over the course of the next three years, the writing gradually reappeared.”
“What happened to the monk?”
“He died of his injuries. The question before us is why did the writing on the scroll vanish?”
I frowned. “I’d guess that the scroll’s enchantment was exhausted by coming into contact with the creature. If the writing itself was magic, it would vanish.”
“Precisely. The scroll slowly absorbed magic from the environment, and when it replenished its magic reservoir, the writing reappeared. Your parchment is of the same ilk. The writing is still there, it’s simply weakened beyond the level of our detection.” He snapped his fingers. A black oblong stone about the size of my middle finger popped into his hand. Saiman the magician. Oy.
He turned the stone. A rainbow danced across the smooth black surface. He wanted me to ask a question. I obliged. “What is it?”
“A tear of rainbow obsidian retrieved from under a ley line. Very rare. When properly positioned, it picks up residual magic, amplifies it, and emits it. I placed your parchment on one side of it and a piece of true vellum, calfskin, on the other. The vellum was cured with chanting over a period of two months. It’s extremely magic sensitive. A scroll of this vellum costs upward of five thousand. As I’ve mentioned, my fee is a mere pittance.”
“You’re making more on this job than I make in a year.”
“A disparity I have offered to remedy.”
Not in this lifetime. “So the obsidian picked up the weak magic from the parchment and radiated it onto the vellum. What was the result?”
Saiman opened the box and held up a small square of vellum. Blank. All except a corner, where eight tiny lines crossed each other: four vertical and four horizontal, forming a square sectioned off into nine smaller squares, like a tic-tac-toe field. Numbers filled the squares: 4, 9, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 1, 6.
I’d seen this before. The sum of each row, column, or diagonal would be equal. “Zahlenquadrat. Magic square.”
Saiman cleared his throat. He must’ve expected me to be baffled and I stole his thunder.
“Yes. The magic square is quite old. It was used by Greeks, Romans, Chinese, Hindus—”
The wheels in my head started turning. This was the area of magic I knew very well, because it related to my biological father. “It’s a nine square, three by three. Five in the middle, the sum is fifteen. The Jews employed Hebrew letters as numerals. The center number, five, corresponds to the Hebrew letter
Saiman’s handsome face jerked. “I had no idea you’ve studied Jewish mysticism. How interesting . . .” He let his voice trail into silence.
Jewish scholars wrote down everything and hoarded their records as if they were made of gold. Half of what I knew about my family came from those scrolls and I had studied them since Voron taught me to read.
I looked at him. “Is there a way to restore the rest of the parchment now that we know to whom it belongs?”
He leaned back. “The Temple on Peachtree possesses a secret room. Within the room there is a magic circle. If you stand inside the circle, provided you’re strong enough, it will use your magic to restore the writing to its original form. The chances of success are much higher if the writing is of Hebrew origin.”
Finally. I’d get a fix on the Steel Mary. About time, too.
“Of course, you have to wait until the magic is up for the circle to work, and given that the wave ended early this morning, I’d say getting into the Temple today isn’t likely. A word of warning. First, the circle may drain you dry; second, there is a price for using the circle, and I won’t be able to help you. I’m afraid I’m a persona non grata in Jewish houses of worship. I do suspect that if I were to venture into Toco Hills or Dunwoody and were discovered, I may have to fight my way out.”
I blinked. “What did you do?”
Saiman shrugged. “Let’s just say that a certain young rabbi was rather zealous in his study of sin. He was happy to trade privileged information for that knowledge and I was happy to instruct him.”
Ugh. “You seduced a rabbi.”
Saiman smiled. “I seduced several. But the last affair was the only one to have exploded into the public eye. A pity, too. He was a proverbial font of sensitive information.”
I almost laughed. “So why not go as someone else?”
Saiman wrinkled his lip in disgust. “They have a golem. It sniffs the odor of your magic, and it is, alas, infallible. I’ve tried. Have I proven my usefulness to your satisfaction?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, I remember. Dress, tonight, your company.”
“Actually that’s not what I had in mind. I hope to receive an answer to a question.”
I arched my eyebrow at him.
“What is wrong with your chair?”
Perceptive bastard. “I’m sorry?”
Saiman leaned forward. “You move while you sit, Kate. You touch your sword to make sure it’s there, you change the angle of your body, and so on. You’re chronically unable to sit still. But you haven’t moved since we began our friendly chat.”
I raised my head. “My butt is glued to my chair.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Literally.”
A little light danced in Saiman’s eyes. “How peculiar. Was it a practical joke?”
“Yes, it was.” And the joker would get a piece of my mind as soon as I managed to detach myself from the furniture.
“I found that, in cases like this, the easiest way out is to remove the trousers. Of course, it might be a soluble glue. Would you like me to take a look?”
“No, I would not.”
Saiman’s lips quivered a little. “If you’re positive.”
“I am.”
“It really is no trouble.”
“Examining my butt is not included in our agreement. My parchment, please.”
Saiman passed me the plastic bag and rose. “Do let me know how it turns out.”
“Go away.”
He chuckled to himself and departed. I took a gulp of my coffee. Cold. Eh. At least my blueberry doughnut would taste the same hot or cold. Except for one small problem—I’d left the doughnut on the outer side of the desk and getting to it would require me to get up.
My phone rang. I picked it up.
“Acetone,” Andrea’s voice said. “Dissolves everything. I found a gallon of it in the armory. We soak the chair and you’re good to . . . Oh shit. Incoming!”
I dropped the phone and grabbed my sword.
Curran stepped through the doorway.
“You!”
My attack poodle surged off the floor, teeth on display.
Gold sparked in Curran’s eyes. He looked at the poodle. The dog backed away, growling under his breath.
I ground the words through my teeth. “Leave my dog alone.”
Curran kept looking.
The dog backed into the wall and lay down.
Curran strolled in, carrying some sort of garment. “Nice dog. Love the sweater.”
I’d mince him into tiny, tiny, tiny pieces . . .
“I changed my mind about the catnip.” He held up the garment. A French maid outfit, complete with a lacy apron.
