by Ashlyn Chase
Dante laughed. “More like stubborn, silent type. It seems like he’s getting over it though. I’ve never seen him so happy.”
“Yeah. He actually smiles now. Misty says he’s planning to take the lieutenant’s exam soon.”
“Really? Why didn’t we know that?”
“Because he’s Gabe, remember?”
He chuckled. “Oh yeah. Well, he’ll have to communicate if he’s in a leadership position.”
“No shit. It’ll probably be good for him.”
Dante waited a few more minutes, but then curiosity won out. “So what did she tell you to do about Kizzy?”
“She said not to give up. To ask her to the basketball game, and if she says no, ask her if there’s something else she’d rather do. She said persistence in itself can be sexy—just don’t make it stalker-ish and creepy.”
“Ha! And what if she says she’d rather cut her toenails alone on a Saturday night?”
“Then at least I’ll know the truth.”
“So, when are you going to call her? The game is next weekend. She might have to make arrangements for time off if she wants to go.”
“You want me to call her right now, don’t you?”
Dante grinned. “Why not? If she shoots you down again, my being here to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart might help.”
“Forget it. I’ll call her when I get home—and from my own room with the door closed.”
“You can have the whole apartment. I have to go shopping. I think we have only beer and Pringles left.”
* * *
When Mallory answered the phone, a female voice asked, “Ms. Summers?”
“Yes…” Oh no. It’s probably some charity, asking for money when I’m practically a charity case myself.
“Are you the Mallory Summers who worked at the mall taking portrait photos?”
Uh-oh. Now she recognized the voice. It was the mom who had freaked out when Mallory saw her dead husband. What could she want? It was bad enough Mallory had lost her job. Did the woman want to sue her for mental distress or something? “Uh. Yeah, that was me.”
“I’m glad I found you. I want to apologize. I feel so bad that you lost your job.”
“Oh. Well, apology accepted.” I guess…
“Please let me make it up to you. I spoke to your boss, and even though he wasn’t prepared to rehire you, he mentioned you’re an artist. My friend owns a gallery and has agreed to take a look at your artwork and possibly arrange a show—provided she thinks your work will resonate with her patrons.”
“Really?” Was this a sick joke? A gallery show would be her dream come true. Could the woman be messing with her head, or might karma be through fucking with her at last?
“Well, it’s not a done deal. It depends on the quality of your artwork, of course. I understand you went to art school. I figured you must have talent…”
“Well, yeah. I guess so. I hope it’s enough.”
“What’s your medium, or are you only doing photography?”
“No, I also paint.”
“That’s perfect. Her clientele are looking for one-of-a-kind works. A photo can be duplicated hundreds if not millions of times. A painting or sculpture—an original piece commands a higher price, and rightly so. I know it isn’t easy to make a living with fine art, but this might help.”
“So, you think I might make up some lost income that way?”
“I hope so. There are no guarantees. But she has discovered some well-known talents who have gone on to show in New York, LA, and internationally.”
“Oh.” Mallory felt a little stupid. How should she respond to an opportunity like this? Was the woman simply feeling sorry for her? Well, duh. She might as well have come right out and said so. But Mallory wasn’t about to let her pride get in the way. Would her stuff merit a show?
The lady must have read her mind. “Your boss said you went to Mass College of Art. He said you were overqualified for the mall position anyway.”
“He did? I mean, yeah. I went to Mass Art, but he said I was overqualified? Most artists have to do something else to pay the rent. I figured photography was more creative than pouring coffee.”
“Yes, you’re right. And it may be your creative mind that allowed you to speak to my husband. I really wish I hadn’t been so upset that day. I thought you were talking to my father-in-law, and we didn’t have a good relationship. I don’t know why I thought he’d care enough to watch over us. My husband, however, would have naturally been interested in our well-being. Despite certain family members thinking of me as a gold digger, it was a genuine love match. I miss him so much. You may not think of it this way, but you have a gift.”
Ah. Now I see what’s in it for her. She wants me to play “medium” and channel her dead husband.
“I’m afraid that may have been a one-time thing. I have no control over who comes through or why. It hasn’t happened very often, and that was the first time a spirit spoke to me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t ask you to contact him. I’m just really sorry I ruined your life, and for such an unfair reason.”
She felt like she should protest the statement that she had ruined her life. That was a bit strong. So what if she couldn’t get a job taking photos of kids? She could do other things. She could learn to use those espresso and frothing machines and become a barista. Pouring coffee was a perfectly acceptable way to make an honest living. If worse came to worst, she could always ask if customers wanted fries with their fast-food orders. She wouldn’t starve.
“So, are you interested in a show of your work?”
“Hell—I mean, heck yeah! What do I need to do?”
“Just bring a few examples to my friend’s gallery. The paintings aren’t too big to transport easily, are they? I’d suggest a portfolio, but she likes to see the actual work when possible.”
“I paint all different sizes, and my boyfriend can probably help me get them there. How many do you think she’ll need to see?”
“Just bring your best two or three. The gallery is on Newbury Street, near Berkley. Do you know the area?”
Did she know it? That was just Boston’s premier address for designers, art galleries, and other expensive stuff. She couldn’t afford to get her hair done there. Holy crap. She had to take a breath in order to play it cool.
“Sure. I’m a native. Just give me her name, the name of the gallery, and if you have it, the phone number. I’ll call her and arrange a good time to bring some things over.”
“Oh good. Don’t put it off. She has a hole in her schedule she’s trying to fill. Some artist flaked on her and made plans to go to Paris a week before his show.”
Mallory silently thanked the absent-minded artist. Or maybe it was an excuse to cover the fact that he wasn’t ready. That would be the only way she’d miss her own gallery opening. Or panic. She always had to be on guard for her own self-sabotaging fear.
Mallory’s self-esteem wasn’t great, but she couldn’t imagine throwing away such an opportunity.
Now the pressure was on to make the most of this lucky break. She couldn’t let anything get in the way. Not dead people. Not male distractions, however pleasant. Nothing. Oh shoot. She had already told Dante she’d go to the Battle of the Badges basketball game. Well, it might not even be an issue if the woman thought her paintings sucked.
But maybe she’d love them! Showing in a major gallery was her long-term dream. Well, that and traveling to other bigger cities to do the same thing. She’d never thought it would come to fruition early like this. Mallory had to remind herself to breathe.
Chapter 5
Noah had been letting Kizzy take over his brain long enough. He wondered if her rejection had anything to do with her being out of his league, and he had worried about it before. She was probably making three times his salary. Kizzy didn’
t seem the type to be attracted to money and power, but then again, he didn’t know her that well yet.
The alchemy idea had intrigued him from the start, and if her reluctance to date him was a matter of salary, well, being able to turn lead into gold would go a long way to proving or disproving that theory. It was time to put his old chem class skills to the test.
He had picked up the last of the items he’d needed on Monday, and he would have all of today to experiment. Then it was back to work on Wednesday.
Finding sources of lead wasn’t the hard part. He’d learned all kinds of things contained lead—bullets, paint, artificial turf, toys, and even candy! Yikes! Yet the amount of pure lead was often negligible. Even reclaiming lead shot resulted in about five percent actual lead after all the other metals and alloys were removed. He had an old Revolutionary War musket ball he’d bought on eBay for some damn reason. That must contain a lot of pure lead. Maybe its use was finally revealing itself.
The heavy pellet sank quickly to the bottom of the chemical bath, and he swirled the beaker around to remove any grime that had attached itself to the lead ball over the centuries. After a quick rinse and a few minutes in the evaporating dish, he determined it was as clean as he could make it.
He transferred it to the crucible, which already contained a few ingredients mentioned in the Latin translation. As a modern science nerd, Noah realized pure gold was not something that could be manufactured. All the gold on earth had been formed billions of years ago when a star went supernova. To think of recreating the big bang in a spare bedroom would stop anyone from attempting the impossible. At least, it should.
However, Noah had seen the impossible with his own eyes many times. He and his entire shifter family were scientifically “impossible.” And this book didn’t look completely scientific. It spoke of magic too. So here he was, armed with a few chemically unstable ingredients, the proper “magical” formula, and his own lunacy.
He had mixed feelings about doing this with his brother in the room. Sure, having another person there for safety was a good idea, but what if they both got hurt?
Just as he lit the Bunsen burner under the clay triangle, the front door opened and Dante’s chipper “I’m home” echoed through the hallway.
With the decision having been made for him, Noah exhaled in relief and leaned back in his chair. “In here!”
Dante appeared in the doorway, holding two grocery bags. His eyes widened as he took in the scene.
“You should put on your safety goggles,” Noah said.
“You should have your head examined! Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
“Probably.”
“Is this your first attempt?”
“Yup.”
“And you were going to do it without me? Fuck, Noah. We discussed this. What if everything blows up in your face?”
He swiveled on his metal stool, pointing toward the closet. “We have a fire extinguisher.”
“Yeah, a lot of good it will do if you’re dismembered in an explosion.”
“So, what am I supposed to do? Forget the whole thing? That doesn’t sound like me.”
“No. It doesn’t. Just let me be here to watch your back.”
“I guess you want to be blown up too?”
“Hell no. Ma would kill us both…if we survived. Let me just take another look at the Latin text and make sure you’ve done everything right up to this point. Don’t. Move.”
“Okay. I. Won’t.”
Dante hurried to the kitchen to drop off the groceries. When he came back, he picked up the legal pad, scanned Noah’s notes, and scratched his head. “Wouldn’t you have to force lead to give up a couple of protons to make it turn to gold? I don’t see how only the heat from a Bunsen burner can do that.”
“There’s magic involved.”
“Magic? Like the kind in the Teenage Witch book you had in high school?”
“Maybe. Some of that stuff was handed down over the centuries.”
Dante didn’t snort, snicker, or even crack a smile. He just nodded and picked up the Latin text again.
“I think I’ve got it covered, but knock yourself out. If I’m going to blow us both up, I need a sandwich first.” Noah was actually grateful for a second pair of eyes to check the formula and the order of the steps in the “spell.” If even one item was off…who knew what kind of “big bang” might occur?
In the kitchen, he put away all the groceries but the items he needed and began building a deli-worthy sandwich. As he spread mustard and mayo on the top piece of rye bread, ready to close up the whole Dagwood special, Dante entered the kitchen.
“About your notes… Did you use chlorine or liquid chloride?”
“Since pure chlorine is a toxic gas and needs to be combined with a negative ion to create matter at all—”
“Oh, fer Chrissakes. You know what I mean.”
“I’m just explaining what the difference is, but if you want the short answer…”
“Please.”
“Sodium chloride.”
“Salt?”
Noah lifted the salt shaker as if showing where he’d obtained it.
“Are you sure that will do it?”
Noah shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Awesome.” Dante returned to the spare room, and Noah chomped into his sandwich.
BOOM!
* * *
“You’re saying your brother blew up the house?” the fire chief asked.
“No. Hell no. I blew up the house,” a slightly crispy-looking Dante insisted.
His buddies from his own firehouse snickered in the background. Jay Mahoney said, “You just missed us on your day off, didn’t you, Fierro?”
“Nobody blew up the house,” Noah explained. “It was just the spare room.”
“Oh. Just the spare room… Well, that makes it okay,” the Southie captain snapped sarcastically.
Dante’s counterparts on the B shift rotation smirked and shook their heads as they walked by. The smoking second floor didn’t look too bad from the outside. The window had blown out, and whatever was smoldering had been extinguished. Noah’s quick response was to shut off the gas and grab the fire extinguisher from the kitchen while Dante went for the one in the bedroom closet.
“The landlords are going to be furious when they hear about this,” their first-floor neighbor whispered to his young wife.
“There’s no damage to your unit at all, right?” Noah asked. “No smoke or scorch marks anywhere?”
“Uh, not that we can see. I mean, some plaster fell…and who knows what’s going on behind the walls, right?” the wife asked.
“Behind the walls?” Her husband’s thick eyebrows shot up, and he stared at the house.
Noah began to walk toward the building, but Dante stopped him with a hand to his chest. “There’s no fire behind the walls. No smoke anywhere. It’s out.” He turned to the couple and said, “I emptied two fire extinguishers. Anything that might have caught was bathed in foam before the trucks got here. They did a thorough sweep. They wouldn’t be packing up if there were any danger.”
“I’ve seen stuff on HGTV,” the female neighbor said. “The support beams are probably really old and could have been knocked out of place.”
“You’re sure it’ll be okay to live in?” the man asked.
“A structural engineer will be called,” Dante said.
“We’ll patch the plaster if the landlord will let us,” Noah added. “Your unit should be fine. If you find any smoke or water damage, let us know. We’ll get both our places checked out and fixed as soon as we can.”
The wife glanced at her husband. “I always thought sharing a house with firefighters would be safer. Who would have thought they’d be the—” Her husband quickly placed his hand over her mouth, then whispered somet
hing in her ear.
She stared at the Fierro brothers with her eyes growing wider, as if her husband had just told her they’d set off a bomb on purpose.
“I’m calling the landlord,” the male neighbor said.
“No need.” Dante dug his cell phone out of his pocket. “It was my fault. I’ll call him.”
The couple looked at him and Noah skeptically, then returned to their apartment without another word.
“Yeah, and I’m fine, by the way,” Dante muttered as soon as they were out of earshot. He got the landlord’s voicemail and left a message.
“Hey, Bro. Did the book make it out of there in one piece?” Noah asked.
Dante looked sheepish. “Maybe. I tossed it out the window.”
“You what?”
“It seemed the fastest way to save it and the apartment at the same time. On my way to the fire extinguisher, I threw it out the broken window.”
Noah scrambled to the side where the window was and searched the adjacent narrow strip of grass. He spotted it in the hedge, pages open, a little damp, but not much more tattered than it had been when he’d brought it home.
“Whew.” He hugged the ancient text against his chest.
“Is saving that book really a good thing?” Dante asked as he joined him.
Noah looked like he didn’t know what to say. He probably knew the right answer was no but couldn’t give it to him.
Dante was worried. He thought about telling him to let it go, but that would be like telling Niagara Falls to stop falling. If his brother thought he had a good idea, he’d go back over it a million times, figuring out what had gone wrong. Eventually, he’d try again.
He knew what Noah would get out of it if they succeeded. A chance to impress Kizzy. He suspected his brother was worried about living up to the reputation of medical professionals the young doctor rubbed elbows with on a daily basis. Being a firefighter was nice and all, but it wouldn’t support a family in any costly Boston neighborhood—and that’s probably the style Kizzy was accustomed to.
* * *
Kizzy was hard at work, and it was one of those days when business was steady—not fits and starts. She was on her way to give a patient discharge instructions when her phone rang.