Rune Thief: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Isabella Hush Series Book 1)

by Thea Atkinson

  "Not sure what it is," I admitted. "Thought you might know."

  I watched his face carefully and although he dragged his eyes from my cleavage, the way he took in the tile as it sat on the counter... there was hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with my dress. The piece was valuable alright.

  "You think maybe you have enough money to put that in your showcase?" I asked him.

  He shook his head. "Worthless. Never seen anything like it. Waste of my money."

  "We both know that's not true." It was a risky move but I had to bluster. It was the only way to project value onto the thing when I had no idea what it was.

  He picked up the tile. "Warm," he said, looking me over. "Very warm. Where exactly have you been storing this little thing?"

  I ignored the inference in his tone. "Do you want it or not?"

  "Might fetch a price," he said with his gaze lighting on the tile. "Might not. I ain't interested in spending the money to find out."

  He was lying. I could tell by the way he fidgeted behind the counter. He had seen something like it before, and he did know what it was worth. A hell of a lot was my guess.

  "Okay, then," I said, pulling the trench coat over one arm. "I'll go elsewhere."

  "Maybe we can strike a deal," he said.

  I narrowed my gaze, suspicious. "What kind of deal?"

  "For a thousand," he said. "I'll take the tile off your hands for you, but you have to do something else for me."

  "You ask me that every time I come here," I said, lifting the tile from the counter and tapping the edge of it against the glass. "I'm not going to do that for you."

  He cocked his head at me, the effeminate green eyes narrowing pensively.

  "Two thousand," he said. "Just ten minutes out back. That's all I need." He sidled out from behind the counter, running his palm along the surface of the glass in a way that made me feel nauseous.

  I took a step back, a shiver running down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. A nest of spiders might have just scuttled across my skin.

  "Do you know how cute you look?" His tone had all the charm of a slithering eel. "Like a little girl all dressed up in nasty clothes. Desperately delightful."

  "Fuck you," I said.

  "Oh darlin', if only." He ran his hand over his crotch and I watched in horror as those trousers bulged out obscenely.

  I backed away, shaking my head. Sure it was a goodly amount of money and part of me knew that all he wanted was for me to beat him up a little. Heck, I might enjoy knocking that smarmy look off his face, but no. I didn't need cash that bad.

  I spun around on my high heels to leave and went all off kilter, lurching sideways, as he yanked on my elbow. I landed against his chest and lost my footing. His greasy mouth up against my ear.

  My knees went out from beneath me as the panic hit.

  "I've been a good boy," he said and ran his hand down along my ribcage till it met my buttocks. He squeezed hard.

  "You've made me wait long enough."

  CHAPTER 10

  THE HEAT OF THE OWNER's palm through the vinyl hot pants made me think of dark nights when I was a kid. Despite the openness of the shop we stood in, the smell of tobacco and old paper, I was back in the twin bed of my childhood covered with too many blankets for a spring night. Those swaths of flannel and wool were a force field of sorts. One last bastion of protection against hands and fingers that would burrow down beneath the sheets, seeking my skinny, goose fleshed legs. He was close, so close. I could feel his erection against my thigh. His ragged breathing deepened, and I knew he was inhaling the scent of me.

  I had one horrible thought: that his tongue would dart out to slip into the corner of my mouth. I retched as I stood there, paralyzed by memory in his grasp, and sick with guilt and shame for playing the part I'd had in my own demise.

  I stared at his mouth from the corner of my eye. That girlish, bloated gaze ran the column of my throat as though he were imagining running his tongue down my skin.

  A thought, bright with hope squirreled its way through my mind: submissives obeyed.

  "Get your disgusting hands off me," I growled.

  I could've sworn his eyes rolled back in his head at my words. I knew then I had him. He'd never dare disobey the mistress he hoped I'd play. Hope buoyed my next words.

  "You are a pig," I said, meaning every word and enunciating clearly, each syllable spat out with venom and authenticity.

  "You are repulsive and disgusting and if you don't drop your hands, I will cut them off."

  "That's it," he rasped out. "Be nasty to me."

  I expected him to let go. By all counts, he should have.

  He didn't.

  Instead, he started pulling me toward that back room of his. I found it difficult to fight him off in my high-heeled boots, and since he was so much taller than me, I couldn't even buck my way backward to get loose.

  "You're disgusting," I said in a much smaller voice, and he made another sound that reminded me I wasn't going to get anywhere with that tactic.

  I was suddenly terrified. I remembered watching Pulp Fiction and all that went on behind closed doors for the poor up-to-that-point villain. I'd started out the villain in this story, hadn't I? Coming here dressed like this? Knowing it would increase my odds?

  With the beaded door looming in front of me and it's strangely reddish glow coming from within, a swirl of possibilities started dancing around like a kaleidoscope in the back of my mind. What if he wasn't just a strange old geezer who liked to be dominated? What if he liked to play other games as well?

  I gave one last yell, but this time it was nowhere near commanding. I sounded like a mouse squeaking out its fury at a cat.

  If he said anything in protest, I didn't hear it. All I could focus on was the way the back of his neck bulged beneath his hairline and the smell of him that reminded me of sour grapefruit flesh and boiled ham.

  "Let go of me, prick," I said. I gave one long, hard yank and wrapped as much composure around myself as I could.

  We were halfway across the floor toward his back room before I remembered the tile. I craned my head to see the counter and noticed it wasn't there. I hadn't put it in my coat. A quick survey of the floor revealed it hadn't fallen down either.

  That meant he had it.

  We had reached the beaded door by then. I thought I could see a dungeon of sorts through the gaps in the strings. The back wall was lined with whips and other paraphernalia. A freestanding closet hunkered in the middle of the wall with a door that hung half a jar because it was warped in the middle. Who knew what sort of things lurked inside.

  My stomach twisted. My knees went weak.

  I wasn't a southpaw by any stretch, but I clenched my non dominant fist anyway and swung around in his arms with as much thrust as I could manage. I let the punch fly with the movement, hoping it would clock him right in the chin. Instead, it glanced off his jaw.

  He gathered me close, pulling my arms back around my midriff and crossing them over my waist.

  "I never used to have such a hard time with women," he complained and laid his lips down on the top of my head. It was a gentle kiss, almost like something an older man would give to a young child, creeping me out even more.

  "I've been around a long time," he said into the wig. "And in my day women begged me for pleasure."

  I didn't want to think of the kind of woman who would ask for this man's touch. My mouth went dry with terror.

  "You are delusional."

  He pushed me toward the curtain. "I'm old, yes," he said. "But not delusional. I have far too many of my faculties left and not enough of others. More's the pity."

  With a gentle shove, he let me go enough that I could lift one of those high-heeled boots I wore and bring it down hard on his instep.

  I lurched free the next second and made to bolt.

  But he had my tile. And I wasn't about to leave it here with him. That would just add insult to injury.

&nb
sp; I swung to face him. The look on his face had changed from lust to anger, not the pain I expected. In fact, he looked like I hadn't hurt him at all.

  I stretched my palm out, demanding my tile. I cleared my throat to gain courage.

  "You have something of mine," I said.

  He smirked at me. "It's not yours and we both know it."

  He lunged for me, and I ducked sideways. But for an old guy, he was fast. He seemed to anticipate my moves and grabbed my wrist, yanking it up behind my back and leaving me hanging over my stomach in pain. I was breathless with it.

  "This isn't part of the deal," I said. "You need to take your hands off me."

  His breath was almost too hot the back of my neck. And it was very wet. As though a line of hot oil had beaded on the vertebra at the base of my skull and was running down along my spine. I couldn't help but shudder.

  My wig fell askew. I tried to blow it back into place and away from the corner of my eye. I squirmed in his grasp.

  "Did you hear me?" I demanded, trying to squirrel up some bravado in the hopes that some of that submissiveness still lingered in the basest parts of his intentions. "I said let me go."

  Any reply he might have offered got lost in the sound of the door chimes as we both realized someone had come into the shop.

  We both swung to the sound. I remembered the full lips and the thick cascade of russet hair of the man who filled the door frame. The man who'd been in the alley and the pawn shop. He still wore a suit—a Desmond Merrion no less. He was taller than I remembered, hitting the top of the six foot eight end of the robber's scale beside the door.

  "I hope you're paying her handsomely for that exquisite bit of violence, Errol," he said.

  Humiliation burned in my throat. Even though I knew he couldn't recognize me as the girl from the pawn shop, not with the blonde wig, I lowered my gaze to the floor. Shuffled a few steps away from the proprietor as he relinquished his grip on me.

  A step or two more and I'd be free. I prayed for those few steps, that I'd be able to make them.

  "What I pay her is none of your business, Maddox," the shopkeeper said.

  This man Maddox shrugged. "That may be true," he said. "But I've never known you to have to fight so hard to pay a girl so much, Errol."

  Errol. I might have laughed at the absurdity of this creep having the same name as one of history's most romantic heroes if I wasn't inwardly hyperventilating.

  And I might have been grateful for the intrusion if I wasn't so doggone antsy to get out of there. I pulled my overcoat back on, not bothering to make sure it was straight or if it gaped open at the front, and I swung around to face Errol. I laid my palm out in front of him flat.

  "Bastard," I said with a shaking voice. "Give me back my goods."

  A long line slinked over his lips into a smile. Then he shrugged.

  "I thought I was buying it from you," he said.

  "You thought you were buying a lot of things," I said and grabbed it from his hand.

  It was difficult to keep my face averted from Maddox, but the wig was sufficiently long enough to cover the side of my face.

  Maddox sent a long gaze in my direction. He was careful not to let his glance slip below my throat, but it was too controlled for me not to know he worked at keeping it discreet.

  Something fidgeted inside my chest at that look. Most men, no matter how hard they wanted to, wouldn't be able to avoid stealing a glance at a bare thigh or swelling cleavage. Not this man, apparently.

  He was too controlled, I realized. A man who could keep his baser self in check under unusual circumstances. It should make a gal feel safer. It didn't. All it made me think of was Scottie and his nearly antiseptic calculation of cause and effect. My heart hammered. I skirted them both as I headed for the door, pulling my trench coat tight across my chest as I ran the line of aisles like a mouse might, tight along the edges. My hand shook when I reached for the door handle.

  "Maybe try a red wig next time," Maddox called out to me. "Men dig redheads." He chuckled.

  CHAPTER 11

  HIS WORDS STUNG BECAUSE it spoke to a deeper feeling that I shouldn't have tried to use sex to get what I wanted. Thousands of women every day struggled against the cliche of it all when they had to defend themselves from assault. More than anyone, I should know that, but I was also used to doing what I had to for Scottie's whims. Using my looks wasn't just convenient, it was expected if it could make a difference.

  Even so, I felt ashamed the way one of those assault victims might feel even when she knows she's not to blame for the violence inflicted on her. I deserved to feel the shame. I deserved the words.

  The thought drove me from the shop. I collapsed against the outside wall, beyond thankful to get out of there.

  I couldn't wait to get back home. First thing I would do would peel off this disgusting garb and throw it in the trash can. I didn't think I would ever be going back to that shop again. Costumes were a very necessary part of my job, but this one would never be pulled into rotation again.

  Instead of walking the rest of the way, I hailed a cab and caught the driver peeking at me in his rear-view mirror.

  "Yeah, yeah. I'm a prostitute," I said, angry for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which was humiliation. I'd felt it plenty enough times with Scottie that I knew what it was. But I was a different girl now and if I could acknowledge the shame, I could recognize the anger that came with it.

  And that was the other thing. The thing that bothered me the most because I wasn't sure if my sense of humiliation was from the tightly controlled and willful way Maddox had managed not to look at the rest of me. Or if it was because he was actually able to do so in light of the blatantly sexual attire.

  "You have a problem taking a working girl's money?" I said to the cabbie.

  He muttered a few choice words beneath his breath and I pretended not to hear them. He dropped me off in front of the brownstone and I shut the door to his cab a little harder than I wanted to. I gave him a feeble smile because I had already started to feel shitty about treating him poorly. I held out a dollar bill as an extra tip.

  Maybe he was having as hard a day as I was, and I was just coloring everything with my own frustration.

  He tipped his cap with a motion no one could have called grateful.

  "Money like this," he spat out. "You can call me anytime."

  On a good day, I might have engaged. But I was weary. Down to the marrow weary.

  I sighed heavily and headed toward the broad steps that led inside.

  My landlord, Mr. Smith, was at the front door. Although I imagined his name was an alias. It looked like he was fiddling with the lock. A strange enough occurrence that it made me stop a few feet away so I could watch without him noticing me.

  He was an old curmudgeon who had been a bug in the zoning committee's comfortable bedding for as long as I had lived in his apartment. I suspected he kept me in the brownstone just to piss them off because as long as he had a tenant, he couldn't be rezoned. It was no secret the brownstone sprawled over an area that most of the more elite residents wanted to turn into a green space so they could up their optics and garner more tax cash.

  It wasn't like him to fix things. In light of his feud with the neighbors, he was more inclined to 'distress' his property occasionally. Besides, my lock did not need fixing.

  I knew he would recognize me regardless of the wig and glasses because the only person coming out of or going into his purposefully shittily-kept old brownstone would be me.

  I halted at the bottom of the staircase. "Whatcha doing, Mr. Smith?"

  He swung around like a kid caught trying to stick a fork in an outlet. That's when I noticed the lock did indeed need fixing. It was hanging outside the door as though it had been yanked through.

  "Changing the locks?" I asked, wary. First the henchman in the coffee shop and now this.

  "One of those damn bums decided to take a rock to the door," he said. "Probably wanted a good place
to sleep."

  We both knew there weren't any bums in the neighborhood. They got run off. His complaint was for the neighbors, one of whom was hovering about her garden, trying to pretend she wasn't listening.

  I chewed the side of my cheek, trying to think of some way to explain it away without making him worry about me. He was a blustery old man, but I knew he kept me on for more reasons than just trying to annoy the neighbors. I imagined I reminded him of the daughter who lived a country away.

  "It was probably one of your neighbors," I said loudly and jerking my chin toward the labor clutching a set of gardening shears. "Didn't you say the zoning committee would be meeting next week?"

  He started muttering at that, cursing the committee up down, left right, and seven ways to Sunday, to quote all of the clichés at once. I slipped my hand into the gap between the door jamb the door and was pulling it open when he halted his tirade midstream and put his hands on his hips. The screwdriver in his fingers fell to the platform with a thunk.

  "Is that why you've got some seedy looking john hanging around outside the building," he said. "Helping me fight the fight?"

  "What's that?" I said over my shoulder.

  "That guy you have hanging around." He stooped to pick the screwdriver up and tossed it end over end before catching it by the handle. He gave me a broad smile and pointed the tip at me.

  "Nice touch. He looked pretty haggard. Ought to piss them off royally."

  "Sure," I said, trying to smile back and feeling as though my lips were catching my teeth instead. Everything had gone suddenly dry in my mouth. My tongue felt like sand paper.

  Another woman might have written off the broken lock or the strange man hanging around. I knew what it meant: Scottie had found me and sent his henchmen to collect me.

  I'd waited too long.

  "Thanks, Mr. Smith," I said and wasn't surprised to hear the tightness in my voice. "I'm glad you like it. Say," I said, as though something had only just occurred to me. "Do you think my hired derelict decided to raid my kitchen?"