Page 37 of Lovely Wicked Things

Dr. Markus points to a symbol scored into the clay, anouroborosdepicted by a snake consuming its tail. “While styles vary, since when does a practitioner utilize two different period techniques? You can see here fragments of theChrysopoeia, dating centuries before medieval alchemy.”

Tension brackets Kallum’s features. “Since human sacrifice tends to make a practitioner a little insane and unstructured, Dr. Markus.”

An ache forms in my chest at the turmoil I sense in Kallum. He’s a purist, too. It has to pain him to have his expertise called into question by a historian and not rise to the challenge.

I wait for a rebuttal from Dr. Markus, and a tense breath eases past my lips when he nods with acceptance and bags the evidence.

A small measure of relief frees the tightness in my chest, allowing me the opportunity to break down the scene. I mentally remove all the task force members and distractions. Kallum said the artifacts seemed more like decorations, and I agree.

This room feels staged, and not by a professional who works crime scenes—like someone like Devyn. The wall of glyphs was splashed on the cinderblock like an afterthought, maybe to divert from what’s in this room, or rather, from what’s missing. It all feels rushed, like the suspect was in a hurry to remove the real evidence.

Moving close to the bagged tablet, I tilt my head and study the design of a doubleouroboros, depicted here with two rings, representing two snakes swallowing one another.

Out of habit, I go to reach into my bag for my notebook of research, realizing one, Kallum has my bag and two, my notebook has been missing since the day we worked the ravine.

What I do recall of the symbol indicated it’s a sign of volatility, suggesting opposites join together and exist in an eternal, recurring manner.

Shit.An ill feeling coats my stomach as I tie the scene right back to Devyn and her methodology.

A theme in Nietzsche’sThus Spoke Zarathustracentered on the eternal recurrence:Everything goes, everything comes back; eternally rolls the wheel of being.

“Do you have any insight into this suspect, Dr. St. James?” Agent Rana turns my way, her question breaking into my thoughts.

“I do, yes.” A chill clings to my limbs, and I wrap my arms around my waist. “As I said before, this offender has to be someone people trust, someone they respect. This scene only confirms that. The suspect would make them feel safe and protected, at least long enough to lure them here. According to Professor Locke, dealing in this type of alchemy would stress one’s mental state.” I fidget with the cuff of my blouse. “They’d start to show signs of deterioration. Becoming agitated, suffering at their job. Yet they believe they’re above laws and can evade consequences. Someone who’s already in a position of power?—”

My analysis is cut short as Detective Riddick enters the room. I quickly avert my gaze to the flickering light above, and a wave of dizziness seizes my head as the light sways, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

“Like someone in law enforcement,” Rana says, her voice dropped low.

Suddenly, the den of the chamber feels alive with activity. Camera flashes, the rustle of evidence bags. The murmur of voices echoing through the hollow cavern. The flutter of wings.

I touch my temple and blink hard, trying to chase back the pending headache. “Right, exactly,” I say, but I’ve lost the thread of our conversation.

The fluttering grows louder, and I again look up at the bulb, noticing a moth flitting around the light. I squint at the insect, struck by the franticness of its movements as it beats its tiny, winged body against the lamp.

“Dr. St. James, are you all right?” Hernandez’s deep voice breaks through the muffled sounds.

“I’m fine.” I swipe my hair off my damp forehead. “What about the herd symbol found at the grove?” I ask as I try to recenter myself.

Rana regards me curiously, but says, “Dr. Markus was just stating that the herd could point to a secret occult society, saying it stands to reason that as this is Mrs. Lipton’s basement, she’s the most likely suspect.”

“It’s simple heuristics,” Dr. Markus states. “You said this suspect is a prone leader, the person this town looks to for direction. She fits your profile, no?”

Riddick chuckles as he approaches the group. “No offense, but I’ve known Mrs. Lipton for years. She’s eccentric and overbearing, but the leader of some cult? That’s absurd.”

Kallum steps in his direction, and a nervous flutter bats my chest, my heart thrashing as hard as the moth’s wings.

“Not cult. Occult,” Kallum stresses. “There’s a critical difference, detective.”

Riddick squares his shoulders. “Christ, am I about to be tortured with a longwinded lecture on the subject?”

A muscle tics in Kallum’s jaw, his smile tight as he twists the ring around his thumb. “Well, you have come to the right place for torture.”

Dr. Markus interrupts, seemingly oblivious to the aggression. “It’s quite simple to distinguish the connection,” he says, flipping through pages on his tablet. “Hermetic magick was practiced by many secret occult groups. For instance, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. This society was heavily involved with alchemy, and kept very hidden.”

“Until their secrecy was broken by Aleister Crowley,” I supply.

Kallum sends me a subtle wink. “After Crowley revealed detailed accounts of the Order’s teachings, other orders started incorporating their practices, deemed renegade members.”

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