The Inquisitor's Apprentice Read Online Free PDF Page B

ordered two of the Metropole's famous Viennese coffees, cocked an elbow against the counter, set one foot on the brass bar rail, and began talking. Seeing his father here, Sacha could imagine him as a student in Moscow. He could imagine how much he must have enjoyed debating politics and philosophy—and how good he must have been at it. After all, Mr. Kessler was just as smart as Uncle Mordechai. The only difference between the two brothers was that Sacha's father had given up his own dreams to take care of his family.
    Their coffees arrived, strong and sweet, in little glasses with filigreed silver handles. Sacha sipped his coffee and enjoyed the strange feeling of having his father talk to him like a grownup and equal. Finally he worked up the nerve to ask the question that had been preying on his mind all night.
    "Who do you think stole Mama's locket?"
    "What do you mean? You think it could be someone we know?"
    "No! I just meant ... well ... why would anyone want it?"
    "Who knows? It was probably some hopped-up spell-fiend who wandered over from Chinatown. Those poor wretches will steal anything to get a fix."
    "You don't think the thief could have been after the locks of hair?"
    His father stared, openmouthed. "What are you talking about? You afraid someone's going to set a dybbuk on you?"
    At the word
dybbuk,
a man drinking next to them gasped and made the sign of the evil eye. Mr. Kessler gave him a disdainful look before turning back to his son. "You've been reading too many penny dreadfuls, Sacha. You're getting an overactive imagination."
    "Well, but ... couldn't it have been a hexer or a conjure man?" Sacha didn't know much about hex casters and con men, but he had heard that they sometimes used locks of hair to bind their victims.
    "What could a con man possibly steal from us that would make it worth his while? And anyway, you and Bekah don't need to worry. You have your grandfather looking out for you."
    "Grandpa?" Sacha asked incredulously.
    "Sure. What do you think he and Mo are doing at
shul
every night, playing poker? I might not have gone into the family business, but you still come from seven generations of Kabbalists. It'd take more than some cheap conjure man to lay a hex on you or Bekah."
    "Oh." Sacha felt bewildered. He'd always known his grandfather was a Kabbalist. But it had never occurred to him that Kabbalah had anything to do with practical magic—or that his grandfather could possibly have anything in common with the hexers and con men the Inquisitors arrested. "Um ... do you think I should tell Inquisitor Wolf about Grandpa?"
    Sacha's father made a wry face. "I wouldn't bring up the topic if you can manage to avoid it."
    They drank for a while in silence.
    "So," Mr. Kessler said, as cheerfully as if no one had ever mentioned dybbuks and conjure men. "The big day's finally here. Excited?"
    "Well—I—"
    "You're not worried about Inquisitor Wolf, are you? Don't be. Sure, he's got this big reputation. But I know you. You're smart and honest, a hard worker. What could he possibly find to complain about?"
    Sacha met his father's gaze—and was shocked to realize that they were looking at each other eye to eye. When had he gotten as tall as his father? And when had his father started stooping like that? Had he always looked so old and tired?
    "I just hope I can help out around the house some ... you know ... like Bekah does."
    He knew he'd made a mistake as soon as he said the words. He'd known his father was ashamed when Bekah had to quit school to work at Pentacle. Now that shame hung in the air between them.
    "You mean help out with
money?
" Mr. Kessler asked stiffly. "You think we took you out of school just so you could make
money
for us?
    "No, but—"
    "We did it for you. We did it for your future."
    "I know, but—"
    "No buts! You've been handed a chance in life, and I want you to grab it with both hands and not look back. You understand me?"
    Sacha nodded, not trusting