“Of course I read it. That asshole attacked you and tried to steal a catalyst. I read every last word I could get my hands on about Sweeney Todd.”
His vehemence roots me to the spot I stand.
“Brom read it, too,” he continues. “As did Victor. We—”
“Victor read it? You’ve all been talking about Todd without me?”
“Well, we three read A String of Pearls. And then I read pretty much everything else there is about that son of a bitch. Afterward, we discussed it. You weren’t the only one wondering how in the hell he knew where it was. Or who he really might be.”
I wish I could see his eyes behind those glasses of his.
“The blades you found suggest it’s Sweeney Todd—but S. Todd could also refer to somebody else, possibly even somebody local that has stumbled upon Timelines. Wendy has been searching all the S. Todds in the area, but there are a lot to sift through. Even then, if it is the Sweeney Todd, if his story is somehow wrong, that he didn’t die, he could be using an alias like many of the rest of us. Nothing we’d read or found answered whether or not it was him—and if so, how. Chances are, though, it’s somebody else.”
He had been thinking about this. A lot.
Finn turns away from me. “Let’s go see Jenkins.”
THE SMELL OF STAGNANT dust and paper is immediately overwhelming. Row after row of cluttered, labeled shelves crowd the store, many with yellowing pages sticking out into aisles to brush against those who lose their way in the maze.
Something crashes deep within the store; a loud curse is bellowed. When I round a bend, from Mystery to Historical Romance, I find an older, rotund man limping toward us, clutching an intricately carved cane topped with an even more intricately carved ivory wolf head.
“Goddamn books never stay stacked when you want them to.” His voice is guttural, no doubt in thanks to the cigarettes that the stench wafting off of him insists he must smoke in droves. There’s a hint of a lisp, too. No—that’s wrong. Not a lisp, but more like a slur. “Can I help you find something?”
The left corner of F.K. Jenkins’ mouth droops a bit as he says this, but his eyes are just as shrewd as they were in the photograph I viewed weeks before.
Finn’s arm suddenly drapes across my waist and tugs me closer. I’m too surprised to do anything other than allow it. “Any chance you happen to have a first edition of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? We’ve been on the hunt for a decent copy of that one forever. My father collects first editions, and that’s one of the few that’s slipped through the cracks.”
Jenkins grunts as he stops before us. “Stevenson was a hack. Don’t know why your pop would want that steaming pile of shit in his collection.”
Finn’s fingers tighten around my waist, curling in the soft fabric of my dress when he lets out a charming, albeit bemused, chuckle. “He’s a sentimentalist, and the book reminds him of his childhood.”
I’d say Jenkins’ head tilts to the side, but there is no distinction between neck and head. “You’ve been here before.”
“She’s also a reader.” Finn nudges me. “Thank God, she’s not into first editions, though. Don’t think my bank account could handle too many of those sorts.”
Jenkins turns his attention to me, his small, calculating eyes lingering far too long on my bosom as they sweep my person. “Romance, right? Erotica, most likely.”
The way he said that was so derisive, so belittling. My hand itches to knock that petty judgment right out of him.
“I’ll bet you’re one of those who like lady porn. I don’t carry that here. What kind of self-respecting writer comes up with that shit?”
Finn must sense my anger, because his grip on me tightens significantly. “So, do you?”
I feel dirty when Jenkins eventually tears his eyes off of me. “Huh?”
My partner is less friendly when he addresses the book seller now. “Do you have the edition?”
“No Stevenson first editions that I can think of. Especially that one. Always thought it stupid. You’re free to look around, though.” We are dismissed when he abruptly limps away.
I’d already made up my mind to let Jenkins know what I thought of his misogynistic tirade when Finn leans in. My breath stills in confusion as one of his hand drifts up to my face to brush stray hairs away from my cheek. And then I’m a statue when his lips close in on the soft skin just to the side of my ear. Is he . . . Is he going to kiss me? After me basically telling him I will never trust him?
I can’t even—I can’t even think—
Soft words brush my skin. “1886STE-JH was deleted. Cameras everywhere.”
Anticipation sinks to the bottom of my stomach. He’s playacting for Jenkins’ benefit. But then, right when I think he’ll let go, he does kiss me—gently, those full lips of his on my skin just long enough to leave my knees and thoughts soft and yet electrified.
Callooh, callay, indeed.
“None of that in here!”
I startle, my head whipping around to find the source of the voice, but Jenkins is nowhere to be seen. But when Finn pulls away, I realize he was testing the shop owner to see just how carefully he’s watching us. Discreet glances around pinpoint cameras in every corner of the store, and others overlooking dark aisles. The message is clear. We cannot discuss with one another anything related to why we’re here.
But oh, God. That moment there, where he kissed me . . . It was not good. Well, all right. It was, but it can’t be again.
For the next hour, we wander the store on the pretense of first edition hunting rather than serial killer tracking. Nothing discriminating is said, nothing nefarious hinted at. All of Finn’s conversations with me revolve around books, and more than once I am left wondering if he is still playacting or if there is any sincerity in his genuine fondness for particular stories.
On the second floor, as Finn and I head into different rows, I stumble across a section marked Children. And there, sitting atop a stack of books in the middle of the aisle, is a book that says Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Don’t do it, I think to myself. Don’t pick it up. No good can come of this.
And yet I pick it up with trembling hands anyway. And I stare at it until I’m surprised the cover doesn’t catch fire.
“You look a bit like her, don’t you?”
It’s not Finn, though. It’s Jenkins, tapping his cane against the peeling wood of a shelf.
I set the book back upon the stack. For someone with a limp, he certainly managed to sneak upon me. “Pardon?”
“The book. Alice.” The cane juts in my direction. “You look like her.”
I allow my eyes to drift back to the illustration on the front. A girl is there, her hand raised as cards rain down upon her. I smile a bit indulgently as I humor him. “You think?”
He grunts. “Carroll was a fucking pervert and probably a druggie. Should have been castrated, to be honest. How he is still celebrated is beyond me. People are goddamn morons for continuing to support that asinine book. What kind of message does it send kids? Being a nosy, defiant brat is acceptable, as long as you’re pretty? It’s a fucking shame.”
Finn reappears at the other end of the aisle, brows furrowed.
“For a bookstore owner, it doesn’t sound as if you like books very much.” I’m frigid when I address Jenkins. “So far, I’ve yet to hear about any you approve of.”
His lips thin, leaving him comically bulbous.
I turn to one of the shelves and extract a book with a bear on the cover just as Finn reaches where I’m standing. “Is this one acceptable? Was it, too, written by a perverted druggie? Or maybe just a hack? I suppose it’s okay to sell such wretched books as long as a profit is earned. Money trumps morality, right?”
Those narrow, sharp eyes hone in on me. “What the fuck did you just say?”
I’m merciless, but he deserves nothing less. “As you’re the one making comparisons between me and a little girl, perhaps you’re the pervert
who requires castration.”
It’s a miracle the shop does not explode.
“Get out of my goddamn store or I’ll call the cops.” Spittle flies out from his lips as he shouts these words to me.
Finn takes a step forward, his tall frame filling the space between me and Jenkins. His fingers curl inward, the muscles of his back tighten. “Don’t,” he says in a low, even voice that sends a shiver down my spine, “ever speak to her like that again.”
Jenkins slams his cane against the stack of books topped by mine, sending them scattering. But neither Finn nor I flinch, nor do we move from where we’re standing. “Shouldn’t be a problem when that goddamn bitch gets the hell out of my store!”
My grip tightens on the book in my hand. If I let it go, at just the right angle, I could hit his windpipe just so. Or his testicles, which might be a better target considering his apparent predilection toward blonde girls.
But Finn’s right there, extracting the book from my grip. And then his fingers lace through mine, squeezing before I can snatch yet another one. “We’re done here anyway.”
We most certainly are not bloody done here. How dare this disgusting man speak to me in such a way.
Another squeeze is offered, one that lets me know Finn’s just as livid as I am, but it’s also a reminder that we have to play our cards right. Fine. I’ll allow him this, but if Jenkins says one more thing to set me off . . .
“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out!” Jenkins bellows from behind.
Halfway down the stairs, as steam pours out of my ears, I see it. There. Behind the desk, only visible at this height, from this angle of the steep stairs. Sitting on a stack of old newspapers is an open switchblade nearly identical to the pair back at the Institute. Same black horn, same gleaming silver accents.
Gotcha.
Once we’re outside, Finn lets go of my hand as if it’s on fire. Without another word, he strides away, back toward where our cab deposited us hours before.
I’m stunned. Is he really so angry with me? But then I’m pushing through the crowd, rushing to catch up. It isn’t until a block later do I find him just standing by a gated, abandoned shop, his head angled against the graffitied brick and concrete.
I lean next to him, staring up at the same dilapidated metal fire escape. “You want to know something about me?” My fingers dig into the gauzy fabric of my dress. “I have a temper that can get me into trouble.”
“Is that one of your secrets? Because if it is, it’s a terrible one. I knew that pretty much from Day One.”
“You should have let me hit him. Just once, at least.”
His head rolls to face mine. “So he could have you charged with assault?”
My grunt is unladylike. But, goodness, is that ease between us back with a vengeance.
“Truth be told,” he’s saying, “this couldn’t have worked out better in our favor.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “How so?”
“He thinks he’s run us off. Thinks you’re nothing more than some bitchy woman who reads smut and has a ridiculous boyfriend not willing to back you up in an argument.”
I’m the ridiculous one, because I say, “But you did.”
“My first inclination was to beat the shit out of him, and then force him to apologize to you. The fact that I didn’t?” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Assholes like him see that as a weakness. He’s probably gloating over how he told us off, how he got the best of us.”
I shift against the wall, so I’m now leaning on my shoulder as I full face him. “I saw a switchblade—”
“Behind the desk. I saw it, too. Upstairs, there was also a brand-new copy of a graphic comic book starring none other than a certain murderous barber shoved in between books on birdwatching.”
I straighten. “Do you have it?”
“No. A camera was trained right onto that aisle, so I pretended to flip through one of the nature guides. I saw the title, though. It was clearly about Todd. Interesting coincidence, right?”
“There is no such thing as coincidence,” the Caterpillar used to tell me. “Only truth.”
“Is it normal to have so many cameras in a bookshop?”
He shakes his head. “For a used bookshop, it’s suspicious, right?”
Why did you kiss me? is on the tip of my tongue. What I actually say is, “We’ll need to disable the cameras when we sneak in next.”
A small grin curves his mouth. “Listen to you and your Twenty-First-Century talk. Disable the cameras. Wendy would weep in joy if she could hear you now.”
Like an addict, I want to keep up the banter between us, so I ask, “What’s her story, anyway? She’s obsessed with all her gadgets.”
When his lower lip sucks in between his teeth, I’m spellbound. “You ought to ask her that.”
“Is it a secret?”
He rubs his chin alongside his shoulder. “No. Of course not. It’s just, some people in the Society are touchy when it comes to their origins. Wendy is one of them.”
“Is her story bad?”
“She’s not from a story, and that’s the problem.”
I’m confused.
“A Timeline, yes. But she was never a character in a book. Her great-great-great grandmother was.” He kicks at a plastic cup on the ground. “Her name is actually Gwendolyn, and I’m told that, growing up, everyone called her Gwen.”
“Why the change?”
“To make a long story short, she’s been obsessed with her family history for as long as she can remember.”
“Which is?”
I can’t tell if he’s amused or mildly disgusted when he says, “There was this . . . guy, for lack of a better word, who used to show up and take the women in her family to a magical island for like an extended vacation. Wendy’s family died when she was five, though, and I guess because she moved into an orphanage, he never came for her.”
“So she was recruited instead?”
He shakes his head. “Not like a lot of us, no. 1911BAR-PW’s catalyst was a family heirloom of hers, and she busted the team that was sent in to collect it. Somehow, she weaseled the truth out of them and then insisted on coming back to New York. She was young then, maybe ten? Already great with technology, thanks to one of the nuns at the orphanage she lived at.”
“So, if she’s Gwendolyn, how’d she become Wendy?”
“Wendy was her great-great-great grandmother’s name.”
“Why is she resentful about not being from a book? Personally, I find it appalling there are storybooks out there that spill my secrets.”
He shrugs. “You’d have to ask her about that one.”
“Van Brunt didn’t adopt her?”
“No. She didn’t want to be adopted. Said Peter would never find her if her name was different—even though she technically bears her father’s surname, not her mother’s. She even insisted everyone call her Darling. It’s kind of weird, to be honest. But it makes her happy, so we do.”
“Who is Peter?”
“The guy who—”
Right. I finish up for him. “Kidnaps the ladies of her family.”
Goose pimples explode up and down my arms when he laughs quietly at this. “Well, if you put it that way . . .”
A smile of my own eases across my face. Why is Finn Van Brunt so difficult to resist?
I take a deep breath and say something I told myself I wasn’t going to let myself do again. I tell him, “I want to trust you.”
He takes it the wrong way, though. “But you don’t.”
“But I want to.” I take a step closer, my heart upon my sleeve. “And I want you to trust me.”
He squints into the fading sunlight. Straightens from his position against the wall. There’s a vulnerability there that he hasn’t let me see before, one that tugs at strings I’d thought I’d clipped.
“Besides,” I murmur, “aren’t you all telling me that it’s the intent that counts?”
A DOOR SLAMS, ONLY to
be followed by a string of curse words and stomping feet.
“God, these walls are thin. Popcorn?”
I stare at Mary as she passes over a bright-red bowl filled with white, popped kernels fresh from the microwave. “I thought Finn was out tonight.”
“Finn doesn’t slam doors or typically shout like a drunk sailor. That’s Victor.” She grabs a handful of the treat she’s fixed us. “Door slamming is par for the course when he knows he’s in the doghouse.”
Mary and Victor arrived ahead of schedule, just hours after Finn and I returned from our visit to the Ex Libris Bookstore. Since then, she’s declared the next pair of days girl time and has instructed our male counterparts to stay away unless they’re prepared to binge watch what she calls rom-coms, go dancing at something called eighties clubs, and imbibe in terrifying sounding concoctions that go by frou-frou drinks.
This announcement came as we all stood outside our respective flat doors in the hallway, each ready to either head inside or leave. Congregations like this are becoming increasingly common, leaving me feeling as if our living arrangements are more akin to boarding school than anything else. “Alice needs to know that there’s more to life than work. You’re doing a piss-poor job of that, Finn.”
Not that he needed my help, but I tried to defend my partner. “He—”
Mary wasn’t listening, though. She’d already wheeled around to Victor, snapping, “It’ll be the perfect time for you to think about your actions.”
The poor doctor looked like a startled yet mournful puppy dog. “But—”
She was already back to Finn, a hint of a sneer twisting her lips. “Don’t you have somewhere to be already?”
Finn, for his part, looked utterly bored and unwilling to engage in her verbal sparring match.
“Mary,” Victor protested, “this is between us. Finn hasn’t done anything, and you know it. You don’t need to—”
She took hold of my doorknob. “Like he’s innocent.” And then, before another thing could be said, she flung herself through my door, slamming it so hard behind her that the ground beneath our feet trembled.
Um . . .
The Collectors' Society Page 16
