The Infiniti Investigates: Hattie Jenkins & the Infiniti Chronicles Books 1 to 5

by Pearl Goodfellow

  Druida's curves were subtle, yet shapely. She attended Woga classes so frequently that she now taught a class herself once a week. Witch Yoga. Hmm, I should probably start thinking about taking a class or two myself. I felt my jiggling thighs tense at the prospect of a hot Woga class. Focus, Hattie. Focus.

  I approached the counter tentatively, forcing a smile that likely didn't even touch my eyes. I was hoping for a pleasant exchange, but I also knew that if pleasantness came out of this, it would be a very rare occurrence.

  “Yes?” Druida snapped in her high, querulous voice. The sound of it had my shoulders hunched up in defense as soon as I neared her domain. Her eyes were hard, black beads, and she stared imperiously down the bridge of her slender nose at me. So much for hope.

  “I was wondering if you had any more books on traditional Egyptian magic behind the counter? Or in the archives?” I asked, doing my best to keep my tone neutral and professional.

  “Why would you bother?” she asked back in that hard-to-place accent that sounded anything but Gaelic. Could Druida, in fact, be Bitchanian? Or Hardasslish? “If it is not in the Romany section, then it is not worth knowing.”

  She scowled. Her words were clipped and forceful. As if she had just rammed them down my throat without my consent.

  I bristled a little. “This isn’t about building a better love potion. I honestly think that some information on the Egyptian arts could help me combat a public health crisis.”

  “What, Strands?” Druida asked dismissively. “I would think that you are taking this opportunity, like any other successful businesswoman, in making a profit off any ‘cure’ you might find.”

  She went back to her work in front of her, apparently thinking that the conversation was over. But this was the point where Druida’s words were abusing my patience the same way her fashion choices were assaulting my eyeballs.

  Still, I made one last try at civility. Um, sort of, anyway. “Whatever money I might make from a cure is irrelevant. I’m more concerned about finding a cure."

  And then I cracked. "Which seems to be more than YOU are doing about the problem right now!” That came out as a bit of a hysterical scream.

  My outburst immediately drew a crowd of curious spectators. Given Druida’s reputation, I had a pretty good idea of who this gaggle of Awakened and Unawakened patrons were rooting for.

  Druida noticed it too. She then leaned forward on her desk and said with slow, dripping acidity, “You think you’re smarter than me, don’t you?” Her flinty eyes had narrowed to mere slits.

  “Not any more than the next girl,” I said with a slight shrug.

  “No, no, no,” she countered with a savage smile. “Deep down, you really think that you are smarter than everybody around you. That’s why you’re—”

  That did it. I slammed both my hands on the counter with a hollow bang, tugging poor Onyx's head on the kitty leash as I did so. Looking Druida in the eye, I all but roared; “Ms. Stone! I do not say what I do not mean, which is why, right here and right now, I mean it when I say you can go to TARTARUS!” The ultimate insult, Hattie. Was that really called for?

  I turned and strutted away from the desk, my face burning red with indignation. Onyx was embarrassed by my lack of control. I could tell because his ears were pressed back and flat against his adorable little head. Everyone else around me, on the other hand, was laughing at what they’d just seen and applauding with the sort of clapping you’d expect from a standing ovation at the theater.

  “If it’s any consolation, Hattie,” Onyx said after glancing over his shoulder. “Druida Stone is still looking at you in shock.”

  Some of my anger starting to recede, I asked my live-in therapist cat, “Did I just screw up?”

  “Well, you were a little, ah ... unpoised, but I would not say so,” Onyx offered. “I would even hazard to guess that the patrons saw a flash of your dear, departed Grandma in that public dressing down you just handed Druida. Brava, Seraphim.”

  I gave my cat a sharp look as he tossed my birth name at me. Still, his words did make me feel a little better. The applause died down as we reached the first set of exit doors. But we were quickly intercepted by the cleaner of the library.

  “Wait, child, wait,” another heavily-accented voice said just before Onyx and I passed through the second set of doors.

  All I had to do was spot the babushka scarf over the head to know who it was. Bertha Crabtree was supposedly Hungarian but for reasons that were never clear, insisted on dressing like a Russian peasant woman. Her back was hunched into a cruel C shape; her clothes were baggy enough to swallow any body shape out of sight, and the scarf on her head revealed peaking gray curls; ringlets of the tattered and limp variety. Bertha's appearance was always the same, but on a monthly basis, her head scarf always changed. I'd not seen the one she was sporting this day before now. Her face was vividly ruddy, and her eyes were permanently bloodshot.

  Leaning against her mop in the rolling bucket beside her, she said, “I’ve been waiting for someone to tell that—“

  She then rattled off a term that can't be recorded here for decency purposes, before finishing with, “—off.”

  Opening her arms while letting go of the mop, she added, “Allow me the honor of a hug.”

  What the Tartarus, I thought. I gave in to the funny little woman and returned the hug. Bertha gave me a couple of motherly pats on the back to reinforce it.

  “Now, dear Hattie, what were you looking for when you were so rudely insulted?” Bertha asked as we broke off the hug.

  “How do you know I wasn’t arguing about an unjust library fine?” I asked with a grin.

  Bertha gave me a gravelly laugh, her voice a mixture of cheap bourbon and grit. “As if you ever have the time to check out books in the first place with your business. Seriously, child, were you searching for a volume of a magical nature?”

  In the semi-private confines between doors that had no audience and no foot traffic, I figured I could be less circumspect. “Egyptian magical lore, especially as it relates back to potions and antidotes…know where I could find some?”

  “I do believe you might be in luck,” Bertha said conspiratorially, leaning into her mop once more. “Do you know of the Scroll of Thoth, the new bookstore that just opened?”

  “I think I may have spied it recently, yes,” I admitted, narrowing my eyes so I could picture the place. “Some of my customers mentioned that it’s on the other side of Glessie.”

  “That it is,” Bertha agreed. “It's better for it to be as far from Druida Stone as possible. But I do believe that the proprietor, Bradford Obonyo, has a particular interest in the Egyptian arts. If anyone can help you find what you seek, it will be he.”

  “I can certainly think of worse options,” Onyx chimed in.

  He needn’t have bothered with the endorsement. I was already sold. “Know how to get there?”

  The first thing I noticed about Bradford was his smile. It wasn’t just the immaculately straight, white teeth that contrasted so strikingly against his blue-black skin. No, his smile broke the man's face out into full sunshine. You couldn't help but smile back, both on the inside and out. The rest of his appearance was pretty lackluster in contrast to his grin; neat, short cropped hair, average in height and build, and his blue dress shirt and black slacks would make him anonymous in seconds in any Talisman crowd.

  His shop, despite its grand name, was equally unpretentious. Plain brown shelves, six deep, all neatly filled with tomes of all shapes and sizes lined the walls throughout the whole store. The back counter was about half the size of the Mason’s and the only notable feature on it was the early 20th Century cash register, complemented by a credit card reader. There was a small doorway that apparently led to a space in the back; storage or living quarters or possibly both. The air smelled sweet and musky at the same time, a testament to the aging leather bound volumes that the shop contained.

  “Okay,” Bradford said, holding up his hands. “B
efore you say anything, let me take a wild guess and say that either Bertha Crabtree or the assistant librarian, Reg Minder, sent you over to me because Druida told you to get lost when you asked for something you should have been able to find, but couldn't. Am I right?”

  His speech was delivered in a hard-to-pin-down accent, with a surprisingly deep baritone that wasn’t suggested by his build. I nodded and chuckled at the same time. I liked this guy already.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” Bradford said, spreading his arms out wide. “How can I help, Miss…?”

  “Oh, Hattie, Hattie Jenkins,” I said, extending my hand to shake.

  He took it without hesitation and gave me one of the few handshakes from a man that I have ever considered respectful. “Hattie Jenkins, as in the owner and operator of the Angel Apothecary?”

  “Yeah,” I said, surprised that he knew. “I’m sorry, have we—“

  Bradford laughed a little as he let go of my hand. “No, no, no…my customers talk just as I’m sure, yours do. So, all I’ve heard about you is strictly secondhand…and probably not even the truth in some cases.”

  I smiled once more at this warm, friendly man. “Well, the truth is, Mr. Obonyo—“

  “Please. Call me Bradford,” he said, holding up his hand. “I don’t want people to feel like they have to butcher my name to be polite.”

  “Okay…Bradford,” I said with some hesitation. “The truth is I need to know certain things about Egyptian magical tradition as it relates to potions, antidotes and, well, just about anything medical-related.”

  Bradford’s face got serious as he turned his eyes to the left to think. “Think I have just the thing. Mind giving me a minute?”

  I nodded with enthusiasm. He went to the back of the store, and I leaned against the counter. Onyx, who had been quietly observing everything, said in a low voice, “You know, if things never work out with CPI Trew—“

  “Shush,” I shot back in a harsh tone.

  “What was that?” Bradford called from the back.

  “Nothing, just my cat getting noisy,” I called back.

  “Really, Hattie,” Onyx said with indignation.

  I called out to Bradford, “One thing I don’t get about Druida Stone…she’s supposedly Celtic, right?”

  “That’s what they say,” Bradford said, his tone telling me he wasn’t commenting on the accuracy of that rumor.

  “So why in the world would someone from that part of the world be so obsessed with Romani mysteries to the point of shoving it down everyone else’s throat?”

  “Everyone’s path is unique to them,” Bradford said back, a hint of his own distinctive accent trying to break through. “Sometimes it’s so unique that you have to leave the land of your birth and its traditions behind you to follow it. There is no shortage of such traditions in my native Kenya, none of which are as unsophisticated or ignorant as outsiders sometimes like to believe. But the ancient Gods of Egypt spoke to me more clearly, and I eventually realized that I had no choice but to follow if I wished to follow my heart.”

  Coming from the back with a thick, hardbound book in hand, he added, “Also, I had a white customer who told me how he admired the American folk hero John Henry, though he wondered if he had the proper ethnic background to truly appreciate him as such. I told him what I just now told you and it seemed to put him at ease.”

  A sudden yelp, accompanied by the sound of a heavy load hitting the floor came from the front door. I was on my guard as I went to check it, Onyx leading the way. Bradford, Onyx and I found a young man lying on the open threshold surrounded by an impressive stack of books, most of which were on top of him right now. A little red children's wagon held the remainder.

  The kid had sandy brown hair with—I am not making this up—a spread of freckles that made him look like he was about twelve. He was obviously somewhere in his mid-twenties if you bothered to look, but his slight build, smaller height (I was about an inch taller than him) and look of naïve comprehension just made him look so damn young.

  “Oh…hi, Ms. Jenkins, Bradford,” the youth said as he got up, pushing the books off his chest as he did so. “Sorry if I startled you. I just…well…”

  Bradford gave him a flash of that dazzling smile. “It’s okay, Reg. That load would be a lot for anyone to haul. I’m impressed you got it all the way to the front door before you DID drop it.”

  Not that I wasn't already careful, but Reg Minder showing up put me back on my guard. He was Druida’s Unawakened library assistant, the guy everyone went to when Druida was too uncooperative and you needed to find the material you were looking for. That description makes him sound like a hustler, but the truth is that he was just a sweet, helpful kid who didn’t always understand what kind of trouble he could get himself into.

  Looking over some of Reg's books, I recognized an ancient and accurate translation of the Clavicula Salomonis or Keys of Solomon in the pile. I gave Reg a hard look and said, “I know Druida can be difficult, but I would never have pegged you for—“

  “No, no, you've got it all wrong, Ms. Jenkins! I'm not stealing these!” Reg said, holding up his hands in protest while Bradford began gathering up the tumbled volumes. “This is the stuff Ms. Stone is actually throwing out of the library altogether.”

  My mouth fell open. “What?”

  “It started off as a trickle,” Bradford said, making a stack of the books Reg had dropped to the side. “A few items here, a couple of manuscripts there…but it’s recently gotten to be a regular flood-tide lately, right, Reg?”

  “You can say that again, Bradford,” Reg affirmed while he wheeled the kiddie wagon into the shop, careful to make sure everything stayed in it this time. “As you probably guessed from some of the material you just got a look at, Ms. Jenkins, she’s starting to purge the restricted materials now.”

  “God and Goddess, why?” I asked in disbelief, not over what Reg was telling being the truth but why it WAS the truth.

  “Really wish I knew,” Reg admitted, putting Bradford’s stack back on the wagon with the care of an expert Jenga player removing a block. “But it’s not like she’s going to tell me anything.”

  “Here, let me get this,” Bradford crooned as he took the handle of the wagon.

  While Reg and I watched him roll the vehicle to the back, I asked him, “Bertha’s in on this little squirreling away of materials, right?”

  “Well, sure,” Reg said. “She doesn’t like Druida any more than anyone else and, well…”

  He shrugged and finished with, “Most people hate Druida's guts. Every time someone can’t find something on our shelves, Bertha or me steer them here to Bradford's. That way, they’re getting served as they should.”

  Then, taking a quick peek at his wristwatch, he groaned and said, “Ohh, I gotta go. Supposedly, I’m on my lunch break right now and I’ve only got enough time to get back to the library.”

  “Need the wagon back?” Bradford asked from the back of the store.

  “I’ll pick it up tomorrow, Bradford,” Reg called out. “Just keep it safe for me, alright?”

  “Sure.”

  Reg hastily said his goodbyes and starting running the minute he had left out the door. Shutting it behind him, I turned back to the front desk with Onyx in tow. The book that Bradford had picked out for me was still on the top of the counter. As soon as we got close enough, Onyx leaped to the top of the desk and rubbed his furry cheek against it, purring with enthusiasm.

  “And what’s got you happy all of a sudden?” I asked.

  “Oh, I just positively adore the smell of an old, well-used book,” Onyx admitted between his rumbling. “Nothing else like it in the world.”

  Bradford looked on in amusement at Onyx’s little display of affection. “Planning on asking that out on a date?”

  “Oh, can’t you be a little more understanding, you silly man?” Onyx asked with mock contempt.

  Bradford smirked. “I run a bookstore. I daresay that I am
as understanding as they come on these things.”

  The fact that he understood Onyx made me say, “So, you’re—“

  “Mmm-hmm,” Bradford confirmed. “Not something I advertise, especially to dear, little Reg, but I am very much a magical practitioner as is classed by the laws of these Coven Isles.”

  Onyx just kept on purring while we talked. “I don’t suppose you have an Encyclopedia Britannica that my cat could use for…whatever he uses things like this for,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t you start too,” Onyx retorted, again between his motorings.

  “Well, would you like something like that?” Bradford asked Onyx, getting in on the joke.

  Onyx sighed and finally quit with his rubbing and purring. “All right, all right…I can take the hint.”

  Then, fixing his gaze on Bradford, he added, “However, should I decide to purchase such an item, you’ll be the second to know, sir.”

  While Onyx jumped from the counter, I looked at the book and then Bradford. “So how do we do this? Is there some sort of log or—“

  “We do this on a rental basis,” Bradford explained. “For two Sols, I’ll let you have the book for a week. When the week is up, and you haven’t paid full price for the book, it’ll automatically return here.”

  “A recall spell?” I asked, some of what I had read in Grandma’s Book of Shadows coming back to me.

  “Exactly,” Bradford confirmed with a nod. “If it were permitted, I wouldn’t be charging anything. But I’ve been harassed by the mayor’s office on this, so lending the books for a fee is the only way to get around whatever laws they think they’re enforcing.”

  Brushing off some of the kitty hairs from Onyx’s rubbing on the brown spine, I asked, “So how much would it cost to buy this book?”

  Bradford gritted his teeth and blew out a whistle of air. “Let’s just say that it’s a lot less affordable than the rental fee.”

  “Anyone ever tried to fight the recall charm?”

  Bradford gave a quiet chuckle. “Of course. But trust me…it’s not worth it.”

  “Well,” I said, pulling out my wallet from my purse. “You can trust me to be faithful on making sure this book will get back to you on time.”