by A C Spahn
The store’s phone rang, and Kendall propped the handset between her shoulder and ear so she could continue sorting fabric swatches by color. “Crafter’s Haven, how can we inspire you today?”
I snickered. Desmond changed the official phone greeting every few weeks, and this one felt particularly saccharine to me. The older customers seemed to like it, though, and the younger ones often gave snarky responses that Kendall repeated to me after hanging up.
This time, though, she didn’t laugh or launch into an explanation of our product offerings. Instead her back straightened, and she shot a glance at me.
Hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “Who’s that?”
Kendall quickly looked away. “Not at the moment,” she said into the phone.
I hopped over my counter. “Kendall, who is it?”
“I’ll pass that on, thanks.” She clicked the phone back into its base before I could reach her.
“That call was about me, wasn’t it?” I demanded.
Kendall scooted around me, away from the phone. “Nope.”
“It was so. What happened? Was it the Union? Did they get something out of Vince?”
“It wasn’t the Union.”
“Then why are you acting so shady?” My heart froze. “Was it someone else? A fleshwriter? Did they find the store?” Already my mind churned through my next moves. Pack up my enchanting gear, grab my bug-out bag, get a ride to the airport ... no, I remembered I wasn’t going to run so easily, so that meant I had to ...
Exasperation in Kendall’s voice cut off my thoughts. “No! Sheesh, no, Adrienne, it’s nothing like that. Just ... hang out here for a bit, okay? Desmond and I have something we need to do.”
I blinked. “Desmond? He’s doing something with you?”
“Not like that, and you know it.”
“You swear this has nothing to do with the Voids?”
“I swear on the nuts I’ve buried for the winter.”
“Haha.”
“No good? How about on my software engineering degree?”
“You don’t have that yet.”
“Look.” Kendall placed her hands on my shoulders. “Whatever you’re worrying about, don’t. Everything is fine. I promise this has nothing to do with the dangers you’re facing. There is no bad news, nothing to trouble you. We just need to run a little errand, and then we’ll be back and I’ll explain everything.”
“I don’t like being lied to.”
“I haven’t told you a single lie. Today, anyway.” Kendall flashed a cheeky grin. “Promise you’ll stay here and not fret?”
“I promise I’ll stay put.”
“Good enough.” With a bounce in her step, Kendall pranced out the back door to Desmond’s woodshop. I thought about pulling out my sensory ring and trying to eavesdrop, but I wasn’t desperate enough to use magic against my friends. Whatever this was, Kendall would tell me. Or I’d pry it out of Desmond, who couldn’t lie to a kindergartner.
The two of them dashed out a moment later, Kendall dragging Desmond by the hand. He flashed me a startled look as they passed, and his face broke into a smile. “Be back soon!”
“What’s this about, Desmond?” I called.
“Uh, we, uh ...”
“Shut up!” Kendall shoved him out the door ahead of her and wagged a finger at me before following, leaving me alone in Haven. But Desmond’s smile convinced me Kendall had told the truth. Whatever they were off to do, it wasn’t threatening.
I eyed the phone. If anyone called, I wasn’t doing that silly greeting.
Half an hour passed. I rang up two customers who stopped in. Ms. Barker, who taught elementary school art, and Mrs. Jacinta, who had an unrivaled passion for silk flowers and was delighted when I initiated conversation with her in Spanish. I also had to explain to a customer that no, I would not make her a dreamcatcher, and no, that wasn’t even close to my culture, and yes, there were indigenous peoples in Colombia, but I wasn’t one of them, and they didn’t use dreamcatchers anyway. She finally accepted a referral to a native Ojibway artist’s online store and left satisfied.
The phone did not ring again. I made a couple attempts to find a record of numbers that had called, but the handset was ancient and didn’t have that feature. No chance of looking up who’d spoken to Kendall.
I fiddled with my cellphone. If I called Desmond, he’d probably give something away. But that would imply I didn’t trust my friends. And I did.
Mostly.
Twice I almost hit the call button, and twice I held back. What could they be doing? They’d promised it had nothing to do with the cult. Maybe Sam had gotten in trouble at school again? But if so, why would she have told Kendall?
The bells on the door jingled as someone entered the store. I looked up from my phone, and my breath hitched as I recognized the man standing on our abstract-art doormat. He spotted me at the register, and his eyes lit up. “It’s you!” he said. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
Zach the painter strolled up to the checkout, smiling. No paint spattered his clothes today, and his light brown hair was neatly slicked back. He held out a calloused hand. “Glad you’re okay. You really freaked me out in that parking lot, and then again on the phone. I was afraid I’d gotten you in trouble.”
I forced a smile onto my face. “No, everything’s fine.” Except for the fleshwriters now tracking me, thanks to this guy’s curiosity. I stomped down the urge to lash out with magic. Zach had thought he was helping the police. This wasn’t his fault. To distract myself I shook his hand, noting a thin white scar on the back of his wrist.
He saw me looking. A blush rose to his cream-colored cheeks. “Sorry for my beat-up hands. Manual labor, you know. The scar’s from when I fell off a ladder on my second day.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ve got scars and callouses of my own.” I waggled my fingers, showing a couple spots where hot glue had burned me.
He looked over his shoulder, then spoke quietly. “So, are you really okay? I felt so bad when I realized what I’d done. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with immigration or anything.”
I blinked. My thoughts were so far away it took me a moment to understand his assumption. When I did, irritation stabbed through me. “I’m not undocumented.”
“It’s okay if you are. I don’t have any problem with that. I just didn’t want you to think it was a race thing.”
“You literally just assumed I’m an undocumented immigrant because I’m Latina.”
His eyes widened, and his blush deepened. “I was just trying to ... I didn’t mean any ... I was just trying to be nice, and I ... ” His shoulders hunched, and he winced. “Crap. You’re right. I’m sorry. That was wrong, and offensive. I shouldn’t have said that. I wish I hadn’t even thought it. I’m really sorry.”
Some of my annoyance faded, though I still wanted to shake him. “I forgive you. Try to do better next time, okay?”
An embarrassed and grateful smile flashed across his face. “I will. Sorry.” He fidgeted, reminding me a bit of Desmond when he was embarrassed. Zach craned his neck, studying the murals painted above the shelves crammed with art supplies. “This place is awesome. A bunch of artist friends told me I had to check it out. Are you the owner?”
“No, that would be Desmond. I just rent a little space from him.” I pointed across the entryway to my workshop.
His gaze flicked over the wind chimes, handbags, wooden signs and metal sculptures hung from the beam above my counter. “You made all that? I like it.”
“Thanks.”
“So, uh, can I ask you something? Or should I just go?”
He was trying to make up for his mistake. I appreciated the effort, so I nodded. “Ask away.”
“Thanks. You know that drawing you were doing when I saw you in the parking lot? The circular design?”
My fist clenched beneath the register. It took effort to keep my voice innocuous. “What about it?”
“What was it? You hung up b
efore I could ask. Like I said, I’ve been trying to research it, and I can’t find it anywhere. Is it a cultural thing?” He wafted his hand in the general direction of my Latina complexion and hair.
“No,” I said. “It’s just a random design.”
My tension must have seeped into my voice, because his face fell. “I’m sorry. Should I not have asked that?”
He meant well, I repeated to myself. “It’s fine. It’s just ... maybe don’t mention that design to anyone else, okay? It’s associated with some ... dark stuff, and you don’t want those kinds of people paying attention to you.”
His brow furrowed. “Dark stuff? You mean like the occult?”
“Kind of.”
“You’re joking with me.”
“I’m completely serious. You should stop researching that symbol, and get rid of any drawings you’ve done of it. Just to be safe.” This was as much for his safety as for mine. If the fleshwriters thought he knew too much, they might decide a little collateral damage was acceptable in their hunt for me. Plus, he now knew where I worked, which was not information I could afford to have him divulge.
His smile grew strained. “You’re not joking, are you?”
Wordlessly, I shook my head.
The smile vanished. “Okay. I can do that. Though I wish you’d tell me the real reason why you don’t want that spread around. My curiosity’s gotten all piqued.”
“One more thing. If any more people question you about that, or about me, say you don’t know anything. Play dumb, no matter what they ask.”
“This is getting really weird.”
I tried to put on a smile. “I’m just trying to help.”
“You’re helping me feel lost at sea.”
“I’m sorry. Please, just trust me.”
He glanced over his shoulder at my workspace. “I guess whatever trouble you’re in can’t be too bad, if you’re still hanging around gluing rocks and wire together. All right, I’ll cover for you if anybody else asks me questions. Not that I expect any. Those cops were the only ones so far.”
I exhaled in relief. Not only for Zach’s agreement, but for the news that the fleshwriters were leaving him alone. Hopefully that would be the end of his journey in the paranormal world.
“Actually,” he said, “I remembered something. Your question about the cops jogged my memory. When the officers came to ask about your design, I was in the middle of painting my living room. In green, like you said. I had just started rolling a new coat, and the paint was dripping when I answered the door. I had to re-roll it later. Does that help with the research you were doing?”
Dripping green paint.
The vision from the enchanted message.
Disparate pieces of knowledge flowed into one continuum, forming a complete picture. Zach said there had been two cops, one at his door and one waiting in the car. The one at the door was Vince. But to have seen the dripping green paint and left it for me in his message, the dead boy must have been there, too. He was the second man Zach had seen, the one waiting in the car.
My eyes closed, and I leaned on the checkout counter to massage my eyelids. I had been right. The boy had fled to San Francisco, perhaps trying to find me. Vince had come after him, and caught him. Then Vince had stopped by the painter’s house to get a lead on me, which let the boy glimpse the dripping paint. Sometime after that, the boy had made his escape attempt, enchanted that piece of concrete to leave me a message, and then overloaded himself in the graveyard.
He’d guided me to the source Vince used to track me. Without that warning, I’d never have known to ditch my car. But what did the rest of the message mean? What about the image of the frightened girl with the plump cheeks and grey eyes, and a tattoo like ours peeking from beneath her shirt? Who was she, and why did the boy want me to find her?
I realized Zach was still standing in front of the counter, eyeing me. “Uh ... did I say something wrong?”
“No.” Actually he’d said something right, a first since he’d arrived. “I’ll let the research group know about the paint.”
“Do you need any more info? The paint worked just fine. I only thought of it because of your other questions.”
“No, you’ve told me plenty. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Silence ensued.
He bit his lip. “Um, should I leave?”
“No, no. Go ahead and look around.” I mentally kicked myself. Desmond wouldn’t appreciate me sending a customer back out into the world to tell people, Don’t shop there, they have a crazy woman selling stuff in the corner. “If you want, I can give you the personalized tour.”
This time his smile was a little more reserved. But it did come back. “I’d like that.”
“Follow me.” I scooted around the register stand and beckoned him to the wire bins of yarn lining one wall. “We always start in the knit and crochet section, to get people hooked.”
“Was ... was that a crocheting joke?”
“It was.”
“Don’t make me laugh too hard, or you’ll put a stitch in my side.”
I chuckled, and Zach grinned. I felt sorry for him. He had no idea the sort of intrigue he’d stumbled upon. Plus he’d tried to make up for his inadvertent racism, which made me think he had a good soul. Just a bit naïve. I was also surprised the burly painting professional knew yarn terms. I should get him talking to Kendall. They’d crack each other up.
Speaking of Kendall, the bells on the door jingled, and the redhead herself bustled in, dragging a cloud of brightly colored balloons. Desmond trailed behind her with another set of balloons, wearing a sheepish grin.
I watched them approach with growing perplexity. “My birthday isn’t until October.”
“I know, silly, the 26th,” said Kendall.
“28th.”
“Whatever.” She nudged Desmond, biting her lip in excitement. “Tell her!”
A huge smile split his face. “Señorita Adrienne, la artista del día, allow me the honor of congratulating you on your very first professional art show at the Dayfall Gallery.”
My mouth dropped open. “No way.”
Kendall squealed. “You’re one of the contest winners!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! They called the store and told me less than an hour ago. You have to call them back to discuss getting your pieces set up for the show, but I wanted to surprise you with the news!” She stuffed a fistful of balloon strings into my hand, followed a moment later by Desmond adding some more. Among the purple, red, and orange latex, a silvery balloon said, “Congratulations!”
Kendall had also gotten one that said, “You’re 2!”
My cheeks started to hurt, and I realized it was because I was smiling so hard. “Thank you, guys. This ... this means a lot.”
Kendall ruffled my hair. “You deserve some happiness after ...” She yelped as Desmond elbowed her, and only then seemed to notice Zach still standing behind me, watching us. “After your rough week,” she finished awkwardly.
Desmond pulled me into a hug, enveloping me in his strong arms. I inhaled his sawdust-and-cologne scent, let the warmth of his skin heat my lungs. My eyelids fluttered. I longed to draw him down, to let our lips mingle, but he wouldn’t appreciate my doing that in front of a customer. He had his manly woodworker persona to protect, after all.
I gave him one more squeeze, then turned to see Zach holding out a hand. “Congratulations.” I accepted the handshake, and he gave my fingers a brief press. “I thought about entering that contest, but I don’t often have time to paint real art. I’ll come check out your show, though.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I hope it lives up to your expectations.”
“I’m sure it will.” He grinned, dropping his head shyly so his hair hung over his forehead. “I should be going, but I’ll come by the store again soon. I think I’m going to like shopping here.”
“We always appreciate new business,” I said cheerily. “
If you want to start making your own art, we offer classes on weekends.”
“Really? Awesome. I’ll check those out.” His eyes flicked to the balloons. “Happy, uh, second birthday. And, sorry again.” With another apologetic smile, he showed himself out.
“I like him,” Kendall declared. Desmond looked like he’d just eaten a lemon.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“Who was that?”
“Zach? He’s the guy from the painting company.”
“The one who told the fleshwriters about you?”
“He didn’t know they were fleshwriters.”
“And he just happened to wander in today?”
“We are a craft store.”
“Still. I don’t trust him.”
“Desmond, if he was a spy for the fleshwriters, he is the most fortunate spy in history to have his quarry accidentally cross paths with him twice. And the most skilled liar in the world. His emotions were all over his face when we talked. He’s not a threat.”
“Which emotions would those be?”
“What?”
“These emotions you saw all over his face. What kind of emotions were they?”
Comprehension dawned on me. “Are you jealous?”
“No.” The hitch in his voice gave away the lie.
I fought to contain my grin. “Why, Señor Desoto, I think you’re feeling threatened.”
He shuffled his feet and stuck his hands in his pockets as if to give them something to do. “He was flirting with you.”
I snorted. “I doubt it.”
“No, he totally was,” said Kendall, straightening some yarn and doing a poor job of pretending not to eavesdrop.
“Even if he was, I wasn’t. He said a few offensive things, and even though he apologized, that’s a huge turnoff. But aside from that, I’m not looking at anyone but you, Desmond. You have nothing to worry about.” I cupped his cheek, though I had to fully extend my arm to do so. Short stubble tickled my palm. “I’m yours, and nothing will change that.”
