“Do you want to talk about it?”
His no is so abrupt that I almost take a step backward. But then he shrugs and shakes his head.
“Sorry. I was going to call you today. Honest. I’ve just been up to my eyeballs in paper, trying to come up with something useful. Not having much luck.”
I almost say something about how he didn’t need to do that at a time like this, but the twitchy way he scratches his head is practically pleading with me not to. Distraction is good, that gesture says. Distraction is necessary. So I pull the photograph of a young, robed Gideon out of my pocket.
“I guess I had a little,” I say. Thomas takes it and studies it. “It’s Gideon,” I add, because he probably couldn’t tell. He’s only seen one or two pictures of Gideon when he’s really old.
“The knives,” Thomas says. “They all look exactly like yours.”
“For all I know, one of them is mine. I think what we’re looking at are the people who created the athame. That’s what my gut tells me.”
“You think? Where did you get this?”
“Someone sent it to me under Gideon’s address.”
Thomas scans the photo again. When he does, he notices something that makes his eyebrow arch up two inches.
“What is it?” I ask as he starts sifting through his bedroom, shuffling piles of papers and stacks of books.
“I don’t know if it’s anything,” he replies. “Just that I feel like I saw this somewhere.” He flips through a stack of photocopies, black ink smudging his fingers. “Here!” He pulls out a paper-clipped bundle and folds back pages until his eyes light up.
“Look at the robes,” he says, showing me. “The Celtic knot design on the ends of the rope belt, and again at the collar. The same as the photograph.”
What I’m looking at is a photocopy of a photocopy, but he’s right. The robes are the same. And I can’t believe that just anyone can buy them at a Renaissance fair. They’re custom. Worn by only a specific and select group of people that apparently call themselves the Order of the Biodag Dubh.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“One of my grandpa’s old friends has an amazing occult library. He’s been copying everything he’s got and faxing it to me. This one’s collected from an old issue of the Fortean Times.” He takes the pages back and starts to read, pronouncing the Gaelic phonetically, which is more than likely extremely wrong. “The Order of the Biodag Dubh. The Order of the Black Dagger. Supposedly they were a group that controlled something they called ‘the concealed weapon.’” He pauses and eyeballs my backpack, where the athame sits. “It’s unknown exactly what the weapon was, but it is believed that the Order forged it themselves around the time of their creation, estimated to be between the third and first centuries BC. The exact power of the weapon is also unknown; however, several documents allude to the use of a black dagger in the slaying of loch monsters, similar to the modern-day Nessie.” He makes a face and rolls his eyes. “It is unknown whether the black dagger and the concealed weapon refer to the same artifact.” He flips through the remaining pages, looking for more of the article, but comes up empty.
“That’s the vaguest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s pretty bad. They’re usually much better. Must’ve been a fly-by-night contributor.” He tosses the fax down on the bed. “But you have to admit, if you take out the part about the Loch Ness monster, there’s a shadow of something there. The references to an unknown weapon, a concealed dagger maybe, and the two matching photographs—I mean, come on. These are dots that need connecting.”
The Order of the Biodag Dubh. Is that right? Are they the ones who created the athame? And why do these things always have to call themselves the Order of Something?
“How much do you know, anyway, about Gideon Palmer?” Thomas asks.
“He’s a friend of my father’s. He’s like a grandfather to me,” I say, and shrug. I don’t like the tone in Thomas’s voice. It’s too suspicious, and after seeing the photo, I’m suspicious enough for everyone. “Look, let’s not jump to conclusions. This picture could be from anything. Gideon’s been involved in the occult since he was a kid.”
“But that is your athame, isn’t it?” Thomas asks, checking the photo again to make sure he wasn’t mistaken.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell,” I say, even though it isn’t.