Page 17 of What Is Dark Within Me

Aleja relented. Garm’s big head came to rest on her knee as they waited for an image to form, and her hand dropped between his ears. Dammit, I’ve learnednothingfrom my family, Aleja thought, as the murky reflection in the mirror cleared and both she and Garm leaned in for a closer look.

A man huddled by a fireplace. His white hair was pulled back with a crude tie, and his beard was unruly, falling to his chest. Aleja saw his nails were dirty as he tossed another log into the flames and his gaze darted to the window. The glass was pale with frost, but it hadn’t snowed in the city for weeks.

She recognized him as one of the six in the picture. The Polaroid wasn’t that old, judging by the mess left behind in Agnes’s apartment before she died. How the hell had two people downed that much Champagne?

Maybe someone was trying to get someone else very drunk, whispered the voice in her head, who’d obviously watched as many true crime documentaries as she had.

“Which of them is it?” Garm asked.

Nicolas left his perch by her kitchen counter, and his winged shadow stretched across the living room. He moved quietly but was impossible to ignore when he wanted to be noticed.

“Thierry Laurent,” he said, as he crouched beside them. Again, Aleja’s senses filled with the smell of vanilla and woodsmoke, like there was a fire in a Bath and Body Works. “A psychologist by trade, an occultist by passion. Tried to summon me about a hundred times so he could be reinstated at the university that booted him out for his unusual theories.”

“Just casually checking in on him every now and again?” Aleja said.

“Laurent was more interesting than most who light the black candle. He was prepared to offer an outrageous sum for academic recognition. It was almost admirable had he not been so despicable.”

“So, youchoose?” Aleja asked. “You get to decide who gets your blessing and who doesn’t? I’m sure sick people, dying people, light the candle every day.”

“I told you, there are rules. I help those who I can help. I’m not omnipotent.”

They watched Thierry Laurent take a swig out of a silver hip flask. His shoulders sagged beneath the heavy fur lining of his collar.

“You never took him up on his offer?” she asked, unable to stop herself from chasing this glimmer of information about the cult Violet had never found it fit to mention.

“No. Laurent was a hack. Half his ideas were stolen and the others utter nonsense.”

“Sounds like you had a lot to gain from a deal, then.”

“Perhaps you misunderstand my interests, witchling. Watch carefully. We need to figure out where he is.”

Thierry Laurent rummaged through his pockets for something, grumbling in slurred French. As receipts and bits of change tumbled from his clothing, he seemed to grow more frustrated.

“Wait,” Aleja gasped, poking at the mirror as if she could freeze the image. “That card. It was my cousin’s agency, Gentle Hearts. They were taking care of Miss Flanders, too. Paola will have his mailing address.”

Aleja pulled out her phone and hesitated, not sure how to phrase the question without sparking her cousin’s endless curiosity.

Hey, I accidentally shoved one of Agnes Flanders’s letters into my backpack after I did the paperwork at her house. It’s for someone named Thierry Laurent, but the address is smudged. Wasn’t he one of our clients? I can drop it into a new envelope.

She waited for an answer, not wanting to meet Nicolas’s eyes. Her hair was a mess in her phone’s reflection. The waterproof mascara she’d bought in the hopes it wouldn’t run at work had flaked onto her cheeks like smudgy freckles. The phone finally dinged, and Aleja sighed with relief when the message was accompanied by an address.

“Chismosa,” she muttered, sending back a thanks that didn’t acknowledge Paola’s speculation about whether Laurent had been Miss Flanders’s boyfriend, followed by a second message on how many STDs they treated in their senior patients.

“Your grandmother was the same way,” Nicolas said with a deep chuckle.

This time, Aleja didn’t suppress her response. She slapped him, his skin unnaturally smooth beneath her palm.Nicolas raised an eyebrow as she spat, “Don’t you ever mention her again. Don’t you ever mention my family again. We may be stuck together for now, but don’t think I’ve forgotten what you really are.”

Garm whimpered, dropping his head between his paws.

Aleja waited to die. Insulting Nicolas was one thing. Striking him was quite another. But the Knowing One merely shrugged, as if she’d done nothing more severe than pick a piece of lint from his suit. “If that’s your wish, I can oblige. Now, where is Thierry Laurent?”

The abrupt change in subject made her feel like she’d taken a wrong turn while driving and her car had tumbled off a cliff.

“Laurent canceled his services with Gentle Hearts but left a new address for Paola to forward his last bill to,” she said, trying to smother her anger enough to speak coherently. “It’s up in Washington, somewhere. It’ll be a six-hour drive, at least. Worse if there’s snow. I can’t—I need to sleep first.”

The words alone were enough to chase away her anger so it could be replaced with guilt. What if Laurent had lured Violet up there? What if she was cold and scared, waiting for help that wasn’t coming because Aleja needed a nap?

Nicolas’s eyes bore into hers and she caught sight of her reflection in them, looking as haggard as she’d imagined. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

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