Tarnished and Torn A Witchcraft Mystery by Juliet Blackwell

Author:Juliet Blackwell
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2013-07-02T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

I lingered for a moment in the Morning House’s beautiful garden, enjoying the flowers, whose fragrance had been intensified by the warm sunshine, and trying to decide my next move. A big part of me wanted to just go back to Aunt Cora’s Closet and fold scarves, chat with Maya and Bronwyn, and hang out with my pig.

But the rowan loops reminded me of Clem holding up the witch’s mark as though he could banish me with it; the memory gave me a sense of urgency.

First I stopped by Aunt Cora’s Closet, saw that everything was under control, and consulted a city map. Then I headed downtown to the youth hostel.

The address on Ellis Street was written in bold, black letters on a glass transom above the scarred wooden entrance. The door opened onto a long flight of stairs, its treads splintered and worn from the thousands of young travelers who had stayed here through the years. At the top of the stairs was a small foyer, with the obligatory rack of travel brochures along one wall and a conversation area formed by three mismatched armchairs and a sagging couch. A young man with a scraggly goatee sat behind a tall counter to the right, and behind him was a wooden hutch with dozens of tiny pigeonholes, some holding keys and others messages. Very old school. I liked it.

I started to ask for Johannes, then realized I didn’t know his last name.

“I’m sorry,” said the clerk, looking through an old fashioned visitors’ log. “I can’t see anyone by that name registered.”

Had Johannes used a pseudonym? “Do you ask for ID when people check in?”

“Yup. Usually a passport. We get a lot of foreign students.”

“And you don’t remember a young German man, a little over six feet, blond, good-looking? He speaks English with a heavy accent.”

The clerk shook his head. “Haven’t seen anyone like that, at least not during my shift. Doesn’t mean there couldn’t have been someone here that I didn’t see, but there’s nobody in the book under the name Johannes.”

I must have looked disappointed, because he glanced around the empty foyer, then added: “Dwight’s been working a lot of shifts lately; maybe he knows something. He went up on the roof for a smoke before heading home. Want me to see if I can catch him before he leaves?”

“I would be so grateful. Thank you.”

“Keep an eye on things for me for a second. Will ya?”

I couldn’t say much for the hostel’s security, but I was happy to slip behind the counter and play hotelier for a few moments. There was no piped-in music, only the sound of far-off voices and someone playing a harmonica. The ceilings were tall and the windows were large and multipaned, bathing the reception room in sunlight. Despite the worn furnishings and generally shabby ambience, the hostel was appealing. It had the strong, energetic vibrations of youth mixed with the wide-open, eager pulsations common to tourists exposing themselves to new worlds.

In fact,

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