License to Ensorcell by Katharine Kerr Read Free Book Online Page B

murder story. Apparently the police had yet to notify the next of kin.
    “Next broadcast?” Nathan said.
    “Eleven.” I paused to yawn. “Can’t you just hack into something and find out who she was?”
    “I can contact the police, and I suppose I’d better. I’m working for Interpol again.”
    “What? You mean you can just go ask? Why are you sitting around my apartment waiting for the news, then?”
    He gave me a look full of sorrow, as if he couldn’t believe my lack of brain.
    “No,” I said, “and you know what I mean by no. It’s time for you to leave, by the way.”
    “What about those journals? Do you think there’s something in there for our job?”
    “I don’t know yet. I do know I need to read them.”
    “Spying on your brother’s love life?” He grinned at me.
    I realized I’d never told him about Patrick. “No,” I said. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
    The grin disappeared, and he winced. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize—”
    “I know. It’s okay.” I hesitated, then decided the truth about his murder could wait. “He had a lot of psychic talent. There may be something for our job in these notebooks, something he noticed or wondered about.”
    “I see. I’d like a look at them.”
    “Sure.”
    I’d piled the journals up next to my computer. I scooted the chair around, took the top one from the stack, and handed it to Nathan. He flipped it open and swore.
    “What’s wrong?” I said. “Can’t you read Latin?”
    “No. I take it you can.”
    “I endured twelve years of Catholic school. Damn right I can.”
    “Why did your brother choose to write these in Latin?”
    “That’s kind of the family code. He went to Catholic school, too. Hey, it could be worse. He also knew classical Greek, and I don’t.”
    Nathan snarled like an angry dog.
    “But don’t worry,” I said. “I’m planning on reading every word. I’ll give you a full report if I find anything of interest.”
    And with that I shooed him out.

CHAPTER 3

    EVERYONE IN THE FAMILY KNEW that Patrick wanted to become a priest, but until I read his journals, I never realized just how desperately he longed for a refuge within the church. When our dad went missing, Patrick was five years old. He turned to his uncle, Father Keith, who took over the role with his usual understanding. Unlike me and most of my siblings, Patrick kept up his belief in God and the specifically Catholic doctrines at least partly because Keith believed them. Fortunately for Keith, his share of the family talents fit into his priestly vocation: a heightened empathy, psychic insights, warnings of danger, spiritual revelations, all the phenomena that supposedly derive from the God of the Christians. Unfortunately for Patrick, hiding lycanthropy in a seminary would have taken godly powers.
    He started keeping journals when he was living at home and attending classes at the local Catholic university. I found the first volume hard reading. Pat’s grief, loneliness, rage at the talent the family genes had devolved upon him, thoughts of suicide restrained only by his knowledge that Keith would be shattered—I kept thinking, why didn’t he tell me all this? Why didn’t he let it out? I reached the conclusion that he didn’t know why. Through the entire notebook ran the festivals of the church. He recorded each saint’s day, each feast, in different colors of ink to match the appropriate liturgical garments. And every month, around the full moon, for three days he wrote nothing at all.
    When I finished the first journal, I realized it was two in the morning. Going to bed struck me as a great idea. I laid the journal down on the couch beside me, yawned, stretched, and opened my eyes to find the angel standing in the middle of the living room, between me and the TV. He seemed to be studying the pattern on the faded Persian carpet I keep under the coffee table.
    “Uh, is there something you want to tell me?” I said.
    “Coat