It had been ten years since he’d retired from the priest-hood. Back in his heyday, he spent a good bit of time studying demons, from both religious and ancestral angles. He definitely had a few personal ideas about the subject that weren’t exactly church-sanctioned. But he never had a problem distinguishing what his faith labeled “devils” from demons, and he was comfortable with his spirituality and his place in the world. And maybe that’s why I trusted him. He didn’t know my real identity, of course—no one did—but he knew I was different, and he was okay with that, because he was different too.

I called Father Carrow after my meeting with the caliph and told him that I urgently needed to get my hands on some rare books that would have descriptions and names of primordial Æthyric demons. Just as I’d hoped, he knew someone who might help: a former demonologist who lived nearby in Amanda’s beach town, and who was able to meet with us that afternoon.

After a quick lunch, I picked up Father Carrow and we headed out to La Sirena for our meeting. “So, what’s this guy’s name again?” I asked after we’d merged onto the highway leading to the coast.

“Lon Butler. A trustworthy fellow, but he’s not chatty. He was a little reluctant to meet you, so I had to tell him that you practiced the dark arts.”

I groaned and shot him a dirty look. “I’m not a black magician and you know it. I don’t worship the devil or sacrifice animals, nor do I molest children … which is more than you can say about some of your colleagues.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded more like a curse than a prayer. “You said this was important. I had to hook him somehow or he wouldn’t have come. He prefers to keep to himself.”

Great. Probably some antisocial religious hermit.

Father Carrow’s fingers straightened the band on the black fedora that he was holding in his lap. He always wore a hat, which I often told him was a shame; it covered up a nice head of thick, gray hair that matched his eyes. But no hat could cover up his halo, thankfully, which was a delicate pale cornflower blue.

“So,” I said, “this Lon Butler studied demonology like you did, but he didn’t become a priest. Why?”

“He was kicked out of the seminary a year into his program. A scandal. And it didn’t involve molestation, before you’re tempted to go there again. He’s a famous photographer now. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”

I sped up when a car tried to pass us on the two-lane highway, but they got around anyway. “Photographer? Nope, can’t say that I have, but I want to hear more about this salacious scandal. What did he do?”

“The records are sealed.”

“Really?” This piqued my interest. “Maybe it involved a woman. Oh, maybe even a nun—ooh! Wouldn’t that be scandalous?”

“Indeed, but no. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him yourself. It’s not my place to gossip about another man’s troubles. Or a woman’s.” He glanced at my halo to hammer home his point. Well taken. How could I ask him to spill someone else’s secrets but keep mine?

He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. “However, what I can tell you is a bit of information that’s public knowledge. Several old books went missing from the seminary after his dismissal. They were on loan from the Vatican— very rare. The church had no proof that he was to blame, and he denied that he had anything to do with them going missing. Still does.”

“Do you think he’s lying?”

“Not sure, he’s … hard to read. A good poker face.”

“Were they goetias, the books that went missing?” Goetias were my primary focus for researching what I needed to summon my demon witness. They’re archaic demonic encyclopedias that usually feature crude drawings of Æthyric demons, along with a list of their abilities, summoning names, classification seals, and any problems that previous summoners had uncovered when dealing with them.

“Bingo. That’s why he may be your guy. One of the goetias should have never been sent out on loan. No other known copy exists. It could fetch hundreds of thousands of dollars—possibly more—from the right buyer. The content inside the book is listed as being extremely unusual, so I’m guessing it may contain listings of Æthyric demons not found in other books.”

I must admit, I got a little excited about this bit of information; I had a thing for rare occult books, and with the pressing matter of my parents’ lives on the line, that made it even more enticing.

Father Carrow didn’t offer much more about the scandalous Lon Butler, and after the thirty-minute drive, I was starting to lose the caffeine buzz I’d pumped myself up with at lunch. I needed sleep or a strong cup of coffee. But when we finally made it to the small beach town, I got a second wind.

La Sirena is a strange place. Only a few thousand people live there, half of whom are bohemian artists; the other half has money, and lots of it. The heart of the small town includes several square blocks of buildings with Hansel and Gretel fairy-tale exteriors, known collectively as the Village. None of the buildings have addresses, just names. There also are no streetlights, and neon signs are prohibited. The sidewalks are irregular due to the abundance of beautiful Monterey cypress trees lining the cobblestone streets, whose gnarled roots have pushed the pavement up.

If you’re in the market for art, the Village contains a wealth of shops and galleries that sell paintings and ceramics from local artists. Between these, a plethora of restaurants and cafés dot the winding streets, along with quaint old-fashioned candy stores. And once you’ve had your fill of shopping and seafood, the rocky beach is only a few blocks away.