Tracy S. Morris

Quirky Mysteries, Screwball Fantasy and Sassy History

Take what you hear with a grain of salt.

Written By: Tracy - Nov• 27•09

Random thought of the day:
People vote every day with their time and money.

Also, don’t forget about the Bride of Tranquility holiday promotion.

Now, on to the fiction:

“Why are you here?” His sullen voice cut through her thoughts.

Celeste took a fortifying breath, and tried to organize her words so that they seemed non-probing. “I wanted to ask if you still had contacts in the arcane black market.”

“Really?” Cacius quirked an eyebrow at her. He had that single elegant motion down to an art form. Celeste wondered if he practiced it in the mirror. Thirty right brow raises, followed by thirty left brow raises. It keeps the facial muscles toned and wards off wrinkles.

Oblivious to her mental detour, Cacius continued with his diatribe. “I can’t imagine why you of all people would want something from the black market.”

“Try not to gloat,” she muttered as she leaned her hip against the back of a black leather and chrome couch.

“Just savoring the irony,” he said.

“It’s not personal. I’m tracking another stolen artifact from The Met. You remember Keely McNaughton? You’re the one who gave him my number because you were too busy stealing artifacts to help them track stolen property of an arcane nature?”

“To my everlasting regret,” Cacius looked away. After a pause he looked back at her with a resigned expression. “What seems to be missing this time? Did an employee develop sticky fingers around a hand of glory?”

“The museum has a hand of glory?” Celeste’s eyes widened. She made a mental note to ask Keely exactly how extensive the museum’s arcane collection was, and what was in it.

“Then I take it that something else was stolen.” Cacius moved to a leather chair across from Celeste’s couch and sat down, regal as a Cesar on a throne. He leaned back to regard her over steepled fingers. Celeste rounded the couch and sat across from him so that she could look him in the eyes as she spoke.

“The thing is . . . no one knows what was stolen.” She shrugged. “Whoever did this is good. They gated the shipping container out of the middle of a pile of crates. They knew exactly what they wanted.” She leaned forward to capture his gaze. “You know every wand waver in the city. Who has that kind of skill?”

“Other than myself, of course?” The hint of sly smile that played at the corner of his lips seemed to taunt her.

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