by Ruth Vincent
“I thought you were an NYPD detective for a while. I did some research before I interviewed here, and I remember seeing something about that online.”
“Yeah, I was,” Reggie said and frowned. “It didn’t really work out.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. But I could see from the change in his face, and the way he had pulled back from his desk and was now rocking back and forth in his chair, that I was treading into dangerous territory.
“Let’s just say that I made some mistakes,” he said softly, “big ones. Ones you can’t undo.” His frown deepened.
I didn’t know what to say. There was a beat of awkward silence between us. I wanted to ask him what these “mistakes” were, but my intuition told me I should let the matter drop. Reggie’s body language was telling me I’d already gone too far.
“Anyway,” he finished, “that career is over. Now I’m in this career. And unfortunately, it’s not always about truth and justice. Listen, it’s not that I don’t try to do the right thing. I took a cut in my fee on Charlotte’s case because I felt bad for her parents; I wanted to help bring their daughter back. And unfortunately it didn’t turn out so well . . . But the point is, I get it. I just think that you need to be smart here.”
I sank back into my chair and sighed.
Clearly he wasn’t budging.
“Why don’t you take a few days off?” Reggie said, getting up from his seat. “It’s almost Christmas. Then it’ll be New Year’s. You’re going to have to take some time off around the holidays anyway, ’cause I’m going away to see my in-laws and the office will be closed, so why don’t you just take off now? You’ve had a tremendously stressful last couple days; you need some rest, some time to think about things. Maybe the stress has been a little too much for you . . .”
I looked up at him.
“You’re not firing me, are you?”
“No!” He laughed, and this time, the laugh was genuine. “Listen, it’s a slow day in the office today, as you can see. I don’t think I’m going to get any new clients till after New Year’s. Go home. Get some rest.”
Sheepishly, I smiled.
As I was putting on my coat and scarf, bundling up to face the bitterly cold outdoors, Reggie turned to me.
“Why are you so keen on defending this guy Obadiah?” he asked.
“Because he’s innocent.”
Reggie eyed me.
“You sure that’s the only reason?”
“Yeah, of course. What are you suggesting?”
“All I’m saying is . . . this is none of my business, but I like you, kid, and I’m speaking to you as a friend now, not as your boss, okay? I’d want someone to say this to my daughter.”
I hesitated, not sure where he was going with this.
“I just want to make sure there aren’t any other feelings clouding your judgment. I mean, you’re a young woman, he’s a young man . . .”
“If you’re implying that I’ve somehow fallen in love with Obadiah Savage and that’s why I’m risking my life, with all due respect, Mr. Ruggiero, that is ridiculous,” I retorted. “I realize how serious the consequences of my actions could be, and believe me, I’m scared. The only reason I’m doing this is because I think it’s the right choice, the ethical choice.”
My voice had gotten very loud as I said this and, embarrassed, I was quiet.
“Hey, I get it!” Reggie said, backing off. “All I’m saying is, I know these types, these Obadiah types. I’ve seen a lot of them in my career. They can be very charming. And it sounds like Obadiah is smart too—like you. You got to watch out for the smart ones. The charming ones. They know how to play the game.”
“What game?”
“Everything in life is a game,” Reggie said, slowly shaking his head. “I just don’t want you to get played, that’s all.”
I was waiting for the subway on my way home when I stopped myself. There was something I needed to take care of first. Ramsey. I had called his cell a few times since Eva’s accident, but he hadn’t returned any of my calls, and my anger was growing. I didn’t know for sure that he’d been the one to give her the Elixir—there were so many supernaturals crawling around Obadiah’s club. Still, he was a suspect. But before I gave his name to the cops, I needed to feel sure. I couldn’t let him take the blame just because I didn’t like the guy. Instead of staying on the subway till my stop, I got off early, right in the heart of Williamsburg. I knew the little hipster boutique where Ramsey worked, and I was going to get some answers.
The chime dinged as I strode into the shop. I wrinkled my nose. The old warehouse they’d converted into a vintage clothing store had a heavy aroma of mildew. Hipster-chic fashions lined the walls—I couldn’t understand why someone would spend hundreds of dollars to look like they shopped at the Salvation Army, but then again, I’d never been cool. As I pawed my way past racks of skinny jeans and ironic T-shirts, I spotted the familiar form of Ramsey in the back. He was leaning against the cash register, wearing a paisley-printed cowboy shirt faded in all the right places, the ubiquitous skinny jeans and a floppy wool hat that slid down his forehead like a deflated chocolate soufflé. There was an expression of ennui in his eyes. Recognition dawned on his face when he saw me, but he didn’t smile. Instead he moved away, towards the stockroom, obviously trying to avoid me. It made sense—I was the girl who kept calling his cell phone—but I wasn’t going to let him slip off like that. I stepped between him and the stockroom door. I couldn’t block his exit with my small body, but I could sure make things awkward for him.
“What the hell happened with you and Eva Friday night?” I said by way of introduction.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, a confused expression on his blandly handsome face.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
But he shook his head. “No, really, I don’t. You left me a bunch of voicemails, and they all make no sense. Listen, um . . .” He paused. He’d forgotten my name. “Mabel . . .” he said at last.
“Mabily.” I scowled at him.
“You need to stop calling me.”
“Eva is in the hospital. I am not going to stop . . .”
But he cut me off. “What? In the hospital? Is she okay?”
“Sure, she’s fine, she fell off a roof,” I shot back sarcastically, but then my eyes met his—he looked genuinely stricken. Did he really not know about Eva’s fall?
“What happened? Seriously, is she alright?”
Underneath the floppy hat and the hair that fell into his eyes, I could see he was sincerely concerned. You couldn’t fake that.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She took a hell of a fall. I’m waiting to hear back from the hospital when she can have visitors.”
“I want to go visit her,” he said quietly.
I folded my arms across my chest, studying him. Eva might not have been anything more than a hookup buddy for Ramsey, but he seemed to feel genuinely bad that she’d been injured.
When I spoke again, my voice was less angry. “Listen, Ramsey, I need you to tell me what happened from the beginning. Start from when you got to the club.”
Ramsey shook his head. “I never took Eva to any club,” he replied, bewildered. He cocked his head to the side as an idea hit him. “She did call me Friday night, saying she wanted to go to some place. Said you had to go there for your job. I remember she was really worried about you. She wanted me to give her a ride over there. But I told her I was busy. My band was playing that night,” he added. “I don’t know who took her to the club, but it wasn’t me.”
“So you’re saying you were never even there?”
“Yeah, I don’t even know where the place is.”
“That’s not what Eva said when she texted me.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Ramsey threw up his hands
. “You can ask any of the guys here—they went to my concert.”
He called out to a greasy-haired young man I could see folding T-shirts through the opened stockroom door.
“Hey, Oscar, weren’t you at my show last Friday?”
The guy stopped folding.
“Yeah, when you opened for Lipstick Pirates.”
Ramsey turned back to me, satisfied. I folded my arms across my chest. If he was lying to me, I was going to wring his skinny neck. But somehow, I felt like he was telling the truth. Maybe it was the fairy in me, but I’d always had an infallible b.s. detector. And Ramsey was coming up clean.
It didn’t make sense. Eva had said he’d given her a ride. Did he change his mind after she’d sent that text? But if Ramsey hadn’t put the Elixir in Eva’s drink—then who had?
I felt even more unsure than when I’d walked in here. Only one thing was certain. I couldn’t testify against Ramsey to the cops. Not yet, anyway. There simply wasn’t enough evidence. He might really be innocent—just like Obadiah. I couldn’t let him take the blame just because I found him annoying.
“I’ll text you when they say she can have visitors,” I said. Then I turned away. When I looked back over my shoulder, Ramsey was still watching me, shoving the floppy hair back from his eyes.
“If you see her first, tell her I say hi,” he said awkwardly.
I nodded. The bell dinged and I walked out into the crisp, fresh air. Eva might deserve better than him, I thought as I strode out into the snow, but still, I didn’t think he was a criminal. Now I felt even more lost than before.
I kept thinking about Reggie’s words as I walked back to the subway. He was right about one thing: I didn’t know Obadiah very well. Deciding not to testify against him because I knew he was innocent was one thing—but trusting him was something else entirely. I didn’t know if Obadiah could be trusted. I almost wished I could just stay away from him. But I couldn’t. Because there was no way I could ever close my eyes again to what I’d seen in his club the other night. He had magic. If he could give magic to humans, maybe we could use magic to help Eva. Magic might have caused her fall, but what if magic could heal her too. What if we could use Elixir to do a healing spell? And what if drinking Elixir could get me home? I could finally confront the Fairy Queen about what she’d done. Find out what really happened to the Shadow children. I could find my own Shadow. If it wasn’t already too late.
I tromped up the staircase to our apartment. With a sigh I unlocked the door. I hated coming home these days. The apartment was so unnaturally silent and empty. I was glad I was leaving tomorrow to spend Christmas with my parents—I didn’t think I could bear one more day in this place. I could see Eva everywhere—in the claw-foot tub, standing at the stove, coming in and out of the beaded curtain of her room—the memories were like ghosts.
Maybe I could leave early? I could call my parents, tell them I was coming home tonight, I thought as I set down my things on the kitchen table. They’d like that. I was about to pick up the phone to dial when I heard something that made me stop: a small tap-tap. I stood still for a moment, listening.
It sounded like it was coming from the window. I turned to see what it was. But I could see nothing through the glass, only a fat, gray pigeon perched on our fire escape. The pigeon was making a loud, trilling coo deep in its throat and bobbing its head back and forth. But other than that, there was nothing outside; no one had been knocking.
I turned my attention to my cell phone, which was sitting on the kitchen table. Then I heard it again: tap-tap. I looked up. The pigeon was knocking on the window. It was banging its beak against the glass.
There’s a reason someone invented the expression “bird-brained,” I thought as I watched the pigeon busting its beak against the pane. Still, I felt kind of bad for it. Maybe if I opened up the window, it would fly away. Or, with my luck, fly into the apartment.
I was just about to lift the window sash when I saw it: there was something attached to the pigeon’s leg. It was some kind of ring with a little tube attached, and a rolled-up piece of paper inside, like what you would put on a messenger pigeon.
But this wasn’t a messenger pigeon. This was just a regular old New York City pigeon—a “cockroach with feathers,” as Eva called them—but Eva had been at war with the pigeons, ever since one had taken a dump on the Buddha statue she’d left outside on the fire escape. I kept telling her that compassion for all sentient beings meant compassion for all sentient beings, but Eva thought roaches and pigeons were exempt.
Thinking about Eva made my chest ache. I turned my attention back to the pigeon. It looked like an old-fashioned pigeon post. But it couldn’t be—no one would put a message on the leg of a New York City pigeon. They weren’t homing pigeons; they weren’t trained.
Unless . . . you gave them some Elixir. . .
I heaved open the window. The sash made a loud bang, but the pigeon did not fly away. It really was a message vial. I reached to take it and the pigeon just sat there, staring at me through its beady red eyes. To my shock, it let my fingers brush its feathers as I undid the tiny glass tube from its leg. This was no ordinary bird. There was a keen intelligence in its eyes, something beyond animal instinct, something canny and wise and almost human. And then I realized—this was no ordinary street pigeon. It was one of the Animalia. They had been animals once, but then they’d drunk from the Elixir streams in the Vale, and they’d never been the same.
I’d never seen an Animalia pigeon before—but this was New York City. It shot me a pointed look and dropped a single gray-white feather on the windowsill, as if awaiting my reply. I unrolled the slip of paper from its messenger pouch and read:
I want to thank you. I know what you did. I don’t know why you’d risk going to prison to help me. But I will always be grateful. I’d like to talk to you, but I am afraid the cops might be tapping our phones. If you can meet me, write on the back of this message the date and time, and if you’d prefer to meet at your place or mine.
It was signed O.S.
I read the message over several times.
It was just like Obadiah. He could have just called or emailed like a normal person. Then again, I didn’t think I’d ever given him my information. Plus, he was probably right; given the open police investigation, the cops might be monitoring our devices. They wouldn’t be checking my fire escape for enchanted pigeons, though. Then again, I bet Obadiah would prefer communicating by enchanted pigeons rather than modern technology any day.
I remembered Reggie’s warning. What had he said? He’s very smart, Mab, very charming. Don’t trust the smart and charming ones. Was Reggie right?
Then I thought of Obadiah’s message again—he’d said “thank you.” The jerks of the world don’t say “thank you,” even if you risk your life for them, do they? I considered the paper in my hand. Should I meet with him? He’d said he had something he wanted to tell me. Whatever he had to say, I wanted to hear—there was a lot I still wanted to find out from Obadiah. But was it dangerous to meet with him?
It was so recently that I’d made the trip out to his club—only three days ago—and yet it seemed like a different lifetime. If he was grateful to me for what I’d done, maybe he would help me find a magical healing fix for Eva.
I grabbed a pen from the cup on the counter, unfurled the message scroll and turned it over to the blank side. Weighing down the ends with two coffee mugs so I could write, I stared at the blank little sheet—like an oversized fortune-cookie slip.
What should I tell him? His place or mine? I honestly didn’t know which would be better—which would be safer.
The club was at least public; then again, if the cops got wind that I’d gone there—it would look bad for my case—they’d think I was conspiring with Obadiah.
“My place, tonight, 10:00 p.m.,” I wrote on the s
lip and stuffed it back into the vial around the pigeon’s leg.
The pigeon cooed enigmatically.
I hoped I wouldn’t regret this.
Chapter 10
I jumped when the buzzer to our apartment rang. Never mind that I was the one who had invited Obadiah over.
Hesitantly, I got up from my chair.
Maybe it wasn’t Obadiah, I thought. Maybe he’d decided not to come after all. It could be just a delivery guy, lost, searching for some other apartment, I told myself, walking towards the door.
I lifted back the little silver flap of the peephole.
There was Obadiah, standing on the welcome mat.
I peered through the tiny opening, watching him.
He was dressed more casually than when I’d last seen him. Still, the cravat tied beneath the open V of his shirt gave him an old-world style, even in blue jeans. He was shifting from foot to foot, his hands in his pockets. I wondered if he knew I was standing right here on the other side of the door. I wondered if he could hear me breathing.
Then I saw him momentarily adjust the cravat at his neck and smooth down his wayward black hair.
He was trying to look nice for me.
Huh.
He straightened, and I swore he peered right through the peephole. He must have seen me, because his eyes brightened.
A peculiar feeling filled me as I heard him call my name.
Praying I was making the right choice, I opened the door.
Obadiah’s face broke out into a smile when he saw me. Then he straightened his posture, clasped his hands behind his back, and the mask of reserve came down over him again.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you at home,” he said. “I really wanted to call. But our phones . . .”
“ . . . might be tapped. I know. You make a good point,” I interrupted him. “Well, come in.”
He walked past me towards the rack of coats and I could smell him—the spice of his cologne, old-fashioned and refined, mixed with something warm and masculine. I felt myself flush and suddenly I didn’t know what to do with my hands.
