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

I took a steadying breath. So far, two for two.

“What about Fred Thomas?” I asked. “A young man from Hamilton Heights?”

Father Vick’s face creased as he searched his memory for the name.

“He went by ‘Flash’,” I remembered.

“Flash,” Father Vick repeated. “Yes. I read about him, too. Another summoning?” He let out an aggrieved sigh. “He attended one of St. Martin’s parochial schools for a time. It was a pilot program for inner-city youths who couldn’t otherwise afford the tuition. A prank got him expelled, I remember, but he was good hearted. Afterwards, he showed up to a few of our youth services.”

I removed the newspaper I had folded and tucked inside my coat, and opened it to the second page.

“Did you know any of them?” I asked.

Sitting up, Father Vick took a pair of reading glasses from his nightstand and frowned over the article on last night’s quadruple slaying. I watched his face go from pale to a blotchy ashen. “Good God,” he muttered. “These three were parishioners, and she participated in the city’s Interfaith Council.”

“Father,” I said carefully, “I think we have to consider that the spells came from someone inside the cathedral.”

“From here?”

“It’s the common factor.” I allowed a moment for the fact to sink in. “I think we also have to consider that whoever supplied the spells may have murdered your rector. Father Richard may have been onto what this person was doing.”

Father Vick removed his glasses and set them aside. He looked destroyed.

“Did the rector ever share any concerns with you?” I probed. “About anyone here or in the congregation?”

“Not that I recall,” he answered after a moment. “He was a stoic man, praying on problems before acting on them. So even if he’d had such concerns, I wouldn’t necessarily have known of them. His concerns tended to be more external, anyway. The corruption he observed in the city. The practice of magic. He was uncomfortable with the archival work, though.”

“Your acolyte’s research?” I asked. “Why?”

Before he could answer, a soft knock sounded at the door. I looked over to find the acolyte himself peering through the crack. I wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening.

“Father Vick?” he asked.

“Yes, what is it Malachi?”

“The, um, bishop called to say they’re a half hour out.”

Father Vick nodded and pushed the cover from his legs. “I suppose I should get ready, then.” When he sat up, blood spattered the lap of his robe. I rose in alarm before realizing it was falling from his nose.

I stretched past Malachi, who was standing slack-armed in the doorway, and reached for the kerchief on the desk.

“No, no,” Father Vick said, plugging the bleeding nostril with a thumb. “The tissues.”

I followed his finger to the windowsill and pulled several tissues from a plain box of them. He accepted the wad with a grateful nod and, after wiping his bearded mouth and chin, held it to his tipped-back nose.

“That’s a heritage item,” he said of the kerchief.

“Ah, sorry.”

I looked around, but Malachi was no longer in the doorway. His robed form flashed beyond the window, lank ponytail falling over the hood bunched behind his neck. Remembering the hooded man Effie’s ghost friend had observed in the graveyard, suspicion spiked hot inside me. I wheeled back to Father Vick.

“What was it about Malachi’s work that bothered the rector?” I asked quickly.

Father Vick had gotten control of the bleeding and was now dabbing around it. “Oh, he just believed some things should remain in history. Because of the power of this site, I suspect, the church wasn’t always represented by honorable men.”

I needed more, but at that moment the church bells began to ring out the hour.

I checked my watch. Crap. I had ten minutes to get back to the checkpoint.

“Can I call you later?” I asked.

“Of course.” Father Vick wavered to his feet but embraced me with warm strength. I reciprocated. “You are exactly what Father Richard didn’t understand,” he said, “that the relative good or evil of magic depends entirely on the channeler. Though darkness clings to you, Everson, your foundation remains as solid and pure as when I first taught you. It is why you were called back here. Remember that.”

In many ways, he had been my first mentor—and a great one.

“Thank you, Father. I’ll try.”

34

Assuming my watch was synced to the guard’s, I had less than twenty seconds to spare by the time I arrived, panting, at the pedestrian checkpoint.

I’d risked precious time by having Cyrus let me out through the graveyard again, but I’d wanted to inspect the mossy tomb beneath the willow tree. If Effie’s friend was to be believed, someone had been creeping around the site in the dark of night, muttering what might have been an incantation. And I was beginning to suspect that person had been Malachi. I found the raised sarcophagus sealed tight, the ground around it apparently undisturbed.

I read the deceased’s name and dates: Bartholomew Higham, 1772 – 1824. No other information. It wasn’t until I pulled out my notepad that I remembered my small pencil was absent from its spiral binding. I resorted to cramming the info into my memory, hoping it would stay.

“Where’s the fire?” a guard asked as I hurried up to the checkpoint.

I looked from him to his partner. Neither was the one who had let me through an hour before.

“Where’s the other guy?” I asked, breathlessly. “The one who was here earlier?” The last thing I needed was for someone else to be hunting me for having violated some agreement.

“What’s it to you?”

“I, ah, I knew him,” I replied lamely.

“Well, not anymore,” the guard said.

The second guard opened his mouth to join in—it was a slow day at the checkpoint, evidently—but then paused as though someone was speaking into his earpiece. He nodded at the first guard, who, without comment, stepped forward and drove the barrel of his rifle into my gut. I grunted and dropped to a