An Arcane Inheritance by Kamilah Cole - 28

Despite her reluctant excitement, Ellory managed to prioritize the salon list over the student-assistant details. The offer still didn’t feel real, and part of her worried that she would open the email to find Colt had simply written an apology for his impulsiveness, that it had been a cruel test she had failed by accepting. Besides, she couldn’t deny the hum of excitement that she felt as she downloaded the salon list, the feeling of making progress, of having a random suspicion confirmed. With a notebook open on the bed beside her hand, she combed through the names for any she recognized.

She had to read the list twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

Arthur “Chip” O’Connor II and Malcolm Mayhew had been in the same cohort from 1982 to 1983. Or, rather, from 1982 to when Malcolm Mayhew was murdered.

It felt significant, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. The Mayhews were the kind of family known to the Graveses and the Blackwoods, so there was no reason why they wouldn’t have also associated with the O’Connors. But there had to be something she could get out of Stasie’s grandfather that would give her somewhere to start looking for the other person who had been in the library with Malcolm that night. If it had been Stasie’s father, that would be more than enough reason for a cover-up.

Maybe this wasn’t her mystery to solve, but she was too invested to turn back now. It was all connected somehow. She was sure of it. She just had to figure out what the murder had to do with the magic, what the birds had to do with the Old Masters, what the salons had to do with the School for the Unseen Arts. All the research she’d done, all the unrelated pieces she’d gathered, blurred together in her mind without making a sensible picture.

Once again, she wished she could reach Hudson. But he still hadn’t answered her messages.

“ Magic ,” Aunt Carol said flatly, when Ellory took advantage of the empty dorm room to call. “What do you mean by magic ?”

She had no idea where Stasie was, but her roommate had yet to give her a number to reach her grandfather with. In the interim, Ellory continued to work—or pretended to work—on the newspaper article where Stasie could see: She had taken out library books on the history of the school, she had printed out photos of former deans on which she scrawled legible notes, and she had even gone as far as to act like she was talking to one on the phone. Stasie hadn’t responded to any such silent pressure.

Left to her own devices, Ellory had gone down a rabbit hole about the Lost Eight and ancestral magic that ended with this phone call. But faced with her aunt’s disinterest, she couldn’t imagine trying to explain the absurdity of her life to someone who hadn’t witnessed it. Carol would change fifty years of opinions on mental health just to have Ellory committed to a psych ward.

She slathered leave-in conditioner into the section of hair she was detangling, trying to keep her tone light. “We’re doing a segment on legal protections for folk healers and cultural home remedies. It made me curious if we ever had anyone in the family like that.”

“Your mother had an affair with an obeah man once.”

“Wait, really?”

“ No . But that’s how ridiculous you sound.”

Ellory stifled a sigh that would only get her in trouble. She hadn’t expected Aunt Carol to suddenly confess that she was part of a hidden magical dynasty that had passed their abilities down to Ellory, but she hadn’t expected to be outright mocked either.

Not that Ellory could blame her. A month ago, she would have found the idea laughable, too.

“There was no affair,” Carol relented. “Your father did visit an obeah man when you were young, though. I told him not to mess with things he didn’t understand, but you spent most of your childhood talking about duppies and doctor birds. Your parents thought you’d be cursed or something. He didn’t give me the details, and I didn’t ask. But whatever advice he got from the obeah settled his spirit.”

Obeah, though many practitioners didn’t call it that due to the scorn she could hear in her aunt’s voice, still thrived across Jamaica. Through spellcasting and communing with spirits, obeah followers could heal or harm, see the future for advice, or search the present for lost objects. She’d been told two things about them her whole life. The first was that they were born with their abilities. The second was that they were the last resort of the desperate.

She’d never had cause to think about them before, let alone form an opinion. Now she wondered if her father had sensed her magical potential and gone to the obeah about it. She would call him and ask if she’d thought there was a chance he would actually answer.

“I talked about duppies?” Ellory asked as she typed that dutifully into her notes. “What duppies?”

“It started after Miss Claudette died in a shop fire, and then suddenly you could name dead people all over town who came just to talk to you.” Ellory had no idea who Miss Claudette was, but she added the name to her notes as well. “Doctor birds are also known as god birds. The Arawak believed they carried the souls of the dead or that they were reincarnated souls themselves. They’re supposed to be quick as a devil, but you could catch one of them in your hands. It wouldn’t fly off until you let it go.” Carol kissed her teeth. “I see why Desmond got scared. But it was all silly superstition.”

“This is really helpful, Auntie,” Ellory heard herself say, turning the page of her notebook until she reached the three bird symbols. The hummingbird—the doctor bird—stared up at her from above EVOCATION. “Thank you. Have you been taking your medicine?”

Carol kissed her teeth again. “I’m not a child, Lor.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Mi wi tek dem now,” grumbled Carol. “Jeezam peas.”

***

On Ellory’s next visit to the Communiqué offices, Boone introduced her to the editors, identified the various conference rooms, and told her which snacks in the break room he’d already claimed. If she’d expected him to ask for a progress report on her story, she was soon disappointed. Boone, it seemed, cared little for micromanaging. She’d said she was working on the piece, he told her, and unless she came to him for help, he would assume that was what she was doing.

“The woman who ran the paper before me was always up in my business,” he added as he showed her the printers, each of which apparently had names. “I nearly quit so many times, and journalism is my major. If I do that to any of you, you have my permission for a mutiny.”

“I’ll stick a pitchfork in the merch closet,” said Ellory. “Just in case.”

Boone smirked. “Well, there’s certainly room in there now, with how much shit you took home.”

She nodded at the sweatshirt he was wearing, sourced from the same closet. “You’re the one who’s a walking advertisement right now. I’m already starting to miss your tattoos.”

“You like the ink, Morgan?” Boone glanced down at his arms. “You didn’t strike me as a tattoo person.”

“I’m not, really. It’s just weird to see you without them.” Beside them, a printer spit out an article draft. “I guess I have favorites of the ones I’ve seen?”

“Yeah?” Boone rolled up his sleeves until his forearms were bare. “They all tell a story, if you’re that interested. Hit me.”

He told her about the anchor on his extensor carpi ulnaris and how it was a reminder that, even when he thought he’d hit rock bottom, there was still further to go. He told her about the constellation on his biceps, which represented Orion’s Belt (“or, as we call it in Mexico, Los Tres Reyes Magos”). By the time she worked her way around to the sun with the line bisecting it, he’d made her laugh so many times that she almost regretted asking.

“Oh, that?” he said, glancing down at his inner wrist as though the tattoo meant nothing at all. “That’s the alchemical symbol for salt. According to Paracelsus, it’s one of the tria prima—three primes—of alchemy. It represents earth and the material body, the fixed principle of existence, the purification of matter. And salt itself is said to protect from evil spirits and bad luck.”

“I thought I’d seen that symbol somewhere.” Ellory made a thoughtful sound before her eyes met his. “Does it have anything to do with divination?”

“Like alomancy? That’s when you toss salt in the air and read the patterns it falls in.”

He didn’t pause, didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Ellory stared him down, connecting his tattoo to the very label the hidden museum had given it, and Boone seemed for all the world like they were just exchanging fun facts. Should she push him in such a public place? Or should she retreat, glad that he didn’t seem to suspect her of anything for now?

Just when she was about to back off, an inscrutable smile crossed his face.

“This is starting to feel like an interrogation,” Boone said. “Do you want to grab a conference room?”

Ellory paused. “I’m good out here, I think.”

“Oh, come on, Morgan.” His eyes sharpened. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

It wasn’t about fear, she wanted to point out, but that would give him the upper hand. Instead, Ellory squared her shoulders and followed him to one without glass walls, tucked into the corner of the space between the windows and a kitchen.

Boone snagged a bag of pretzels on the way, whistling a reggaeton song she didn’t recognize. The door itself was made of glass, which made her relax only slightly. She was less afraid of Boone than she had been of Colt, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid at all . He was taller than her and likely stronger than her. He knew the newspaper office better than her, both the layout and the staff. If he wanted to make her disappear for asking the wrong questions, he could manage it easily on his home turf.

Boone dropped down at the head of the table, in full view of anyone who walked by, and popped a pretzel in his mouth. Ellory tried not to feel like a rabbit taking a meeting in a wolf’s den.

“If you want to ask me about magic,” he said once he’d swallowed, “then just ask me, Morgan.”

Ellory missed her chair. She caught herself on the back, bending her finger the wrong way, and fumbled onto her feet. Amusement flashed in those dark eyes that watched her from across the table. She charted the distance between herself and the door, wondering if she could make it to the hallway before he cast some spell.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Morgan,” Boone continued. “We’re just going to talk.”

“I believe you.” Her voice didn’t shake, which was the only good thing about this confrontation. “You’ve been so trustworthy up until now.”

His smile widened. “I told you that I like you better with your claws out. Sit.”

Ellory sat, if only because she had no other choice. There were pens and pencils on the table, but he’d sat far enough away that she couldn’t stab him with one. She’d never stabbed anyone before anyway. She could try and cast a spell if needed, but she still hadn’t figured out what the last one had cost her, and she was wary of doing more magic until she did. He had her dead to rights, and they both knew it.

She clasped her hands together so they wouldn’t betray her fear. “Are you a member of the Old Masters?”

“Not by choice, but yeah.” His smile was a bitter thing. “I’m a loner, not a joiner, but they don’t really ask, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know why you would—” She swallowed. “Is this why I haven’t been able to reach Hudson? I thought you just took his phone, but did he finally ask you outright and you made him disappear like—”

“I would never hurt Hudson,” Boone snapped. She had never seen him angry, and his fury filled the room like poison gas. Gone was the mocking troll who seemed to make light of everything, and in his place was a warrior ready to defend his liege lord. “He’s not just my best friend. He’s my brother. I would never, ever hurt him.”

“Did he know you have magic?”

“No.”

Ellory frowned dubiously. “Do you know he has magic?”

“Yes. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll help me keep that to ourselves. The Old Masters don’t react well to power they don’t control.”

Piece by piece, Boone seemed to pull himself back into the insouciant man she remembered. Hudson was a sore spot; she would file that away for later. It was surreal to be sitting here, having this conversation, with the kind of openness she usually shared only with Hudson or Tai and Cody. Though she’d seen the tattoos, she hadn’t really believed Boone could be an enemy until now. He seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t believe magic existed even if he knew about it, just to be contrary.

A loner, not a joiner.

Maybe that was why he was giving her answers.

“You talk about them like they’re normal,” Ellory said carefully. “Like this is normal. They’re killing people , Boone.”

He tilted his head, puzzled. “Are they?”

“Y-yes,” she sputtered, but suddenly she wasn’t sure. She’d assumed the Lost Eight and the Old Masters and the School for the Unseen Arts and Malcolm Mayhew had all been connected, but what if they weren’t? “One of them threatened me away from looking into their group. Twice!”

“The Old Masters,” Boone said on a sigh, “are a bunch of stuffy old white fucks too stuck in their ways. They recruit off this campus and others around New England, but it’s usually from old money and founding families. I mean, you don’t co-opt a term like old masters without being full of yourself, and money makes their research go ’round.”

“Research into the occult? Like the School for the Unseen Arts?”

“What’s that?”

Ellory frowned again, filing that line of questioning away for later. “Well, what do you mean by research ? Do they not have magic of their own?”

“Not much, as far as I can tell. They find gifted people and bleed them dry.” Sympathy crept into Boone’s eyes. “You’re a Godwin Scholar, right? That’s one of their main recruitment tools. They use their money and power to make sure your other options dry up, and then they use their scholarship exam to test your aptitude for magic. You attend Warren for free, and the Old Masters snatch you up like they’re doing you a favor. They’ve been doing it for decades.”

Ellory’s lips parted, but no words came out. It felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. She thought of the schools she’d gotten into and the financial aid she’d seemed incapable of getting. She thought of how many nights she’d spent feeling like a failure, incapable of living up to her own potential. She thought of how the offer for the Godwin Scholarship had appeared like the sun breaking through the clouds, giving her a second chance. The idea that all of it—every long cry, every sleepless night, every abandoned dream—had been the machination of some shadowy society made her want to overturn this table and scream.

“They…” she finally managed, “they didn’t recruit me, though. They threatened me to stay away, remember?”

“Yeah, that’s what I find weird about this whole thing…” Boone tapped his fingers against the desk. “It’s possible they didn’t want you to find them before they found you, but even that doesn’t explain it.”

“Have they threatened Hudson?”

“Not on my watch.” His eyes narrowed in warning, but this time she could tell his anger wasn’t directed at her. “If they were going to recruit him, it would have happened already. I don’t know why they skipped him over, but it can’t be anything good. I’ve been keeping him off their radar since freshman year. Hell, you’re the only other person I’ve talked to about magic. Like, actual magic.” He snorted. “You know why I got this tattoo? Because I’ve been hoping to find more of us. But no one’s ever asked me about it—even Hudson. Not until you.”

“I’d never even done magic before I came here. I…I thought it was the school.”

“It might be. I heard this is where it all began, and my magic’s more powerful here.” Boone leaned back in his seat, arms behind his head. “I’ve suspected you might be like me for a while. See, I’m good at creating liminal spaces. A place within a place, where everything slows down and I can just breathe. I felt one forming in the orchard when Liam came back without you. It took me hours to comb through the void and find you, but by the time I did, you had these lights leading you back to us. That wasn’t me, Morgan. That was all you.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything, then?” Ellory asked. Her voice shook with lethal anger, but she managed not to yell at him if only because she didn’t want their conversation to leak through the glass door. Her knuckles had blanched from how tightly her hands were fisted together, keeping her from strangling him. “I thought I was going out of my mind, and you knew about magic and the Old Masters, and you didn’t say shit to me. Why? ”

“Because these are dangerous fucking people,” Boone retorted. “Do you think this is a game? I haven’t seen anyone die or be killed since I was recruited, but that doesn’t mean you’re wrong about that. The Old Masters make up the highest echelon of society, the kind of people with the kind of power you couldn’t even dream of. They could wake up one morning and decide to start a war or bomb a city out of existence with a single phone call. And that was before they had access to magic. I won’t let them get to Hudson, but I barely fucking know you. Consider this your warning to back the hell off.”

Through his angry words, Ellory could sense a thread of fear. Fear not for what they would do to her, but for what they would do to him for having this conversation. It only made Ellory angrier, because that fear was exactly what allowed people like the Old Masters to maintain their power. Someone had to stand up to them. That someone clearly wouldn’t be Boone.

“If they’re so dangerous, then why are you telling me all this?” she finally asked. “Especially in a public office.”

“We’re not in a public office.” Boone tipped his chin toward the glass door behind her. Ellory glanced over her shoulder and was hit by another wave of shock. She and Boone were still standing by the printers, his fingers pointing at tattoo after tattoo, her head bobbing along with whatever he was telling her. It was like the night she had summoned the Graves Ghost, except her stomach swooped with sickness at being able to stare at her own body for this long, acting independently of her soul.

Magic. He’d done magic right in front of her, and she hadn’t even noticed.

“See?” Boone said, drawing her attention back to him. “I’m good at liminal spaces. And I found out what you’ve been doing with Hudson. We’re having this conversation because I’m hoping if I give you the answers you want, then you’ll give me something I want.”

“What do you want?”

“Leave him out of all this. Please ,” Boone said, crushing his pretzel bag into a crinkling ball. “I can’t lose him to these people. No matter what you think of the Old Masters, I’m not your enemy, Morgan. But for Hudson, I will be.” He got to his feet, tossing the bag into the nearest trash bin like he hadn’t just threatened her. “Now let’s get back out there. This spell holds for only as long as it takes our conversation to end, and I don’t want to disappear in front of a room full of professional gossips.”

You don’t get to tell me what to do , Ellory bit back, breathing until this tidal wave of frustration passed. Boone was entitled, but did she expect any different from someone who would join the Old Masters? At least he was willing to talk. For now.

“Okay,” she lied. “Let’s go.”