If Fiji hadn’t been in a hurry (she couldn’t remember why), she would never have recalled the little incident, which had irritated her quite a bit.
She explained all this to Manfred, who said, “So you disliked her, based on that incident.”
“Well, yeah. Of course, today I just felt sorry for her. But she was definitely on my shit list for about five whole minutes.” Fiji smiled to make sure Manfred understood that being on her “shit list” was not a permanent thing.
“That’s interesting.”
“I don’t see why! At least now I can lose that nagging feeling you get when you can’t quite remember something.”
“Fiji,” Manfred said, and stopped dead. He’d been about to explain his tentative theory, but he thought better of it. “Nah, don’t worry about it.” He smiled at her. “I’m glad you remembered, and I’m glad the lady’s okay, and I hope your sister leaves soon.”
“Those all sound like good wishes to me.”
“And whatever else is wrong, I think it’s gonna be okay, too,” Manfred said, and turned to go in his house before she could ask him any questions.
4
That night, Lemuel was back at his task of puzzling out the translation of the book—the most important one, the one about the origin of magical sites in the United States. The only one in Texas he’d seen mention of so far was the Devil’s Sinkhole, south of Midnight. It would have been more accurate to call it “a Devil’s Sinkhole,” according to the author of The New World and Its Places of Interest.
Lemuel had seen older books than the one to which he was paying so much attention, but he was sure this was the right book. He’d come across the first pawnshop owner’s notes in his second year of working for Bobo; it was ironic that it had taken him all these years to find the really interesting piece of history that had become his obsession. But the builder of Midnight Pawn, which had originally been a general store, had bought and sold a good many things, both ancient and modern, new and used.
“A consignment of ancient books,” the original owner had written. “Which I now believe to be of the Devil, so I have hidden them. If the owner returns to redeem them, I will kill him.” Lemuel had been intrigued, of course. He’d had trouble discovering what had happened to the original owner, but he’d run across one mention of a terrible accident in an old county newspaper, which had made him even more curious.
Lemuel had not been able to claim ownership of the pawnshop continuously for all those years, because someone would have noticed his odd longevity and his aversion to daylight. Though he was very strong and fast, humans in a group could defeat him. By various subterfuges, he’d remained in the area. But he’d never been able to find the trove of books.
Bobo had discovered them by accident, which was galling. And funny, too.
The cover of the book Lemuel was studying, which had been created from the skin of a werewolf, was still in excellent shape, and the pages, though spotted and yellowed, were quite legible . . . if you could speak the language they’d been written in.
That was what had taken so long—finding someone who could still speak the ancient tongue.
“You taking a break?” Olivia asked. She’d set up a card table behind the counter and was working a jigsaw puzzle. “A thousand pieces,” she’d told him, looking determined.
“Just for a few minutes,” Lemuel said, getting off the stool and stretching.
“I have to go to New Orleans in a couple of weeks. You want me to look up that Quigley, thump him good?”
“I felt lucky to find him at the time,” Lemuel said. “A descendant of the vampire who wrote this book? Hadn’t expected that.”
“It would have been a better discovery if he’d been smart,” Olivia said.
“Yes, indeed. Maybe I should have taken some wooden slivers with me, asked a few more questions. I know Quigley has a child, and he wasn’t the first vampire Arria Auclina created. There’s an older child somewhere, a female.”
“What about Arria Auclina herself?” Olivia was all for going directly to the source.
“She would squash me like a bug,” Lemuel said gently. “Ones that old, they don’t care a thing about a comparatively new one like me, especially since I’m the rare breed.”
“I think being able to take blood from humans or sap their energy makes you a lot more diverse,” she said. “I bet they all wish they were like you.”
“Not the purists,” he said, with a slight smile. “Though it was much easier for me when I was only a hundred or so, to go amongst people. It was hard for them to tell what I was. Now, there’s no question.”
“Shall I ask Quigley nicely to give us another source?” She perked up at the prospect of action.
Lemuel looked at Olivia steadily. She was brave and strong and lethal, but she’d never understand that a vampire could snap her spine in a second. Any vampire. “Olivia, please don’t approach him unless I ask you to,” he said, making sure she saw how serious he was.
Lemuel squatted by the card table to pick up little puzzle pieces that had landed on the floor. As he began returning them to the table, he glanced up at Olivia. Her brow was furrowed as she tried to match piece after piece. Though he had never told her—and she had never asked—Lemuel planned to make Olivia a vampire someday. She was bright and wounded and lethal and loyal. Only her mortality kept her from being nearly perfect in his eyes. She was about to speak again; she turned away from the puzzle.
“Listen, I guess there’s no shortcut you could take, or you would have taken it already, right?”
“What shortcut did you have in mind?” Lemuel lay the book down and simply looked at her.
“Like scanning the text for the word that means ‘Midnight,’ or ‘Crossroad.’ Something like that.” Olivia shrugged, to let him know she thought her idea feeble.
Lemuel reached up to put his cold hand on her cheek. “Remember, I told you that whatever happened to make this place so odd and queer must have happened before this crossroad was even called Midnight?”
She nodded.
“I think the town is here because of whatever event took place.”
“You think people have come to this spot because they were drawn to it because of the event,” Olivia said slowly.
“Yes.”
“I knew this wouldn’t be easy,” Olivia said, and her voice was just shaky enough to remind Lemuel to remove his hand before he took too much energy from her.
“If you have any other ideas, I will be glad to hear them,” he said. “Never keep one to yourself.”
“I won’t.” Olivia flashed him a smile, and Lemuel said, “That’s my bold woman.” He spied one more bit of puzzle and leaned beneath the table to retrieve it.
The bell over the door tinkled as a man came in, a rough and hairy man with a coarse brown beard. A gust of cool air came in the door with him.
“Evening,” Olivia called, standing up and moving behind the counter. Lemuel, out of her sight, stiffened.
“I came to redeem my knife,” the man said, his voice deep.
“Got your ticket?” Olivia asked. Lemuel glanced up and nodded to himself. Olivia knew what he was. She had remembered to smile with her teeth covered, as you should around a werewolf.
“I do.” The customer fished around in his jeans pockets and came up with a bit of cardboard, which he put on the counter. He paused and sniffed. “Do I smell a dead . . . kinsman?” His own teeth became very apparent, and they seemed longer and sharper than they should have been.
“I have no idea what you smell,” Olivia said. “But I bet you’re getting a whiff of metal, buddy.” She was holding a gun in her hand.
Lemuel thought, I did not tell her about the bookbinding. He stood. At the sight of him, the werewolf stepped back a little. “So overcome by the cover of an old book that you couldn’t smell me?” Lemuel asked, his voice
rusty and slow. “This shop is under my protection. That includes everyone who works here.”
“I can take him,” Olivia said. She sounded remote, calm.
“I know you can, Olivia. But in this case, I just about owe this man an explanation.”
The werewolf looked surprised. “My name is Theo Barclay,” he said more civilly. “I wait to hear it.”
“See this book, Theo Barclay?” Lemuel held it up. “You can see it is ancient. I had nothing to do with the construction of it. As you smelled, some person used the skin of a were to construct it.”
“It should be buried with respect.”
Lemuel paused before he spoke. “I have to read this book, because magic is brewing here, magic that will do none of us any good. If I can find out what is going to happen, maybe I can prevent it. The answer lies here.” He tapped the book to emphasize his point. “When that danger is passed, I will give the book covering to your packmaster. Until then, I have to keep the book intact, lest something I can’t foresee might happen to it if I simply remove the cover.”
It was Barclay’s turn to think out his response. “That’s a deal,” the werewolf rumbled, finally. “I’ll tell my packmaster. Now, I want to redeem my knife.”
Within minutes, Barclay was out the pawnshop door, his very fine knife in its custom sheath on his belt.
Lemuel could feel Olivia simmer during this whole exchange.
“I could have handled him,” Olivia said, the minute the rumble of Barclay’s motorcycle faded in the distance.
“Woman, I know you can kill,” Lemuel said. “This is not an issue we need to debate. And you are proud. You should be. But this incident had nothing to do with pride. It had only to do with the werewolves’ right to bury their dead, if that is how they want to honor her.”
“It’s a female?” Olivia looked at the book, impressed but also a little disgusted.
“I think it is,” Lemuel said. “I can’t know how she died, or when, but I know it was many, many years ago.”
“So she’s not likely to be Barclay’s literal kin?”
“No.”
“Well, all right.”
Lemuel wasn’t sure what Olivia had resolved within herself as a result of this discussion, but he could tell she was at peace with him now, and that was what he cared about.
That, and reading this damned book.
5
John Quinn came into the Inquiring Mind the next morning with Fiji’s newspaper tucked under his arm. She realized she’d forgotten to go out to get it that morning. It had been an atypical and incredibly irritating day, and it was only nine a.m. Until Quinn entered, Fiji had been sitting behind the counter, gripping the edge with both hands, staring straight ahead with her teeth in a line, listening to her sister sing in the shower. Every word was perfectly audible, and it was all in the wrong key.
Fiji had never realized before how simple her life was merely because she was the only person living in the house. She had to make an effort to smile at Quinn, which was a first. Like most women, she’d always found it easy to be happy when she saw him. Quinn was tall, bald, and muscular, with pansy-purple eyes. Pleasant to look at, pleasant to talk to.
“Here you go,” he said, handing her the folded paper.
“Thanks,” she said, and dropped it on the counter. Ordinarily, she took time during the morning to read it. Ordinarily, she was cheerful. Ordinarily, she was content in her own shop. Now, her routine was all shot to hell.
Quinn stood listening to Kiki’s dreadful warbling. He blinked a couple of times. “You have a musical visitor,” he said politely.
“Well, I have a visitor who likes to sing. Sorry for the serenade,” Fiji said. “Muzak would be better, and I never thought I’d say that.” She shook her head dolefully.
Quinn’s smile returned.
Fiji had to restrain an involuntary sigh. Despite the fact that she’d considered her affections taken until the day before, other parts of her felt free to rejoice in sexual attraction. Quinn was hot, no two ways about it.
“When did you get in to town?” Fiji asked.
“Last night. I just finished a big ascension ritual, and I missed my son. Diederik’s growing so fast!”
That was God’s truth. “The tiger growth rate,” Fiji said. “It’s just incredible. By the way, my sister doesn’t know much about supernatural stuff.”
Quinn nodded. “Like weretigers? Point taken. Before she joins us, then, Diederik tells me there are troubles here.”
“Very serious troubles. When are you going to be able to take him with you?” It would break the heart of everyone in Midnight if anything happened to Diederik. They’d all had a hand in raising him, however short a time that had taken.
“He’s almost mature,” Quinn said. “When I’m sure he can protect himself, he’ll start traveling with me.”
Weretigers were popular as fighters in the pits, a supernatural gladiatorial contest held in secret. The contest was along the order of “Two creatures enter, one creature leaves.” No one went into the pits voluntarily. Fighters were either coerced or kidnapped. More than anything else, Quinn did not want this to happen to Diederik—because it had happened to Quinn, and he still bore the mental and physical scars. And pit fighting had reduced the weretiger population down to a scary level.
“I’m pretty sure Diederik is all grown up. Marina at the hotel sure thinks so.” Fiji tried not to grin.
“I had noticed that. We’ve had the ‘safety first’ lecture.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Who’s out there?” Kiki called from the bathroom. “You got a customer, Feej?”
“Yes, Kiki,” Fiji called back. “I’m shutting the hall door.” She stepped to the door that shut the living quarters away from the shop area, but before she could close it, Kiki stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her and nothing else. Her hair was piled in a haphazard bun on top of her head, and a gust of steamy air enveloped her. She gave Quinn a look that Fiji could only term “come hither” before she sashayed down the hall to the guest bedroom, giving Quinn a great view of her rear end.
Fiji, casting her eyes up, shut the door and returned to her company. “Ew, sorry,” Fiji said.
“I’ve seen women’s butts before,” Quinn said.
“It’s just . . . she’s separated from her husband and I think she’s . . .”
“Trying to test the waters?” He smiled down at her.
“Yeah, something like that.” Fiji felt relieved. “She’s not really . . .”
“That easy?” Quinn said.
“Yeah.” Though Fiji thought maybe Kiki was pretty easy; she just didn’t want her friends to know that. Fiji struggled with the idea that Kiki’s sexual activity wasn’t her problem for all of thirty seconds. Then she admitted to herself that if Kiki were a slut, it would make her feel embarrassed for them both.
“Feej,” he said. “Everyone here knows you. We don’t know her. We don’t expect her to be like you. You’re one of a kind. My son has told me many times how great you’ve been to him, how much care you take of your neighbors, how much concern you have for this community, how much genuine talent you have.”
“You talking about Feej’s baking? Because she is a mighty fine cook,” Kiki said, opening the door from the hall. She managed to sound both sassy and provocative. Fiji couldn’t believe how quickly her sister had shoehorned herself into tight jeans, an aqua T-shirt, and no bra, a lack that was quite obvious.
“Fiji is a fine witch,” Quinn said. “I am surprised you don’t know that.”
Kiki tossed her head. “Riiiight,” she said. “You and the guy across the street have both told me that my sister’s a witch. And I’m from Area Fifty-Four. You all take yourselves pretty seriously here in Midnight. By the way, I’m Kiki Ransom. Fiji’s sister.”
“My older si
ster,” Fiji murmured, and winked at Quinn with the eye that Kiki couldn’t see.
“Slightly older,” Kiki amended, though with good humor. “And you are?”
“This is Quinn,” Fiji said. “Diederik’s father. You know Diederik, the young man with the beautiful eyes?”
“I see where he gets ’em from,” Kiki said. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Do you live here year round, Quinn?”
“No,” he said pleasantly. “I travel a lot. That’s why Diederik stays here.”
“So he can go to school,” Kiki said, nodding. “I get it.”
Diederik “went to school” by learning from each of them. He took religion and hard work from the Rev, he learned magic and shopkeeping and reading from Fiji, he learned basic math and form-filling from Bobo, computer skills and thinking quickly from Manfred, and he learned the evaluation of old things and the way to deal with customers from Joe and Chuy. He’d even had cooking lessons from Madonna and gotten paid for his janitorial work at the Midnight Hotel.
“Yes, school,” said Quinn. “Will you excuse us a moment, Kiki? I need to talk to Fiji before I get back to the hotel for a conference call.” He turned to walk out to the front porch, and Fiji followed, a bit baffled and apprehensive. Quinn spent time in Midnight as often as he could, but she didn’t feel as though she truly knew him.
The front porch was stone, like the rest of the house, and there was a broad knee-high wall on the outer side running between the squat stone pillars. Fiji and Quinn sat on the wall. She was full of curiosity.
“As we’ve been saying, Diederik is almost the right age for me to start taking him with me,” Quinn said.
“We’ll all miss him,” she said, because that was safe and sincere, and she didn’t yet see where this conversation was going.
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