Penumbra (The Midnight Society #2)

by Logan Patricks

  He held it with such a reverence that it reminded me of how I took care in touching the pianos I performed on. My dad had taught me right from the start to appreciate the beauty of a musical instrument and to respect the craftsmanship that went into them.

  As a child, while other kids smashed their saliva-stained fists onto the white keys, I played each note with care, appreciating the sound that echoed from deep within the chest of the piano, my dad always sitting right next to me.

  I shook the memories out of my mind. My dad was gone, and so was my joy in playing. I looked at Beau with glistening eyes and forced a weak smile.

  “I’d love to hear you play,” I said, “Maybe later?”

  Beau nodded as he looked at the worn down violin. “She don’t look like much, but let me tell you, the sounds out of her are beautiful,” he said. “She’s the most precious thing in this entire place.”

  He set the violin back down on the counter and then clasped his hands together. “So esteemed guests of mine, what next?”

  “We still have matters of business to finish off,” Lincoln said.

  “Ah, of course,” Beau nodded. He gestured for us to go up the stairs to the second floor. “We can finish off the rest of our discussions in my quarters, and then celebrate with some drinks afterwards.”

  I took my time walking towards the spiral, iron staircase, marveling at all the wonderful things Beau had in his store—antique cups and dishes displayed in a lovely china cabinet, two large bookshelves filled with rustic leather tomes, antiquated pistols from the wild west.

  I still didn’t trust Beau but I had to admit, he had a wonderful taste in antiques. His shop was absolutely enchanting.

  The second level of Angel’s Trumpet was Beau’s personal living quarters, a large flat that took up the entire floor. Shoved up against the far side of the wall was a queen sized bed and next to it a night stand with a stack of books resting on it.

  I peeked at what he was reading: the collected ‘Chronicles of Narnia’ by C.S. Lewis, the ‘Island’ by Gary Paulsen, ‘The Lord of the Flies’ by William Golding, and ‘Heart of Darkness’ by Josef Conrad. Beau seemed like a well-read man.

  I spotted the piano he’d mentioned earlier, an old wooden upright that stood proudly against the wall, next to the glass double doors leading to the balcony. My first instinct was to walk over to the piano and explore it with my fingertips—feel the smoothness of the wood and the weight of the ivory keys underneath my touch—but I stopped myself. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t rid myself of the memory of Justin burning.

  I turned my attention away from the piano.

  At the opposite end of the room, a large sofa rested in front of a full length vintage mirror. I found this quite odd. Did Beau seriously sit and stare at his own reflection?

  “You’re kidding, right?” I asked, pointing at the narcissistic set up.

  “I grew bored of television last week,” Beau smiled. “I thought I’d put something up that I would enjoy looking at.”

  Wow. What a guy.

  Perhaps Beau wasn’t so much a crook as he was a conceited meat head. I trusted him a little more because of it.

  Beau tilted his head towards a large circular wooden table at the center of the room, polished to a brilliant luster. Four matching chairs were tucked away underneath it.

  The moment we were seated, Lincoln wasted no time getting to the point.

  “As agreed, in return for your help, we’ll pay you a lot of money,” Lincoln said. “And I’ll personally deliver you Lincoln Richards so you can take your shot at him. Now let’s talk about what we need from you.”

  “Go on.”

  “New IDs and passports created for us, along with any necessary documents, the cache of weapons we stored here, and the millions in cash that Donald had you keeping watch over.” Lincoln said.

  Beau raised his brow. “You gonna pay me with the same cash that I was watching over for my daddy?”

  “Yes,” Lincoln replied.

  Beau couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re lucky I’m a good son,” he said. “I can’t think of too many men that would sit on a stack of money that high without being tempted some.”

  “Your father trusted you, and so do I,” Lincoln replied. “Donald was a very good man. I would never have done anything to disappoint him and I think the same goes for you.”

  “It’s true,” Beau agreed.

  “So you can give us what we need then?”

  “The passports and the documents are not a problem, though I have to wonder why you need them in the first place.”

  “When Calisto started her own faction, loyalties were tested. Many people went over to the Revenants. Lucy and I were some of the few that remained true to the Midnight Society,” Lincoln said. “In order to fight the Revenants, we’re going to need to stay under the radar. We’ll need new identities.”

  Beau rubbed his chin. “Any thoughts on a new name then, Jesse Sparrow?”

  Lincoln shrugged. “We can come up with the entire backstory when the time comes.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I can get those done for you and Lucy by tomorrow night.”

  “And the money and weapons?” Lincoln asked.

  Beau leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Now that might take a bit more time.”

  “Why’s that?” Lincoln asked, a frown creeping across his soft lips.

  “When dad gave me the bag of money, he basically told me that it was an emergency fund if the Midnight Society ever required cold, hard cash fast and easy,” Beau said. “He told me that he trusted me, that I was never to take the money for myself and spend it.”

  “Did you?” Lincoln asked.

  Beau shook his head. “Of course not. I invested it instead.”

  “You took a bunch of unmarked bills, money that was made by illegal means, and you decided to invest it?” Lincoln looked as if he was going to slap Beau upside the head.

  “Hold on, hear me out. There’s a reason I did what I did.”

  “It better be a very good one,” Lincoln said.

  “About a year ago, I was scamming rich widows out of their money on internet dating websites,” Beau began.

  Lincoln folded his arms across his chest. “You’re not off to a good start.”

  “Hey look, a man’s gotta eat, doesn’t he? Antique shops aren’t exactly a means of making money hand over fist these days,” Beau said. “And I certainly wasn’t going to take the bag of cash my dad gave me and go on a spending spree.”

  “That’s much appreciated,” Lincoln muttered.

  “Anyways, apparently one of the widows I scammed out of fifty grand had a very angry brother, who was a respected Police Captain over in Florida,” Beau said. “Seeing as how I was under criminal investigation for fraud and theft, I didn’t think holding onto a large sack of bills and a bunch of firearms was the smartest idea at the time. I needed to find a way to hide the money, and fast.”

  “So you invested it?”

  “Yes,” Beau said. “And according to my calculations, the money has tripled. You’re welcome.”

  “What about the weapons?”

  “They’re being safeguarded by the investor.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what you invested our money in,” Lincoln sighed.

  “Mr. Friday has it.”

  Lincoln looked as if he’d been kicked. Apparently this Mr. Friday was bad news. “For fucks sake Beau, what were you thinking?”

  “Who’s Mr. Friday?” I asked, deciding to finally chime in on the conversation.

  Lincoln turned to me and frowned. “He operates one of the largest criminal empires in all of the states,” he replied. “Not much is known about him, other than he’s a complete psychopath and he knows magic.”

  “Voodoo to be exact,” Beau said with a mischievous grin. “There’s an urban myth circulating around New Orleans that Mr. Friday has men running all around the city secretly collecting stray hairs, spit, and blood from every inhabi
tant of our fair city. He uses them to construct voodoo dolls, all named, stored, and categorized in his basement. In the event you ever cross his path, he can kill you from the comfort his own home with a simple prick of a needle.”

  “And people believe that nonsense?” I asked. “The kingpin of crime in New Orleans enjoys playing Harry Potter?”

  Lincoln placed his index finger to his lips, gently hushing me.

  “Never underestimate the power of magic,” he whispered.

  “You believe in this nonsense too?”

  Lincoln shrugged. “I’ve survived this long because I’m cautious of everything—superstitions included. I’ve never met Mr. Friday, but there are enough eyewitness accounts out there for me to think twice before calling the man’s Voodoo a joke.”

  “Jesse speaks words of wisdom,” Beau chimed in. “There’s a sprinkle of magic in almost all religions—Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism—and you can’t say that the basis of all their faiths is hogwash, can you?”

  He had a point.

  “Besides, if there’s one place in the world that voodoo could exist, it has to be New Orleans,” Beau continued.

  “Why’s that?” I was curious.

  “The ghosts, girl,” he replied. “There are a lot of ghosts in this place.”

  I looked at Beau thoughtfully as he brushed his wild, flowing hair out of his eyes. There was weariness on his face as he talked about ghosts, the same look I saw in my reflection as of late.

  I couldn’t help but think this man was haunted by ghosts of his own, like how Justin haunted me.

  Lincoln cleared his throat, steering the direction of the conversation back to business.

  “So Mr. Friday has our money,” he stated.

  Beau nodded. “For safe keeping,” he replied. “Despite all the myths surrounding him, he’s still a fairly decent guy. All we need to do is ask for our investment back—like cashing in from the stock market.”

  “It’s just that easy?” Lincoln asked.

  “It should be.”

  “I heard Mr. Friday drinks blood from the veins of virgin captives to strengthen his voodoo,” Lincoln pointed out. “Somehow I don’t think dealing with him is anything like a typical stock exchange transaction.”

  Beau shrugged. “Are you a virgin?”

  Lincoln looked almost offended by the question. “Lord no,” he said, just before adding, “I’m an absolute sex fiend.”

  Beau turned to me and grinned. “You must be a very satisfied lady.”

  I was about to reply, but Lincoln chimed in for me. “She is.”

  I couldn’t help but blush remembering Lincoln, his steely arms decorated with tattoos, as he propped himself up while fucking Juno’s brains out. The memory of his lust-filled eyes and dirty mouth was enough to warm my insides.

  I hoped I wasn’t turning bright red, which usually happened when I thought about sex.

  “Don’t you worry about Mr. Friday,” Beau said. “I’ll set up a meeting with him. His reputation makes him out to be one scary motherfucker, I’ll grant you that much. Doing business with his organization, however, has been straightforward. He also has quite the attractive advisor, whom I hear is a powerful voodoo witch in her own right.” He leaned in and whispered, “To tell you the truth, I think she’s far more dangerous than Mr. Friday.”

  “Fine,” Lincoln said. “We’ll let you make arrangements for a meeting between us.”

  Beau nodded as he rose from his seat and walked over to the liquor cabinet.

  “Great,” Beau said. “Well looks like business is done for the day. Anyone want a drink?”

  I shook my head. “I think I tanked enough at the bar.”

  “Aww Lucy, let loose a little and have some fun,” Beau said.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I replied. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just hang out on your balcony and borrow one of your books to read. I need to unwind a little.”

  Beau nodded. “Help yourself to whatever you want.” He turned to Lincoln. “You, however, aren’t getting off so easily. I think we’ll need to have a heart-to-heart discussion about my dearly departed dad, over a stiff drink of course.”

  “You just keep pouring, and I’ll sing whatever song you want to hear,” Lincoln agreed.

  As the whiskey started filling up the bar glasses, I rose from the table and strolled over to his nightstand.

  I grabbed ‘Heart of Darkness’ and headed out onto the balcony, where I sat in the lone iron chair resting outside. I flipped the switch that turned on the patio lights, casting an aurora of evanescent white light over me.

  Inside, I heard the muffled discussion regarding Donald. I focused on my book, doing my best to tune out the conversation they were having.

  I didn’t want to think about Donald. When I did, all I saw was Sinister—Calisto—unloading bullets into his chest, tiny explosions of red bulbous liquid bursting from his body like bubbling meat sauce on the stove.

  I was reaching my breaking point, and I feared that hearing tales about Donald— the good man that he was—alongside the memory of his tragic death would be enough to push me over the edge.

  I needed some escape, and for now, Joseph Conrad was going to be it.

  I hadn’t gotten fifteen pages in before my eyelids grew heavy and I began drifting.

  It was Beau who woke me up.

  “The book not to your liking?” There was a slur in his speech and from where I sat I could smell the heavy scent of whiskey emanating from him.

  How long was I out for, and how much did he drink during that period?

  I shook my head as I stretched—the book lying face-down, open on my lap.

  “The book is fine,” I replied. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all.” I glanced back at the table and noticed that Lincoln wasn’t there anymore.

  “Where is he?” I asked, worried.

  “Getting some air,” Beau replied. He cast his eyes over me. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I wasn’t even entertaining the thought,” I lied.

  “The eyes never lie, do they,” Beau said. I noticed in his hands, he was holding the violin.

  “Are you going to play for me?” I asked.

  “Only if you start trusting me,” Beau replied.

  I shrugged. “Play and we’ll find out if that happens.”

  He grinned, as he rested his chin the on violin. He picked up the bow, and brushed the strings of the instrument with one confident stroke. Despite the run-down shape the violin was in, it still sounded beautiful.

  It sounded like music.

  The melodies Beau played were absolutely stunning. I closed my eyes and listened, relishing in his playing, taking in the long, sustained notes in the minor key, followed by the trills which had European flavors to them. Whatever he was playing, it was brilliant and enchanting. I heard the dark emotions, buried deep within him seep out from his skin, flowing all the way into his hands which drew the violin’s bow back and forth, back and forth.

  Was it Donald’s death that inspired him to produce such a heartfelt sound? Every lingering note gripped me like a fist, squeezing out every last ounce of sorrow from my heart, until my eyes couldn’t help but fill with tears.

  I thought of my dad, and how perfect and simple life had been before he had died. There was nothing I longed for more than to be a child again, sitting in his lap while he read to me or while we listened to his records together.

  When he was finished, his hands dropped to his sides, the violin and bow dangling loosely in both. I was surprised to see that he was smiling, seeing as how he had just performed such a gut wrenching song.

  “Tadaa,” he whispered.

  “That was beautiful Beau,” I said, amazed. “I never heard it before.”

  “Just composed it on the spot,” he replied.

  “You know the composition of music very well,” I said. “You used a lot of one, four, and five chords mixed in with the right blend of dissonance fifths and sev
enths, and the trills you used for embellishments all came at the perfect time.”

  Beau looked at me as if I were speaking Swahili.

  “I just play,” he said. “That’s all I do.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was a bit of a musician myself.”

  “I can see that,” Beau replied. “You gotta play the piano for me.”

  I shook my head.

  “No, not now,” I replied. Perhaps not ever.

  Beau shrugged. “Suit yourself, but just let me say that it’s an absolute tragedy to waste talent.”

  “Thanks for the lesson,” I sighed. “Were you thinking of someone in particular when you played that song? There was just so much raw emotion in it.”

  Beau shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “Music don’t mean anything unless there’s a person you want to play it for.”

  “Donald?” I asked.

  He laughed. “No, not my dad,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I only met the man four times. It was enough to gain a lot of respect for him, but not enough to love him.”

  My eyes gravitated towards his violin. It wasn’t the prettiest of instruments. The color of the wood was faded to a dull brown and parts of the outer shell were cracked. It still produced a beautiful sound though, but for someone with Beau’s talents, I’d have thought he’d want to play on a more polished violin.

  “What’s so special about this violin?” I asked.

  Beau lifted the instrument to our eye levels and looked at it with complete adoration. “It belonged to one of the greats,” he said.

  “Oh? Eddie South? Stephane Grappelli?”

  He shook his head. “It belonged to a pretty little lady who used to warm my bed,” he said with a longing smile.

  She must have been Beau’s muse.

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  Though his eyes were looking straight at me, I could tell that his thoughts were buried in the past.

  There was a moment of lingering silence, except for the sounds of New Orleans—music off in the far distance, and the merriment of a few people who had a few too much to drink.

  Finally Beau spoke. “She was swept away in the flood,” he said as he closed his eyes. “The water cradled her to sleep.”