Lupi 08 - Death Magic

“I believe I did. My library, like myself, was in Cambridge at the time.”
    “You moved. I didn’t think that revoked the invitation.”
    “I can see why you would think that.” But he didn’t move.
    Cullen rolled his eyes, dug in his pocket, and took out a smooth black pebble. For a second it lay in his palm—then began to glow like a firefly. The glow faded quickly and he stuffed it back in his pocket.
    “Ah, well, then, come in.” At last Fagin stood aside.
    “Who did you think made those things?” Cullen asked crossly as he followed.
    “Either you or your wife or both, but that’s an assumption, not something I’ve been told as fact. I dislike acting on assumptions.”
    “Huh. Good guess. I make the blanks; Cynna personalizes them. Have I interrupted something?”
    “Alas, no. Poor Merry had to leave for work at some horribly early hour. I went back to sleep, naturally. A man my age needs rest after prolonged exertion.” He frowned faintly. “What time is it, anyway?”
    “Ten-ish, I think.” Not that he’d paid attention, but the sun had been up awhile. Cullen looked around curiously.
    The entry hall was small, giving access to a narrow staircase and the front parlor. The fireplace in the parlor was clearly original, with a beautifully carved mantel no one had desecrated with paint. The faded rose-colored wallpaper might be original, too. The carpet was newer—avocado green seventies shag. Fortunately you didn’t see much of it. The room was buried in packing boxes, some opened, most not. “Prolonged exertion?”
    Fagin sighed happily. “Merry is a delightful woman. Do you know how to make coffee?”
    “Everyone knows how to make coffee.”
    “Without a coffeepot, I should add. I can’t locate mine. I’ve tried simply boiling the grounds, but the results are less than satisfactory.” This sigh was windier and filled with regret. “I do miss Martha.”
    Cullen knew Fagin was a widower, but he was pretty sure the man’s wife had died a decade or two ago. It seemed ample time to learn how to make coffee. “I can probably figure something out. Martha was your wife?”
    “My housekeeper. She refused to leave Cambridge, unfortunately. I miss Janie, too, but not for her coffee. She made terrible coffee. Brilliant woman, but her coffee was even worse than mine, and that’s saying something. The kitchen’s this way.”
    The kitchen was narrow and made narrower by more packing boxes. Most of these had at least been opened. “How long did you say you’d been here?”
    “Priorities, dear boy, priorities. I had to work on the library first. Ah, here’s the coffee.” Fagin beamed and held out a foil package from Starbucks. “There’s a pan on the stove that I used to boil previous attempts.”
    So there was. Surprisingly, it looked clean. Cullen handed it to Fagin. “Fill it halfway with water. Filters?”
    “With the coffeepot, I imagine, wherever that may be.”
    Paper towels would do, and Cullen saw a roll of those. “I need a strainer or a funnel and something to decant the brew into. Did you know there’s an earth elemental lurking beneath your porch?”
    “A very small one, yes. It took some negotiating, which Sherry was kind enough to handle for me, but it agreed to keep an eye on the place in exchange for the traditional offerings. Will this do?”
    Cullen accepted the large mesh strainer Fagin held out and tore off a couple paper towels. “Get the water boiling.”
    “That much I know how to do. Why are you here?”
    “That damn dagger. The one someone left in Senator Bixton.” Cullen dumped grounds into the paper-lined strainer. “Do you have another pot? A big one?”
    “Hmm, yes, I think . . . here.” After clattering around in one of the boxes, he tried to hand the pot to Cullen.
    “Put it in the sink. This goes on top.” Cullen followed and balanced the strainer over the pot. “Part of the spell on the dagger is Vodun. Part of it is something that . . . well, it sounds crazy, so I need to check. I went to see a Vodun priestess I know, but she wasn’t helpful.” Celeste had been royally pissed, in fact, when she learned he’d meant those marriage vows he took a few months ago. The offer of cash hadn’t eased her troubled spirit. “You told me you had a journal by Papa Araignée.”
    “Oh, yes. It’s not long, but it is quite remarkable. So few Vodun priests write things down, and Araignée was . . . hmm. Twisted, but very bright. Do you read