Neon Blue by E Frost (best big ereader .TXT) 📕

the first thing I can teach you. My magic smells like rosemary or sandalwood, depending on whom you ask. You won’t be able to smell it out here, and it wouldn’t hurt to try in a place imbued with my magic. Shall we schedule a little practice in my office after the tour?”

“Sure.”

“Lovely. Does tomorrow afternoon suit you?”

I have some appointments, but I can reschedule them. Learning to ‘smell’ magic sounds intriguing. And maybe we can move from there to banishing demons. I nod.

Timmi beams at me, that infectious grin. “May I ask you something, Tsara?”

As long as it’s not about men. “Okay.”

“Are you always this wary?”

“Yes.” That’s an easy question. “I may be pale, but I’m still Rom. My family lives in America now, but that’s because most of my family died in Treblinka. Wiccans have made it trendy to wear a pentagram instead of a crucifix, but when it’s real witchcraft, real magic, that’s a different story. You must know that. My family’s been persecuted for centuries. I’m not going to end up burned at the stake, or suffocating in a gas chamber, or even stuck in a lab while a bunch of men in white coats stick me with wires. Not for doing what comes as naturally to me as breathing does to everyone else. You seem like a nice person, Timmi. You seem genuine and all, but I don’t know you. And my track record with strangers isn’t too good lately.” My track record with former friends is sucking even louder. “So, yes, I am wary. But, you know, I’m in recovery.”

She laughs. And reaches across to squeeze my hand again. “Tsara, you are such a delight. My family comes from the old country, too, although not for the same reasons. And although I have never been the sort of practitioner you are, I’ve always been aware that showing too much of my true nature to the wrong sort could have dangerous consequences. I hope you’ll come to see that I am not that sort.” She leans over and reaches down into her bag, which she’s tucked neatly between her feet. “Shall I show you what I brought? Maybe this will help put you at ease.”

When I nod, she withdraws a heavy brass key from her bag and puts it on the table between us.

I tilt my head, so I can see the key with my peripheral vision. In my Sight, the key isn’t brass. It’s small, yellowed bones. Finger bones. Toe bones. A curved, hollow bone at the top that must be an infant’s ischium. Ick. Just like the grisly little bits Ro kept tucking into corners of our dorm room. I wonder how many of her ‘treasures’ Jou trashed when he blew up her sanctum. Good riddance.

The antique bones are bound together with silver wire into the rough shape of a key, but this isn’t a key that’s ever turned any lock. Not a physical one anyway. From the rainbow warping of the ether around either end of the key, I can guess what this key opens.

“It’s a skeleton key,” I say. “Where does it lead? The Hollow Hills?” Most skeleton keys I’ve heard about lead to the Hollow Hills or the wild lands. Professor Lambert had one that opened a path to Limbo, but I skipped his independent study at Bevvy, since I’ve been able to speak with the Dead since I turned twelve. Usually when I don’t want to.

Timmi runs her fingers down the six little prongs at the bottom of the key. “It can open six doors. Each door is unique to the person who turns the key. Looking through the bow lets you see the doors.” She traces the little arch of bone from some long-dead child with her forefinger. I hope she can’t See what she’s actually touching. But, then, if she started out sorting dead beetles, maybe baby bones don’t bother her. “The trick is turning the key. A trick that has been lost, I’m afraid. Although perhaps not forever.” She smiles mischievously. “That’s the second part of my offer. I have a diary of a former curator who succeeded in using the key. I thought you might be interested in reading it. But the diary cannot leave the Museum, I’m afraid. So if you want to see the second part of my little inducement, you have to come for the tour.”

I laugh at her blatant manipulation. “I’d like the tour. And to read the diary.” I gingerly pick up the key and when Timmi doesn’t protest, look through the ischium. Towards the Old South Meetinghouse, where I’ve felt the whispery presence of something many times as I’ve browsed in Commonwealth Books.

The key strips away the pedestrians strolling in the warm afternoon sunshine. The potted trees. The bright street signs. All that’s left are the buildings, and as I watch, the warm brick of the Meetinghouse pits, cracks and crumbles away in a gray wind that sweeps down Washington Street, tumbling broken pieces of asphalt across the decaying sidewalk.

Time. I’m looking at a door through time.

I set the key carefully down on the table. Like the weather, I’m careful not to fuck with time. Never do anything that could bring you to the attention of Dr. Who. “Wicked,” I say.

“What did you see?” Timmi asks.

“The future, I think. Did your predecessor say anything about the key opening doors through time?”

Timmi shakes her sleek white head. “No, I think the door he opened was in the present. It was just somewhere else’s present.”

“I’d like to read his diary. Thanks for letting me look.” I slide the key back to her. Not tempted to take another peek. If that’s what the future of Downtown Crossing looks like, I don’t need a second glance.

“Please,” she says, nodding at the key. “Take it with you. You might like to take a look at some other places. Perhaps there are other doors you might open. You can bring it with you tomorrow.” She