Neon Blue by E Frost (best book reader .TXT) 📗

lightly. A good friend asked me for help, otherwise I’d have said no chance.”

“Well, just be careful. Here, I’ll get you Peter’s number.” She reaches into the slim, stylish handbag hanging over the back of her chair and pulls out a slim, stylish Blackberry. “Do you have Bluetooth?”

“I have a pen.”

“For Goddess sake.” Ro rolls her eyes and reaches into her bag again. Gold pen. Embossed card. She gets busy with her technology for a moment, and I take the chance to eat my three little mushroom ravioli, which are, despite the portion size, excellent.

She hands me the card, which has Rowena’s Closet stamped in gold letters across the silhouette of a corset on the front, and a Medford telephone number written in Ro’s curlicued script on the back.

“Thanks.”

“His name is Peter Buselli. Tell him I said ‘hi,’ and that he owes me dinner.”

The name rings a bell, but I can’t place it. The only downside of working at the clinic rather than consulting: I meet so many people that after a while everyone’s name begins to sound familiar. “Does he?”

“No, but it’s always worth a try.” She grins, and for a moment, through the glamour, I see the girl she was at college. Outgoing. Personable. More mischievous than Dark.

Suddenly, I think she’s ended up in the right place.

“It’s really good to see you, Ro,” I say. And I mean it.

“You, too, goosey. Don’t wait so long until the next time. Now you’d better run if you’re going to make it back by two.” She glances pointedly at the elegant silver watch on her wrist.

I follow her eyes. Ten of two. I’m screwed.

The waiter arrives on cue. Ro reaches one long, white, beglamoured hand for the leather folder he carries.

“I’ll get this. Kiss, kiss.”

There’s no way I’m leaning over the tiny table to give her the cheek-grazing that the moment requires. Instead I give her a genuine smile, collect my moldavite and my coat and rush back through the rain to the clinic.

Chapter 5

“Hello, this is Peter Buselli.”

I’ve waited until after three to call, figuring he’d be out of classes by then. But from the background clamor it sounds like I’ve misjudged how late classes at Tufts run.

“Hi. My name’s Tsara Faa. I’m a friend of Rowena Martin’s. She suggested I give you a call.”

“Oh, yeah? How is Ro?”

“She’s good. She says ‘hi’ and that you owe her dinner.”

He chuckles. “No, I don’t, and she’d better not be trying to set me up on another blind date.”

I gulp. I hadn’t thought of that. Ro wouldn’t do that to me, would she? “This is sort of a professional call.”

“Oh. Sorry. What, uh, what can I do for you?”

“I’m doing some . . . research on an artifact. A ring. Of some historical significance . . .” I trail off as I wonder how much to tell him. Propping the phone in the crook of my neck, I rub the bridge of my nose. Maybe I should have thought this out before I called.

“Oh, yes? What sort of ring?”

“Well, I’m hoping you can tell me that. Rowena said she’d loaned you some of her books, and I’m hoping there might be a description of the ring in there.”

Another masculine laugh. It makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve heard one. I really miss Saul sometimes. Dammit. “Ro’s books are . . . well, I hope I don’t offend you by saying this, but they’re not exactly what I’d call reliable historical sources. They’re a little on the alternative side, if you get my meaning.”

Yes, I do. And it tells me that Professor Buselli is just a professor of history. Not a sorcerer, or a warlock. Certainly not a diabolist. And probably not going to be much help to me. I rub the bridge of my nose again and wonder if I should give the whacko in Philly a try.

“Right.” I give it once last shot. “Do you think I could borrow them? I’ll return them to you when I’m done, of course. Or I can give them back to Ro, if you’d rather.”

“Well, sure. But now I’m curious. Why don’t you tell me more and I’ll dig out Ro’s books and see what I can find? I’m sure I can find you something better than Aleister Crowley.”

I swallow, because that name gives me the same shivery, flesh-crawling sense that talk about demons gives me. Left Path. Dark Path. I can almost see the disapproving faces of my Dala and Professor Uela, my history of magic professor.

“That would be great. I, um, don’t know much about the ring. I’m just, uh, starting my research. But the ring might have belonged to King Solomon.” I finish in a rush, cringing at each word.

“The biblical King Solomon?”

“Uh, yes?”

He chuckles. It really is a nice sound. “You don’t sound sure.”

“Sorry. Yes, the biblical King Solomon.”

“Well, you might do better with a someone who specializes in biblical or Judaic history. That’s not really my area. I’m more an early American guy myself. But I’ll see what I can dig up—”

“There is kind of a link.”

“Oh?”

“I have a, uh, document which puts the ring here, in the Boston area, I mean, around the time of the Salem witch trials.”

“The sixteen-nineties? Really?” I can almost hear the cogs turning over the phone. “What kind of document?” he asks.

“A letter. I’d be happy to show it to you.” I wonder fleetingly if Manny would mind. Well, he didn’t tell me not to show it to anyone.

“A contemporary letter? Because there are still all sorts of wild theories about what happened in Salem—”

“Uh, by contemporary do you mean now? I think it was written at the time.”

“Really? An original source document? I’d love to see it. Look, I have class in twenty minutes, but if you could—”

No way I’m taking another train in the rain today, not anywhere but home. “Er, I’m afraid not. I have appointments for the rest of the day—”

“What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

Same as today, really. “A little hectic. Look, could I