Inside the Executive's Pocket

by Etta Faire

  “I wasn’t snooping back there, just so you know,” I said, a little hesitant about following the man. I looked around for a good samaritan in case I needed to scream for help. Nobody was around.

  He didn’t seem interested in my lies, and I wasn’t even sure why I felt the need to lie, anyway. I had a right to look around an apartment complex for no reason at all, if I wanted to.

  He swiped his card and opened the door for me. I’d never entered through the back of the complex before.

  It was unusually warm inside, stuffy and bright. Stairs immediately greeted us, and he pointed to them. “Or would you rather take the elevator?”

  “After you,” I said, letting Knox go first, probably the safer of the moves. There was something I didn’t trust about that man, which was everything.

  Once on the third floor, he knocked on Justin’s door before I got a chance to. My boyfriend answered, blinking into the brightness of the hallway. His eyes widened when he saw me standing there with Knox. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, raising a “what gives” eyebrow at both of us.

  Knox shot him a cocky smile. “I found your girlfriend looking around the back of the parking lot, and the forest.”

  “Knox let me in,” I said, taking control of the narrative. I turned toward the extra pale man. “Thanks for saving Justin the trouble. That was very nice of you.”

  “Anytime. Always a pleasure to take over for Justin,” he said, in a drawn-out way that added unnecessary sexuality to the sentence. He walked down the hall, looking back at us the entire time.

  “Did you text me to come down? Because I never got it,” Justin asked, closing the door behind me. “And why on earth would you walk in with that guy?”

  I took my coat off, stepping into the incredible aroma of garlic and pasta. Justin was an amazing cook. And I was a lucky woman. I kissed him lightly on his lips, holding onto the straps of his Kiss the Cook apron so he wouldn’t stop too soon. There was something appealing about a humungous man in a cutesy apron.

  He pulled away. “My pasta,” he said like I’d understand. He hurried into the kitchen, yelling to me as he cooked. “You shouldn’t trust Knox. He’s different.”

  I was starting to suspect the whole apartment complex was full of different, but I knew Justin was touchy about things like that. He didn’t seem to notice its strangeness.

  “Is he dangerous? Because I like danger,” I said, trying to sound sexy. It didn’t work.

  He poked his head out of the kitchen area. “No. He’s okay. Forget I said anything. He’s just a little on the black-market-savvy side.”

  “Landover has a black market?” I asked. “And what does that even mean? Black market savvy? I shouldn’t walk in with him because he can get Oxycontin or illegal exotic pets? I’ll try not to accidentally ask for either, officer.”

  “Just, from now on, don’t walk in with anyone but me. Got it?” His voice was oddly possessive all of the sudden.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, biting my lip. “But I’m actually quite capable of making my own big-girl decisions.”

  I immediately kicked myself for jumping into full-snark mode. I hadn’t meant to do that.

  In fact, before I even left work, I specifically told myself not to get into any fights with Justin until at least after I got to eat the amazing garlic shrimp he was making. Preferably, no fighting at all. But no fighting on an empty stomach was my new motto in life because I always made a dramatic exit at the wrong time.

  He was still talking. “My apartment complex is full of the kind of people you don’t want to mess with, that’s all.” He set a bowl of bread on the table and stared at me a second. “I’m not trying to be a jerk.”

  “I know. It’s okay,” I said. “I won’t walk in with anyone else but you.”

  I tossed my coat along the back of the couch, and finger-combed my blonde curls, checking myself in the living room mirror to make sure my hair sat right along my shoulders.

  My eyes rested on my coat again, messily slumped over on the couch, and I wondered momentarily if I should ask to hang it up in the closet. It was the only thing out of place in this always-immaculate apartment. Very well dusted and Windex-shiny. My coat was a nice touch, actually.

  Then, I saw it. There was something else out of place here. Three antique-looking, large books, like the kind Rosalie liked to collect, were sitting on the end table in between the couches, and one was open.

  Chapter 6

  Just A Freakshow

  While I heard noises coming from the kitchen, I moseyed over to the end table to have a peek at the old book Justin was suddenly so interested in. The man did not read very much, so I knew this must’ve been important.

  The book had a red leather cover with silver leaf along the edges of its pages. Definitely made to impress. To add to the effect, it was written in what looked like old English script, letters with extra lines, loops and serifs so large they made the words seem unrecognizable.

  It was much like the time in college when I went to a lecture on paleography (the study of ancient writing) just to avoid hanging out with my dorm roommates. It was boring and strange until the instructor put examples on the overhead of Old English and the challenge was on to interpret them. I was the best in the class. But my eyes stung just as badly now trying to read Justin’s book.

  It was like writing with your left hand. It made my brain actually hurt to do it. English spellings weren’t standardized until the 1700s, so the sample texts at the paleography lecture were all over the place from one document to the next, everything written phonetically using whatever dialect the scrivener used.

  It seemed impossible to decipher, but not if you squinted your eyes, tilted your head at just the right angle, and let your mind see patterns. You also had to be okay with not knowing all of it, and just saying “something-something” in place of actual words if you weren’t sure.

  “So what were you doing in the parking lot anyway?” Justin asked from the kitchen.

  I decided to just be honest about the whole thing. He knew my strangeness. I knew his too. “Nothing. I’ve got a new client and her death has me a little curious about the Dead Forest, that’s all,” I yelled to him. “She died in the forest.”

  A plate dropped in the kitchen, shattering onto the floor. That happened a lot with him whenever I mentioned my ghosts. “You need some help?” I yelled.

  “No. Nothing major. You relax.”

  “Good,” I thought. “Back to the book.”

  The text was particularly hard to decipher for me. But after a couple seconds of staring, I thought I had some of it. It was talking about a road. “From the something-something lake to the something-something forest, it is in ruinous condition, unfit for passage, something-something about thy border walkers…”

  Justin’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “You okay?”

  I jumped, shaking myself into modern English again. “I’m sorry. What?”

  His eyes widened when he saw me looking at his books. Slowly, he walked over to the end table by the couches, eyeing me strangely the whole time. He closed the book and I saw the title. On Sacred Grounds: A Collection of Ancient Scrolls.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he replied, half-chuckling. “My mother sent them. She’s worried about me, wants me to study up on the basics. Don’t bother trying to read them. They won’t mean a thing to you. They hardly mean a thing to me, and I can read the language, barely.”

  He scooped them into his arms and took them over to the hall closet. “I should clean these up anyway. Do you want me to hang up your coat?”

  I nodded, even though I kind of liked my coat on the couch, messing up the place. I tossed it to him. “So… you’re saying these books aren’t written in English?”

  He gently placed a nice wooden hanger into the sleeves of my puffer jacket, smoothing it out before hanging it up. “It’s similar to English. They’re just shifter stuff. Written in such an ancient langu
age only the elders can read them with ease, though.”

  I blinked at him, trying to understand why in the hell I could read them then.

  He went on. “It’s a version of our formal language, but not the modern version we use today, and I’m even rusty at that. It takes me a whole hour to read a paragraph of the books my mom sent.”

  I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Yeah, of course,” he said, eyeing me again. “But not by much. Why?”

  I didn’t answer him. I had no idea why I was able to read even a little bit of that book. But, like most things strange in my life, I decided not to mention it. “So why is your mom so worried about you that she’s mailing out ancient books?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  Justin’s parents were big wigs in their small shifting community, which was a little intimidating for me. I’d only ever met them once, sometime during the first time Justin and I were dating, back before I knew all the shifter stuff. And, even then, I didn’t think they liked me much. I guessed at the time that it was because I’d, once again, made a bad first impression. Now, I guessed it was because I wasn’t a shifter, and they probably wanted their son to only date those.

  He motioned to the table, which was elaborately decorated even for him. White table cloth, peonies as a centerpiece (my favorite), matching silverware. When we ate at Gate House, I served frozen pizza on dollar-store paper plates. This was nice.

  “Do you like rieslings?” he asked when I sat down. He lifted the green bottle of wine from the table, angling it up so I could read the label, which was less readable to me than ancient shifter language.

  “I like wine,” I replied. “So if that’s wine, I’m gonna like it.”

  “It’ll pair nicely with the shrimp, but I’ll grab a chardonnay just in case.” He kissed me on the forehead then went to the pantry to search for another wine I might like. He was definitely much better at this adult-ing thing than I was. He knew how to cook, how to set a nice romantic dinner table, how to find wines that paired nicely with junk. He also knew how to change the subject away from those books.

  I decided to drop it, for now. “What rumors do you remember as a kid about the Dead Forest and the incident?” I called after him.

  “The incident? Why?” he yelled from the pantry.

  “I told you. My new client. She’s one of the victims from the incident in 1978. I picked her up yesterday when I saw you at the Dead Forest.”

  He stopped short of the dining room, fumbling the wine as he pulled the cork off with the corkscrew, almost dropping it. “That’s interesting,” he said. I could tell by his tone that he didn’t really think it was interesting. “So, you picked up a client that happened to die in the exact spot we’re investigating right now?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Sylvia Darcy. Really nice. Just wants to figure out what happened that night, poor thing. She’s not even sure if it was paranormal. So, I was actually hoping you could fill me in on what you know about the Dead Forest. I didn’t grow up here. But I heard some of the rumors. What do you think?”

  “So, let me get this straight. You picked her up at the exact spot you wanted to go in with us the other day, but you were asked to go home?”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  He went back into the kitchen to get something else. “Huge coincidence, I guess. You’re going to want to go back there, I suppose, and investigate.”

  I guess. I suppose. He was seriously trying to make me break my no-fighting-on-an-empty-stomach rule. “You think I’m making this up? Like I’m in an I Love Lucy episode, desperately trying to be in your show?”

  “It does seem a little strange. Don’t you think,” he yelled from the kitchen, his voice strained.

  “It sounds like you think I’m making Sylvia up.”

  “That’s not it,” he said, carrying a large glass plate full of pasta covered in white sauce with huge shrimp poking out from the noodles. It smelled like heaven had a restaurant that only good people who didn’t argue and weren’t snarky got to eat at.

  “So you believe me about my client then?” I said.

  “Sure, as long as that doesn’t mean you interfering in a police investigation, going through barricades, or asking questions you know I can’t answer,” he said, his tone condescending.

  I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue as he set the plate down right in front of me. My stomach rumbled for my mouth to shut the hell up and not say anything.

  My mouth never listens. “I’ll just ask you easy questions then. Like, why are you being a jerk and picking a fight?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. I could tell by the angry way he poured the wine. He usually did it slowly, swirling the glass, telling me to do stuff like smell it. This time he just sloshed it on in there.

  And I momentarily thought about plopping my face into the serving dish in front of me, shoveling in as much garlic shrimp as I could before I had to make my big ole dramatic exit soon.

  “Let’s just forget about it,” I said instead. “This is a nice evening, and I don’t want to fight. I’m sure you don’t either. I’m sorry I said you were being a jerk. Clearly, you’re not. This is all very un-jerk-like.”

  He slammed the wine bottle onto the table, shaking the dishes there.

  I stood up. “Maybe I should leave.”

  “No, sit,” he said.

  I quickly sat my hungry body back down before he could change his mind.

  He took off his apron, and I realized he was wearing my favorite gray shirt.

  The peonies. The garlic shrimp. The gray shirt. This was such a perfect evening, and I was the one ruining it.

  He gently lifted my chin up in that way I adored so I could look him in the eyes, and he gently pressed his mouth over mine. He smelled like wine and garlic and, as my toes curled into my slightly-too-small-but-they-were-only-10-dollar boots, I no longer cared about the stupid Dead Forest or who started the argument anymore.

  When we came up for air, he spoke. His voice was low and soft. “You’re right. I wasn’t expecting to talk about the Dead Forest tonight. You probably know the rumors surrounding the place aren’t something shifters like talking about. Most of those rumors involve us, and none of them are true.”

  I hadn’t thought about that.

  He sat down and continued. “I wish I could say those stories don’t bother me anymore, but they do. It’s almost like hearing anything about the Dead Forest brings me right back to second grade when I was a scrawny little kid hearing how my friends pictured shifters for the first time, and knowing I was one of them. And that I could never let them find out or they would hate me. Me, my parents, my brothers… we were all the monsters they were talking about. The things they worried would drag them off to the Dead Forest in the middle of the night and rip them apart if they weren’t careful.”

  Looking into his large brown eyes, I could almost see that little kid.

  “I guess I was the one being the jerk,” I said, getting up and throwing my arms around his huge shoulders. I kissed him from behind, nuzzling into the warmth of his scratchy neck.

  “I won’t mention it again,” I said, just happy I hadn’t spoiled the evening and my taste-test of garlic shrimp, which ended up being amazing.

  Deep down, I knew I was going to have to ask him about the Dead Forest and the books eventually, even though I’d just basically said I would never do that.

  I needed answers. I needed to see those books.

  But for now, I would bide my time, like a redhead with a glitzy feather costume underneath her street clothes. I was getting into this show, Ricky. Just watch.

  Chapter 7

  We’re all normal here

  When I came into the Purple Pony the next day, a squatty woman in her 60s with a pale face and puffy, jet-black hair sat on one of the stools, talking to Rosalie at the main desk.

  A customer.

  I was so startled I almost dropped my purse. We usually didn’t get customers so early in
the day, especially not during the off-season. I smiled at Rosalie and quietly gave her the thumbs-up sign as I went into the back to put my things away. She motioned for me to come over.

  “This is my cousin, Jean,” she said when I got to them. “Jean, this is Carly.”

  We shook hands. She didn’t seem strange at all.

  “Jean’s from Normal City,” Rosalie said in a voice that already sounded exasperated. “She’s only staying for about a week.”

  My ears perked up at the name. Normal City was the city on the other side of the Dead Forest. I’d always wondered what that place was like. And, she was staying at the bed and breakfast along with some of the officers from upstate. Two reasons to get to know Jean better.

  A large ghost with a curly light-brown mullet and wire-rimmed glasses appeared behind Rosalie’s cousin. And I gulped.

  There it was again. My dilemma in life. This ghost obviously showed up because he sensed a strong medium was here and had a message for Jean. But these ghosts didn’t understand that it makes me sound crazy to suddenly say, “Hello. Nice to meet you. I see ghosts and one of them has a message for you.” It’s almost the same as raising your hand during a high-school chemistry lecture and saying, “I like meerkats.” No one looks at you the same again.

  I ignored the ghost and went into the back to put my stuff away. I could tell Rosalie and Jean were in the middle of a conversation anyway. It sounded like Jean was asking Rosalie about the shapeshifter myths here in Landover.

  I chucked my purse and coat into the metal cabinet so fast I practically pinched my finger in the door when I shut it.

  I darted back into the room to catch as much of the conversation as I could.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Jean,” Rosalie was saying. “But shapeshifters are just a myth. Isn’t that right, Carly?”

  “Oh I don’t know. Some people believe in them,” I said, trying to be diplomatic.