Council of Souls

by Jen Printy

“Then there’s school.” Leah stands, grabbing her knapsack from the floor. She tucks in her laptop then the notebooks and sketchpads. “The dean of students took pity on me by letting me make up my work instead of missing the whole semester. I’m grateful, but as it is, I’ll have to cram like crazy to maintain my GPA. I can’t repay the dean’s generosity by ditching, now can I?”

  I blow out a puff of air. “No fair, playing on my proprieties like that.”

  “Hey, a girl’s gotta use her fiancé’s archaic manners when it’s to her advantage.” She smiles. “So…”

  I stand and reach out to brush an escaping strand of hair away from her eyes. “I get it. School first, fun later.”

  Leah pecks me on the cheek, swings the bag over her shoulder, and then stops short. “Since I can’t go out today, how about you go to a Halloween party with me? They’re throwing one at the dorm tonight. I thought I could dress up as Cleopatra. I still have the costume from last year.”

  “I haven’t been to a real party in over a century. Do they still dance?”

  Leah grimaces. “Well, yeah, but it’s different from what you’re thinking.” A pink flush creeps across her cheeks. “I have a confession. I can’t dance. Unless you count the revolving sway we did in high school.”

  “Revolving sway?” I smirk.

  With a sigh, Leah steps away and drops her backpack to the floor. She raises her arms in a circular position as if they’re wrapped around a bloke’s neck and shuffles from side to side, spinning in place like a slow-moving top.

  “Impressive,” I say, trying to stifle a smirk. Leah scowls. She bats at my head, and laughing, I duck, successfully dodging her flailing hand. “One of these days, I’ll teach you how to dance properly. I had quite the moves.” I wink.

  A big smile breaks out across Leah’s face. “You know what they say about a man who can dance?” she teases. The way her eyes regard me sends warmth to my face.

  “No, and I don’t think I want to.”

  “Remember, it will be a late one,” she says. “After class, I have that art history test to study for with a couple of friends before the party. How about meeting me at the dorm around nine?”

  “Nine?” I hunch my shoulders and slide my hands into my pockets. Then, fearing I look like an overindulged child told he has to have porridge for dinner, I straighten to my full six feet.

  “Yes, nine. That will give me enough time to get Cleopatra-fied. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” Leah leans in for a kiss, hiding a grin. “We’ll make sure you don’t turn into the dreaded dull boy, ’kay?” Her lips brush mine, and as she pulls away, I smile back.

  “Give me a minute to dress, and I’ll walk you to work. Oh, and don’t forget to leave your keys on the table. I’ll take a look at your car this afternoon after job hunting. I didn’t count on jobs being so scarce in Portland during the off-season. Not many businesses are hiring new employees now that the tourists are gone. But no worries. Something’s bound to pop up.”

  Leah opens her mouth as if to make a comment but presses her lips into a white slash for the second time this morning.

  “What?” I ask, restraining my annoyance with some difficulty.

  She lets out a sigh. “I’ve been debating whether to tell you, but you’ll find out one way or another. Someone dropped these off at the coffee shop.” She retrieves a folded piece of paper from the front pocket of her backpack and hands it to me.

  As I unfold the paper, I see “Rare Books’ Grand Reopening Saturday, October 29th” printed in block lettering along the top of the flier.

  “The twenty-ninth. That’s today,” I say. Since we returned to Portland, the thought of Ed’s little shop closed and abandoned has left a hollowness in my gut. Enough so that I’ve avoided Rare Books, actually shunning Exchange Street altogether. “Do you know who dropped them off?”

  “Not for sure. I wasn’t there. But Rachel described the woman as ‘very grandma-ish.’”

  Despite the old yet familiar hollow feeling settling in the pit of my stomach, a small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Sally.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other, staring at the herringbone design of the brick sidewalk. Rare Books’s yellow storefront looms in front of me. The shop has changed in my absence—I have to admit, for the better. A newly painted sign hangs above the door. The once- grimy windows have no streaks. Not even a smudge of a stray fingerprint dirties the now-sparkling panes.

  The sign says Closed, but I try the door, anyway. It opens. Even though I know what memories lurk only a few short paces away, I take courage by the bollocks and step through the door into a moment I’ve been dreading.

  A familiar buzzer whines. The sound sends a sharp shiver straight through me. In my mind’s eye, Ed sits perched behind the now-vacant counter with that silly, crooked grin on his face. His horn-rimmed glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and he nudges them back into place before they reach the tip. The hollowness grows, settling behind my ribs—a mixture of nostalgia and ache. I draw in another quick breath as the once-pacifying, musty smell of aged paper overpowers my emotions, sending moisture to my eyes. I linger close to the door, not daring to venture farther.

  Past the row of towering bookshelves, Sally hustles to the front, talking to herself. I notice she’s still wearing the engagement ring Ed gave her the night before he died. Her pace slows as she fumbles with the precarious stack of books piled like cordwood in her arms. I step forward to help, and Sally’s gaze lands on me. The delicate latticework of creases fans out around her eyes as her mouth turns upward in a smile.

  I bow my head in greeting, ever the Victorian gentleman.

  “Well, it’s about time you showed up,” she says, sliding the stack of hardcovers onto the counter. She tucks back a loose wisp of salt-and-pepper hair, pinning it away from her face. “If you hadn’t come today, I figured I’d have to hunt you down.”

  My eyes narrow in confusion.

  “I heard you were back,” she clarifies. “You need a job. That’s why you’re here, right?”

  “No. Er, well, I do. But that’s not why I came.”

  Sally props her elbow on the counter. “Are you sure?”

  I stare blank faced at her. “Leah picked up this flier.” I pat myself down until I find the folded handout I stuffed into my pocket. After jerking it out, I unfold the paper. “I wasn’t certain if I’d come, but well…” I shrug, not knowing what else to say.

  Sally purses her lips, a touch of amusement tugging at the corners. “As Tolkien would say,” she muses, holding up a battered copy of The Fellowship of the Ring, “‘not all who wander are lost.’”

  I glance around and try to ignore the nagging suspicion that Sally knows more about my motivations than I do. “Old place looks good,” I say in a placating tone. “Cleaner. It’s nice to see the shop still open. A relief, honestly. I pictured some businessman turning the place into one of those chain bookstores.”

  “Ed would have hated that. He’d probably haunt the place until he scared them out.” Sally chuckles, and then her expression falls somber. “In all truthfulness, I deliberated long and hard about reopening. When I found out Ed left the shop in my hands, I thought about closing it permanently. But I didn’t have the heart.

  “The funny thing is, when Ed was alive, I had a list of chores a mile long. Now the leaky faucet in the bathroom, the squeaky hinges, and that infernal dying-cat door buzzer all seem to lend to this place’s charm. Like Ed. He had his quirks, and they drove me crazy, God knows. But in the end, those oddities are what I loved most about him.”

  She retrieves a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the pocket of an apron tied around her waist and dabs her eyes. “Enough of that. There’s plenty of time for reminiscing later. When can you start?”

  I hang my head, finding my shoe fascinating. “I’m not sure I can. It’
s just—”

  “I know,” she says, a restrained sadness remaining in her voice. “But dealing with one’s grief is healthier than letting the sorrow fester.”

  I look up, but I don’t meet her gaze. Brilliant motto, but unfortunately not the way I do things.

  “Avoidance just leads to heartache later. Besides, you know this place inside and out. I could use your help. The adage is true. Good help is hard to find.” She divides the pile of books into two stacks and shoves one into my arms then takes the other for herself. “I understand, with everything going on with Leah, the timing might be tricky. Then again, a man still has to eat.”

  I stare as Sally turns and walks toward the back shelves. Shifting my stack to a more comfortable position, I follow. “Everything going on with Leah?” I ask.

  “The accident in York. Will she be all right?” Sally glances over her shoulder.

  My mouth hangs agape. Unsure of what to say, I settle for a nod.

  “Thank goodness. Oh—” She stops short, so quickly I almost plow into the back of her. As I rock back on my heels, she faces me. “Congratulations are in order.”

  I cock my head to the side.

  “Your engagement.”

  “A bookstore owner might not be your calling. Have you considered a job as a fortune-teller? Where did you hear all this?”

  “From the girl at the coffee shop. Rachel.”

  I snort. Of course.

  “Talkative one, isn’t she? I swear I know her whole life story.” Sally laughs. “I couldn’t be happier for you. If you need any help at all, you know where to come. Just like if I needed anything, I know I could ask you,” she says, heading toward the aisle in the far corner.

  Dammit. Spreading it on a little thick, don’t you think, Sally? My nineteenth-century sense of chivalry rears its ugly head. I heave an inward groan and follow. “Who else would I ask but my new boss?” I say through stiff lips.

  She spins around to face me. “So that’s a yes?”

  I sigh. “It’s a yes.”

  “How does eight to five, and every other weekend sound?”

  I answer with a bob of my head.

  “We’ll expand our hours for the holidays, but we’ll talk about that later. And remember, if you need any time off to help Leah with her recovery or the wedding plans, ask. Have you set a date yet?” she asks, setting her stack of books on a cart waiting at the head of an aisle marked Early Modern Britain.

  I slide my stack next to hers. “No, not yet. Between her work schedule and school, we haven’t had time to discuss it.”

  “Well, no hurry. You two are young. All the time in the world.” Sally covers her mouth and stares at the two piles, frustration on her face. Then she glances toward the back room before her gaze returns to me. “I’d planned to have the place in tip-top shape before today’s grand opening, but the book dealer sent the blasted shipment to Portland, Oregon, by mistake, and it didn’t arrive until this morning. Talk about giving an old lady a heart attack.” She pauses, glancing around. “Look, the shop is opening in a little over an hour. Maybe it’s too much to ask, but that’s never stopped me. Is there any way you can start today?”

  I release a long exhalation. “Yes, ma’am. Why not?”

  Sally presses her palm to her heart. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. But never call me ma’am.”

  I spend the morning sorting and shelving a mountain of boxed books—a chore I revel in. It’s like being reunited with dozens and dozens of old friends. Sally lends a hand in between the steady stream of customers. The shop has never been so busy. I can’t help wondering how many people are here only to get a peek at a crime scene. Murder being such a rarity in Portland, every single one of them makes the news. The thought tightens my throat.

  Kneeling on the hard wooden floor, I make headway on a large stack of Dickens and then move on to poetry by Keats and Byron. However, I find the busywork cannot barricade my thoughts from the past. As the day rolls by, more and more memories stream in, the most brutal being the sight of Ed’s crumpled body, lying in a pool of his own blood. Others are less gruesome but just as painful—Ed attempting to waltz, his unexplainable fondness for Lou’s Lobster Trap, all his failed crossword attempts and the questions that would ensue. Each memory causes the same deep ache in my chest, not as harsh as the ache of Lydia’s memory, by any means, but still relentless.

  At five past five, the last patron leaves, and Sally flips the Open sign to Closed. I grab the broom from the back room and begin to sweep the day’s grime into neat, small heaps, looking forward to escaping this den of memories. Healthier or not, I’ve had enough of dealing with grief for one day.

  “Even with a few hiccups, it’s been quite a successful day. I knew things would work out,” she says from behind the counter, thumbing through a pile of receipts.

  I huff then chuckle, leaning on the broomstick. “You sound like Leah.”

  Sally looks up from the receipts. “How so?”

  “She believes things will work out for the best, too.”

  “Some would call that faith. Powerful stuff. Just a tad can move mountains.” She points at the mound of emptied boxes, broken down and stacked by the back door, waiting for me to haul them to the dumpster.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I shrug and return to sweeping. “But I might argue it was sweat and muscle that moved that particular mountain.”

  Sally chuckles and then chatters on about the triumph of the reopening while I brush the last of the dust piles into the trash.

  With the floor swept and the bundle of boxes tossed in the dumpster, I leave work and walk to the five-and-dime. I sort through a heap of masks jumbled together in an aisle bin. Despite the mass, choices are slim. A couple of washed-up superheroes mixed in with the usual suspects: vampire, mummy, Frankenstein, and of course, the legendary werewolf. I reach for the Frankenstein, then remembering Leah’s going to be Cleopatra, I grab a mummy mask and head to the register.

  After, I swing by Leah’s place to look at her car, and I quickly agree with her assessment. The belt is fraying, with a bit of glazing. I’m irked after calling a dozen auto parts stores only to find out the needed belt is out of stock, and each clerk says he must order the part. Three weeks is the quickest turnaround I can find.

  With hours to kill before the party, I head back to my apartment and poke around in the kitchen only to find my choices are few here as well. Over a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal, I lounge on the sofa. Emotionally exhausted, I lean my head back against the cushion and click on the television.

  A man dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit attempts to sell me a set of Ginsu knives. “Forever sharp,” he says over and over again. His monotone voice lulls me closer to sleep. I fight against my drooping lids, but exhaustion soon wins.

  When I open my eyes, the world is distorted and vibrantly colored. I’m pulled through a current of images like a rudderless boat, at the mercy of the outgoing tide. I see Vita hovering over Ed’s lifeless body, his eyes staring into space; Vita hunting, drifting from room to room in Leah’s dormitory, searching for her; and then the Shadow Creature, red eyes flaming as it waits to judge. Although somewhere in the back of my mind I’m sure Vita is dead, panic still takes root.

  The flow of pictures slows, dumping me in the middle of a desolate moor. Above me, the moon glows over the vast landscape, bleaching the surroundings into a bleak palette of grays. A raven’s call warns, making me jump. I turn to find the winged omen sitting on the head of a statue, scraping its beak along the white stone. The marble figure dressed in a long robe looms over me, its carved face hidden by the hood. Bone fingers grip the long-handled blade of a scythe.

  I step back as the statue moves, its head looking up from its once-frozen position. From beneath the brim of the hood, Vita glares down at me, the pale moonlight robbing her face of color. Her eyes burn with an aqua-blue light. She sneers,
showing off her pearly teeth, and raises a scythe. With a swing, the blade sails toward me, flashing silver.

  I wake with a start, heart hammering beneath my ribs. Staring at the ceiling, I attempt to calm my breathing. Just a dream, I tell myself over and over again. It’s only a nightmare. Vita isn’t going to rise from the burrows of Shadow Death—the immortal’s equivalent to hell—and hunt us. Those days are behind us. But what of Vita’s twin, Domitilla? With her alive and well, I have a hard time believing she’s not planning to exact payback for her sister’s death. Whether Domitilla will aim her revenge only at Artagan, or at Leah and me as well, remains to be seen.

  Night has overtaken my small living room. Light flickering from the TV distorts shadows into oblong shapes along my wall. I check the time, and I’m surprised to find it’s close to nine. Before heading to Leah’s, I splash water on my face and run a comb through my hair. I hurry out the door, almost forgetting my mask.

  Outside, the street gleams with an icy sheen. Sleet clings to my hair. I hunch my shoulders, flipping up the collar of my leather jacket to guard against the chill. Icy pellets sting my unprotected cheeks. I hug close to the building and quicken my steps.

  The redbrick, Queen Anne-style home that houses Leah’s dormitory is alive, the party in full swing. The pulsating beat of the music rolls out into the street, rumbling under the soles of my feet. I follow a girl in an orange raincoat up the granite steps. She holds the door open for me. I catch the door just above the girl’s head and invite her to go first.

  The girl glances up to thank me, and awareness lights her eyes. “You’re Jack, right? Leah’s fiancé?” she shouts over the music.

  I nod. “Have we met?”

  “No, I’ve just seen pictures Leah has in her dorm room. I’m Michelle, one of her study partners. Tell Leah I missed her tonight at the study group, and I hope she feels better. She has the flu, right?” she goes on, probably seeing the surprise in my eyes.

  Sick? Not bloody likely. Immortals don’t get sick. No stuffy noses or spiking fevers. One benefit I’ve never tired of possessing.