Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [66]
“Not unless you’re a witness to a crime,” I said.
She perked up. “Somebody stole a Sumerian translation text from the reference section two weeks ago.”
“What’s the world coming to?” I commiserated, shutting the glass door. She looked disappointed.
The gloves weren’t really cotton, they were some sort of special fiber that I assumed kept my bad nasty skin off the old books. They itched. I resolved to make this quick and scanned the neatly aligned shelves for anything useful.
The Blackburns had been well read, for their time. Most of the books were high quality, covered in leather, Dickens and Verne and one scandalous Stoker. On a low shelf, a series of leather-bound volumes with no titles on the spine caught my eye. The tasteful plaque informed me they were BLACKBURN FAMILY DIARIES.
“Scandal,” I murmured happily. I pulled the first ledger off the shelf. Some sort of household records, lots of notations about buying soap and flour and killing cows.
The second diary had Property of Theodore Lucius Blackburn on the inside flap. I set it down carefully on the table and flipped to the first entry.
June 18, 1886
My wife purchased this journal for me at the market, noting that my previous one had grown full in the admittedly dull recounting of my various endeavors. That she believes my writings will be held for posterity is rather a touching sentiment, though I would never voice such a thought.
The diary spanned more than two years, and in that time Blackburn traveled to Africa, the Caribbean, and China, keeping a meticulously detailed account of his travels. Once or twice, he talked about circles or the phases of the moon, but if an unwary eye had been reading, no one would have ever guessed he was a powerful blood witch. I supposed it would have been bad for him if some nosy servant had read all about blood workings and what they entailed in Theodore’s crystal-neat handwriting. Who wants to buy dry goods and lumber from a black magick user?
February 13, 1889
On the foredeck of steamer Star of Shanghai, bound for San Francisco and then home. I am pained that I will not be with Gertrude for St. Valentine’s Day. None of her letters have reached me in months due to my rapid exodus from the Orient.
I must recount something, for this page is my sole confessional these many months. I purchased the object from an antiquities dealer in Beijing, thinking it nothing more than an amusing fake trinket peddled to foreigners. However, I came to recognize the writing as some form of ancient Arabic text, and began to fear, instead of doubt, the object’s authenticity.
Blackburn’s handwriting, normally as easy to read as print, grew shakier with every word. Whether the pitching ship was making him quake, or the subject matter, I didn’t know.
I feel it inside my mind, mad as that surely sounds, and when I look too long at the letters carved into its surface my head begins to ache. The translator informed me it was a relic known as the Skull of Mathias. A human skull, every inch of it covered in these runic scribblings that hold such a terrible power I can barely stand to remain inside my cabin.
I conceived to throw it over the side, but the night I thus decided, a squall hit us and three of my traveling companions were lost. After that I have simply been making my sleep scarce, although even when I am not below deck I see it, staring at me with empty eyes…
I drew my hands away from the page as though they’d been burned. Empty eyes. I traced Blackburn’s last sentence and muttered, “I found you, you son of a bitch.”
Outside, where I was permitted to use my phone, I called Sunny. Rhoda answered. Typical of my luck.
“Luna,” she said icily when I identified myself. “What do I owe this call to?”
“You don’t owe it to anything,” I said, silently adding,