and wore a brown pantsuit that looked tailored and pricey. The room was dark, with a low ceiling and a hardwood floor. Twin gargoyles stood guard on either side of a pair of doors with frosted panels hiding whatever was beyond them.
She set her computer mouse to one side before looking up. “Yes? Oh, Lance! What brings you here again?”
So he was a frequent visitor? “Hi, Sydney,” he said. “It’s about this book. It’s a reprint, but you have the original, don’t you?”
Sydney looked me over, as if I owed hundreds of dollars in overdue fines. “And you are?”
“Tom Jurgen.” I gave her my card. “I’m looking for a young woman who bought this book with Mr. Cody a few days ago. She was trying to copy something from it.”
I opened the book and showed her the paper. She tilted her head, and her lips moved silently as she read to herself.
“Do you know what it means?” I asked.
Sydney looked up quickly. “Just a minute.” She tapped at her keyboard and scribbled on a Post-it note. “Let’s go see.”
She turned her wheelchair and rolled out from behind the desk. Reaching behind one gargoyle, she pressed a switch, and the doors slowly opened toward us like the entrance to a dungeon.
The library looked bigger inside than out, like the TARDIS in Doctor Who. Tall shelves packed with books rose from the black-and-white tiled floor like monoliths on either side of a central aisle. Lamps along the walls cast light and shadows, and three skylights far above let the gray afternoon sky add a little illumination through the clouds. A gallery on the second floor looked down, its books looming ominously over us.
Sydney rolled her wheelchair briskly forward. Three-quarters of the way down the room she swung to the right, wheeling her way between the towering bookshelves. The space was narrow; Cody and I had to follow in single file, like cave explorers in a tight crevice.
She stopped and leaned forward, her arm out. Then she frowned and looked at her Post-it. “It should be here.”
A gap between books suggested something was missing. Cody reached around me to pick up the book next to it. “Anatomies of—something,” he said, looking at the dusty cover. “My Latin’s rusty.”
“Put it back.” Sydney snatched the book from him. “That’s how things get lost.”
“Is that what happened?” I asked. ”Or did someone check it out? Do you do that here? Is it that kind of library?”
She sighed. “I’ll have to look.” She started backing up her wheelchair. Cody and I retreated.
We made our way up the aisle and back to the outer office. Sydney opened a drawer and pulled out a spiral notebook.
“You don’t keep the borrowing records on the computer?” I asked.
“We don’t have many people borrowing things.” She flipped the notebook open. “Some of the traditional ways are still best.”
“It must have been taken recently. The space would have settled it between the books.”
Sydney smiled. “You’d be surprised.” She ran a finger down the page. “Here we are. Herman Weiss.” She squinted. “Only a few days ago.”
“When, exactly?”
“Monday.”
The day after Marcy had disappeared. “Do you have his address?”
Sydney sighed. “I can’t just give out—”
Cody interrupted. “I can find where he lives.”
I blinked. “How?”
“He’s, uh, in my class. The one with Marcy.”
I was getting more and more suspicious of Cody, but I tried not to let it show. “And you have his address? With you?”
“Yeah.” He held up his phone. “I can pull his student record. I mean, I’m not supposed to, but—”
“Hang on a minute.” I turned to Sydney. “Thanks for your help.”
I led Cody outside. The afternoon was getting cooler, and I zipped my jacket as he looked at me expectantly.
“Look, you don’t have to tag along,” I told him. “This is my job.”
“I want to.” He glanced over his shoulder at the stained glass window, as if Sydney might be standing inside trying to listen. “Herman Weiss is—well, sort of odd.”
“Odd how?”
“A group of students—including Marcy—were getting together after class at different houses. Herman was one of them. He was always asking about spells. Like Marcy. Rituals for talking to animals, communicating with the dead, that sort of thing. He’s harmless, though,” he added quickly. “Friendly with everyone.”
I wished Rachel were here. She’s psychic, and she can pick up vibes easier than I can. But I still had the feeling there was something he was holding back.
I sighed. “I’ve got to be honest, Lance—”
“Leonard.” he shifted on his feet, embarrassed. “It’s, uh, Leonard. Lance just sounds more badass.”
“Leonard.” It fit him better than Lance. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I trust you, Leonard. You’re very, very interested in a woman who’s just your student. A young, attractive student—”
He shook his head. “It’s not like that! I never—nothing like that happened. I was surprised when she asked me to go to the bookstore with her. I’m afraid that Herman might be—I don’t know. Into something he can’t control.” He looked away from me.
“Like what?”
“Some of these rituals can be dangerous. I mean, even if there aren’t any actual demons—there are drugs to take, candles and incense and other stuff that could start a fire or fill up a place with smoke, and some of these rituals can really mess with your head. Herman’s a nice guy, but he could get pushed into stuff that’s not safe, by—by a girl like Marcy. Or somebody.”
That tracked reasonably enough. Even if Cody wasn’t telling me everything—and I was pretty sure he was still holding back—keeping him nearby might be more useful than trying to send him home.
“You can come if you want,” I said. “What’s his address?”
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