Page 87 of The Shade of Things
I logged into all the databases at my disposal compiling data on everyone called Jason Maxwell. Next, I compared all details to social media profiles to confirm employment or other personal details that would knock them off my list.
Hours later, I’d narrowed it down to four candidates. My stomach was growling, my eyes were dry, and my neck and lower back were killing me thanks to my shitty posture. I made myself toast with melted cheese as a late lunch/early dinner with a side of baby carrots and potato chips for dessert. After what I’d gone through, I deserved a factory’s worth of the salty carb-laden delights.
With a full belly, I hit the KH to chase down all four Jason Maxwells. I struck the one in Melbourne off because he was in the hospital recovering from open heart surgery. The second, in Oklahoma, was promising until I engaged him in conversation, pretending to be a passerby admiring his garden, and was subjected to a forty-five minute lecture on roses. He not only bred them, he competed internationally with his flowers and had named his two tiny dogs after different breeds of the flower: Mr. Lincoln and Lady Banks.
By the time I extricated myself from his enthusiastic monologue, I never wanted to see another rose again, which sucked for the gorgeous bush in my yard.
That left two more Jasons to check out. Hmm, go to London or Majorca? They were equally likely home bases for a man working for a shady Consortium, but I went to England on a hunch that the gamblers would attract less attention coming and going in a large city. I had no idea where the gambling room was located, but London certainly had its share of private clubs to easily cater to an exclusive Ohrist membership.
The British Jason Maxwell was obviously wealthy, given his large Georgian townhome in the chic Kensington district of London, and the fact that his door was opened by a freaking butler.
I didn’t have a card to present or a convenient excuse. I just waltzed in, cloaked, to poke around.
When the butler didn’t find anyone at the door, he stopped by a study to inform the slender, bespectacled man behind the desk in fancy-ass pajamas that it must have been children playing a prank and ask if Mr. Maxwell wished for a snack before retiring for the night.
Maxwell declined the offer, and the butler departed, closing the door behind him.
I dropped my cloaking, but the man didn’t even flinch.
He closed his laptop, studying me with the palest, coldest blue eyes I’d ever seen.
We had our winner.
I turned the lock. “Hands in the air where I can see them and face the window.” If he was an Ohrist, he required a line of sight to use his magic on me, and most also had a telltale flick of their hands.
He held them up but that was as far as he obliged. “Or what?” He had an annoying nasal quality to his plummy voice. “You hardly look like much of a threat.”
“Well, I survived your game and the Consortium seems interested in my Banim Shovavim magic.” I dropped into an uncomfortable wingback chair upholstered in a scratchy plaid. “I found your notes. What an honor to get two underlines.”
He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand.
“Speak with your back to me.” I made a production of letting my shadows swirl up my body.
He turned his chair around before they’d hit my shoulders. “Don’t get too excited. The underlines were mine. There aren’t many of you around, and I was surprised.”
Uh-huh. I cocked an ear for the sound of anyone approaching. I didn’t hear footsteps, but my other questions were more urgent.
“Tell me about the Ascendant.” I peeked under the blotter for any hidden papers because his desk was empty save for the computer, a notepad, and a silver pen, but there was nothing there.
“You found—” Those words tumbled out of him then he cleared his throat. “You found out about its existence?”
Ha. The Consortium didn’t have it.
That was good in terms of their experiments, but bad in terms of finding it. I examined the books on his shelves, letting him stew, while I formulated my follow-up questions. His tastes ran to military fiction and statistics with nary a tome on mythology or magic or anything indicating he was involved in the dybbuk-creation side of things.
“Tell me if I’m correct.” I tugged on a sconce and then a decorative finial in hopes of a secret passageway or hidey-hole. Nothing. “The Ascendant opens a way to Gehenna.”
“Can I put my arms down?” he said.
“No. Am I right?” I checked for a safe behind the framed old map on yellowed parchment that was the sole piece hanging on the wall, but there wasn’t one.
“You’re correct.”
A zing of excitement shot through me, but as pleased as I was to have unlocked the Ascendant’s power, it didn’t explain how Arlo Garcia had gotten hold of the amplifier to use before Tatiana gave it to him.
I rubbed my temples. “When did the Consortium last have the magic amplifier?”
“How would I know? I’m not privy to such things.”
