The Book Spine was a slice of bookstore on Congress Street. When I say slice, I mean slice. The place was an alley fill-in between two larger buildings, no more than a dozen feet wide. Inside, a checkout counter sat to the right and cubbies for bags and knapsacks rose to the left. You needed the cubbies if you wanted to move around without getting wedged between the stacks or getting a swift kick for bonking someone with a knapsack. There were only three stacks: the right wall, the left wall, and one down the center. The trick was there were five levels. Steep, narrow stairs at the back of the long floor let you up to the first three. The last two were open air. If you couldn’t fly or levitate, you had to rely on the kindness of other browsers or an overworked staff person to lift you.

The symbols carved into Kaspar’s and Merced’s foreheads remained a mystery. I had exhausted my own library, and the Internet had offered little more than amateur sites. It’s impossible to search for a rune if you don’t have a name for it. The symbol had to be a sigil of some kind, either cultic or gang-related. Murdock was looking into the latter, but I jogged around the Weird enough to recognize most of the gang signs and didn’t think that would go anywhere.

I picked up a small dictionary of symbols bound in red leather. The copy was old, handcrafted inside and out. The cramped script flared here and there with essence. Sometimes, when a sufficiently powerful fey writes down a rune, one that needs to exist only as a sigil to activate its purpose, the rune activates. Whoever had written the dictionary had made a classic error by inscribing symbols. Nothing dangerous as far as I could tell, but not the smartest thing to do.

I tucked a larger tome under my arm, a cross-cultural reference on symbols in ancient religions. Depending on one’s view, essence manipulation was either a science or a religion. I had come down on the science side for years, but that was before I met the drys. Druids considered the drys as the incarnate essence of the oak, and therefore sacred. They were something-some one — I had taken for a myth. The old tales from Faerie told of gods and goddesses, minor deities and sacred rites. For most of my life, I assumed they were glorifications of real people lost in the mists of time. Fey people, to be sure, but no more godlike than anyone else who could manipulate essence. After feeling the power of the essence of the drys, I had to wonder if I had been wrong all this time. I still wasn’t sure.

A cell phone rang. It took me a moment to realize it was mine. After breaking my old one at the Kaspar murder scene, I had replaced it and forgotten I changed the ringtone, too. Before losing the call to voice mail, I juggled the books under one arm while avoiding knocking into a small fairy browsing next to me. I didn’t recognize the caller from the ID, which was surprising since I don’t give my cell number out to many people. I answered it, expecting a wrong number.

“I’ll be damned. It is you,” Dylan said.

The fairy next to me returned my courtesy by slapping my face with his wings as he reached for a book on an upper shelf. “Dylan. How’d you get this number?”

“Should I be concerned that a dealer in stolen goods has your private phone number?”

The undercurrent of teasing was so typical of Dylan. “I assume you are talking about Belgor?”

“Is that a guess? Or do you know more than one?”

I eased my way down to the narrow stairs. “Now, now, Dyl. I have my secrets.”

“Mmm. I wouldn’t have guessed. Yes, it’s Belgor. There’s been an incident at his store, and he says he will speak only with you.”

I slid the books onto the counter and smiled an apology at the cashier. I hate when people talk on their cells when they interact with other people. “Sounds like Belgor. Has he been raided again?”

“No. He’s been assaulted. At least, that’s what it looks like.”

The cashier rang up the books, and I handed him three crumpled twenties. The budget gets depleted this way all too often. “Is he hurt?”

“Banged up and angry. I’d appreciate it if you came down here and helped sort it out.”

I gathered my change and purchases and walked outside into the dull light of the late afternoon. “I’m around the corner. I’ll be right there.”

I disconnected. Belgor was a snitch. A big, smelly snitch, but a good snitch. He had owned his store on Calvin Place for as long as anyone could remember. It masqueraded as a convenience store and curiosity shop. At some point, it probably was a legitimate business, but these days his profits all come from the back room. He knew how to play the legal game and cover his tracks, but that didn’t make his wares any less stolen. He did a fair amount of buying and selling that could be considered aboveboard, but he wasn’t particular about asking where things came from.

I walked the short distance up Stillings to Calvin Place, a one-lane stretch that ended one block away on Pittsburgh Street. It was best to keep your arm in the car when you drove through, or you risked catching it on a wall.

I stopped short on the corner. On the cold, shadowed side of the street, several people stood in front of Belgor’s Notions, Potions, and Theurgic Devices. The shattered windows of the shop did not look out of place on the dilapidated storefront. Shards of glass littered the ground, but the biggest surprise was Belgor himself. The old elf stood on the sidewalk, his meaty arms crossed over a stained skintight sweatshirt that barely covered his swollen stomach. I had never seen him in daylight. Having done so, I wanted to scrub the memory from my brain. As I recovered from the surreality of his presence outside, his heavily jowled face swayed in my direction. I was surprised yet again by a streak of blood smeared beneath his greasy hairline.

Dylan stood a few feet away talking with a Boston police officer as well as another druid and a fairy who both had the look of the Guild about them. He wore a long maroon coat over one of his signature red-colored shirts, the current one a striped crimson. He gave me a broad smile. “Please ask him what happened. He’s being obtuse and noxious.”

I glanced over at Belgor as he flexed his long, hairy, pointed ears. “He can hear you, you know.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know. I’ve already told him to bathe if he wants courtesy. If he doesn’t start talking, I’m yanking him in no matter what he says.”

“First tell me why you’re here,” I said. I didn’t want to make any promises to Belgor without knowing the circumstances. With the Guild involved, even if it was Dylan, there would be circumstances.

Dylan gave Belgor a sideways glance as he shot a sending to me. His voice slipped smoothly into my head, ten years’ separation failing to erase the partnership groove we had. The New York robbery. Our information pointed to this location as the likely spot for the transfer of the Met jewelry. We had the place under surveillance. Our agents were distracted by something and didn’t see anyone go in. About an hour ago, the windows exploded and a woman ran out with Belgor hot on her heels. We’re waiting for a warrant, so stall him some more to keep him outside.

Since I can’t do sendings anymore, I looked at Belgor as I chose my words. “Distracted?”

Dylan frowned. I’ll tell you later. Not pertinent, I think. I’d like to hear what you think, though.

I grinned as I walked past him. “I’ll have to bill for consulting.”

Belgor blocked the door to his shop. He appeared wider than the door, so I half wondered whether he had come out through the missing window. The stink of onions wafted off him, competing with his usual bitter body odor. He had swiped at his forehead, smearing the blood and revealing a short gouge above the bridge of his nose.