Night Latch

by Anela Deen

  Books by Anela Deen

  Fantasy

  A Ransom of Flames

  Beneath Cruel Fathoms (The Bitter Sea Trilogy #1)

  Urban Fantasy

  Night Latch (The Locksmith Duology #1)

  Science-Fiction

  Deviation: A Short Story

  Insurrection: The Complete Omnibus

  Failsafe

  NIGHT LATCH

  The Locksmith Duology

  Book One

  By Anela Deen

  Copyright © 2019 Anela Deen

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Fine Fables Press 2019

  Minneapolis, MN

  Cover art by Seedlings Design Studio

  www.seedlingsonline.com

  AmidTheImaginary.WordPress.com

  Dedicated to Father Remo who once told me there is no faith without doubt, no certainty that hasn’t first been questioned, and no belief that hasn’t at times been shaken.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for getting a copy of Night Latch, an urban fantasy story I’ve been wanting to share with the world for some time. A note on the format of this novel: Originally, I’d thought to publish this as a novella serial, but Sam’s adventures kept getting longer and the farther in I got, the more I realized he was headed towards something specific. So, I decided to skip the serialization and combine them into a novel. The story is told in three parts: Each section tells a complete tale, much like a TV episode, but with an overarching storyline running through it. It’s a style I’ve used before and loved, and I’ve had so much fun returning to it here.

  The stories in order:

  Deadbolt

  Night Latch

  Skeleton Key

  And the bonus story: Reaping Christmas

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  IT WOULD happen any minute now.

  The clock on my phone wouldn’t rewind or fast forward no matter how much I stared at it. I would just have to endure what came next.

  The walls of Clover mall echoed with its standard orchestra of early evening shoppers and the intermittent screech of hungry toddler. Almost five-o’clock on a Friday afternoon and time, once again, to steel myself for the inevitable encounter. There was always a chance I’d get lucky this go around. Maybe a massive sink hole would suddenly swallow the town of Bellemer, Iowa and spare me from this weekly ritual. Was it selfish to wish myself and 2,500 innocent bystanders out of existence to avoid an awkward situation?

  I shook my head at myself, slouching a bit on the stool propping me up behind the counters of the kiosk. My contract with Clover mall stipulated someone had to man the center lane space I rented for at least ten hours during the business week. A chronic procrastinator, I wound up doing all of them on the last possible day. Which Mr. Upland knew. Ah, the land mines of owning a small business no one tells you about.

  And there he was now. Right on schedule and headed this way. The man had punctuality even German transit operators would admire. He waved cheerfully to shoppers and store owners, exchanging pleasantries with a few. A man in his late-fifties, he became the town celebrity when he won the national lottery jackpot five years ago. Two hundred million. He spent some time in New York but came back home and poured money into Bellemer’s failing economy. He fixed up the schools, the roads, built a museum, a new movie theater with awesome stadium seating, and yes, constructed this fabulous strip mall just off the main highway. He was a great guy. We all loved him.

  And he wanted me to date his daughter.

  I slouched a bit more and tried to appear engrossed in the ninety-nine-cent comic book I’d rummaged out of the bins at the dollar store. There was no escaping this though.

  “Sam, my boy!” Mr. Upland boomed as he leaned his forearms against the counter and gave me an earnest smile. “Big plans for the weekend?”

  I lowered the comic and smiled back. “Not really. Work, the usual. What about you?”

  Mr. Upland shook his head in exasperation. “You work too much, kid. Business going okay? I could make some inquiries for you with a few companies.”

  With a town our size, hardly anyone locked their doors even at night, but there were only three certified locksmiths in operation within thirty miles. Supply and demand, baby. Sam Alvarez, Locksmith Co., LLC was doing fine. Or fine enough for my ambitions.

  Better to not say that out loud. He’d only insist on helping me then—which was kind, but wrong knowing the motivation. Not to mention, I didn’t like drawing too much attention to myself. Most locksmiths needed their tools to open locks. Unlike me.

  “I appreciate that, sir, but I prefer to make my own way.”

  “You’re a stand-up guy, Sam. Hard worker.” His gaze took on a proud twinkle and I tried to avoid direct eye contact. Here it came. “Why don’t you come have dinner with Anna and me at the house tomorrow night? Heidi’s home from college.”

  Heidi was a great girl. We went to high school together. She was fun, kind, and had a pair of brown eyes that warmed your soul like hot cocoa in December. She was also a lot smarter than me and her vision for the future after Cornell University didn’t include living out her life in Bellemer, no matter how many improvements her dad made to it. I had no plans to go anywhere. Mr. Upland’s strategy to dangle me as a love interest who’d convince her to move back home for good—probably within a few miles of her parents—wasn’t going to work out.

  But she was their only daughter and try as I might each week, I just couldn’t bring myself to fully crush the man’s dream.

  “Maybe next week, Mr. Upland. I’m pretty busy this weekend.”

  Disappointment dimmed the smile in his eyes. He tapped the counter top and shrugged good naturedly. “All right then. Have a good weekend, Sam. Don’t overwork yourself, hear?”

  “You too, sir.”

  He turned away, which would’ve been a great moment to shove my face back into the comic book and keep my mouth shut. He moved off, a slight slump to his shoulders.

  And it got to me.

  “Tell Heidi I said hello, will you?”

  He looked back, the twinkle returning. “Absolutely, Sam. Hey, you know she has the Skype on her laptop. Maybe you two could catch up on there.”

  “Uh, definitely. Next time I’m online, I’ll send her a message.”

  “Good man.” He shot a pair of finger-pistols at me and sauntered off with a lighter step.

  I was almost never online. Heidi knew that and would get the message. Besides, from what I’d heard, she was dating a guy on the university football team, a Rhodes scholar and a native New Yorker.

  Me? Well, I was hardly the stuff of romance novels. Thanks to my free weights and my evening runs I hadn’t gone into complete Cheeto decline in the three years since graduation. The combined heritage of my parents had given me the height of a Scandinavian with the dark hair and burnished skin of a Columbian mestizo. But girls were looking for someone with ambition, someone who wanted to get out of this town and make something of themselves. One look and it was obvious that wasn’t me.

  I lacked inspiration and they all knew it.

  Staring blankly at my comic book and mulling over this cheerful thought, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I glanced up to find a young woman standing at the counter. Watching me.

  I didn’t hear or see her walk up. She’d simply materialized.

  “Sorry, I hadn’t, uh—” I bent down to pick up my fallen book and convince my fists to unclench. Jeez, it was just a customer. Pull it together. I stood and made another try for profess
ionalism. “How can I…?”

  Of course, professionalism became more difficult when I focused enough to look at her. Long hair fell in a sheet of black silk down her shoulders with eyes like blue ice set into pale gold skin. She was not from Bellemer. I’d have remembered her. She was beautiful and unsettling at the same time, like watching the skies go dark as a storm rolled in from the east.

  I cleared my throat. “How can I help you?”

  “You open doors.”

  As was my custom around stunning women, my fumbled response was peppered with undeserving bravado.

  “Mm-hmm, that’s me. Sam the door opening man.” Dear God, no wonder I hadn’t been on a date in months.

  She did not react with the typical pity laugh to which I’d grown unwillingly accustomed. In fact, she didn’t react at all. She did not blink, lean, tap, or shuffle her feet. She didn’t even lay her hands on the counter the way everyone did.

  She was just…still.

  “I need you to open a door,” she said finally.

  “Definitely. Sure. I can do that. I’m available.” Ugh, no. Somebody hit me.

  “Not now. Tonight.”

  “Okay.” No, it wasn’t. I didn’t do calls at night. “What time?”

  “When the moon is high.”

  “So, what is that, like, eight o’clock?”

  She gave a nod. “That is acceptable. You will find me again at Sunny Oak Hills.”

  I turned to my pad and pencil at the register behind me to jot down the information.

  “Sunny Oak. That sounds familiar but I don’t think I know it. I’ll need your name and the address.”

  But when I turned back, she was gone.

  Chapter 2

  Dusk came on the sky like an old bruise as I turned my weathered Ford truck into the driveway of my mother’s house on Delanor Avenue.

  It was a pretty two-level red brick home with a horseshoe driveway and a front garden full of vibrant flowers. I lived in the detached garage set beside the back patio. My mother had furnished the patio better than the stuff in my apartment. Not that she was the type of person to lounge outside but that area was visible from the curb, and thus, outfitted to impress.

  Built before the neighborhood became an affluent zip code, it was a modest, but attractive, old house, surrounded by newer, colossus-sized homes. Over time, my mom’s inferiority complex had grown to exponential proportions.

  My mind was on the leftover moo goo gai pan in the fridge, so it took me a moment to notice the kitchen light was on in my apartment over the garage. With a sigh I turned off the engine. It was as if the woman could sense my imminent return, like a trained beagle. Only less loyal. A cautionary tale, really. Never a good idea to have the role of mother and landlord occupied by the same person.

  The door stood open as I hopped up the steps to the side entrance. Thankfully, it was mid-September, otherwise I’d have been spending the night swatting mosquitos. I made a mental note to install a screen door over the weekend and stepped inside.

  Despite these frequent invasions, I loved this place. Laid out like a studio apartment, the floor plan was completely open. The irony of a locksmith living in a home with almost no doors always brought a smirk to my face. A small kitchen nook and breakfast counter stood to one side. Living room to the other and my bedroom to the back elevated by a single step. I kept meaning to do something about the bare, white walls but I didn’t know what, so it stayed the same. The unpainted canvas. Metaphor of my life somewhere in there.

  My mom stood beside by the breakfast bar, her polished nails picking through a handful of envelopes with a look of faint disapproval.

  “Should I bother asking if that’s my mail?” I said, dropping my duffle bag by the door as I moved past her to the fridge.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  Never a good sign.

  She wore one of her better suits, a pale blue number with a white blouse underneath. Her hair and makeup were salon perfect. Her jewels sparkled even under the yellow light of my kitchen lamp and I caught a delicate whiff of her fine perfume.

  “You look nice,” I said.

  “Mm,” she mumbled.

  I calculated the date in my head and realized she’d been to the monthly neighborhood women’s supper, better known as the span of hours in which they compared the successes of their children for bragging rights.

  Just super.

  When I opened the fridge, I was not greeted by the sight of my take-out box. I had only a carton of milk, OJ, and a jar of pickles I didn’t remember buying on the shelf. I searched behind them anyway, like the guy who checked under his mattress when he couldn’t find his keys anywhere.

  “If you’re looking for that carton of bile, you can find it in the trash.”

  I gaped at her. “You threw away my dinner?”

  “It smelled like used oil.”

  “It’s supposed to smell that way, mom. That’s why it tastes good.”

  I pulled out the trash from under the sink and gazed forlornly into the unsalvageable remains. She’d even made sure to upend the contents into the discarded coffee grounds before tossing the box on top.

  I shoved the trash can back under the sink and closed the cabinet with a bang.

  “Mother, what did I tell you about coming into my apartment, you know, ever?”

  She held an envelope up to the light. “Are you getting a subscription to something? I don’t want your comic books delivered to my address.”

  “That’s an advertisement,” I said and plucked it and the rest of my mail out of her hands.

  It was all junk mail but it was my junk mail. And hey, I might use that Applebee’s coupon.

  As I sifted through the bunch, I found one with her name printed in the address window.

  June Michaels.

  I handed it to her. “This is yours.”

  She took it, casting me one of her evaluative glances. As usual, I didn’t pass.

  “Danette Olby’s eldest son just passed the bar at Carlson Law School.” Her tone implied she expected an answer.

  Was I supposed to rend my clothing in shame?

  In all honesty, I didn’t give her much to brag about to the other neighborhood hens at their get-togethers, a fact she perpetually held against me. I think she would have been satisfied if I was a starving artist. Maybe a painter or a musician. Even if it wasn’t well paid, at least there was an existential flair to it.

  Instead, all she got was me. A locksmith wasn’t something to really brag about. Neither was a college drop-out in his early twenties. Too young yet for a family. Too old to be living over his mother’s garage.

  “Good for him,” I said brightly and attempted to shuffle her towards the door.

  That worked about as well as it would on a cat. I tried the direct approach.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to find something to eat and visit Nana before I have to leave for work again.”

  “Work?” she repeated dubiously. “At night? Where are you really going?”

  “I moonlight as a male stripper.”

  “Oh, you’re so funny. Well, you’re not going anywhere until you get that old woman to take her pills.”

  I stopped. “You mean she hasn’t had her pills yet?”

  She fluffed her fair hair on one side. “I tried this morning, but you know how she is. Anyway, I don’t know them like you do and I was busy before meeting the girls.”

  “It’s heart medication, Mother,” I said, rushing out the door. “You think her heart can wait on a pedicure?”

  “I told you she should be in assisted living,” she called after me.

  ***

  I found Nana in the kitchen pulling a tray of baked empanadas out of the oven. The state of the place slapped me like a two-timed ex-girlfriend.

  Swaths of flour, egg shells, used cutting boards and a variety of other dirty utensils covered every inch of the grey marble countertops. Greasy fingerprints stained several of the white cabinet doors. My moth
er must have gone straight to my apartment from the mailbox or I would’ve heard the shrieking from the street.

  I knew my Nana. I’d seen every inch of her impeccably clean, impossibly organized room. The chaos had intentional written all over it.

  Nana noticed me in the doorway and flashed me one of her smiles like a slice of sunshine.

  “Hello, mi amor. Sit. You must be hungry.” She swished the aroma from the tray enticingly with a curl of her hand and inhaled. “Deliciosas.”

  Of course, they were delicious. She’d been making them since she was old enough to roll dough. If it weren’t for the pangs of anxiety over the disarray, I’d dive right in but I didn’t have time to referee another bilingual screaming match.

  “Nana, the mess,” I groaned. “Mom’s going to have kittens when she sees this.”

  “Esa bruja,” she grumbled. “Let her complain. She was in my room again, moving things around. Come, eat while they fresh.”

  Nana had one of those rich voices that called to mind a wood fire and baked bread, her accent laden with the inflection of her Columbian homeland, yet clear enough for even the most linguistically challenged Anglophones.

  She set the tray on the oven top and wiped her hands on the embroidered apron about her waist. I swiped her heart medication from the table as I sat down and looked inside the bottle.

  “There are still six pills in here from this morning, Nana. Don’t make me slip it into your coffee.”

  Her gray-black braid swung like a pendulum as she tsk-tsked me. She transferred the pastries onto a plate.

  “You eat and I have pills, okay?”

  I might have insisted she take them first but then she set the plate in front of me. The next thing I knew I had a mouthful of their crumbly, beef-filled goodness. I’d need the word ‘delicious’ in a few more languages to adequately describe these things.

  She sat down in the chair next to me and watched me eat with a satisfied smile.

  “Your business going good?”