The Dead Hamlets: Book Two of the Book of Cross Read Online Free

lock it. There were three locks. It was almost like he was expecting trouble. Well, one could never be too safe with people like me roaming the streets.
    The walls of the hallway were lined with bookshelves that held every sort of book: mass-market paperbacks, encyclopedias and dictionaries, art books, travel guides. There wasn’t any order to them that I could tell. The living room Baal led me into was more of the same, only here the books were older tomes, bound in leather and other types of hide. I tried not to let my eyes linger on the titles. That way lay madness.
    The couch was covered in stacks of newspapers and magazines, but two chairs were free. Baal motioned for me to sit in one so of course I sat in the other.
    “Can I offer you a tea?” Baal asked. “Or perhaps a stronger drink?” He looked at me like he knew what I’d been up to after he’d lost me at Potsdamer Platz. Maybe he did know. The angels are a mysterious bunch. Even I don’t really understand how they work. Hell, they’re probably mysterious even to each other.
    “I’m not here for a drink,” I reminded him, and he smiled. See what I mean?
    He sat in the other chair and blew steam from his tea again. More arcane symbols danced in the air between us.
    “What exactly are those?” I asked.
    “They are not unlike the aroma of a tea, in their way,” Baal said.
    “That is not like an answer, in its own way,” I said.
    He smiled a little, but just a little. “It’s an ancient blend that took considerable effort to acquire,” he said. “In fact, it can no longer be found in this world. I could no more describe the symbols to you than I could describe the aroma to a man with no sense of smell. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a cup?”
    I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ve learned my lesson about otherworldly drinks,” I said. Although it had taken a few times for the lesson to really sink in. I looked around at the books again. “You work in publishing or a library?” I asked.
    “University professor,” he said. “Emeritus.”
    I smiled a little too. At least I still had a gut sense about angels in some ways.
    “So,” he said again.
    “
Hamlet
,” I said, cutting to the chase. “It’s killing people.”
    “Is there a new production causing riots?” he asked. “Or perhaps a travelling show with a cast of demons and their minions?”
    I winced at the mention of demons. I’d had one too many run-ins with their kind over the years. I shook my head. “I think it’s more like some sort of curse with the play itself,” I said. “People keep dying from accidents during productions.” I didn’t mention the faerie or Amelia. Or sweet, sweet Morgana. I didn’t want any of the angels to know about my deep, dark secrets. I’d never live it down.
    “Perhaps it’s the
Macbeth
curse,” Baal said. “An old superstition among thespians.”
    I knew what he was talking about, thanks to centuries of drinking until dawn in various pubs with actors and other characters of ill repute. Anytime something goes wrong in a production of
Macbeth
, actors always lay the blame on the mythical curse. Only it’s not mythical, as Baal and I knew.
    It was all because of the Witches. Any respectable Shakespeare scholar will tell you the spell the witch characters use around their cauldron in
Macbeth
is a real one—Shakespeare stole it from the actual Witches. And yes, they deserve the capitalization. There are witches and then there are the Witches. They appreciated Will’s act of supernatural plagiarism so much that they gave him another spell gratis: the curse.
    It’s normally a harmless enough thing. Some actor says the name “Macbeth” backstage in a production without thinking and starts the spell running. Soon props are falling apart and actors are breaking legs and candles are igniting curtains. You know, the sort of things that can also be caused by excessive drunkenness, which actors are also known for.
    But the faerie show