chapter 12

A low chuckle startled me. I turned my head to see who was sitting at the desk at the far end of the gal ery, but no one was there. I was hearing things again. Oxford was stil a ghost town, and anyone who belonged to the university had left over an hour earlier to down a glass of free sherry in their col ege's senior common room before dinner. Given the Wiccan holiday, even Gil ian had left in the late afternoon, after extending one final invitation and glancing at my pile of reading material with narrowed eyes.

I searched for the gal ery's stepstool, which was missing.

The Bodleian was notoriously short on such items, and it would easily take fifteen minutes to locate one in the library and haul it upstairs so that I could retrieve the volume. I hesitated. Even though I'd held a bewitched book, I'd resisted considerable temptations to work further magic on Friday. Besides, no one would see.

Despite my rationalizations, my skin prickled with anxiety. I didn't break my rules very often, and I kept mental accounts of the situations that had spurred me to turn to my magic for assistance. This was the fifth time this year, including putting the spel on the malfunctioning washing machine and touching Ashmole 782. Not too bad for the end of September, but not a personal best either.

I took a deep breath, held up my hand, and imagined the book in it.

Volume 19 of Notes and Queries slid backward four inches, tipped at an angle as if an invisible hand were pul ing it down, and fel into my open palm with a soft thwack. Once there, it flopped open to the page I needed.

It had taken al of three seconds. I let out another breath to exhale some of my guilt. Suddenly two icy patches bloomed between my shoulder blades.

I had been seen, and not by an ordinary human observer.

When one witch studies another, the touch of their eyes tingles. Witches aren't the only creatures sharing the world with humans, however. There are also daemons-creative, artistic creatures who walk a tightrope between madness and genius. "Rock stars and serial kil ers" was how my aunt described these strange, perplexing beings. And there are vampires, ancient and beautiful, who feed on blood and wil charm you utterly if they don't kil you first.

When a daemon takes a look, I feel the slight, unnerving pressure of a kiss.

But when a vampire stares, it feels cold, focused, and dangerous.

I mental y shuffled through the readers in Duke Humfrey's.

There had been one vampire, a cherubic monk who pored over medieval missals and prayer books like a lover. But vampires aren't often found in rare-book rooms.