by C. J. Pinard
She turned on her heel and walked out of the bank, driving home, nervous and happy.
She was pacing in her apartment with her phone in her hand when she heard a knock. Her suitcases were sitting by the door, waiting.
Mark stood in her doorway with two large suitcases of his own. “Hi.”
“Please come in,” she said with a smile.
He walked in, set the suitcases down, and walked slowly over to her. She didn’t move. He grabbed her by her blonde curls in the back of her head and began kissing her. She eagerly kissed him back. This went on for fifteen minutes before they came up for air.
He grabbed her hand and led her to the sofa, commanding her to sit. He walked over to the smaller of the two suitcases and opened it for her, showing her the large stacks of bills inside. She smiled broadly.
He sat down beside her. “So, where are you going?” He glances at her suitcases.
She grins. “Italy.” She looked over at his other suitcase. “And you?”
He shrugged. “I was gonna play it by ear.”
“Wanna come to Italy with me?”
He smiled. “I might as well. I gotta leave the country, too. I quit my job today, told the boss I couldn’t take it anymore and I wouldn’t be back.”
She looked at her watch. “My flight leaves at 10 p.m., but I still need to go open up bank accounts at a few banks around town. Wanna come?”
“You aren’t using your real name, are you?”
She laughed. “No way. Got a new driver’s license and passport.”
She pulled the suitcase open and counted out one-hundred thousand. “This is for you. I appreciate your help.”
He took the money and put it in his suitcase. “This will be our travel cash. You deposit the rest in the accounts.”
The rest of the day they spent at three separate banks, depositing money under accounts in the name of Jenna A. Spears.
Ashley called Sean O’Brien and they agreed to meet at Jack’s Bistro. Staying in the car, Mark kissed her softly the on the lips and said, “Good luck.”
She smiled at him and got out of his car and walked confidently into Jack’s, heading straight for the bar where she knew Sean would be.
“Well don’t you look like a ray of sunshine?” Sean said, grinning. His hand rested on a glass of whiskey.
She plopped an envelope on the bar while remaining standing. “Fifty grand. I appreciate your help.”
He eyed the envelope then looked at her. “That will do. Pleasure doing business with you.”
She dipped her head at him. “Likewise.” She turned and left, pausing briefly at the door one last time to turn around and look at the strange and elusive Mr. O’Brien, but was puzzled when she saw nobody at the bar. Even the brass-tipped cane that had been leaning against his barstool was gone. She shook her head and walked out to the car.
Mark had booked himself on Ashley’s flight from his laptop as he waited, and they set off for the airport.
When the flight finally took off, Mark leaned over and kissed Ashley again. “This is going to be a great trip.”
She smiled and kissed him back.
◊ ◊ ◊
A month later, Noah was sitting at Paddy’s, drinking a Guinness. He was on his phone, checking his stocks when something from the bar’s TV caught his attention. He looked up and saw CNN News.
“The police are searching for a bank manager from Chicago named Mark Shepherd who allegedly stole over two million dollars from various customers’ bank accounts. The victims’ names have not been released, as they have not all been notified. Mr. Shepherd was last seen with this woman, Ashley Graham, also of Chicago.” Photos of both of them side by side were plastered up. “If you know the whereabouts of this couple, viewers are urged to call Chicago PD or the FBI at the numbers on the screen.”
Noah felt the blood drain from his face and ran out of the bar to his car. Funny how he obsessively checked his accounts when he was married, worried she was socking some away, but never bothered to check them very often after the divorce.
He pulled out his laptop, shoved the wi-fi card in, and pulled up his stock bank accounts. He let out a yell when he saw the balances on them, and then checked the detailed history and saw the withdrawals. He slammed his head and fists repeatedly on the steering wheel and screamed in rage.
Meanwhile, in a small Irish pub in New York City, Sean O’Brien was sitting on a barstool, nursing his whiskey. He turned to the young man sitting next to him, who was getting quite tanked on vodka, and said, “So, I hear you have a problem. I think I can help you with that."
Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.
◊ ◊ ◊
THE END
Please enjoy this excerpt of C.J. Pinard’s “Enchanted Immortals” – which is always FREE on all reading devices!
ENCHANTED IMMORTALS
C.J. PINARD
Copyright 2012 C.J. Pinard
Prologue
∞∞∞
It was an initiation ceremony. Upon reaching eighteen, the Zie threw a ceremony for each sylph. Drinks flowed freely and all the new female sylphs stood around, dressed in bright colors, holding girlie drinks, and talking with each other.
The year was 1940, and they were so ahead of their time.
Surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, they were all alone on the Island of Nymph. Never heard of it? Of course not. You won’t find it on a map. It’s glamoured from humans. Sylphs do not like to fraternize with humans, but sometimes they do. They like things clean, quiet, and drama-free.
Okay – maybe that last one isn’t really too accurate.
The island was encompassed by balmy turquoise water, and was inhabited by sugar-white sand, palm trees, and grass. A warm wind blew, and hammocks swung quietly between trees while peacocks and toucan birds flitted carelessly around the island. There were both grass huts and modern houses built from the hands of human men, who were quickly glamoured and sent back to their respective homelands upon completion of the building of these homes for the sylphs.
The ceremony was in full swing, as about a dozen sylphs stood, barefoot, inside one of the carefully decorated huts waiting for the ceremony to start.
Sylphs are only female. They are born, not made. How, you ask, when there are no male sylphs? They are born when a sylph falls in love with a human man and has a female child. She knows she has to give up her daughter at eighteen to the Zie. She also has to give up her immortality and become human upon giving birth. And usually, she’s okay with that. Sylphs do not have wings, they use air portals; they are the Faeries of the air. They look human, but are very tiny in stature and love bright colors and practical jokes. They dislike shoes.
The Zie Council controls the Faeworld – or at least they try to. The council is made up of ten sylph queens who have drafted a Treaty with the Fae – the vampires and shapeshifters – in the ten regions of the world. Each region has a sylph queen who enforces the Treaty.
She stepped out of her portal, seemingly out of thin air, dressed in a purple pantsuit, her wavy, light brown hair tucked neatly under her twisted crown headpiece. She stood on tiny bare feet and surveyed the room as a long silence ensued. Then, she finally spoke.
“Greetings, ladies. My name is Malina, and today we learn how to make Enchantment.”
A beautiful blonde sylph dressed all in pink raised her free hand. “Excuse me, Miss Malina, but I thought we were here for a ceremony?”
“What is your name, Pinky?” Malina asked, eyebrow raised.
With a slight hesitation, she answered, “Serina.”
“Serina, come here.”
With trepidation, she approached Malina.
“And what’s Enchantment?” Serina asked while she made her way to Malina, drink in hand.
“Give me your finger,” Malina commanded, holding out her hand.
Tentatively, Serina put out a perfectly-manicured finger. With lightning speed, Malina pulled out a small needle and pricked Serina’s f
inger, drawing blood.
“Ouch!” she bellowed, immediately pulling her finger to her mouth and sucking on it, much like a child at a doctor’s office.
Malina then pulled out a very tiny vial of pinkish-red liquid from the pocket of her purple pants. She pulled off the stopper and tilted the needle with Serina’s blood on it, dumping three drops into the vial. Immediately, the liquid started to thin out and turn aqua-colored. It then began to swirl violently, as all the sylphs watched in amazement.
“To answer your question, Serina, Enchantment is what we make for humans to make and keep them immortal,” she answered with a twinkle in her eye.
“And why would we want to do that?” a pretty sylph with black hair asked. She was holding a heavy martini glass containing clear liquid and an olive.
“Because, my dear, the Immortals police the Fae world. Ever run into a vampire or shapeshifter in a dark alley?”
At the hesitant shake of the curious sylph’s head, Malina continued. “I didn’t think so,” she winked. “And you can thank the Immortals for that.”
Chapter 1
∞∞∞
1946 – San Francisco, California
Fog. Always fog. How am I supposed to get any deliveries done in this mess? he thought. He continued to cycle through the busy streets to get his job done. There’s no rest for the weary, as his father always reminded him. He knew he would be working into the evening with the amount of deliveries he had to make today. Grateful for the work, he kept pedaling through the dense fog and decided to skip his lunch break. He didn’t need to spend an extra quarter on a sandwich; he’d had a big breakfast anyway. He’ll stop at dinnertime and get something.
Later, after an exhausting day, he was finally on his last delivery. He stopped at the tall bank building on Hyde Street and parked in the shade of the massive brick structure, noticing how the dwindling sun cast its large shadow all the way down the street. The fog seemed to now be a fleeting mist in the last remaining sunbeams. Chaining his bike to a fire hydrant that sat directly in front of the building, he went inside. Opening the heavy glass doors, he informed the pretty, neatly-dressed, blonde receptionist that he was here to make a delivery to Jonathan Murphy on the sixteenth floor. The receptionist pointed him towards the elevators, as she always did, and the messenger thanked her for her graciousness. She smiled sweetly at him. He switched the tube-shaped package to his left hand as he pushed the call button for the sixteenth floor.
As the elevator jerked to a start, he thought about what was waiting for him at home. He dreamed of moving out of his parents’ home; he was twenty years old after all, and should be on his own. His father had taught him to work hard but with The Depression a not-so-distant memory, work was still scarce. His father was encouraging him to follow in his footsteps and try out for the SFPD, but he had no interest in becoming a cop. He wanted the high-rise good life, just like the folks who worked in this very building. He was saving his pennies but it would be a while before he could move out. He thought of his high school girlfriend, Barbara, who had broken up with him after leaving to attend an all-girls college in Southern California.
Since when did girls go to college and become doctors anyway?
The shrill of the elevator bell bolted him out of his daydreams and he exited the squeaky elevator onto the sixteenth floor and padded down the plush hallway. Nice digs, he thought as he searched the mahogany doors for office number six. Finding it, he rapped on the beveled glass painted with the words Murphy Architecture and announced he had a delivery for a Mr. Jonathan Murphy. A gruff voice bade him to come in.
His eyes took in the office, which was decorated nicely, but humbly. A dark maroon-colored carpet covered the floor and a large blue sofa sat in the front of the office. Open blinds partially shaded the windows, casting a striped shadow over the multiple wood-framed awards and certificates adorning the cream-colored walls.
“Hello, sir, how are you today? I’ve got a delivery from the Richardson Firm for you,” the humble bike messenger said, handing the man a beat-up clipboard and ink pen.
“Yes, yes, young man, just set it down on the desk there,” Mr. Murphy replied, using his pen to indicate a large partners desk in the corner of the office.
He thought he detected a slight accent when Mr. Murphy spoke, and he couldn’t help but notice the older man’s strong hands; it seems he had seen hard physical work some time in his life. He was very tall, at least six-four, and his wavy blonde hair boasted gray at the temples; his eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the edges when he smiled, indicating that he probably had years of experience. Yet, he didn’t look older than forty, the bike messenger thought. He was wearing a very expensive-looking three-piece suit.
Mr. Murphy handed the clipboard back to him. “Thank you, son. You’re out late this evening, aren’t you?” He said, pressing a quarter into the boy’s palm after handing off the clipboard.
“Yes, sir. There’s no substitute for hard work, as my father always says,” he smiled, pushing a strand of black hair from his forehead. “And thank you,” he indicated to the quarter in his hand.
As the messenger turned to leave, the elder man asked him to wait. “Young man, what is your name?”
“Thomas O’Malley.”
“Ah, what a nice, strong Irish name. Your parents immigrants?” he asked boldly.
“Yes. They came here from the ‘Old Country’ about twenty-five years ago, before I was born. My dad is a police officer here in the city now.”
“And how long have you been with the messenger company?”
“About two years, sir, since graduating high school. I’m trying to save enough money to get my own place, hopefully meet a nice girl, and settle down.”
“You interested in going to college?” Mr. Murphy quizzed.
“Oh, yes, I would love to. But my parents are barely making ends meet, I have to help them with the numerous notes they have due each month. Even my mother has taken to doing odd sewing jobs to help with the finances.”
Jonathan Murphy paused for a minute, looking intently at the young man. Thomas shifted uncomfortably then turned to leave, assuming the strange and imposing conversation was now over.
“Son, I can see that you are a hard worker, I can tell by the way you carry yourself and your good attitude. Every time you’ve made a delivery here, you are on time and have confidence and respect. If you would like a job in my firm, I would be happy to take you under my wing and teach you my architectural trade here. Is that something you would be interested in?” Jonathan fixed him with an intense, steely-gray stare.
Thomas has to mentally tell himself to close his mouth as he turned back around to face Mr. Murphy. He’s pretty sure his blue eyes were about to pop out of their sockets. “Uh…oh, wow. Of course, sir, that would be very gracious of you!” he practically spit the words out.
Jonathan walked over and shook his hand. “I don’t normally take chances like this, but you have a winning quality about you. And I’m a very good judge of character.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m so very grateful for this opportunity. I promise I won’t let you down. My father will be very pleased to hear this. Wh-when would you like me to start?” he stammered.
“This Monday would be fine, if your current employer will let you go that quickly,” Jonathan smiled.
“There are a hundred guys like me wanting messenger jobs, as my boss likes to remind me on a daily basis. I’m sure they won’t have too much heartburn over my short notice, Mr. Murphy,” Thomas quipped with a returning smile.
“All right, sounds like a plan. See you Monday, Thomas O’Malley.”
∞∞∞
Thomas pedaled his squeaky blue bike down Hyde Street, his messenger bag swinging wildly behind him on his back. His mind was reeling. He couldn’t believe his luck; this was almost too good to be true. He had always admired Mr. Murphy when he would make deliveries there. He was always in awe of his nice office, his expensive suit, and his pretty receptionist. He c
ouldn’t wait to get home to tell his parents the good news. He knew his father, especially, would be so proud.
Thomas finally reached home and dismounted his bike to open the large door to the small, detached garage, placing his bike inside and hurriedly closing the creaky garage door with a slam. He swiftly leapt over the neatly trimmed shrubs that lined the front of the house and ran up the four rickety porch steps as they wailed in protest under his weight. He burst through the front door and went straight to the kitchen where he knew his mother, Nell, would be inside cooking. He found her in her usual attire; a simple tea-length dress and yellow apron. She turned around when she heard Thomas come in. She greeted him with a smile, while he hurried over and pushed a strand of auburn hair off her face so he could give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, honey. How was your day?” his mother asked, while stirring what appeared to be beef stroganoff on the stove. The smell wafted up into Thomas’s nose and made his stomach summersault, reminding him he skipped lunch.
“Mom! Where’s Dad? I have great news!” Thomas said, nearly tripping over his words.
“He’s in the front room reading the paper. Why, what’s going on, Tom?”
“Come with me, Mom. I need to talk to you both.”
Nell set her wooden spoon on the stove’s spoon-rest, wiped her hands on the handmade floral towel that hung on the oven’s handle, and followed Thomas into the living room as he went over to his father and sat down on the adjoining sofa.
“Hey, son. What’s the good word? You look awfully excited,” said his father, Joseph, a slightly strong Irish brogue still present in his speech. His navy blue police uniform pants were still on, but he wore only a plain white T-shirt. His duty belt was hanging by a hook on a hall tree in the house’s entryway.
