The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

as an incubus, he belonged to a similar class of being as demons. It was why the threshold at St. Martin’s wanted nothing to do with me. I was also beginning to suspect it was the reason for the Order’s decision. After all, the spells had to be coming from someone or something with a strong link to the demon world. That didn’t necessarily make me a suspect, but in the minds of the Order, it made me susceptible to manipulation or outright possession. As a wizard with an incubus problem, I was a handicap.

My heart settled. That had to be it.

I studied the plum-colored flame. Getting that assurance from the source would have been nice, but the arcane society to which I belonged—though felt more outsider than member—was rigidly hierarchical. A follow-up inquiry would either get me an identically-worded decree or be ignored altogether. Experience told me the second. I had a mentor I might have been able to tap, but I hadn’t seen Chicory in almost a year. Judging by his scattered nature, I wasn’t sure he went much higher up the ladder than I did.

Fine, I thought, balling up the Order’s message and tossing it into the flame, where it incinerated. I’ll play along.

In the meantime, there was the matter of my job at the college. To save it, I was going to need to make some serious headway on the cathedral case before I had to report back to Detective Vega sometime tomorrow. The druid cult in Central Park was a possible break, but I needed a motive for the killing. And for that I would need to talk to someone at St. Martin’s. I fished in my pockets for the card Father Vick had handed me.

“Hello, Father,” I said when he answered. “This is Everson Croft.”

“Everson, it’s so good to hear you.”

“How are you doing?” I asked carefully.

“If I’m being honest, not well.” He gave a forlorn laugh. “My faith is strong, but so too was my closeness to Brother Richard.”

“I understand.” I waited the appropriate beat before continuing. “I hate to ask at a time like this, Father, but could I stop by this evening to talk? I’m still helping out on the case and was hoping you might shed some light on a few questions.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you anything more than I’ve already told your detective.”

Right, I thought, only I don’t have access to Detective Vega’s case file. She would erupt if she even knew I was talking to you.

“Well,” I hedged, “I’m pursuing a slightly different lead.”

“In that case, I’ll do whatever I can to assist. However, I’m conducting a special Mass this evening for church officials. Might we meet in the morning?”

I didn’t like the idea of sitting on the case for the next fourteen hours, but what could I say?

“Is eight o’clock too early?” I asked.

“That will be fine, Everson. We can talk in the vicarage here at the cathedral.”

“One more thing,” I said before he could hang up. “Would you mind, um, meeting me at the front door?”

23

I couldn’t sit on the church case that night, it turned out, much less sleep. Following several restless hours of tossing, I dressed, retrieved an antique item from my trunk, and grabbed my cane. Remembering the no-magic decree, I went back for my revolver, tucking it into the front of my pants.

Outside my apartment building, I peered around to make sure no one was watching. There was no one, period. Barely after midnight, and I had the street to myself. This was a very different New York than the one I’d grown up in. I tightened my coat against the cold and headed east.

Several blocks later, I slipped into Washington Square Park, its walkways and lawns also deserted. I ran my gaze along the curving lines of empty benches. Even the vagrants knew better than to sleep out in the open anymore. The sane ones, anyway.

A wet snort jerked my eyes toward a copse of dying sycamores. Not deserted, after all, I thought. When the wind picked up, a scent of sewage blew past. A moment later, a large hominid shadow separated from the trunks, ducking low branches. Crap. I looked around to see whether the ghoul belonged to a pack, but it appeared to have come up alone. Even so, avoidance was usually the best tactic.

I was backing away when the breeze changed direction, flapping my coat against my calves. The ghoul paused, raised its lump of a nose, and sniffed wetly. A moment later, a pair of yellow eyes fell toward me.

Wonderful.

The ghoul’s jaw yawned as it began shambling toward me. My cane was halfway apart before I remembered the decree. Sighing, I swapped the cane for my revolver. I had become so accustomed to channeling and pushing energy that the gun felt cold and alien in my grip.

I took aim at the ghoul’s head and squeezed. A pair of silver slugs slammed it sideways. The ghoul yowled and kicked through a line of benches. Wooden planks and iron flew up around its hulking body. My backward steps became an awkward jog, jostling my aim. My next shot missed entirely.

The ghoul loped into a run, anticipating its midnight snack.

I wasn’t going to outrace it. Stopping, I set my legs in a shooter’s stance and aimed with both hands. I tried to remember what the instructor at the firing range had taught me, oh, six or seven years ago. One of the ghoul’s yellow eyes bobbed in and out of the revolver’s sight, growing larger. I squeezed three times. The final crack sprayed fluid and snapped the ghoul’s head back. Both hands flew to its right eye as the creature fell to the pavement, howling.

“Go on,” I shouted, stomping my foot. “Get out of here!”

The ghoul thrashed up and scrambled off. They were survivalists first, man-eaters second. I waited until its pained cries and smacking footfalls faded east before returning the revolver to my pants.

All right. I