Stolen Soul (Yliaster Crystal Book 1)

by Alex Rivers

  “An ad-vance.” He frowned, as if I had spoken in Klingon. “It really is a terrible world, when a woman can’t even go to her home without being jumped by criminals. You know, that shouldn’t be a problem for someone as clever as you. I could prevent any further attacks on you. All people need to know is that Lou Vitalis is back with Cisternino, and no one would dare touch you again. I guarantee it. I would even forgive this unfortunate debt you’ve accrued.”

  I clenched my fist and gave my head a slight shake. Never again.

  He sighed, as if saddened by the folly of youth. “Well… there is the issue of your monthly payment.”

  “If you just give me a week… I’ll give you all I have right now, and some really expensive products as collateral.”

  “Products?” He quirked his brow. “So I get a small part of my payment, and a jar full of newt eyes as assurance?”

  “I have some crystals that—”

  Matteo “Ear” Ricci stepped forward, and with a casual swipe, knocked all the jars from one of the shelves to the floor. Three shattered, a putrid smell rising. I glanced at the spilled liquids, praying none of them contained anything poisonous. Luckily, they didn’t. Gripping the counter, I tried to avoid letting my fear show. The blood drained from my face. My hands began to tingle with warmth.

  “You know me better than that, Lou,” Breadknife said in a low voice.

  Magnus yipped from the bedroom where I had locked him, and I prayed Breadknife wouldn’t notice. God only knew what this monster would do to my puppy.

  “As it happens, I have an alternative,” Breadknife continued. “I have a job that needs a professional. It needs the best. It needs you, Lou.”

  “I don’t do jobs anymore, Mr. Cisternino,” I said weakly.

  “I offer you to come back to my family, and you spit in my face. I suggest an alternative form of payment, and you refuse it,” Breadknife said. His eyes were cold and angry flints. “Very well. Steve, get the gas.”

  Steve turned around and left the shop, slamming the door behind him.

  “What gas?” I asked.

  “This store is insured, yes? I assume that considering your… flammable occupation, it’s insured against fires?”

  I remained silent.

  “After it burns down, you’ll have the money.”

  We stood in silence. Every few seconds, Magnus barked beyond the door. Steve returned with a large red fuel container. He uncorked it and tipped it to the floor. Gasoline began spilling on the wooden boards.

  “Wait,” I said.

  Steve splashed some gasoline on one of the shelves. Matteo took out a golden lighter, flipping its lid open.

  “You should get out of here before it all catches on fire,” Breadknife said.

  “There’s an old woman living above this store,” I lied.

  “Pity we can’t warn her. It would look suspicious if we do.”

  Steve scuffled around the store, leaving behind him a trail of gasoline that led to the counter. Matteo switched on his lighter, and a flickering flame materialized. He stared at it in fascination.

  “Please don’t burn my store.”

  “Will you do the job?”

  “I… I can’t.” I couldn’t go back to prison. If I stayed outside, and out of trouble, perhaps one day I could connect with my daughter again. Get to know her. Perhaps I could feel those tiny hands holding mine. But if I started working for Breadknife again, there were only two ways it could end: with me either behind bars, or dead.

  Matteo crouched to set fire to the gasoline.

  “Boys.” Breadknife’s voice changed. It had an edge to it now. “Leave me and Ms. Vitalis alone.”

  “Uh… are you sure, sir?” Matteo asked, straightening.

  Breadknife whipped around, fast as a snake. “Never question me!”

  Matteo nodded, his face suddenly terrified. He backed to the door and quickly left. Steve followed.

  Breadknife turned back to me. “Normally, I would just burn this store to the ground, Lou. You know that, right?”

  I nodded, dumb.

  “But I need this job done. And you’re the only one who can do it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cisternino, but—”

  “What would your daughter say about it?”

  The words died on my lips.

  “What would her adoptive parents say, if they knew their daughter’s criminal biological mother lived just a few minutes away, and was stalking their adopted child, Tammi?”

  My hands were smoldering, and I clenched them, trying to still the flames threatening to erupt. A fire right now, in the gasoline-soaked store, would be disastrous. How did he know? How had he found out? I had been so careful!

  “We have only two options, Lou,” he said simply. “The first is that you do the job for me, and I forget the debt ever existed. In the other, the shop burns, and Tammi finds out her real mother is a criminal. Her adoptive parents will find out as well. I assume they’ll take legal actions to keep you away from her. After all, what parent wouldn’t do everything in his power to protect his child?”

  My shoulders slumped, and the feeling of defeat made the heat in my hands dissipate. “Okay,” I whispered. “One more job.”

  Magically, the smile reappeared on Breadknife’s face. “Fantastic!”

  I took a moment to compose myself. Breadknife had shaken me to the core, but I couldn’t let emotions cloud my judgment. Steve had left the gasoline canister on the floor. I went over to it and screwed the cap back on it, taking long, measured breaths. When I felt like I was in control again, I turned to Breadknife and asked in an almost cheerful voice, “What do you need me to steal?”

  Breadknife peered at me for a moment. “You’re an alchemist. Do you know what the Yliaster crystal is?”

  I snorted. “Sure. It’s an alchemical legend, like the philosopher’s stone. Supposedly it can be used to store a soul just before a person dies. It’s just another story, a false hope for immortality.”

  “I have an acquaintance who believes there is a box containing the Yliaster crystal in Boston.”

  “Your acquaintance is an idiot.”

  “I suggest that you don’t say that again.” Breadknife’s voice became steely, cold.

  I was taken aback. I had never seen him care about anyone but himself. “Okay then. He’s not an idiot, but he’s wrong. Trust me, there’s no such thing.”

  Breadknife shrugged. “But there is a box. Containing a crystal. It took me and my acquaintance a long time to find it, Lou. The box was lost when Troy fell.”

  “The Troy? With Helen and Achilles and the wooden horsey?”

  “That’s the one. Some think Odysseus himself had found the box and taken it with him—isn’t that rich? For centuries, no one had seen it. And then suddenly, there were witnesses. Claiming it had surfaced in a market in Beirut. Sold to its current owner. Stored in a safe. Inside a vault. Which is where you must break into. That’s what I want, and what my acquaintance wants. The box with the Yliaster crystal.”

  “And where is this vault? Because I’m not keen on breaking into a bank. I mean… burglary is one thing, but bank robbing…”

  “It’s not in a bank.”

  I sighed in relief. “Good.”

  “It’s in Ddraig Goch’s mansion.”

  I blinked, my heart sinking. “Ddraig Goch… the dragon?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “But the thing is—he’s a dragon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like, one of those fire-eating, ass-kicking lizards.”

  “That’s what a dragon is, yes.”

  “And you want to steal from it.”

  “No. I want you to steal from it.”

  I needed a drink, and it was just after ten in the morning. “Can we rob a bank instead?”

  “This is the job, Lou. I told you, it’s a big one. I need the best.”

  “You need the craziest.”

  Breadknife’s smile widened, and he said nothing.<
br />
  “No one ever stole something from a dragon and lived to tell about it.”

  “Well.” Breadknife clapped his hands together, satisfied. “You always told me you wanted to be famous.”

  Chapter Seven

  On a one-to-ten scale of difficult-to-break-into, where one is the public restrooms of the nearby McDonald’s and ten is the earth’s inner core, the Ddraig Goch vault was a solid nine. Although Breadknife thought very highly of my burglary skills, I couldn’t do it alone. I needed a team for this one. A team of the very best, and only people I could trust implicitly.

  Luckily, there was already one person I trusted more than anyone else in the world, and she was definitely one of the best.

  Sinead Byrne was the topmost name in my favorites list. I texted her a quick message.

  Where R U?

  While I waited for a reply, I rummaged in my bedroom for my handbag. I almost never used it, but my backpack was gone, and I had to make do. Magnus, trying to help, wedged himself between my feet, whining inquisitively, and when I bent down to check under the bed, licked my face with rampant excitement. Trying to ignore his wet communication, I grabbed the strap of my handbag and yanked it out from under the bed, at which point Magnus grabbed it between his teeth.

  “Magnus, let go!”

  He growled and pulled at the handbag harder, naturally assuming I was playing “tug of handbag.”

  My phone blipped and I let go of the strap, which resulted in Magnus somersaulting backward.

  The screen read 101 Federal Street. 13th floor.

  I glanced at Magnus and asked him in an excited voice, “Where’s the ball, boy? Where the ball?”

  He barked and bolted out of the room, in his quest to find the missing ball. This gave me time to grab my chewed handbag, toss my phone, keys, silver chain, and a few other necessities inside, put on my raincoat, and leave the room. Magnus was in the shop, his head stuck under one of the shelves, whining as he searched for the ball.

  Breadknife had left behind a briefcase that contained blueprints of the dragon’s mansion, as well as a summary of the security measures in place for the mansion and the vault. I had no idea how he’d gotten hold of this information, but I knew better than to ask. Breadknife knew people.

  I grabbed the briefcase, and left the shop. As I locked the door, Magnus began wailing, realizing my treachery.

  The address was only ten minutes away on my bicycle, which would have been a nice ride if not for the rain. Despite my coat, my clothing was developing an increasing sogginess. I hung the briefcase with the documents on the left handlebar, and it messed with my balance, making me wobble and zig-zag. I cursed myself repeatedly for not taking the bus.

  As I rode, the houses around me slowly shifted into office buildings, which grew taller and taller as I got closer to the address Sinead had sent me. When I reached it, I checked my phone twice, just to make sure I was in the right place.

  101 Federal Street was the Lebron James of buildings. As I stared up at the endless wall, my neck slowly creaked from the unnatural angle I was imposing on it. What the hell was Sinead doing here?

  I pulled open the glass door and entered the shiny, lavish lobby. Feeling very much out of place with my informal attire and wet hair, I shuffled past the front desk to the elevators. There were six of them, and I entered one, pressing number 13.

  I had no idea which office Sinead would be in, and when I got off the elevator, I gazed around me, rummaging in my handbag for my phone. Then my eyes landed on the formal writing etched on one of the glass doors, and I instantly knew I had found her.

  I went over to “Friedman and Co.—Hippopotamus Hunting Trips.”

  The interior of the office was old-school, the furniture mostly dark wood. A young secretary eyed me as I walked inside.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for…” I hesitated, suddenly guessing my friend was using a fake name.

  “Are you Ms. Vitalis? Lou Vitalis?” the secretary asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Ms. Dubois is expecting you. Second door on the right.”

  I strode down the hall toward the second door, where the name “Sinead Dubois” was stenciled on a plaque. A murmur of conversation came from inside. I knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Sinead’s chirpy voice called.

  I opened the door, slid inside, and closed it behind me, gawking.

  Sinead sat behind a huge oak desk, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a black skirt, a pair of fake glasses on her nose. Her long, smooth, beautiful red hair was tied in a businesslike updo. The desk in front of her was mostly clean, aside from a monitor, a pile of pamphlets, and a small brass statue depicting a man standing with one foot on what looked like a dead hippopotamus.

  In front of her sat a plump man with a pink face, lanky hair, and spots of sweat under his armpits. He glanced at me, then back at Sinead.

  Sinead smiled at me. “Lou! Come in! Mr. Dickson, this is Lou, the famous hippopotamus hunter I told you about.”

  He studied me, frowning. I gave him my best hippo-hunter face. I sat down in the one free chair, putting the briefcase on the desk.

  “Nice to meet you,” I told Mr. Dickson. “Um… I take it you are considering one of our trips?”

  “The premium trip!” Sinead said. “Mr. Dickson wants the real deal.”

  “Oh, good.” I smiled at him with respect. “There’s none better. Do you have a hunting rifle?”

  “A rifle?” His eyes widened in outrage. “I was told—”

  “The premium trip, as you recall,” Sinead interjected, giving me a look, “employs custom-made spears.”

  I blinked, taking a full second to recuperate from the outrageous stupidity in front of me. “Custom-made spears. Of course—how could I forget.”

  “Mr. Dickson has a very strong right arm,” Sinead added. “He played baseball in college. Best pitcher in his team.”

  I nodded, satisfied. “Oh, good! But let me ask—are you up to the trip? Physically?”

  “Of course!” Mr. Dickson puffed his chest. “I’m in the peak of health.”

  “Did he get a medical certification?” I asked Sinead.

  “Not yet,” she answered. “I thought that, for Mr. Dickson, we could make an exception.”

  “We need it, Sinead. The insurance company demands it, no exceptions.”

  She sighed mournfully. “Lou is right. You’ll have to get a medical certification. We have a specialist; I’ll set a meeting. There’s a small advance fee.”

  “Of course.” Dickson nodded. “If I decide to take this tour…”

  “What date are you two discussing?” I asked.

  “Mr. Dickson wants to go on the November tour,” Sinead explained.

  “Well, we can’t do that,” I said sharply. “It’s full.”

  “What?” Dickson squeaked.

  “It’s not full!” Sinead protested. “We have five places left!”

  “The Smith family booked it this morning. Didn’t you check your email?”

  Sinead gave me a disappointed head shake for using the name “Smith,” which showed a lack of imagination on my part. “Oh, damn. I’m sorry, Mr. Dickson. Perhaps we could interest you in a later date?”

  “I can’t! I told you, my vacation is in November!”

  I lowered my voice. “What if… No. Never mind.”

  “What?” Dickson asked.

  “It’s nothing. Except… well, one of our clients is still unsure. She told me she’d call today, but if you book now, we can give you her spot. She doesn’t look like hippopotamus hunting material to me anyway. And I’m the expert. She doesn’t have your…” I paused, searching my mind for any trait he might have that could conceivably help with hunting hippos. “Stamina.”

  “All right! I’ll book now!” The urgency and excitement in his voice was somewhat pitiful.

  “Fantastic!” Sinead clapped her hands together, and began to outline the r
egistration fees, the medical exam fees, the insurance fees, the personal spear customization fees… My mind wandered as Mr. Dickson signed a bunch of forms, gave her his credit card number, and accepted a pamphlet titled “The Ultimate Big Game—Hippopotamuses.” It showed a man grinning and holding a spear above a clearly Photoshopped hippo.

  Mr. Dickson finally left, his eyes unfocused as he presumably imagined himself standing above his slain hippo. Sinead and I sat in silence as we listened to his footsteps receding, the office door closing behind him.

  At which point Sinead burst out laughing. I joined her—there was no other option. Sinead had a laugh more infectious than the flu—joyous, full of life. Her eyes crinkled as she teared up.

  “Your face!” she wheezed. “When I said ‘custom spear’! Oh, god, that was priceless!”

  “Where do you find these people?” I shook my head in disbelief.

  “I started prowling hunting groups on Facebook.”

  “And when poor Mr. Dickson comes here in November? What happens then?”

  “He’ll find an empty office space, and will realize our website has disappeared without a trace, as well as his registration fees. And don’t you try to make me feel guilty. The man came here to book a hunting tour of hippos. I asked him if he would be interested in hunting pandas next year and he didn’t even flinch. ‘Poor Mr. Dickson’ my ass.” Sinead had her own dubious moral compass, but I really wasn’t one to judge.

  I surveyed the room. “Is this scam even worth it? I mean, the office space must have cost you a fortune.”

  Sinead nodded mournfully. “And renting the furniture, paying the receptionist, managing the website… I admit, it’s not my best venture. But it’s a lot of fun.”

  I nodded distractedly, recalling the reason for my visit.

  “What’s up, Lou?” Sinead asked, her face becoming serious.

  “I need your help,” I said. “I’m in a bit of trouble. I need a team for a job.”

  Her eyes widened. “A job? I thought you were done.”