Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [65]
“Well and good,” said Hoskins, making a neat slash through an entire paragraph on the page he held. I felt sorry for the student. “But I am a professor of occult mythology, not history.”
“This is in your area, believe me,” I said. Hoskins had some experience with the practice as well as the theory of magick. He had taught the Cedar Hill Killer, a blood witch trying to summon the same daemon Alistair Duncan had succeeded with, many years ago. The affair still made the veins on Hoskins’s neck bulge if you brought it up.
“Then continue, Detective,” he said, writing some scathing remark on the last page of the essay and setting it aside.
“A long time ago—I don’t know how long—the O’Halloran caster witches stole something from the Blackburn family. I need to know what it was.”
“Ah,” said Hoskins. “You are speaking of the murders which resulted in the founding of the university.”
“I guess,” I said. “Was that why Gertrude Blackburn ended up dead?”
Theodore Blackburn, the first scion to settle in Nocturne City, was a wealthy man, depraved and ruthless by all accounts, who had turned to blood magick to increase his profits. Siobhan O’Halloran, the family’s maid, had taken it upon herself to slash Madame Blackburn across the throat and leave her body as a message for Mr. Blackburn, a sort of polite missive that the white witches of the city weren’t going to take his crap anymore.
Unfortunately, Gertrude had gotten off a magick shot before Siobhan managed to kill her, and Theodore returned home to find them both dead. He was so devastated that he turned to drink, lost his fortune, and ended up losing his estate to the city, who turned it into the university. Or so the PG-13 version of the story went.
“I will only say this,” said Hoskins. “After Gertrude’s death, the Blackburn family went into a tailspin, and the O’Hallorans went from immigrants in shacks by the waterfront to powerful bankers in less than a half century. Use your own deductions.”
I sighed. “But you have no idea what the object actually is.”
Hoskins shook his head. “That is a carefully guarded secret, in the Blackburn family as well as with the O’Hallorans.”
“Crap,” I muttered, seeing my easy closure to Vincent’s case dart away, laughing. “Thanks anyway.”
“You might try the collection,” said Hoskins. The way he emphasized the last word was ominous, the way Doctor Doom might say “the lair.”
“What collection?”
“The books the Blackburn family left to the university. Or were seized along with their property, I should say. Quite a phenomenal resource.”
“And the collection would be…?”
Hoskins pointed toward the main part of the Blackburn mansion. “The library.”
I like libraries. They’re orderly, and very human. Unless it’s an occult bookstore, the energy running through the place is clear and benign—nothing to give a magiphobe like me prickly skin.
The girl manning the reference desk was very pale, with stringy brown hair falling over big John Lennon-style glasses. She blinked up at me. “Yes?”
“I need to see the Blackburn collection,” I said. She frowned.
“I’m sorry, only faculty and thesis students are allowed access to those stacks.”
My badge elicited another series of rapid blinks. She licked her lips and said, “You can’t just show me that and expect me to give you all of our information.”
“Look,” I said, trying to remain calm and sisterly. In my jeans and boots and black long-sleeved shirt, I probably looked like the Gestapo to her. “I don’t care about anything except the books. They may have information pertaining to a homicide investigation.”
She perked up. “Like on Law and Order?”
“Yes,” I said patiently. “Just like that.” I’d sing the theme song from Cop Rock if it would make her let me into the stacks.
“Wow. That’s new.” She took a key ring from her desk drawer and walked around me, leading me into the rows of books. “This way.”
The Blackburn books were in a small climate-controlled tomb behind PHILOSOPHY Kafka-Nietzsche. My guide unlocked the glass door and went in,