Rune Thief: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Isabella Hush Series Book 1)

by Thea Atkinson

  His jaw jutted out as he ran his tongue over his top teeth. Thinking. Not sure he wanted to get involved at all. But then he needed cash. He didn't have to say these things out loud. It was all written right there plain as the stamp on a whiskey bottle and I'd been reading labels like that for years.

  It took at least a full minute before he pushed himself to a stand and swayed in front of me. I stood straighter with him so I could keep his eye. He reached out and plucked the bag from my hand.

  "You don't have to be a bitch, little girl," he said. "Even an old drunk can see the nasty bit of blood running down your leg."

  He spun on a dignified heel and lumbered down the shadowed alley way to what I knew was one of the local pawn shops. There were dozens of them in four blocks alone. Hundreds within the quarter. Who knew how many in the city.

  It was why I chose this metro in the first place. For every open-doored, bar-slotted doorway that led to an honest pawn broker, there were four less reputable, gun-toting black markets ready to steal as quick as buy. Things got easier to move if you had a broad market to push things through, and when those items were questionable, you needed the swarthier type of buyer.

  A stash of junk like I had was fine for a regular pawn shop. I'd be safe enough just letting the drunk pawn it off and take a cut. No one would bother to trace the loot. One diamond ring in a pile of crap wouldn't be worth the trouble.

  I followed along behind him telling myself all those things and still not feeling easy about any of it. Probably had something to do with the blood still running down my leg or the stink of pepper spray and dog spit clinging to me, but I couldn't let go the feeling that something nasty was coming my way.

  My mind fleeted over the memory of the man I'd run from years earlier, and the man who now seemed to have located me. I'd met him as an impressionable teen. I'd been sixteen and brash and pissed at having to live in half a dozen foster homes before I was ten. Scottie. I'd thought him handsome and dangerous and what girl at that age wasn't attracted to that? I'd wooed him for years with the ferocity and cunning of a back alley she-cat, not knowing that all along, he was a panther patiently stalking me until I caught him.

  What a gal knows about a man when she's twenty four is far more savvy than even a run-away, dope-smoking alley cat teenager does no matter how edgy the living. The old drunk was right. I was running and for good reason.

  If Scottie had found me after all this time, then he had never stopped looking. That meant nowhere was safe. It might as well have been him passing me that latte in the coffee shop and grinning crookedly at me as he murmured the nickname that oh so few knew. Sis.

  I was so busy thinking about him that I almost missed the way the drunk in front of me lurched sideways through an open doorway. The sign that ran down along the outside wall read: 24 HOUR PAWN with the purple W fizzling in and out of phase and looking more sickly blue than royal purple. No glitz to the joint. Grubby windows. A cheap fan trying to hustle a bit of cool air from the hot August night and wrangle it into the even stuffier shop.

  It was perfect.

  I hung around the music section near the far wall, just out of sight of the man at the counter and well within earshot. I picked up a harmonica and tapped it in my palm, trying to look like I was a casual enough buyer that no one would bother me.

  There was one other patron in the shop. He was tall enough that he could reach for the seamstress mannequin that hung from the wall above us that was studded with myriad gaudy brooches. He plucked a particularly ugly one from its shoulder and held it motionless in a broad palm. If he was interested in it, his head should have tilted down; he should have turned it over in his hand to inspect it. He did neither.

  Instead, I watched him watching the drunk from the corner of his eye.

  When he pulled an elastic band from his pocket and pulled his russet hair into a man bun, I knew he wasn't just a shopper interested in gaudy jewelry. He wanted clear view of the room and was opening up his peripherals all the while seeming to be nothing but a mere shopper whose hair was getting in the way. I knew better. I'd seen his type plenty.

  But there was something more about him, something that set my memory alight with dark alleys. I felt a strong sense of deja vu, one that made my throat ache and made my heart race.

  He was familiar somehow. My memory reacted the way your hands know the feel of slipping on well-worn heist gloves, the way your feet feel slipping into a pair of Himalayan fur slippers.

  "You want that?" The proprietor called out to him, and he mumbled a no, he was just looking.

  I knew that voice. I'd met up with it just an hour earlier in the alleyway. I ran a few quick measurements through my mind and came up with several, blinking red alerts. Was the man from the alley the guy from the latte shop? I hadn't been able to make out a face in the dark, just a shape and size. He certainly looked about the same build. Huge. Like all of Scottie's minions.

  The question was: had I seen his type specifically with Scottie before? I tried to bring those days, all those burly enforcers he had clustered around him, to my mind. The image came clean of his profile. I scanned his jeans and perfectly pressed blue collared shirt. There was a telltale bulge just this side of his left shoulder. A pistol or a knife, no doubt. I sidled my way around a display tree of shitty guitars so I could study him through the gaps in the pegs and trunk and still pay attention to my hustler.

  He and the proprietor were arguing it seemed, in hushed voices, but enough to catch the man's attention. In my haste to get closer, I dropped the harmonica, forgotten in my hand.

  "You break it you bought it," came a growl from the front without losing track of his argument with my drunk.

  I squeaked out, "it's okay," and turned my back to the men, squatting quickly to retrieve the mouth organ and get myself out of sight.

  There was a grunt from the counter and the old drunk pulled out his best act.

  "I know most of it's junk," he said, "But my grandmother's ring is in there. That should pull a couple thousand at least. She came from the old country. Said she barely made it past the Bolsheviks with her life. Her charges weren't so lucky. Poor Alexei."

  I had to stuff my fingers in my mouth to keep the snort from escaping. No one was going to believe he was descended from the Romanovs, but I found it interesting that he had elected to use that as a front. He had some education at least. He ratcheted up a notch or two in my esteem.

  I peered around the guitar tree. In the full light of the shop, the drunk did look European. Hard edged jawline. But he had the look of Rasputin himself rather than of aristocracy.

  Before I could so much as snicker, the other customer spoke up.

  "That's ridiculous," he said and tossed the brooch onto the top of a glass case as he ambled toward the counter, unable, it seemed to mind his own business. "No one survived that execution."

  The drunk turned his rheumy eyes on the intruder. His face from my viewpoint was indignant. I kept hoping the stranger would turn too, so I could nail it down.

  "What would you know, young pup?" the drunk said. "It's true most died, even the old maid, but it was a botched affair. So much gun smoke." He puffed out his chest, looking ridiculously proud in his tattered clothes. "Are you calling my Oma, who was afraid of pillows till her dying day, a liar? My Oma? Who smuggled out a cushion full of gems and nearly lost her life for it."

  The man eyed the old guy with something like mirth.

  "Don't take it so hard, old man. My Oma once told me that the bogeyman would get me if I hung my hand over the bed at night. Omas lie. It's what they do."

  "Not my Oma."

  The henchman sucked the back of his teeth thoughtfully and pulled aside the edge of the bag to peer in.

  "All Omas," he said pensively, digging a finger into the bag and rooting about with it.

  "Nothing but costume baubles," he said of the contents. "Only thing worth a dime is the bag. Nice leather."

  He straightened to what looked like a mountain
sized height and looked the old guy in the eye before flicking his gaze my way. Our eyes met for several long seconds before I was able to drop mine to the floor. But even then I couldn't forget the way his had seemed to pierce straight through me. I felt exposed and uncomfortable, as though he'd stripped me down and dressed me back up after a negative assessment.

  Not the guy from the latte shop, but still, he had the look of predator about him.

  CHAPTER 5

  "I'LL GIVE YOU TWENTY bucks for the bag," I heard him say to the old drunk.

  I couldn't help stealing another peek at him. Mistake. He was looking at me still, not at the drunk even if his hand was resting solidly on the old drunk's shoulder. I had to bite down on my tongue to stay focused. Something about him reeked of danger and charisma, and I'd been down that road before.

  I fumbled over a Hummel figurine and nearly dropped it. I heard the man's soft chuckle again, the same smoky sound as from the alleyway. It was an effort not to look his way again and to study the proprietor instead, but I managed it by peeking up from beneath my bangs.

  The proprietor's face went from bland interest over the bag of loot to outright disdain at what he obviously believed to be junk. I could feel the deal queering.

  With a couple of sentences, the stranger had squirreled my con. I thought he did it on purpose. I knew right then that he most definitely remembered me from the alleyway. He was testing me. Waiting for my reaction the way a careful scientist might sit by a petri dish.

  I had to stopper down my rage. Not only had one of Scottie's bullies found me somehow, but now this jerk was keeping me from salvaging my heist. My mouth opened before I could think any further about what the result might be.

  "That's a grand story," I said, not quite coming out from the guitar tree, and keeping my face lowered but angled enough toward them that they could hear. "I'll take that ring, old gent. What do you want for it?"

  I heard the old derelict shuffle his feet in confusion because this wasn't in the script anywhere and he obviously wasn't sure what to do. It had the desired effect on the broker, though. Those squinty eyes re-lit with greed. He thumped his fist on the counter.

  "Nothing doing," he declared in an affected haughty tone as though the old and stinking drunk in front of him was the choicest of patrons. "This gentleman is here to do business with me." His use of the word gentleman sealed my suspicion that he smelled a profit in me and exploitation in the old drunk.

  "You want the ring," he said. "Come back for it once it's in my inventory." He sent a nasty glare my way but it was all for show. He hoped I'd buy that ring and was already counting up his profits.

  I would have leaned into the tree with relief, but my little show of spite had snagged the stranger's eye. He turned toward the cluster of guitars and I hurriedly averted my gaze, bending down to pluck a guitar string from the bottom of the tree.

  At least I'd caught a good view of his face and his eyes before I'd ducked. Grey eyes, they were, set apart just perfectly in a boyish, but strong face. A face that could look innocent but had enough weather to indicate it had done a few hard things, seen even worse, in its day.

  And he'd caught full gawk-eyed sight of me too. There was a tug of the corner of his mouth. A near smile on lips that were full and lined with the smokiest auburn stubble. A smile that could mean anything, but no doubt meant, "There. I got you."

  He recognized me from the alley all right, and why wouldn't he, I realized. I stunk. I was still limping on my bad leg. Recognition by any stranger is never a good thing in my business.

  I wished I hadn't opened my big mouth. It had got me a deal, sure, but at what cost?

  I fled the shop, knocking over the mannequin on my way out. I waited around the corner, nervous and eager, to set onto the drunk's heels when he came out lest he abscond with the better part of my night's work.

  I stepped in front of him as he rounded the corner, and bless his soul, he grinned widely as though he fully expected to see me there. He ratcheted up a notch in my esteem. Maybe I could use him again.

  "I got $1000," he said so gleefully I knew he'd have settled for half that.

  "The ring," I said, nodding, relieved at getting the cash. "Probably worth a heck of a lot more. But I'll take it."

  He pulled his fist back. "Two hundred's mine."

  "Of course." I waited patiently for him to extend his fist out again, clenched as it was around a fan of bills. My bills.

  He looked wary. "You're sure?"

  "I said so," I told him. "I keep my word."

  I felt exhausted all of a sudden. He must have noticed me sagging against the building. He laid a cool hand on my forearm.

  "You need patching up," he said.

  I imagined going to the ER and trying to explain why I wouldn't leave a next of kin, what dog had bit me, and where should they send animal control, and that made me even more exhausted.

  "What I need is a drink. A stiff one," I said.

  He chuckled. "No reason you can't have both."

  He pushed past me without explaining further and I had a moment of panic as I thought he was taking off with my cash. He was quick on his feet for an old guy.

  I sighed audibly when I saw him disappear into a building just one block down. The sign overhead was for a pharmacy. I decided to wait and was rewarded when he exited again with a baggie.

  "I can't stitch it up," he said of the wound on my leg. "But I can clean it and put some plastic skin on it."

  I watched him keenly as he rinsed the wound with saline and prodded delicately with expert fingers around the swelling through the tear in my pant leg.

  "The colloidal silver should help ward against germs. But keep it clean."

  He angled his face up toward me and I knew in that instant he had spent years doing this sort of thing. He had some education and experience and if he was out here on the street, calling attention to that past would no doubt make him feel ashamed when he was so obviously happy to have helped me. I'd let him have his secrets. I had my own.

  I left him heading toward the liquor counter right next door to the same pharmacy while I headed for my own respite several blocks away.

  If I hadn't just unloaded the shit ton of cheap baubles for a less than impressive cache of loot, I wouldn't have decided to push myself behind the greasy bar in the seediest part of my borough. But I had, and only just barely, so ducking into the bar seemed the most appropriate response to the night.

  Bloody but patched up, tired but needing to drown my fury and my sorrows, I didn't just want to get drunk. I wanted to get blitzed.

  I should have been happy to unload the junk at all, but it was hard to feel grateful. As it was, I stared down at my shot of Canadian Thai chili moonshine and sighed.

  "I thought this would do it, Fayed," I said. "But seems it's not."

  I pushed the glass aside after I tossed it back and searched out the familiar face of the bartender.

  "You made me open that cursed bottle," he said from where he stood at the far end of the bar. "You know what that means." He threw the words over his shoulder at me.

  "Means I bought the whole damn thing because no one else wants this shit," I mumbled in a mimicked voice, his, and leaned back on the stool, hands playing against the sticky surface of the bar.

  I tried to get a look at what or who had his attention so riveted that he wouldn't try to sell me that overpriced hit of ecstasy that I knew went along with the bottle if you paid enough.

  "What about the Rot Gut?" I said.

  Named for the tavern, the mixture was the house specialty of bottom-of-bottle cocktail. I secretly thought they emptied the glasses of leftovers into the fancy decanter they kept on the shelf, but no one had proven that – or seemed to care. What they were after—what I was after—was the snifter of crystallized absinthe at the bottom.

  I tossed a crumpled fifty onto the counter to pay for the moonshine and pulled out one of the hundreds from the stash to lay as a companion to the first. I whistle
d sharply.

  Fayed finally spun around, just enough that I could see the man he was talking to. Gorgeous enough to make me wish I'd gone home first to clean up. Creamy mocha skin and eyes the color of money.

  For an instant, I thought of the man from the alley, because this man eyes were very similar. Maybe not gray green like his, but where the back-alley man's gaze had an intensity that was almost frightening, this stranger's eyes seemed clouded with something different. Fear, maybe, or desperation.

  He caught me looking and I tried to smile but came up with nothing more than a grimace born of my own sense of despair.

  I grabbed the bottle Fayed passed me and upended it, pulling on the liquid to draw the crystal closer. The chunk was a hard, sharp weight that dropped onto the back of my tongue. I almost choked on it, and coughing and wheezing, I was too preoccupied to notice anyone had come close until I felt a hand drop on my shoulder.

  I spun, my eyes tearing up as I tried to swallow down the clump in my throat. Eyes that were manic and veined with constricted crimson branches, met mine. I sucked in a breath. I wasn't sure why I'd thought they were the color of money. This close up, they were simply a terrifying shade of black.

  "You watching me?" the stranger demanded.

  I started to protest but he didn't give me a chance. He squeezed. Hard.

  I wasn't sure what I'd done to draw his ire and tried to protest.

  "You think you've made me?" he said. "Think again."

  "Look," I said. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  He ignored that, choosing instead to lean in and whisper close.

  "I can hurt you," he rasped.

  As though his words were a signal, a jolt of energy squirreled its way down into my collarbone.

  I gasped, unable to do more than wince under his grip.

  "One movement," he said. "Just one. And I can kill you."

  CHAPTER 6