About twenty feet ahead, I saw lights blanketing the sidewalk. I ran toward the glow, spotting the beveled glass panes of the doors leading into my hotel. I was back on my own street, nine steps away from safety. My feet ascended the steps two at a time, but when I reached the eighth my body jerked backward from something yanking my hair, suspending me from the steep fall by an invisible palm pressed against my back. A cold hand circled my throat as my coat fell open and my blouse lifted from my chest. The long chain holding my necklace stretched high and taut under the fabric, ready to snap from the tension.
“That’s mine!” I screamed, as if I could reason with it or threaten it into letting go of the last physical connection I had to my mother.
The sound brought the security guard through the door. His eyes bugged wide while his mouth mimicked a drunken version of fish-out-of-water. Whatever had me, let go, and I fell like a stunt double to the bottom of the stairs, nearly giving the poor man a coronary. First aid training must have kicked in, because before I knew it, my head was tilted backward and his fingers were wedged around my jaw like a vise.
“I’m okay.” I raised my hand to block his mouth from reaching mine.
“Mrs. Falconer!” he yelled.
“I can breathe.”
“Don’t move,” he said with his hand still pressed against my jaw. “Shit. Shit!”
The man was in worse shape than I was. I doubt he’d seen much excitement around his elevator station in all the years he’d sat behind that desk.
I pushed his hand away and sat up as I reached for the necklace. I didn’t care about the cuts and bruises. All I wanted to do was lock myself in that cramped room on the ninth floor and make sure I still had a full head of hair and all my teeth.
Maybe I’d go to the police the next day and report the assault. I’d walk into the local precinct and explain how an invisible set of hands beat me up and tried to steal my necklace. The guard could back me up by corroborating my story. Then we could keep each other company in the psych ward while a state appointed psychiatrist evaluated us for further signs of mental illness.
I decided against going to the police.
In spite of the guard’s protests and the throbbing pain coming from most of my body, I grabbed his shoulder and hoisted myself up. The broken bone test was negative as I walked into the building and disappeared behind the elevator door.
Like funerals, monuments are for the living. We spend our time, money, and emotions building homage to the dead. But after the checks clear and the world resets itself, we keep looking back at those monuments, feeling like shit because we just can’t let go. We become dead and broken, just like them.
I guess this was as close to a monument to my mother as I could think of. The storefront hadn’t changed. It had the same charm, inviting you in regardless of your interest in herbs or books on existential metaphysics. All kinds of people used to wander in, not fully understanding what they were looking for or why they bothered venturing inside in the first place. Some purchased books, others were just curious about the smell of patchouli and lavender drifting down to the sidewalk.
My mother and I spent as much time here as we did in our own apartment. Ava, the shop proprietor, was my mother’s best friend. The two of them would page through books, rattling off instructions while they mixed powders with foul smelling liquids. When I asked what they were making, they said they were cooking up recipes to make the world taste better.
Ursula and Dagger, the shop cats, lounged along the display cases greeting customers as they entered the shop, stretching out each meow until it was acknowledged with a scratch under the chin. The place was pure magic. With its high windows and odd shaped rooms, it was my own secret garden in the middle of concrete and skyscrapers.
Herbs and incense filled a two-story wall lined with small drawers, accessible only by a towering ladder that rolled along its length. It looked like a giant card catalog from the public library. The shop’s inventory attracted all kinds of people: ladies with their shiny black pumps and perfectly manicured fingertips, others who didn’t seem to notice that the sixties were dead and so were their T-shirts. Even a few men wearing white bands around their necks came in through the back door. I knew what those white collars were.
Ava would ascend the wall with the agility of a cat, sourcing the drawers for ingredients. Answers. Maybe a little insurance, she used to say when I asked what was in them. She had a vibe very much like my mother’s, always tinkering with what the two of them called “soul fuel.”
I took a deep breath, expelling it back into the cold morning air as I debated whether or not to climb the steps. The interior would be different. I wasn’t sure I could stand seeing the walls vacant of all those drawers.
“If you stand here long enough, you’ll eventually find yourself inside.”
The man standing behind me pushed a hand through his disorderly blond hair and winked. The flirtation worked as I caught myself studying his face. He looked to be around my age, maybe a little younger. A darker layer of stubble covered the bottom half of his face, and I wondered which shade was natural. His hazel eyes never left mine as we stood there looking at each other for more than the customary few seconds strangers allot for such introductions.
“Have you been here before?”
I detected a slight Irish or Scottish accent, influenced by the better half of a life lived in New York City.
“Here?” I replied.
“Yes, here.”
“Right here?” My hands motioned around the sidewalk.
His brow lifted.
“Why? Am I standing on your personal spot?”
“Oh, no. I wish it was my spot. I’d be a very rich lad if I owned this very spot.” He flashed a perfect set of white teeth.
My eyes followed him up the steps. I couldn’t help but notice how perfectly his jeans hung on his hips, and I wondered what the rest of him was like under that jacket. He reached for the door. “Coming in?”
“Uh…okay.”
A woman greeted us as we walked through the door. “Patrick,” she said. “I didn’t expect you for another hour.” She smiled at me warmly.
“Thought I’d come in a little early and sort through the shipment from this morning.” He grabbed a stack of mail from behind the counter. “If you want to head out, feel free.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Mel, this is,” his eyes lifted from the stack of envelopes as he waited for me to complete the sentence with my name. When I didn’t respond immediately, he extended his hand. “I’m Patrick—Patrick Kennedy.”
I took it. “Alex Kelley.”
His hand went still and then tightened around mine.
“I’m Melanie Harris.” She extended her hand as well. We shook as her eyes walked over my face. “It’s so good to see you, Alex.”
“Nice to…see you, too.”
“Well, I’ve got some errands to run, so I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” A thin smile crept over her mouth as she exhaled, breaking her stare. “Do come back, Alex,” she said as she left the shop.
“Interesting place.” I surveyed the shelves and displays for signs of the place I remembered. Mounted on the wall was the stuffed head of a boar, which didn’t seem that unusual until you looked closer and noticed a third eyelid in the center of the forehead. Opened, it would have been startling, but the closed lid was more provocative, evoking the question of whether or not you were really seeing the anomaly.
The massive wall of drawers was still there but the labels were gone. Aisles that once housed books now held an impressive inventory of artifacts and antiques. There were shelves lined with old clocks and archaic tools, and elegant burl wood boxes juxtaposed against jars filled with Jurassic-like insects.
“Not what I expected.” I walked along the massive case at the front of the store and browsed the contents. An old wooden box caught my eye. The top was open, displaying a collection of grisly implements including a gothic cross,
handgun, silver bullets, and a bottle of holy water. The tag was labeled: VAMPIRE HUNTING KIT (18TH C).
“Is that real?”
“Of course. Eighteenth century.” He leaned onto the counter with his elbows. “What did you think we sold here?”
I glanced at the shop name on the window—Den of Oddities and Antiquities—before looking back down at the tag. “Twelve thousand dollars? People actually buy this kind of stuff? For that price?”
“You’d be surprised at what a collector will pay for a rare item that can be properly authenticated.” He pointed to a large book in the next case. “This is a Book of Shadows from one of the oldest covens in the UK. The last entry is dated 1672.” My astonishment seemed to amuse him. “A collector just purchased it for seventy-two hundred dollars.”
“Everything has a price, Alex.”
“Well, with prices like these I hope your boss pays you well.”
Patrick leaned further into the counter and let out a throaty laugh. “Well, I guess I’ll be giving myself a raise, then.”
“You own this place? Of course you do. How perfect.”
“Like I said, I wish. That would be even better than owning that piece of sidewalk out there.” He gestured toward the front window as he moved around to the front of the counter, leaning his back against the wood like a man totally comfortable in his own skin.
“Manager?”
“My family owns the place, and yes, I run it. I’ll own it one day, but for now I’m just the hired help.”
I startled as something short and sinuous wrapped itself around my right calf. A beige creature with chocolate tipped ears stared up at me, twitching its tail in an erratic fashion as it prepared to leap.
“Mind your manners, Balvenie.” Patrick chastised the indifferent creature, but the threat was passive. “He likes you. Unfortunately, he often shows it by climbing up your side without your consent. It’s not so offensive unless you’re wearing a good suit or a nice silk blouse.”
I bent down on one knee to stroke his overenthusiastic arched back. He rewarded me with a love nip. Another graze on my backside introduced a second Felis catus that resembled a cow more than the fine-boned Siamese under my hand.
“How many do you have?”
“If you don’t count the strays behind the shop, just the two.”
He bent down to sweep up the larger black and white ball of fur. “This is Lagavulin, Lag for short.”
“Like a good dram of whiskey, do you?” I asked.
“Aye, nothing like a good single malt. You sound like a girl who knows her drink. Some men would call that marriage material.”
Another one of those winks suggested he was receptive to a little more flirting, but I resisted the urge to smile. The boy had charm, no denying that.
“Named him after two of Scotland’s finest. Dubbed this one Laphroaig when he first popped up at my back door. Customers kept butchering the name, so it had to go.”
“You don’t see kitties in shops anymore,” I said, stroking the underside of Balvenie’s chin. “The Health Department has a very large stick up its ass.” I lifted my eyes to see if I’d overstepped the bounds of good taste with my candor.
“No argument there. Take a walk up the swankiest stretch of Madison Avenue after the shops close. You’ll see more than just the mannequins curled up in some of those windows.” He circled his hand under Lagavulin’s outstretched chin. “Until the Health Commissioner himself comes knocking, they stay.”
He was staring at me again with his head cocked and his hand running along the stubble covering his chin. “You know why I’m here, so why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Alex?”
“I spent a lot of time in this place when I was a kid.” I left it at that because he was starting to make me nervous. “My mother knew the shop owner. They were friends.” There I went again, opening my mouth when all I really wanted to do was leave.
His posture stiffened. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but I did. I was good at reading people. Had a real talent for it. He pushed away from the counter and moved back behind it. “When was that?”
“Twenty some years ago.”
He got busy pulling boxes from under the counter. The morning deliveries, I assumed. It was time to leave and let him get back to running his business.
“Thank you for letting me look around.” I headed for the door.
“Was her name Ava?”
“Yes,” I replied without turning round. “Ava was my mother’s best friend. She took care of me after my mother died.” I don’t know why I added that last part. It just rolled off my tongue.
“Ava was my aunt. She died eighteen years ago.” His voice deepened. “That would have been three years after she disappeared—with you.”
I turned around but he was no longer behind the counter. “Where are you?”
His hand gripped the round of my shoulder, turning me. “I’m right here, Alex. I was afraid you might bolt. Couldn’t have that, lass.”
The bell dangling from the door handle rang. Patrick’s back took the brunt of the heavy wood as a customer entered the store, but I was the one who ended up on the floor as the weight of the two of them propelled forward.
“Are you all right?” The man shoved past Patrick, oblivious to the discourtesy as he rushed to help hoist me to my feet.
“I’m fine, really. That’s what I get for standing in front of the door.”
Patrick looked at the man and then back at me. “Mr. Harris, good to see you again. Is there something in particular you’re looking for today?” he asked without taking his eyes off mine.
“I’m sorry, I thought we had an appointment today…to look at the new shipment of artifacts.” The man looked confused as his eyes panned back and forth between the two of us.
Patrick’s jaw tensed. “My apologies. Of course I remember. Alex, can you come back this evening?” His hybrid lilt was smooth and relaxed, but I had a feeling he was anything but that. “We have things to discuss.”
That was an understatement. This man was a direct link to my past and I had no intention of letting the lead grow cold. I needed some time to digest what he’d said to me seconds before Mr. Harris came barreling through the door. The cards were stacked, and I had every intention of playing them in my favor.
“I’m busy tonight, but I can come by tomorrow afternoon.” I noticed a discernible twitch around the edge of his mouth when I countered. “I’m looking at an apartment in the afternoon. Why don’t I come by after that?”
“After we close. Say…eight?” He wanted me alone. “See you tomorrow evening then.”
Looking back at the shop as I descended the steps, I wondered if he’d grown up in the place, loved it the way I did. He was Ava’s blood. That alone told me a lot about him, and I intended to find out how much he knew about me.
“Mr. Harris, why don’t you have a seat in the back room. I’ll be right in.” Patrick pulled his cell phone from his pocket and searched through his contacts. He stopped at the one labeled GS and hit the dial button.
“Patrick,” a voice at the other end acknowledged.
He inhaled, taking his time letting the air expel back out through his nose. “She’s here.”
THREE
The subway hadn’t changed much. The train walls were still sprayed with words and symbols, and the smell of sweat and something reminiscent of an amusement park filled the stagnant air.
The Upper West Side was more realistic than the Upper East Side. Both were ridiculously expensive, but at least there was a shred of hope in finding a closet-sized apartment that wouldn’t require a minimum of three roommates. I’d heard stories of seven floor walk-ups and one room studios with stratospheric rents. This was Manhattan, after all—home of the shoebox legally labeled as living space. What do you expect from one of the most expensive cities in the world?
Greenwich Village was my preference, but real estate in that part of town was a pipe dream. If the natives didn’t snap up the
rare bargains, the constant influx of NYU students did. My mother and I lived in a small apartment in the West Village. That was the last place I called home. After my mother died, Ava and I moved around too much to set down any real roots. The rest were just a series of temporary places where I learned to sleep with one eye open.
There was a coffee shop below our apartment. Music and voices and the clanking of plates snaked up through the vents from morning until evening. Saturdays were the best because we’d have cake for lunch. The smell of cigars and cigarettes permeated the air, mingling with coffee, food, and booze. Secondhand smoke wasn’t much of a thing back then, and I still think of that place whenever I smell a cigar.
My mother left me a fairly large amount of money. A small inheritance by today’s standards, but enough to keep me solvent for several more years. The money came to me just after my twenty-first birthday when a representative of her estate tracked me down through IRS records. I guess paying taxes was good for something. How she got the money I’ll probably never know, but I was grateful for a means of funding an apartment. The money would have come in handy a few years earlier, but handing an inheritance to a kid at the tender age of I-don’t-know-jack-shit is a bad idea, and my mother was no fool.
Fear of poverty was a good motivator to spend my inheritance wisely. I learned to live on a shoestring and like it. It’s amazing how creative you can get with pasta and frozen vegetables when you’re poor or terrified of becoming poor. I had no plans to change that mentality.
The subway car jerked back and forth as it sped through the tunnel toward the Fifty-Ninth Street station. The train came to a sharp stop, triggering the doors to fly open in unison like spring-mechanized traps. Masses of people pushed off the train as more masses shoved to get on. For a population of people who avoided eye contact on the street, I thought it odd how they had no problem intimately squeezing between each other on the cramped seats of the train, not to mention all the poles lined with sweaty hands.
The Amulet Thief (The Fitheach Trilogy Book 1) Page 2