We stepped inside Daya’s lab to find a cluttered room with a small desk, computer, and a large center work table covered in dirt traces and small chunks of hardened earth. “What was she working on?” I asked, walking slowly around the room.

“Daya was restoring an eighth-century amphora from a site off the Turkish coast. She specialized in object restoration—stone, ceramics, metals …”

“Did you know she was freelancing as well?” Hank asked, leafing through the files on Daya’s desk. “Using her lab and museum resources?”

“Yes. We were well aware. Daya was permitted to use the lab and her tools for her freelance work, but only ‘off the clock,’ as you say. She was very excited about her most recent project.”

Hank and I turned at the same time. “Which was?” I asked.

Cerise walked to the table and placed both hands on the edge of the work surface. Dirt clung in the grooves and cuticles around her short fingernails and beneath. “Artifacts with great historical significance.” Disappointment settled over Cerise’s beautiful features. “I was hoping she’d taken them home with her. We haven’t been able to find them here. They were extremely rare. Do you believe this was the reason she was killed?”

I folded my arms over my chest, more intrigued by the second. “They were that important? Rare enough to murder someone over?”

“Oh, yes. The pieces were priceless, in my opinion. Jars, adornments, tablets … One fragment, a broken spirit jar, had Solomon’s seal etched into its surface, and the carbon dating puts it into the time period when Solomon supposedly had lived. Daya was not through cleaning the symbols and script on the artifacts, but once she was through we were hoping to prove that the items actually belonged to the king himself. If that had been the case, the artifacts would be beyond priceless. And I’m sure you both know how many crafters out there would kill to get their hands on anything attributed to Solomon.”

True. Crafters practically worshipped Solomon. Called him the Father of Crafting. He was a legend, historically, biblically, and magically.

“Do you believe the artifacts hold power?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. I could feel it the instant Daya walked into the first level of the museum with the box. It’s ancient power. Dormant, but there.”

“And the spirit jar,” Hank said. “What was its purpose?”

“To house the spirit of Solomon’s most powerful demon. Solomon was the master of demons, you see. He created the spirit jar, and the words of power used to capture, contain, and enslave. That’s how your legend goes anyway. If you want to know more, talk to the jinn storyteller. The jinn were the basis for many of your myths of demons, Detective Madigan. They have a rich oral tradition. And they claim that Solomon was a hybrid, half human, half jinn.”

But none of that explained why there were six dead Adonai and one murdered nymph in a warehouse downtown. None of that explained why Llyran was involved, why he’d hired Daya and then killed her, or what his “cause” was, but the thought made me think of something Llyran had said about raising “the star.”

“Do you know anything about a star?” I asked. Cerise frowned. “A star in connection with the artifacts or Solomon?”

Her brow creased and her lips thinned, but she shook her head. “Afraid not. Nothing that I can recall. I’ll leave you two to look around. I’m just down the hall in room eight if you have any more questions.”

“Wait.” I stepped forward, Daya’s words echoing in my ears. The ring and … the light … mine … it’s mine … into the hand that …Cerise stopped in the doorway. “Solomon is most famous for his ring.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Most people call it the Seal of Solomon.” She frowned. “I believe there were several rings in the collection Daya was restoring.”

One of those rings Daya could’ve restored and given to Llyran. The ring … Daya’s light going into the hand … He’d been using it to suck the life force from Daya and the others—provided my hunch was right. There were other rings of power, but the connection to Solomon … It was the most logical conclusion.

“Did the ring have the same power as a spirit jar? Could it contain spirits?” Hank asked Cerise, catching on to my train of thought.

“It was said to have many attributes. To command the jinn, communicate with animals, change his shape, and imprison demons … I would think that ring had the power to do most anything.”

It felt like the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees, but I knew it was just me responding to the disturbing idea of Llyran in possession of Solomon’s ring.

“I’ll be down the hall,” Cerise said with a curt nod.

After she left, Hank and I brainstormed, going over everything we knew so far. There was no doubt in our minds that Llyran had the ring, and that he planned to unleash the star during winter solstice. Now we just needed to figure out how he planned to do it, and what the hell he had been looking for in Mynogan’s memories. What did he mean by “the star”; some object of power we hadn’t seen before?

We took close to an hour to search the room, finding nothing but evidence that corroborated what we already knew about Daya and her work and who had hired her. Once we were done, we followed the same path back to the main level, but this time detoured through the off-world exhibits.

Treasures, thousands of years old, sat in glass cases. Amulets, beaten gold earrings, necklaces, daggers, wands, headdresses, armbands, clay tablets, colorful wall reliefs … all quietly beautiful, all with a past that could never truly be known.

A few minutes later, we exited the museum. I stopped, letting the outdoor scent of pine reenergize me and clear away the musty scent of Daya’s lab from my nose. The darkness overhead added its own jolt of energy.

Hank stopped a few steps below me. “You coming? We’ve got time to eat lunch before checking out that second warehouse.”

I was hungry. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

14

The warehouse district was mostly composed of abandoned structures, only a few still in use. There was talk in the city council to revitalize the area and turn the old brick buildings into swank apartments and shops. It was a good idea. The area was going to waste and it drew all manner of vagrants and criminals, derelicts even Underground wouldn’t take.

The place was also prime real estate for black crafting rituals and meetings.

My ex-husband, with his secret addiction to black crafting, likely had known this place pretty well.

Hank eased his car to a stop against the curb, near a rusted chain-link fence overgrown with brown weeds. A few feet in front of us stood a light pole with a broken bulb, which gave us a nice spot of concealing shadow. Warehouses lined both sides of the street. The one where we’d found the bodies sat two lots down from us on the left.

We got out quietly and began moving down the uneven, cracked sidewalk, careful not to trip and staying in the shadows. The constant hum of traffic beyond the district did nothing to alleviate the feeling of isolation here. Even the foliage had an air of abandonment about it.

Somewhere beyond the darkness, the sun was shining bright, but down here, we’d need flashlights just to peer into the buildings. I wanted the sun back, and after seeing it again, the desire to make that happen was even greater.

“That’s it.” Hank’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

Two stories. Brick. Old. The breeze pushed the unlatched gate back and forth, creating a faint metallic whine that drew gooseflesh to my skin. I shuddered quickly, trying to shake off the prickly sensation, and pointed to a dim light bleeding beneath the heavy doors.

Hank and I jogged across the street and advanced on the warehouse, my hand on my sidearm and my pulse escalating. We didn’t slow until we were through the gate and into the empty lot. “Sense anything?” I whispered to Hank. He shook his head. I hadn’t, either. “Come on.”