Expiration Date

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  “Too late, me boyo,” Michael murmured. “You’ll never hear that voice again.”

  A commotion in the opposite direction caught his attention. The end of the street was surprisingly crowded; a young man in jeans and a T-shirt threw something at the plate glass window of an electronics shop. The man yelled something about taxes and another young man, this one holding a baseball bat, took a swing at the same window. The crowd transformed into a mob that howled and smashed away the remaining glass before swarming into the store. Sirens blared in the background while people re-emerged carrying cartons, boxes.

  Michael was stunned. They were looting.

  Michael’s waiter poked his head out of the door, then called back over his shoulder, “Call the coppers, Wills! It’s starting up again.” He looked at Michael and added, “Best come back inside, sir.”

  “My place is close,” Michael said, pointing away from the chaos.

  “Then best get going,” the waiter said.

  But Michael knew a mob could turn on a dime, so he hurried the rest of the way back to the bookstore. A sense of ownership came over him— this was his family’s store. It belonged to the O’Dares. To him. He needed to protect it.

  Through the bookshop’s front window, a dim light left on from earlier in the day reflected from the back room. Given the turmoil, Michael stopped to turn off the light before heading upstairs to the flat.

  The aged book smell was like a calming shot of whiskey after the shock of the riot. He’d always loved that smell. He’d spent some of his happiest times here with his uncle, shelving old leather-bound books, and listening to tall tales about faeries and the tricks they played on humans. When he was a kid, those old stories had felt so real. He had even imagined seeing the occasional faerie as he walked through Hyde Park with his uncle, but after Sean’s death, life in New York and the daily legal grind had worn away the magic, turning those stories into what they really were— fanciful tales told by a sweet old man. Yet, somehow, standing there in the bookshop, he remembered what it felt like to believe.

  Then he heard the gentle sound of breathing punctuated by soft crying from the back room. He tiptoed forward, avoiding the floorboards that creaked when you walked on them and he hovered on the threshold. Light spilled over his shoulder to reveal Asha Sen, sitting cross-legged on the floor with photos of Daniel spread around her. Mascara-stained tears streaked her cheeks.

  She looked up and pursed her lips when she saw him standing in the doorway.

  “I won’t be long. I was just looking for a picture.”

  “I think you found one,” Michael said. Asha uttered a startled laugh through her tears and nodded.

  “I guess I did.” She heaved a sigh and looked back down at the photos. “I used to stop by every night to check on him, even before he got sick. I’d sit next to his bed, reading to him for hours. We had just finished Robinson Crusoe.” She pointed to a stack of leather-bound classics whose spines and covers were marked by years of wear. She wiped her cheeks. “I miss him.”

  Michael knelt next to her. Outside, the angry crowd was surging down his street. Anger, mistrust, frustration. Fear. He felt all that, boiling inside; but Asha’s grief smashed a different wall within him, a wall of his own: after his father’s death, he had clung to his dotty old uncle, a man who lived on fairy stories and whiskey, and somehow when he was little, Michael had believed that faeries could bring his father back. But of course that hadn’t been true. Faeries weren’t real.

  I couldn’t let myself believe Uncle Daniel was dying, too, he thought. That he would leave me. I couldn’t go through it again.

  If it hadn’t been for Asha, his uncle really would have died alone. Maybe she wasn’t the evil lawyer he’d made her out to be.

  Maybe that role was his.

  “I’m so sorry.” He touched her shoulder and used his other hand to dab at the tears on his cheeks.

  “I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said.

  He sighed. “I was planning to go home tomorrow morning, but… do I have to believe to sign the lease?”

  “No. You just need to sign.”

  Michael thought for a moment and then nodded. A few extra hours’ delay to honor the old man; it wasn’t much, but it was the least he could do.

  “Then I’ll sign it. For him. And for you,” Michael said looking at the picture in Asha’s hands. Then he looked at some of the others on the floor, and still more hanging on the walls, softly lit by moonlight.

  There were dozens of images that included Asha at different ages. A young girl in a frilly sundress, a young woman wearing a university gown, and one that could have been taken last week as she stood beneath the bookshop sign, shielding her eyes from the sun. There were photos of Sean, too, and of him and Sean. And then, after that, there were only two of him that his mother must have sent.

  Asha had spent more of her life with Uncle Daniel than Michael. While he had focused on his career and hadn’t visited in years, Asha had been there all along.

  “I’ll sign it,” he said again.

  “Thank you.” Asha reached up to touch his cheek. The space between them collapsed; their lips touched, and he wrapped his arms around her. Responding, she pressed against him and they held each other gently. Then, after a time, the gentleness vanished and something different came over him. Something very new, as Asha kissed his closed eyes, his forehead, and his lips.

  He caught his breath. This was what magic felt like.

  * * *

  Magic.

  In the dawn, Michael woke to find Asha breathing gently beside him. Her hair was mussed and her mascara tears had dried beneath her eyes, and she was still beautiful. Lying there with her next to him felt like home. Instead of rousing her, he watched her sleep, enjoying the comfort of having her close.

  When she finally opened her eyes, he grinned, feeling foolish for watching her. She pulled him close for a kiss.

  Half an hour later, they were pulling on their clothes. Then Asha reached for the black leather briefcase she had brought with her.

  “This is a copy of the lease,” she said, handing him a large sealed envelope. “I was going to give it to you last night. Now that you’re in England, you can take possession of it. But I have to warn you that I haven’t read it.”

  He stopped tying his tie and stared at her, thunderstruck. That was an unbelievable admission for an attorney to make under any circumstances, but in this case, when they had discussed and debated a legal document on two continents and she had insisted that he had to come to London to sign it, he simply didn’t believe her.

  “He did try to read it to me,” she said, “but the words became gibberish as soon as they left his mouth.”

  The walls crashed back down around his heart. She wasn’t devious or manipulative, she was utterly mad. She must have seen the change in his feelings; she paled and reached out a hand and said, “Please, Michael. Please trust me.”

  “I need to look it over,” he said. He opened the envelope.

  “I should have ordered a car from our firm,” she said apologetically. “We’ll take a taxi and you can read it on the way, all right?”

  He blew air out of his cheeks and nodded very unhappily. What was the saying, in for a penny?

  She led the way downstairs; as they pushed through the front door, they were surrounded by a sea of angry people. He saw bats in their hands, bricks. The mob pressed them against the wall and Michael caught himself saying, “Look out,” putting himself in front of her. Shielding her.

  Michael locked the door, hoping it would be enough to keep the crowds away if things got worse. Asha grabbed his hand with a crushing grip and pulled him.

  “Come on. We have to get off this street,” she yelled over her shoulder as she bulldozed her way through the swarming mass of people.

  They threaded their way down the lanes and str
eets. There were rioters everywhere. He heard the crash of breaking glass, angry shouts, a siren. At last they reached Trafalgar Square, heading toward Pall Mall.

  Asha hailed a black cab and they climbed in. Michael pulled out the lease; it was in English, and written in contemporary legalese. The professional habits of years of training compelled his slow, deliberate read as they inched along the Mall toward Earl’s Court. Traffic came to a stop a dozen blocks from Asha’s office. Horns blared as cars tangled together, trying to push their way into the street, which had become little more than a parking lot.

  “Oh, my God. We’re not going to make it!” she cried, looking at her watch.

  “Where’s your office?” Michael said, looking up from the last page.

  “There. With the flags.” She pointed toward a white building with colorful pennants hanging above the entry. It was at least ten blocks away. “Pull over,” she told the driver.

  The lease was quite specific about the timing of his signature. If they were late and he didn’t make it, it would be finished. Done. He thought it over. And then he thought of how he had felt when he and Asha had made love. As if there was more to the world than he knew or believed.

  “No. Keep going,” he told the cabbie. He turned to Asha and said, “I’ll meet you there.”

  She started to say something, and then she quickly kissed him and nodded.

  He threw open the door, wishing he’d brought his track shoes. He ran, dodging around cars that packed the intersection and sliding across hoods in his best Bruce Willis imitation when there was no space for a pedestrian to cross.

  Less than a block from the office Big Ben chimed, echoing all around him and signaling that ten o’clock had come…

  …and gone, even as he dashed up a flight of marble stairs toward the doors of Asha’s firm.

  Standing outside the door, blocking his entry, was the Australian. He gave Michael a toothy smile.

  “Matthew? Excuse me. I need to get inside,” Michael said.

  The older man crossed his arms over his large belly without moving aside.

  “You’re late. It’s expired.”

  Michael gaped at him. “What did you say?”

  “Your lease is up.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Mortal, I never ‘kid.’” The Australian grinned triumphantly, raising his hands in a diva-like pose, which made his protruding belly stick out even further.

  The tips of Matthew’s fingers caught the sunlight, which slithered down his hands like liquid gold, covering his arms and body before catching fire. Molten flames raged momentarily before dying out.

  In his place stood the most beautiful woman Michael had ever seen, with flaming red hair caught up in an emerald crown. Her age was impossible to tell. Her dress was a mix of flowing green silk, covered with emeralds and diamonds that held the sunlight. Her eyes were icy, her smile even more so.

  “You have lost, O’Dare,” she declared, her smile turning cruel and barbaric. “Fine day for rioting, wouldn’t you say?”

  “My God,” Michael said, stumbling away.

  Asha, heaving with exertion, arrived in time to keep him from tumbling backwards down the stairs.

  “Please. Call me Mab. ‘God’ is so yesterday. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a lease to sign. Ms. Sen,” Mab said dismissively.

  “Mab, no, please,” Asha murmured.

  The two watched as Mab entered the building. The door began to swing shut behind her. Asha buried her face in her hands and Michael fought to pull himself together. It was true. All of it.

  “I don’t lose cases,” he said slowly. “Damn it, I do not lose.”

  He gripped the copy of his lease and caught the closing door with his other hand.

  “Not so fast, faerie,” he said, dashing inside. They were in a long hall decorated with oil portraits. His shoes echoed on a marble black-and-white checkerboard floor.

  “Your time has come and gone, mortal. Be gracious in defeat, and I’ll grant favor upon you as the former Leaseholder.” Mab’s words trailed behind her.

  A door opened before she reached it. With Michael on her heels, she glided into a large conference room dominated by an enormous ebony desk. Humans and strangely-glowing people in elaborate gowns — faeries? — stood around a large round table. Some of the humans were crying in each other’s arms. The faeries were smiling and, at the arrival of Queen Mab, bowed low, then straightened and began to applaud and cheer.

  Panting, Michael raised his arms for silence. Mab tipped her head indulgently and signaled everyone to give him their attention.

  “The name is O’Dare,” he announced, “and you might think you know me because of those who have come before me to write their names on this lease.” He held up the document.

  “I know all I need to know,” Mab said.

  A quill pen in a golden inkwell was perched beside an ancient scroll of parchment. The letters were indecipherable until Michael strode up beside Mab. Then they obligingly changed into English characters.

  He blocked her hand before she could sign beneath the blank that read REVOKED.

  “Not so fast. We are not in breach,” he said.

  There was murmuring around the room. Mab rolled her eyes. She reached for the lease again, but her hand recoiled as if hitting an invisible wall.

  “Article five, section three B states that the signing deadline is based upon the realm of origin of the document,” Michael said.

  Mab dipped her head. “Yes. And it’s after ten o’clock here.”

  Michael grinned. “Except I’m not a citizen of the British Realm.”

  Mab narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  One of the faeries rose. “Your Majesty, this mortal is stalling. His argument is specious. Please feel free to sign.”

  “No. I demand my say,” Michael said, and a thrill shot through him as he saw that Mab was unable to follow through, even though she tried again to sign the document.

  “Your problem, Mab, is that you’re stuck in the past. You need to modernize your thinking. Article eight, section nine A clearly states that definitions are adaptable to the correct time of the realms in which the parties dwell, and the State of New York, where I dwell, is no longer subject to British rule. Therefore, we’re on East Coast Standard Time, which would make it about four o’clock in the morning, giving me plenty of time to sign.”

  “You’re a British citizen, born and bred,” Mab insisted.

  “To an American mother, making me a dual citizen. The lease reverts to my time zone as a resident of New York. And you’re out of ploys.” Michael set his U.S. passport on the table next to the lease, and plucked the feather pen from her fingers. He signed his name with flare and watched the ink glow red for a moment before fading to black.

  Now it was time for the mortals in the room to cheer. Asha threw her arms around Michael’s neck and kissed him. He kissed her and held her and then he started laughing. He felt positively impish, besting the queen of the faeries.

  “Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. I almost had you, O’Dare,” Mab said once the room had quieted back down.

  “Almost is only good enough in horseshoes and hand grenades,” Michael said putting down the pen.

  Mab shrugged. “What is time to a faerie? I have infinite patience and one day this world will be mine again.”

  “Not today,” Michael said, matching her toothy grin.

  The faerie queen glowered, her eyes burning like embers, and then she vanished. The rest of the room emptied of the fae, leaving only a handful of humans behind. They rose and rushed Michael, patting him on the back. Champagne corks popped.

  Asha introduced him to Sir Christopher Wright, her boss, as she said, “You know that in twenty-five years, you’ll have to sign again.”

  “Be easier if you were already i
n London. We certainly have a place for you here at the firm,” Sir Christopher said. He cocked a brow. “And as you’re the last of the O’Dares — and believe me, on that subject we are positive — it would be prudent for you to start having children as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir, but I think I’ve put the law behind me,” Michael said. “I own a rather lovely bookshop now.”

  Asha beamed at him. “You do. And I think, Sir Christopher, that I’ll have to help him run it.”

  “I think you will,” Michael replied.

  The scroll rolled up of its own accord and Sir Christopher reverently cradled it against his chest. “This goes back in the vault, then. For twenty-five years.”

  “I’ll be here,” Michael said. “With time to spare.”

  * * *

  New York Times bestselling author Nancy Holder has received five Bram Stoker Awards. She is currently writing a series of novels based on the TV show Beauty and the Beast. Vendetta and Some Grave All are out now. This is her second short story written with Erin Underwood.

  * * *

  Erin Underwood is a writer and editor as well as the publisher at Underwords Press. She is the co-editor of Futuredaze 2: Reprise with Nancy Holder and is also the co-editor of Geek Theater: 15 Plays by Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers. This is her second story with Nancy Holder.

  Details

  Expiration Date

  Copyright © 2015

  All contributions copyright by their respective authors

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Edge Science Fiction

  and Fantasy Publishing

  An Imprint of

  HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  P.O. Box 1714,

  Calgary, Alberta, T2P 2L7,

  Canada

  Edited by Nancy Kilpatrick