The Book, the Key and the Crown (Secrets of the Emerald Tablet Book 1)

by Jennifer Cipri

  The man, Arm, gives me a once over and says, “Little girl. You ain’t got ears for the fairytales I been telling. Plus you ain’t Valley-born.”

  “I’m a Putzarella,” I lie. “A cousin.” I stammer a little. “Fro…from the mother’s side. Anna. It’s just that she’s been so down and out I can’t really talk to her. Have any of you heard anything about the father?”

  “You mean your cousin?” he corrects me wisely.

  “In-law. We weren’t that close.”

  I don’t think they’re buying it; I’m going about this all wrong. Come on, Pris. You’re an Erie girl. You can do this. You’re gonna have to take that old girl off the shelf and give her a good dusting.

  “Whatever, don’t believe me.” I drink deeply in a blasé movement that’s eerily reminiscent of my father. (I must have learned it from him.) Then I slam the glass back on the table and say, “I’ve seen them for myself anyways.”

  “Seen what?” Arm asks.

  I stay wordless, taking up my drink again with two hands, listening to the clink of the ice.

  “I said seen what?”

  I take my time to reply. “A man that had a face of a bat. He was laughing at the wailing women. The ones mourning for Concettina.”

  Arm blinks. His mouth opens a little and in these slightest of movements I know I’ve got him. This is what I was trained to do. People. I do people. And I do them well. I’ve thoroughly regained my confidence, so I lean in confidentially and say. “Motherfucker looked like a bat. And he was laughing. Good and hard. Laughing.”

  Arm nods his head meaningfully. “Hounds. Sold their souls over to Cosimo and his lovesick witch.”

  My ears prick at the word witch.

  “No blood runs through their veins,” says Arm. “They take the form of their totem when they’re in attack mode.”

  “That’s right,” I comment pretending I know the story well.

  “Nobody outside of this place would believe it. But we’ve been hearing about the Hounds since we was kids. Noone has ever seen one. Until now. If what you say is true.”

  “I swear on my mother and father.”

  “Ghost stories,” comes a voice from the shadows.

  “Bloodless vampires,” comes another mockingly.

  “Not ghost stories,” someone interjects, taking Arm’s side.

  “You nonbelievers should be ashamed of yourselves,” Arm chastises. “You were all raised here. You know what our ancestors taught us. This isn’t some Twilight shit. The Hounds exist. For whatever reason they’re back and they’re in our hood.” He looks at me full in the face and says, “You look around this place. Look up to the storefronts and tell me what you see. Children. Missing children.”

  “Kids are bad nowadays,” someone offers. “They run away.”

  Arm shakes his head. “No. Not like this. Never to be seen again. Our children were always safe. No matter what kinds of dirty was being done in these streets. The children were left alone. I’m telling you. It’s the Night’s Council. And their Hounds.”

  I didn’t take time to notice before, because I was too busy judging the checkered tablecloths and floral print curtains, but it’s rather toasty in here. I unzip my coat and loosen my scarf.

  The barmaid is frying chicken on a stove. She sets the cooked ones onto sheets of paper towels covering a plate. As she works a fresh batch into the oil, she reads a book held open in her other hand. Lost in its pages a delicious little smile curves her plump berry-stained lips. I find myself envying this woman’s contentment. In life there seem to be only moments of happiness—so fleeting, yet so sweet. You know, the deep down sincere moments. I have not felt one in what seems like forever.

  “I bet that witch is at the helm of this Night’s Council,” I put in knowingly, even though I’m blindly grasping for information.

  “Ah. Haven’t they said it, Cosimo’s lovesick witch. They say she’s got the book that keeps the show going. The one with all the spells.”

  “She’s running the show,” one of the believers offers.

  “Nah,” says another. “It’s the Brotherhood. You ain’t heard about them?”

  “I believe it’s Cosimo who runs the show,” the Arm says. “He’s the one to watch in my opinion.”

  I lean into Arm and speak only for him to hear. “What’s his last name, Cosimo?” All I need is a name and I can pass it to someone on the force.

  “Medici,” Arm responds, straight-faced. “Medici the undead.”

  Just then, abrupt popping sounds outside in the near distance.

  Gunshots. I know them. From my father, when he used to get so wasted he would run outside and try to shoot the aliens. The aliens that were coming to take us all away.

  My spine shivers. “Oh my God,” I say.

  “Soda Can,” Arm says dismissively.

  The barmaid has stopped reading; she’s shaking her head in disapproval. She notices me eyeing her as she returns to her chicken and throws me another one of her charming little looks.

  Then the door opens and a monster of a man steps inside, each footstep declaring its beastly presence. He owns the room as soon as he’s in it and he knows it.

  He’s as big as the Incredible Hulk. He lumbers over to the bar and wedges himself between me and the man named Arm, placing two vulgar forearms on the lacquered wood. His breathing is audible and his fingers are scabbed and raw. It takes me back to my hometown, Erie. I know it’s wrong of me, but poor people disgust me. They have bad hygiene and never wear clothes that fit right. It’s so fucking depressing.

  Without warning he turns and looks at me directly. His eyes hold not a speck of light. Instinctively I understand that he would hurt me bad if he could. And he would like it.

  “Fresh Meat?” he asks. (There’s a whorehouse only blocks from here.)

  I’m unable to answer. Luckily someone does it for me. One of the men in the shadows says, “She’s Frank’s cousin. Wanted to know if any of us seen him.”

  Mo picks up his eyebrows like he’s interested.

  I don’t think I’m breathing anymore.

  “What do you think you’re doing exactly?” he asks.

  “Huh?” I act confused because I really am.

  “Coming in here, pretending you’re one of us. Asking questions about poor Frank. What are you some kind of cop?”

  “Me? A cop? God, no. I hate cops.”

  He slides his hand out and pulls the front flap of my coat back, taking a look at my skin tight Lulu Lemons. I curse myself for always needing to look cute.

  He sucks saliva from his teeth and grunts. “That is one fine ass pair of legs you’ve got hiding under there.”

  I’m too frightened to snatch my jacket back.

  He leans closer so I can feel his hot breath on me. “If you ain’t five-O then…” He inhales deeply.

  I still don’t speak. Showing fear could make things worse.

  “I don’t smell nothing,” he whispers.

  “Are you supposed to?”

  “Blood. Human blood.”

  Finally I snatch my jacket back and slide the bar stool back. I reach for my bag but he grabs my wrist with one hand and snaps a switchblade open with another. He puts the blade to my cheek.

  “Somebody help me,” I say calmly, yet firmly.

  No one moves. You could hear a pin drop.

  “You one of them Hounds ain’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  As fast as lighting, Arm slams his paper down on the counter. “Please, Mo. Enough!”

  “Yeah, Mo,” someone else says. “You can’t do that.”

  “I can do whatever I want.” Mo answers.

  “It’ll be trouble,” the Arm advises.

  He lets go of my wrist and I jump down off the stool. Rushing out the door I hear him call after me, “And don’t come back.”

  8: Anna

  I just want to sleep and never wak
e up, but someone comes into the bedroom and shakes me by the shoulder. I open my eyes and see a face that is terrified.

  I sit up with great effort. “What is it Stori?”

  “You lied to me.”

  How could I be so stupid, believing the girls wouldn’t find out eventually? Still I hope maybe she’s talking about something else. “What are you talking about, honey?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Why didn’t you tell me daddy left us for another woman? Why did you let me look like such a fool putting up his picture all over the Valley? How could you do this to me?”

  I don’t know what to say because I know she’s right. I should have been honest with them from the start. But how do you tell your children something like that? How do you destroy the most important thing in their lives—their vision of their parents? “I just couldn’t,” I tell her. “I just couldn’t do that to you. Or Regina.”

  “So you think me finding out on the street is better?”

  “It’s complicated. How would I start?”

  “How about with the truth. The truth isn’t complicated. It’s easy.”

  “Not always, honey. For grownups, the truth is very complicated.”

  “Not for me,” she says and turns her back on me. She goes to my bureau and looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair is disheveled and I notice her pants are dirty. As a mother I want to ask her where she’s been, but I don’t think I have the strength for her answer. My little girl, Stori. I knew she was going to grow up way too fast. I knew she was going to become the hard, angry girl I see before me.

  I want to tell her: Don’t ever have children Stori. Because the moment you do, you will understand how insignificant you are. You will never be able to protect them from the cruelty of this world. You will never be able to mend their broken heart. Your father thought making you tough would protect you. But I always knew he was wrong. Even though you’re so much tougher than Regina, I worry for you the most. Because deep inside, I know you’re the weakest. I remember when my mother died last year, your sweet Nonna. You used to sleep in her bed with her when I let you stay overnight. Even when you were too big to fit—you would insist. After she died I saw how you slept with her picture in the bed with you. Right between you and Amanda. Even though you were nearly grown, you still needed to be somebody’s baby. And you still do. You need the Other Mothers. You need the Tribe. The things that are just memories to us now. The things long gone.

  “Not for me,” she says again. “The truth is easy, Mommy. Daddy’s a scumbag and I hope he never comes home. I hope he’s happy. I hope he’s really happy with what he’s done. He always ignored me anyways.”

  “You don’t understand. He was trying to protect you. There are dangerous people in this world, Stori. Your father knew too well about them.”

  If I tell her what her father whispered to me the night he disappeared she would never believe it. Maybe it was all a lie—a distraction from what he was about to do. Oh, Frank. Why did you tell me of such evils, only to leave?

  “It’s not easy being a parent,” I tell her.

  “Don’t tell me it’s not easy being a parent. I think it’s only hard because all you adults have forgotten how to be decent. I will never speak his name again.”

  A quote by Graham Greene comes to mind as I watch my oldest daughter, almost a woman now, studying her own face, the face of a brokenhearted girl: There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets in the future.

  I realize all the doors that have already been closed in Stori’s face and I fear like I have never feared before for her future.

  Oh, Frank. I remember the kind of man you once were.

  Do you? Do you?

  I remember that Christmas years ago, before you took that bullet, when your coworkers chipped in and bought us a little color TV. The girls were so excited and so were you.

  One night you had a show on, I think it was CSI or something like that. They were just getting to the part where they were about to arrest the killer and you were so enthralled. Just then Stori came into the room and wanted to show you how her popovers came out.

  But you shushed her.

  She didn’t fuss. She only said sorry and left the room.

  But you did. You woke from your trance and looked at me and said. “Something’s not right here.”

  You went over to the TV, unplugged it and picked it up in your arms. I followed you into the kitchen and watched in horror as you opened the front door and flung the TV out into the avenue.

  Then you came back inside and looked at Stori and said, “I’m sorry, Stori. Now get out some butter. Me and Mommy want to try your popovers. Go ahead. Get the butter honey. Everything’s alright.”

  You were a good man and a good father. But I guess that television was just the start. Of things to come and interfere. Things to come and take away what we had together. Oh, Frank. You’ve broken my heart. You’ve left me here all alone and I am dying without you.

  9: Sweeper

  It might take another day to get there. The manmade tunnels under the city spider out from there traveling for miles in all directions. I have been carrying the child for hours and I’m getting tired now.

  Beyond tired, I am hungry. Yes. You heard right. I’m hungry. You might think that a man like me, who sold his soul over to the Brotherhood and signed his name in the book, wouldn’t be bothered anymore with such a base desire. But you would be wrong.

  They’re worse now; the pangs. It’s as if a big gaping hole lives where my belly once was and it is bottomless.

  And don’t let me get started on the thirst. I can drink five gallons of Poland Spring in one sitting, yet I am far from quenched.

  I’m coming up on a checkpoint now. The tunnel gets wider and there’s a woman sitting at a booth behind the gated entrance. “Name?” she says, flipping through a fashion magazine, chewing on a wad of gum.

  “Samuel Sampel.”

  She flicks a few pages of her magazine. She slides a glass plate and a razor blade under the open slot. “Verification.”

  “Don’t you see I’m carrying something?” My patience is running thin. If I don’t get some food in me, I’m going to collapse right in front of her.

  Her false eyelashes flutter and she rolls her eyes. Then she turns to someone in the shadows behind her and indicates me with a nod of the head.

  At the sound of an electric buzzer a corner of the iron gate flies open and an armed guard in all black (aka a Black Boot) comes out and unburdens me of the child. For a fleeting moment, I don’t want to let him go. He carries him inside and the gate slams shut again.

  “Verification,” she repeats, the gum sloshing around in her mouth.

  I take the blade and cut. I always get nervous when I have to do this.

  She pays close attention. Her lips are curling into a delicious little grin as she anticipates my failure.

  Checkpoint girls. Dime a dozen. Empty headed and always looking to delight in another’s misfortune. Oh, and they live for gossip. Their unguarded whispers have been quite informative—I know more about the Night’s Council than they would ever suspect.

  The plate takes a few drops. She looks up and pouts. “What’s a matter baby? Who you got up in that pretty little head of yours?”

  If we remember, we can still bleed. I am not supposed to remember.

  “No one. Now let me in.”

  She drags her head from side to side. “Now you know I can’t do that.”

  “Listen. I’m starved lady. It’s just a girl, alright. A dumb cunt like you who’s not even worth it.”

  “Ohhh,” she cooes. “Poor baby. But don’t you worry. I’ll get you all hooked up and forgetting. I’ll get you feeling nice in no time.”

  “Do it then,” I bark.

  She blows a big bubble until it bursts. The pink skin sticks to the bow of her lips. She reaches over and presses something. The gate pops open again and two Black Boots step forward to usher me in.

&
nbsp; Inside the checkpoint I’m patted down, emptied of all electronic devices, then led to the cafeteria where I sit amongst other Hounds, too famished to speak, plowing bland rice and kidney beans into their mouths. I eat three plates and ask for another. The guard tells me no. I gulp down the last of my tepid tap water and find the bathroom to pee.

  I’m never sated, never quenched, but it’s enough to get me through another day. They tell me it gets better in time. That soon a plate and just one jar will be enough. How this body is my prison I can never describe. I really hope it gets better soon.

  In the doctor’s office I sit in a steel chair and a nurse in starched white flicks a syringe full of the potion.

  “All you have to do is remember.”

  It takes the better part of an hour, because I don’t want to think of him.

  But eventually I grow too tired to fight. I’m struck by a blinding flash and then suddenly I’m walking up the hill toward my home after a long day at the office. There she is, the only woman who ever loved me. My second chance in life. She is standing on the front porch holding my ten-month old son in her arms. When she spots me trudging up the crest of the hill, she throws up and arm and waves. She points to me and takes my son’s small hand. She brings it up into the air and he begins to wave too.

  I can feel the drug taking it away. The memory. He is fading now. My limbs get heavy. The quilt of annihilation falls slowly over me. I let myself go. I let myself get taken down into blackness.

  When I wake I’m sitting in the middle of a movie theatre. People are seated on all sides of me, chewing popcorn, hypnotized by the screen. I look up and see the blue white projector beam stabbing through the blackness, dust dancing in its trajectory.

  I turn back to the screen and of all things to feast my eyes on, I see me. I almost jump out of my seat. I want to yell out. “Oh my God. That’s me! That’s me!”

  I search every visible face in my vicinity to see if anyone is aware that the star of the movie is sitting right amongst them. But they’re transfixed.

  The big me, the me on the screen reaches out and touches a girl lightly on her face. “You’ve been good to me. I’ll always remember that.” I reach down and pick up a suitcase and walk away from her.