by A. R. Miller
I practically tiptoe into the living room, like that’s going to make a difference. My not–so–friendly visitor probably already knows I’m home.
C.C. has his nose pressed against the crack below the door, rear end wiggling with the beginnings of a pounce. He turns toward me, eyes narrowed, letting out a horrendous yowl before charging, pushing me away from the door.
“Hey.” I take a step back. “Contrary to your beliefs, I’m not stupid, but I do need to find out what’s going on.”
Sidestepping him, I head straight for the knife drawer in the kitchen. My Talents are far from defensive. Grabbing the largest blade, I take a deep breath and head to the door. Bare feet have an advantage; they’re quiet. Clinging to the wall, I make my way down the stairs, one at a time, trying to remember which treads squeak.
The closer I get to the door the stronger the warning pulsating across my flesh, until I’m virtually vibrating. Sounds on the other side grow more violent as the intruder attempts to bash their way through the door. They’re probably counting on the daylight to stop Dara and figure I’m too big of a chicken to interfere.
I swallow back a wave of nausea. Someone has invaded my space. I don’t care why—you would think I would—I just stand there shaking and sweating. Everything is fuzzy, muffled, I feel like I’m reliving the tub incident only this time I’m drowning in fear.
It has to be a thief. Why else would anyone want to break in? For all I know it could have been a disgruntled client, maybe one of those fairy fever–infected idiots wanting revenge for refusing their requests.
I shriek as a hand grips my shoulder and the violence on the other side of the door stops. Spinning around, I stand toe to toe with Dara. Her hand grasps my wrist just before the tip of the blade touches her shoulder, the intruder’s footsteps fading to nothing.
“The alarms woke me.” She looks me up and down.
I’m probably a sight to behold, still in my pj’s, hair standing on end, gash on my cheek, holding a rather large kitchen knife. Unlike Dara, in her silk robe and disheveled hair, looking like she stepped off the set of a photo shoot.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, a little shook up, but not hurt.”
One of those ridiculously perfect brows rises.
“Seriously, I’m fine.” I touch my fingers to the scrape on my cheek. “You can ask C.C. about this later, right now I think I should check the salon.”
“I do not think that is such a good idea.”
“Oh come on Dara, we scared off whoever it was. Why would they hang around?” I know the tremor in my voice isn’t convincing her, or me that I’m past the fear of some shadowy figure lurking around the corner. Even if it is just the corner of my mind, gods know there are plenty of shadowy figures hanging out there lately.
“Can you wait until the sun goes down so that I can go with you?”
I shake my head, the look on her face admitting she already knew the answer. I have to keep telling myself it was just a botched robbery, not something foreshadowed by my dream. Going into the salon would help justify this little fantasy. Da Nile ain’t just a river in Egypt.
***
Dara refuses to let me go alone, even though she can’t enter the salon, too much sunlight.
The frame around the door held, barely. Splinters of wood push outward and the door itself sits at an odd angle in the frame.
Dara grabs me. “Do not touch anything.”
“Want to tell me how in hel I’m supposed to get in then?”
“You are not. You should wait until dark.”
“That’s not happening.” I snag the spare key secured behind the small light outside the door. “Let’s hope they didn’t screw up the lock so badly this won’t work, or I’ll be going around to the street entrance.”
The key slips in and with a little extra jiggling I finally hear the lock click.
“Are you still set on doing this right now?”
I nod, not really set, but not willing to flip on my back and let my yellow belly show. I step over the threshold. This is the point in the movie where everyone cringes at the sacrificial babe’s stupidity and screams at the screen, ‘Don’t go in there!’ Does she listen? Hel no, the big boobied blonde gets it, but not before she can pull the classic scream scene. Hands held in front of a teary face as she begs the monster not to ax her. If it all goes south, I hope I can live up to the image, minus the big boobs. That’s something I’ll never achieve.
Swallowing my fear, I take a step and then another until I’m standing in front of the open door between the break room and cutting floor. Another threshold crossed and I’m in the main salon. Even with the afternoon sun, it’s still dim and shadowy. I’m feeling a little stupid for not flipping on the lights. Any other day it would have been the first thing I’d do.
Nothing looks out of place. One of my vanity drawers is ajar, but that could have been my bad. I highly doubt a thief would be interested in combs and brushes.
I head for the front door and give it a push. Sure enough the door is open. Letting it glide closed, my feet and brain argue, while something cold and ugly twirls in my stomach.
“Did you find anything?” calls Dara, clinging to the shadows of the break room.
Fanning a hand at the fire in my cheeks, hoping the tunnel vision will dissipate. “Yeah, the door is open, they used a key as far as I can tell.”
That explains how they got past the wards guarding the salon. I flip the deadbolt and head to the desk.
No sign of tampering with the register. The appointment book is another story. Flipping through it, I find pages missing. What in Hel’s Realm? If this was one of those dorky made–for–TV movies it would be my competition trying to steal clients, but that’s just beyond stupid.
“Check the storeroom while you’re back there, Dara.”
“Done, someone has attempted to pry the new lock.”
Grabbing the book, I head back. “Obviously it wasn’t quick cash they were after. Whoever it was didn’t bother with the register. The fact that someone tampered with the lock confirms my suspicions that someone stole that bag of hair.”
I hand her the appointment book. “Along with the missing pages in this.”
***
Having decided to keep the break–in to ourselves, it’s business as usual. I don’t want to think about any of my employees being capable of something like this, but I have to face facts. Our intruder used a key, there are only six in existence and two of them are mine.
I know I didn’t do it and there is no way Dara could have made it outside, or across the salon in broad daylight to open the door. She’s one of those vamps who can’t tolerate sunlight, unlike my pretty stalker. That leaves three.
Nyssa, my bubbly little shampoo girl slash manicurist, Rey—who, if history is correct—is quite the trickster, both of whom have been with me at least six years. Then there’s my multi–personalitied receptionist, Jenny. Who at the present appears to be completely clueless about the missing pages, along with the rest of us. If it’s an act, it’s a good one on all three counts.
Observations are set aside in the deluge of patrons. Busy doesn’t begin to touch on a description of tonight. The place is packed. Maybe it has something to do with that article in the paper. I’m ecstatic because it means the salon is doing well. On the other hand, it keeps me from watching for clues.
The rap on the door of the facial room sets me off. When the door is closed, it stays closed. No disturbances short of a fire, or natural disaster allowed. I ignore it, continuing with the treatment, a firm believer that the client in your chair deserves your full attention. Besides, one small slip in manipulating the dead skin cells and the couple of zits she came in with could end up a case of full–blown acne.
I’m about ready to blow when Jenny pokes her head inside. “Sorry, Keely, I tried to tell them.”
The magic in my fingertips fizzles and I shake my hands, wincing in pain, when she’s shoved aside. Talk about it
not being my night. Nancy, face slathered in green goo, sits up, giving a little shriek as two men in black push their way into the room.
Yep, just like the movie and neither of them look as good as J in those suits and glasses. One, all brawn and no brain—obviously a berserker—barely fits in the doorframe. The scrawny one actually sniffs the air like a therian. Great, a tracker. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t be able to hide.
Never in my wildest nightmares imagined an NTF team visiting me. Any crimes involving Enchants are turned over to the Numinous Task Force, or NTF for short, a sort of magical police. The tracker says something about taking me downtown while the berserker grasps my arm. I instruct Jenny to get someone to take over Nancy’s treatment and not to charge her. The others may not be able to finish what I started, but they can at least get the goo off her face.
A low buzz fills the salon as Frick and Frack escort me through the main floor. No cuffs, but that doesn’t stop gawkers on the street, or those inside from assuming I’m under arrest. Even though they didn’t say, you’re under arrest, I make the assumption also.
Am I scared? No, more like terrified. Hel, I’ve never even had a traffic ticket, let alone been taken downtown. Guess I should have read my horoscope. It probably says get out of town. Fast.
Surprise, surprise, across the street stands Mr. Alric Brand, cell pressed to his ear, his companion in giant four–legged form. The dog seems a little more than agitated as Frack shoves me into the back of their car.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The ride downtown is purgatory, on the way to my own personal hel. Frick and Frack speak too quietly for me to hear and all I can do is sit and shake, sweating like a pig despite the air conditioner.
My stomach feels like the time The Sisters let me eat practically a whole bottle of cucumber dressing on my salad then a box of root beer popsicles. Hey, I was five and learned my lesson by spending most of the night praying to the porcelain god. I only hope I don’t have a repeat all over their fancy leather interior.
I’m having one of those, what did I do to deserve this, moments. Whose hair did I screw up to make them mad enough to sic the NTF on me? Did they have a bad reaction to one of my cosmetics? Not that any of those would rate a visit from NTF; it’s more of an Iowa Department of Public Health issue.
We’d passed our last inspection with only a minor infraction of one stylist neglecting to sanitize his clippers between uses. As far as I know there haven’t been any complaints filed against us. All of our licenses are up to date.
A bucket of sweat drenches me. Had they somehow put two and two together and get three victims who visited my salon? Do they think I’m involved with the attacks? That they could think I’m The Collector is enough to make me snort. Frack turns around and glares at me, an educated guess, considering I can’t read his expression through the dark glasses, not that it matters. We’ve arrived.
***
All the mystery surrounding NTF headquarters is greatly diminished by their decorating choices. It’s like walking into a concrete bunker. No windows, no magazines on the small table in reception, not even annoying elevator music. The only attempt at warmth, a small plant on the front desk. Wilted and brown, but at least it’s a color besides grey. You literally feel your mood hit cloudy–day–depression mixed with a touch of claustrophobia.
I have the urge to raise my hand and shout, jawohl as the beefy receptionist scowls at me from behind mannishly–thick–framed glasses. Give me credit, I don’t, but I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling. I gently stroke the leaves of the wilted plant as I pass, bringing a look of horror to the receptionist’s face. Geez, it’s not like I could do any more harm to the poor thing.
One of my escorts opens the only door, besides the one I want to use, revealing what looks like an endless corridor. As I pass through the door, I give that poor browned plant one last look and stumble forward as Frack slams into me. I’m sure my expression mirrors the front desk Nazi’s shocked face. The plant isn’t brown any more. The leaves are green and tiny buds are appearing, but before I can bother questioning what happened Frack pushes me down the hall.
Guess what? More grey, this time cinderblock highlighted by flickering fluorescent tubes overhead. Every so often, we pass a steel door, of course, no windows to allow a peek. That claustrophobia thing presses in as my captors make a Keely sandwich coming to a stop in front of one of those nasty doors. Frick slips his passkey through the slot and a buzzer sounds as the door opens.
My stomach is twirling, my heart beating so loudly I’m sure they can hear it. This is it. It’s all over. I’ll go in that room and never come out. I try to take a step back. Frack gives me a little push and I stumble over the threshold.
The furnishings are even sparser than the entrance of the building. One chair on either side of a table, just like in the movies, but no swinging bare bulb, just the unflattering fluorescent lights. One of the boys grasps my arm, moves me to the chair farthest from the door and none too gently suggests I sit.
Okay, I can handle that. What I can’t handle are the manacles built into the tabletop. A numbing tingle races up the back of my calf as I bump the leg of the chair, discovering another set. God’s, I hope they aren’t going to use them.
The first real show of emotion from either of my guards is the grin on Frack’s face when he sees me eyeing them.
“I don’t think we will have to use those, Miss Fey,” says Frick, taking the chair across from me.
I nod in agreement, swallowing hard enough to make my throat hurt. I feel the spells, something to make a prisoner behave wrapped around another to drain, or contain any Talents.
Frick smiles and rests his forearms on the table, a feeble attempt at friendliness. Frack stands blocking the door, feet slightly apart, arms crossed. I do a bad job of preventing a shudder and his lips curl upward making me shiver even more. Maybe it’s my imagination working overtime, but I get the distinct feeling he’d love it if I tried to escape.
Frick’s questions all come out like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons, wah wah wahwah wah. My biggest distraction is those stinking glasses! We’re inside, take the damn things off. I mean, rude, right? What are they trying to hide with them, or is it just another attempt at intimidation?
“Miss Fey?”
I give myself a mental shake as Frick leans toward me.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Biting my lower lip, I shake my head.
He sighs, removing the glasses and I’m wishing he’d left them on. I’ve been told the pale silver of my eyes is disconcerting, but they’re nothing like this. White eyes stare at me, not the milky, or cloudy look of cataracts, or the blind. I mean totally white, no iris, no pupil, just white. I’ve never been this close to a tracker before, never wanted to be. Those eyes just amp up the desire to be as far away from him as possible.
“Then let’s try this again. Do you know Eric Sampson?”
Again, I shake my head, looking at the tabletop, the far wall, even Frack, anything to keep from looking into those spooky eyes.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been in the salon. We see a lot of people.”
“Maybe this will jog your memory.” He slides a photo across the table.
Wincing, I pull it closer. “It’s pretty hard to tell with all the bruises, but like I said he could have come into the salon.”
“So you’re saying you know the boy.”
“No, at the risk of repeating myself, I said it was possible. Again, we see a lot of people in the salon.”
“Like these people?”
He slides more photos toward me, rambling off their names, but he doesn’t have to. I know all three of them.
“They were in your salon too, weren’t they?”
I nod, sniffling and wiping my eyes. Something a little more substantial than pictures clunks down on the table.
“What about these, do they look familiar? They were
found at the scene of the last attack,” he says, one finger sliding it toward me.
I can see what they are, even through the plastic baggie. My name visible under the gore coating the blades.
My head reels as I picture myself in an orange jumpsuit, one of those formless ones that do nothing for the figure not to mention how unflattering it’d be with my coloring.
This could completely destroy my life, even if they get it through their thick skulls I have nothing to do with it. Look at the wrongly accused from the past, forever tainted by accusations of crimes never committed. Their lives and reputations are worth less than gum stuck to your shoe.
The picture of the boy shoved under my watery gaze, a finger punctuating every word against the table.
“Those scissors—”
“Shears, they’re called shears.” Stupid I know, but it comes out all the same.
“Those shears were used to snip off this child’s Talent.”
No. My mind says it and my lips form it, but it doesn’t come out. “What was his Talent?” I finally manage to whisper.
“He was an incubus, or would have been when his Talents came into their full power.”
The word snip is totally inappropriate considering how dull those shears are. I know from experience. It hurt like hel when I snipped my own fingers, while cutting with them. You don’t feel the pain of a cut with sharp shears. It takes seeing the blood, or possibly hanging skin to know you’ve cut yourself. That’s why they’d been retired.
That boy’s Talent was hacked off, an excruciatingly painful way to remove it. If you haven’t already guessed where an incubus’s Talent lies, use your imagination.
The poor thing hadn’t even reached puberty. Why someone would attack the child before his Talents had fully manifested I have no idea. It just goes to show you how perverse and twisted this asshole is, unless my fears are correct. If he’s collecting and using Talents this boy would have done him no good. That would make this a copycat. Doesn’t really matter if it’s The Collector, or a cheap imitation. They think it’s me.