by JD Nelson
THE FIRE WITHIN THE NIGHT
JD NELSON
Copyright © 2014 JD Nelson
All rights reserved by Chaste Moon Publishing
ISBN: 0-9912092-5-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-9912092-5-5
DEDICATION
Nels, you are everything to me. This is for you.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
BOOKS BY JD NELSON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
For the two hundred and ninetieth day in a row, I slid the old fashioned key home, turned the lock over, and felt a frisson of excitement in the pit of my stomach. I was living my dream.
Too bad that dream was sucking the life out of me.
At first, owning my own bookstore in the Upper West Side had been a delight. I met interesting people, had access to new books before they hit the shelves, and best of all, I answered to no one. I was my own boss. You’d think that I’d be happy, hell, ecstatic to come here every day. Yeah, right.
Every morning, I would drag my gangling, half-dead carcass through the fiction section and make a beeline towards the espresso machine slumbering behind the countertop. Damn, I envied that machine. At least he was able to rest. I, on the other hand, hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in over nine months.
Throwing my keys next to the register, I took perverse pleasure in cranking up the machine. “Wakey, Wakey, Mr. Espresso. If I can’t sleep, neither can you.”
He didn’t respond; he never does, but I wouldn’t either if I were him. Who wants to wake up every morning to a red-eyed, sleep-deprived, crazy lady with a major case of bedhead? No one. Which is why I’m still tragically single at twenty-five.
I managed to fumble a cup onto the countertop (after two attempts) and pump my favorite white chocolaty goodness into it without too much trouble. How did I do this in my zombie state? Practice. Lots of practice. And even then, it’s a crapshoot. There have been several ‘incidents’ I’d rather not go into—ever. Let’s just say that steam is as dangerous as fire in the wrong hands.
Ten minutes after the most successful coffee endeavor of the week, the jingling of the door chimes alerted me to my first customer of the day. I peeled my face off the glass pastry counter, attempting to appear as if I hadn’t been drooling on the job. A peek around the New Release shelves revealed that my slacking off hadn’t mattered. Chase, my only employee, looked at me with piercing, reproachful blue eyes and stern hands set on her slim hips. “Is it impossible for you to wait on me? Aren’t humans supposed to have some kind of biological imperative to make their lives better?”
I cringed at the familiar scolding tone. Chase was the only person younger than me that could make me sorry I’d used my own equipment—in my own store. Hate was a complete understatement for the way she felt when I touched ‘her’ espresso machine, and she wasn’t too shy to tell me in no uncertain terms that she would soon tire of reprimands and head straight in to kicking my ass.
“Sorry, Chase. In my defense, I was half asleep when I made this.” I held up the cup and tried to look pathetic, which was sadly easy for me.
“You use that excuse every day!” she exclaimed.
“It’s not an excuse if it’s true,” I grouched.
Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Sure it’s not, honey.”
Knowing that I was forgiven (until next time), I giggled and snatched my coffee off of the counter before she could pour it out and make it the ‘right’ way. “I’m going to go through the thrift store finds in the back. Call me if it gets busy.”
“Will do, boss.” She saluted and skipped behind the counter, her pink ponytail swinging with every step.
Still chuckling, I made my way to the back room to sort out the big box of goodies my new friend at the thrift store sent over yesterday. Chuck was great about bringing me the antique books he’d find at the estate sales he attended. They never cost much—a quarter here, a dollar there, and I was happy to pay him for his time and the cost of the books. Some of them had been great finds. First editions and signed copies were pretty common in large estates.
Today, there was a copy of Jane Eyre and Northanger Abbey on top of a huge book so dusty that I couldn’t make out the name. Without even knowing what the large book was, this was already a phenomenal haul. The Jane Eyre was a nineteen forty-six photoplay edition. It had been issued when the Orson Welles version of the film had been released and could easily fetch up to a hundred dollars in the store.
I picked up the two books on top and walked back up front. “Hey, Chase, guess what?”
“Chuck came through with a great find? Good, now I can give you this perfect white chocolate mocha, and I won’t have to hear your epic saga about how every cup of my special coffee you enjoy, steals four dollars out of your pocket? Right?” She held out the cup. “Now, give me that swill.”
“It’s not swill! I can make a simple espresso drink, Chase. I am capable of that,” I countered, indignant, though I knew she was a hundred percent in the right.
She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “It’s so sad that you have deluded yourself into believing that, Erin.”
I blew out a huff that lifted my black bangs up and traded cups with her. “I’m going to look at the other book. Can you get this one marked to a hundred and this one to ten?”
“Sure thing! Let me know what the other book turns out to be. It’s pretty cool looking—almost like a prop in a scary movie or something.”
“Yeah, and you can let me know if a witch comes looking for a missing grimoire. I might need to borrow her broom to get all that dirt off it.”
“I’ve been watching Mrs. Frank from around the corner," she said, whispering in a secretive voice. "If anyone has lost a grimoire, it’s her. Plus, I'm pretty sure she's hoarding black cats."
I giggled and toasted the air in her direction with my coffee cup. “Thanks, Chase.”
“Anytime,” she replied. In mock seriousness, she added, “And Erin, I do mean anytime. Stay off my machine, will ya?”
“Sure,” I lied. I’d learned soon after she was hired that there was no point in trying to reason with her. She took being right to a whole other level. Also pointless, was reminding her who was making the payments on the building and its contents, that she had been issued a uniform, and that people could hear what you said about them if you say it to their face. Chase might be one of a kind, but she was obviously from another freaking planet.
Perfect mocha in hand, I trudged back to the stockroom and steeled myself for the painstaking process of cleaning what I hoped was a first edition of Moby Dick that would get the store out of debt and pay for the awning I was so desperate to replace. The sun shining through the windows seemed to become a little brighter every day.
To my disappointment, the last estate find was indeed an old spell book of some sort. Chase was right again. What a surprise. Taking a damp washcloth, I rubbed at the red-leathered tome with gentle strokes, until I could see crude runes that were etched in the cover—runes that were at complete odds with the handwritten spells in Old and Middle English that I found inside. If it was from the time that they spoke Old English, there was no way that this book could be as well pr
eserved as it was.
Unless, it’s spelled.
I looked around the dark back room, my nervous eyes darting everywhere. I don’t believe in witchcraft and think it’s a definite bunch of nonsense, but I also think it’s best not to tempt fate—just in case. I’ve seen a lot of unexplainable things in my life. Chase, however, was the exact kind of person who would be gung-ho to try any and every spell from the strange book. She had no fear, which is usually a quality I admired, but not in this situation. I couldn’t let her know what the book might be. She’d have both of us turned into familiars or worse. No, the smart thing to do would be to take it to the occult shop down the block tomorrow. Maybe they would be interested in it. I doubt my crowd of little old ladies and business people looking for the latest Nora Roberts or James Patterson would give it anything but a look of scorn.
As usual, my fickle brain started to change its mind as the day wore on. I was becoming more and more intrigued the longer I thought about the book. So much so, I had to stop myself from going to look at it three times. It was almost as if it were calling to me, which is just silly. The rational part of my brain knows that magic is nothing but a load of hocus pocus.
By the time seven o’clock rolled around, the fear of tempting fate had vanished and I was counting the seconds until I could inspect the book at length. With a promise to wait for her to make my coffee tomorrow, I shoved Chase out the door a full ten minutes before her shift was up, switched the lock closed, and raced to the back, turning on the overhead light and even lighting a few candles for good measure. If there was a power outage while I was messing around with the unknown, I did not want to be unprepared…and I’m a teeny bit scared of the dark…and pretty much everything else.
Placing the heavy book on the table, I read through the passages, turning the pages with gentle fingers. Not for fear of damaging its worn pages, but because I was terrified of it. I’d watched plenty of movies where some inanimate object turns out to be a sentient being hell-bent on killing the poor, defenseless (and stupid) girl with her finger poked in it. That scenario sounded fitting for this book. Most of the spells were ominous, with warnings of dire consequences if the spells aren’t correct when performed; sometimes even death. I wanted to stay as far away from those as possible.
Regardless of the scary stuff, I figured, at the least, there might be a protection spell in the book that a non-magical person could cast. I hated the short, solitary walk to my apartment every night. So far, the potential for danger had been more frightening than the actual trouble I’d had, but I wasn’t naïve enough to think I could escape notice forever. Even in the Upper West Side, it’s still dangerous to be a single woman on foot, alone after dark.
I’d almost given up on my fruitless search for any ‘safe spells’ to cast when I found one that didn’t sound as if it would bring the world to an end, although, it didn’t make a lot of sense. But, then again, what did make sense about this strange book? Taking a deep breath, I traced my finger across the page and whispered the words.
Tis fair and light, thy night.
Be not afraid, elves.
Fullsome fere come.
Thy moon will guide.
Wither ye go, thy magick shall be betwixt us henceforth.
The instant I spoke the last word, the bulb overhead glowed bright and then shattered, raining shards of glass onto the candles, extinguishing their flames. I screamed and turned away from the table, frantically waving my arms in front of me to find the lamp near the door. Trembling, I flicked it on and glanced around for anything that might have changed, relieved when there was nothing. Laughing shakily at my foolishness, I blew the debris off the spell book and tucked it under my arm. I’d take it to the occult shop tomorrow on my walk to work. Witchcraft! What was I thinking?
I wasn’t alone. Someone was following close behind me. I could hear their soft, careful footsteps echoing off the empty street in time with my own. Even in my panic, I could see the inane irony in that I’d looked for a protection spell in the very book someone was now going to steal. Well, at least, it would save me a trip to the occult store tomorrow.
Stopping under the guise of checking my heel for a break, I dropped my purse and tote a few feet in front of me. I knew running was out of the question. There was no way I could outrun whoever it was in my heels. The shoes might do more lasting damage to my feet than the would-be thief. And this way, the mugger could just take my belongings and go. No one would get hurt, and I could go home and look up the closest car dealership to set up an appointment. I wasn’t going to go through this again.
The problem with that idea was, he didn’t go for it. Through the long, dark fringe of my hair, I could see a black haired man in his late twenties or early thirties admiring the architecture as though he were waiting on a bus. Really? I risked a longer glance at the snug black t-shirt and jeans he wore, looking for a thankfully absent weapon, then brought my gaze back to his face. He was still studying the buildings as though he might sketch them out later when he had spare time. I sighed. This could go one of two ways. One, this guy was waiting on a bus or taxi, and I was just being paranoid, or two, he was an attractive serial rapist/murderer/human skin wearer waiting on me to turn my back, so he could jump me and drag me to his cargo van. Which one was more likely? I had no idea, but I was about to find out.
Shaking my head at the insanity of what I was about to do, I picked up my bag, fished into the side pocket for the pepper spray Chase insisted I carry, and started walking back in his direction. Crazy? Oh yes, but I would rather face my attacker head-on than give him the opportunity to grab me from behind. I wanted a fighting chance.
Stopping about six feet away, which was still way too close for my comfort, I expected the handsome man to register some surprise that I was now within striking distance, or at the least, to become defensive, but instead, I found him staring into my eyes with question. And that question was, “What did I do to you to make you want to blind me with the contents of your aerosol can of pain, crazy lady?”
“W—why are you following me?” I blurted out, raising the can in a halfhearted attempt. I was feeling a little stupid. It was obvious he didn’t mean me any harm.
The stranger’s dark brows lifted in surprise. “You called to me, daughter of Odin.”
His voice was unexpected, deep and accented with a pleasant Scandinavian lilt, but it was his face that was really remarkable. When he turned it into the light, I could see just how spectacular he was. I became tongue-tied for a moment as I tried to wrap my mind around my would-be attacker’s flawlessness. A perfect aquiline nose, bright, expressive green eyes, and a sharp, strong jaw made for an exquisite specimen of a man. I’d never seen anyone as perfect as he was.
Realizing that I was making a puddle on the sidewalk with my drool, I blushed and addressed his statement. “I…uh…didn’t call you. Did you say Odin? Like, Norse Mythology, Odin?” Confusion filled his face and I’m sure my expression mirrored it. This may have been the strangest meeting between two people—ever. “I’m sorry. I don’t understa—” I started again, then stopped when I did. Everything made perfect sense. I called him with the spell I recited from the book! Quickly pulling the grimoire from my bag, I offered it to the beautiful man. If anyone knew to whom the book belonged, it would be him.
He held out his tanned hands and took it from me without any reaction. “Where did you find this?” he asked a moment later, his face hardening with suspicion.
“A friend shops estate sales for me. I own the bookstore.” I motioned down the street toward my shop, immediately realizing how careless that was. I’d just given him all the information he'd need to become my newest stalker. Why didn’t I give him my social security number and mother’s maiden name while I was at it?
He turned the book around in his hands. “Can you show me the spell that you cast?”
I flipped to the spell’s page, and then looked up to find he was staring at me, his black brows knitted together in concent
ration. “Um…it’s there on the left.”
Turning the book around, he scanned the text, and then let his appraising eyes roam over me again. “It seems that I and all of the elves on Midgard are now yours to command.” His voice was guarded, but not unkind. Thank goodness.
“Elves…what?” I backed away from him. “I’m not a witch. I couldn’t have cast that spell.”
He smiled. “My lady, you are bestowed with an unimaginable amount of power, as are your brothers and sisters. It is well within your scope to hold this kind of magic, even more so with the aid of a summoning spell.”
Brothers and sisters? My heart pounded with excitement. “What do you mean by brothers and sisters?” I didn’t have any family, much like the rest of the foster kids I grew up with. Hearing that I could have a family was a miracle to me, no matter how odd the chain of events were.
“Odin has had many children with many females.” He paused as he watched a homeless woman pushing her grocery cart across the street. “Can we go somewhere that we will be able to talk about this in private and comfort? You are chilled.”
That was true. I was freezing. However, I couldn’t take him back to the bookstore or my home. That wasn’t smart. A young woman disappearing with a dark, otherworldly stranger—yeah, I’ve seen that movie, too. It doesn’t have a happy ending. Racking my brain, I tried to think of somewhere that was secluded but public. I couldn’t afford to make a poor choice here. Even if he turned out to be an elf, he could still be a rapist elf, and at over six feet tall, I wouldn’t be able to fight him off.
“We can go to French Roast,” I suggested. “I’d love a cup of coffee.” And to be able to call the cops, if they were needed.
He flashed a set of perfect, white teeth. “That is a good choice.”
“It’s a couple of blocks this way.” I pointed to the direction he’d come from, glad that I wouldn’t have to turn my back to him. Either he was what he said, or he was mentally ill. I was really supporting the elf alternative. He was much too handsome to have been in or escaped from the mental ward.
