by Sara Hanover
“And these two were just here with you? I thought you were taking Brian sightseeing, and the Brit didn’t seem part of the group.” He took my elbow to steer me aside from everyone, as Morty and Steptoe told more or less the same story they had just heard me telling, and pitched his voice quietly. “Tessa, I think you’re in over your head in something you know nothing about.”
“Again?” I tried a shaky smile. “Does Mom know?”
“It’s not funny. Now these gentlemen,” and he gestured toward the New York troops, “probably won’t book you or anything, but I know something else happened here.”
I tried an innocent look. “You do?”
He wiped the ball of his thumb over my cheekbone and then showed me the faint smear of blood. “I do.” Carter cleared his throat. “So. Anyone get hurt?”
“Um. Not on our side that I know about.”
“Good. I can’t begin to explain it to you, but you need to go home, and stay away from these . . . friends.”
It felt, in a contrary way, really nice to be under his inspection. “And why would you care? You’re not even here on official duty.”
Carter shifted weight uneasily. “You’re already under scrutiny. I mean, they’re looking at you and your mom—”
“I know what scrutiny means.”
He flushed a little. “There are things you don’t know about that you could be getting mixed up in.”
He seemed awfully earnest, did my tall and good-looking Carter Phillips. Awfully earnest and very conveniently turning up wherever I might be. An answer popped into my head, one I considered carefully and decided it might explain a few things. I paused a moment and then said, even quieter than we had been talking, “You mean magic?”
He jumped as if I had lit a fire under his feet.
I reacted. “Ohh. You’re busted.”
“Keep your voice down!”
“If we talk any quieter, only the dogs will be able to hear us.” I waggled my eyebrows at him. “I’ve been wondering how you manage to keep an eye on me. It’s almost, you know, supernatural.”
“Cut that out.”
“Because the rest of these guys aren’t in on it.” I waved my hand about at the uniforms and the few detectives that surrounded us, most of them talking with or listening to Morty and Steptoe. One of them enterprisingly asked Steptoe for his passport and got it, making notes before handing it back.
“No, they’re not. And you shouldn’t be either.”
“It looks like we’re both beyond common sense then.” I folded my arms. “So what happened to you?”
He lifted a hand and rubbed the tiny bump that accented the bridge of his nose. “It’s on a need to know basis.”
“Sorry, but I think I need to know.” I twisted on one heel, facing about, and cleared my throat to raise my voice.
“Don’t!”
He was kind of fun to tease, but I didn’t. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
“And don’t be talking like that, either.” Carter grumped at me. He took out a pen and notebook from an inside coat pocket and pretended to take notes. “There were strange things that happened when I was overseas.”
Steptoe did a dance step and waved as if trying to get my attention, but I focused on Carter instead and gawked for a second. “Don’t tell me you found a genie in a bottle?”
“For god’s sake.” He lowered his notebook. “Can we have this conversation somewhere else?”
“Nope.”
“Not exactly,” he answered me slowly. “But things exist that few people are aware of, and they influenced me. Saved my life, actually, and helped me save others. It leaves you with a sense of . . . well, kind of a sense of awe, and one of awareness.” He looked into my eyes. “And I can tell you that you have this otherness all over you.”
“Like a good perfume?”
Carter cocked his head in exasperation.
“You’re just too straight for your own good.”
Steptoe waved at me hastily, but secretly. I grinned at him, and then another intuition struck me. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me. You’re in the Society. That or you’re a Fed.”
This time he didn’t jump but he fumbled his pen and it went flying over our heads and clattered onto the sidewalk. One of the cops scrambled to go get it and return it to Carter. The crooked cleft in his face had gone dead white.
“That sort of information can get you in a lot of trouble,” he hissed and slammed his notebook and pen back in his suit pocket. I thought I heard fabric rip.
I pushed some more. “That would be a yes. Do you know Remy?”
“Not here and not now.”
“Oh-kay. I’d set up a meeting place but you seem to know how to find me whenever you want, so I’ll just move along with these two and you can catch up.” I squeezed his wrist and walked around him. I raised my voice to normal. “Everything all clear?”
Voices murmured back at me but I didn’t hear anything to the contrary, so I herded Morty and Steptoe along the street, then headed back to our shuttle in the museum lot where Sam sat, waiting for us. Carter didn’t follow but I could feel his stare on my back the whole way.
Sam waited till we all snapped our belts into place. “Where is the young man?”
“Buying cigars. Would you happen to know a good shop on Broadway, not far from Columbia?”
Sam thought. “Two or three small boutiques,” he said, before jamming the vehicle into gear, seemingly knowing exactly where to go.
But would we get there in time to save Brian?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAM KEPT LOOKING in the rearview mirror while driving, so I craned about and saw what he did: a NYPD vehicle tailing us and not being the least bit sneaky about it.
“It’s okay, Sam, they’re just keeping an eye on us, not you. One of the guys is from my hometown. He’s trying to look out for me.”
Sam’s shoulders relaxed a bit and he stopped looking in the mirror every three seconds. Carter’s deciding he should follow us would definitely cramp our style. Not that we really had one; we hadn’t been a team long enough to plot our moves. Morty and Steptoe would be the muscle and I guessed I could be the coaxer, but we couldn’t really pull off the good cop/bad cop routine. I slumped down in the back seat and pulled out my phone. Evelyn had texted me a couple of times already during lunch, which reminded my stomach that there hadn’t been a lunch break, to my sorrow. I knew we’d forgotten something!
Evelyn sent snaps of a few dresses and asked for reviews, so I lost myself in auction fantasies for a few long minutes while we wove through New York traffic. I let her know what I thought was trending and what color would be the one for her and if she should show any leg or not—Evelyn had great legs, although I couldn’t say if she inherited them from her mother or her father. Her father worked as a prominent local businessman and was just starting to get into Richmond politics, so I didn’t have any memories of him wearing shorts around in the summer; he always seemed to be in business casual. Her mother swore in her quaint southern way about fair skin that burned at the slightest hint of sun, prone to freckles and wrinkles as well, so I didn’t even know if she actually had legs, since hers were always covered.
Evelyn prodded at me to go dress hunting with her and it hit me that, with the things that had been happening lately, I wasn’t at all sure what today would bring, let alone tomorrow. I made a vague appointment for two nights from now and hoped I could meet it. I shook my melancholy off. As Carter had pointed out, I seemed to be in over my head, and it was time to start treading water. Morty, Steptoe, and even Brian could take care of themselves. I needed to take care of me. As everyone tells you, this is the age of information, digital or not, and no one seemed inclined to tell me anything, so I decided to be proactive. I did a few searches for background on a good tobacco shop, found some interesting ideas as to what the
professor might have been up to there, and then closed my browser.
I dropped the phone to my lap. And what was that all about, Carter being in the Society? It’s not like I could Google them to find any information. Had he sought them out after encountering the weirdness he described in the Middle East, or had they come and found him after he returned home? Just how would that work? How would they know that he’d been exposed, for lack of better words, to magic? That he had been influenced and had an inkling of ability or whatever one needed to stay in the magic business? I bet that an invite hadn’t come delivered by owl to a cupboard under the staircase, but it had come from someplace, and I felt an itch of envy with absolutely no idea how to scratch it. Until it occurred to me that, if magic carried a discernible trace, the Society might well come hunting me, not that Remy and Carter weren’t already on my heels. I wondered if there was something there I could use to my advantage. I had no intention of letting it disadvantage me anymore.
Sam muttered something under his breath, and then repeated it, louder. “We’re almost there.”
I shoved my phone back into my backpack. Traffic moved along at a slow crawl, not much faster than I could walk. Chain stores stretched alongside small boutiques when a sign caught my attention: Fine Tobacco. Window art advertised cigarettes, pipes, cigars, leaf tobacco, and a big sign read: NO VAPING.
I pointed. “That’s probably it.”
“One of them, yes, yes. I can pull over, you all jump out and I will try to find parking around the corner. There are two more in the next block, but this is the oldest establishment.”
Morty roused himself to say a few words. “Finding a garage?”
“Maybe,” Sam answered evasively. “I have my secrets,” he added, as if a little ashamed of himself for sounding short with us.
“You’re fine,” I soothed him. Imagine me, keeping the peace. “Okay, everyone get ready for a tuck and roll.” I unsnapped my seat belt and prepared to run to the curb, snugging my backpack over my shoulder, determined not to leave it behind in the shuttle this time. There were things in it that I needed, especially if I got arrested.
He slid to a halt, narrowly missing a car pulling in at the same time, as if the two intended an epic battle for the one, undersized parking spot, and our doors flew open as we ejected ourselves.
“I’ll call,” I told Sam, and we regrouped on the sidewalk near the shop’s front door.
New York runs at its own pace, generally quick and determined, and few things irritate a New Yorker more than unnecessarily blocking the sidewalk. I pulled Steptoe to the shop wall with me and left Morty on his own, knowing that anyone running into him would think they’d hit the building itself. Two or three pedestrians staggered away in just that illusion while I perused the front of the store, trying to decide what Brian had wanted with the place (maybe the professor did want a celebratory cigar) or if it was part of the treasure hunt. If it was, how would anyone hide anything in there?
Gleaming counters showed through the window, with the entire back half of the shop a glass-enclosed room, with shelves and drawers full of cigar boxes and other objects. Definitely looked like storage to me. “Is that what I think it is?”
Steptoe sniffed and straightened his coat for about the hundredth time since I’d met him. I decided it must be a nervous quirk, or maybe the invisibility cloak it morphed into had security needs or just fit awkwardly after having been all stretched out. “Humidors,” he offered, seeing what I watched through the store windows. “An’ storage drawers.”
“Cigar containers?”
“Mostly. Looks like he maintains quite a few private collections here. There are cigar boxes, of course, which you can see, but he’s also got custom humidors, quite pricey and unique. The room itself is temperature and humidity controlled. Cigars can dry out or they can even mold, so a true collector is concerned about keeping them prime.”
“In addition to the stink? Ew.”
“Now then, ducks, a good cigar or pipe is a grand thing.”
“I’ll take your word on that one. Thank god they don’t allow vaping in there. I can only take so much patchouli or tutti frutti.”
He shuddered in agreement. “Have you a plan?”
“Private collections? Sounds like we should see if he’s keeping anything stored for the professor. It doesn’t look like the others have been here yet.”
Morty grunted. “They would have to beat it out of him first. We may just be half a step ahead of them, with no time to waste.” He ran a hand through his silvery hair in worry and finished off by pulling on his goatee.
I glanced at Morty. “It’s not a waste to wait and see if we can rescue Brian. But you are right—we want to get to whatever it is, first.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s go.”
A small shop, a narrow doorway, so we entered single file, and Morty balked. He looked over the area, eyes calculating, and I breathed a sigh of relief when Morty finally fit through it, but not before he turned sideways. Might have had a future as a ballerina, he tiptoed through so delicately.
The shopkeeper wore the turban of an adult Sikh and looked past me to the two gentlemen with a pleasant smile. His attention returned when I spoke up. “My grandfather asked me to get something from his storage while I was in town. I’m pretty sure I have the right shop, he described it as very well kept and professional.”
“And who might the esteemed gentleman be?” The man had a deep, rich voice, accented with ancestry.
“Professor, well, he’s a Doctor, actually, Brandard, of Richmond, Virginia.”
“Ah yes. He’s been with us a number of years. How is he?”
“A little under the weather, which is why he didn’t come into the city with us. The train trip was a bit much for him at the moment.”
The proprietor smiled, his teeth brilliant against the darkness of his skin. His hand slipped under the edge of the counter. “His is on the left, box 122, miss, and the door is unlocked. Please be kind enough to close the door after you. It’s a bit chilly in there but you will be quite all right. Gentlemen, may I assist you with anything else while Miss Brandard is assessing the professor’s collection?”
I didn’t stay to hear. The ingenuity of the place struck me. Secure but nothing under actual lock and key with passwords and such to access. The door opened with a wave of cool air aromatic with a number of different smells, all exotic and familiar at the same time, and I looked around at a myriad of cigar boxes, most of them custom made from wood, some decorated with initials or gilt or even artwork. The canted shelves also held what looked to be funerary urns, but I decided those must be the humidors Steptoe had referred to, as this was no place to keep your family ashes. Bending over, I spotted the tiny and elegant tags that took me quickly to 122.
The wooden box looked plain indeed compared to the others, quiet and unassuming, but the wood gleamed with a handsome grain and color, and the little latch on it looked to be 18-karat gold and exquisite. I thumbed it open, feeling a frisson of energy go over my hand and down the back of my neck, wondering if I’d set off a protection spell or some such. I paused with my hand on the lock, trying to decide whether I should chance opening it or not. “Professor, this is for your own good,” I whispered, and opened the wooden lid slowly.
A piece of vellum greeted me. Yellowed at the edges, crisp with the air temperature and humidity, it held both age and . . . nothingness. Blank. Waiting to be written upon, as pages were meant to be, and nothing there. I looked at it. Then I noticed that, like a box of chocolates, this box had a second layer. Maybe even a third one, like a secret drawer. I lifted out the tray carefully and found a few cigars waiting on the second layer, but they were arrayed in a symbol. Or, at least it looked like a symbol to me. A magical symbol? A word? A warning? Or information we needed to have? I stood there, stumped, and then thought, “D’oh, take a picture,” so I fished my phone out and snapped t
he shot.
That drawer looked to be removable as well, so I lifted it out extremely carefully, trying not to rattle or displace its contents in any way. Underneath lay the velvety lining, nothing remarkable, except . . . hard to explain but the corners didn’t tuck in quite right. Both my mom and Aunt April had a thing about tucking corners in tightly. Mom used to laugh and say she was taught to make a bed with sheets so prim and correct a quarter could be bounced off it, like a military requirement. The bottom lining for this box wouldn’t even come close. I leaned forward to run my index fingernail about the corner, it being the longest, sharpest object I had at hand, and the velvet peeled away as I did. My nail encountered a corner of leather and I peered underneath the royal blue material.
A whisker-thin leather book met my eyes. Now this looked intriguing. I edged it out. It smelled of the cigars faintly, and the cover had been worn by much usage. I could see it held a number of delicate pages but decided I didn’t have the time to stop and read it. It seemed best to keep it close, so I placed the blank parchment into it and tucked both into my waistband, at the small of my back, not wanting to entrust it to my backpack. I looked up to see Steptoe giving me a signal behind Morty’s back. Time to go!
I put the box back into order and came out of the room, clicking the door behind me loud enough that it interrupted whatever discussion the three of them had been carrying on.
“Ah,” smiled Steptoe. “All done then?”
“Yes. Grandfather always said a good cigar kept him young.”
The Sikh bowed slightly to me. “We hold him in high regard. Send him our wishes, please, young miss.”
“I will!”
We left, trying not to look in a hurry, and I said, “Where’s the next shop?”
“Did you get what we needed?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to lead anybody here in case I didn’t. Besides, he was nice. It wouldn’t be fair to dump a load of trouble in his lap.” I pointed down to the next block. “There’s another smoke shop, and it has vaping.” I grinned. “I think it only right that the harpies get a nose full of tutti frutti, don’t you?”