by Rob Cornell
There was a lot more stuff downstairs than I remembered. So many shelves. So many chests. Three long wooden tables covered with bottles and artifacts and broken things. Dust and debris between everything. Old books with leather bindings coming apart. Newer paperbacks with broken spines. Titles like Witchcraft for the Modern Age and Curses from the Mid-Eighteenth Century. My parents had turned our basement into a madman’s museum.
I had little doubt, though, that if my mother were her old self, she could find anything she was looking for. No problem. Same with Dad, if he’d still been around.
I glanced around at the dust strewn chaos and sighed.
What could I hope to find down here? Not that I questioned whether something of use existed among the mess. I was certain there were several things that could help me. Where to find them…where to even start, on the other hand, was beyond me.
I almost turned around. There was a reason I hadn’t come down here in so long. Not only because I had no clue what to do with all this stuff. I knew if I started digging through it, the memories of my parents’ lives would assault me from all directions. Considering my weakened state at the moment, I was bound to break down into a blubbering mess if I thought of them too much.
Still, the idea of waking up in the morning as a vampire was even more unpalatable than risking my manliness and a crying fit.
I took a deep breath and moved in.
I started with a table in the far west corner from the staircase. This corner had belonged mostly to my dad, and he had an affinity for magical knick knacks. If there was some kind of dormant power source in any of the items down here, I’d probably find it among his things.
A small wooden chest sat on the edge of the bench. Stacks of books stood around the chest like ramparts defending it against the mass of statuettes and talisman scattered across the rest of the table’s surface. I tried opening the chest. Found it locked.
Rather than fuss with it, I sifted through the other items. All sorts of pendants and small sculptures. Goblets of varying size and design. A flew dusty glass bottles with a dark coating at their bottoms, the remnants of whatever concoction had once filled them. Nothing sang out to me though. A muffled quiver of magical energy lay like a mist over the entire collection, but no single thing had a large enough signature for my needs.
I turned back to the chest. If he kept it locked, it made sense that something valuable lay within.
I scanned the table and actually found a few keys, but they were either too large or too small for the keyhole in the chest.
I turned around in the space, peering onto shelves, even glancing along the floor. I didn’t see any sign of a key or a good hiding spot for a key. It was entirely possible he had kept the key on his person. I didn’t recall receiving anything of the like when his body was returned. That didn’t mean it hadn’t been lost or even taken. I didn’t think it likely, though.
I looked around some more, and when I was about to give up, I noticed a particular book on a nearby shelf. It stood out from the others, not by how it looked, but by its title. It was the only book of the collection that didn’t reference some magical history or collection of spells.
A Tale of Two Cities.
It had a brown leather binding with the title in faded gold lettering. An easy thing to miss if you just scanned the bookshelf. And unless you were looking for something particular or unusual, even seeing the title wouldn’t raise any flags. At least not for anybody who didn’t know my dad.
But I knew him well. I happened to know that he hated Charles Dickens. My mom might have given Dickens a try. But, honestly, I had seldom seen either of them reading anything besides books related to the arcane. They simply didn’t have time for pleasure reading.
I had to stand on my tip toes to reach the book. It was on a tall bookcase that nearly reached the ceiling. The book case was old pressboard and had started to crumble on a bottom corner from apparent water damage. I took the book down. I could tell by the heft alone that something was wrong. It didn’t weigh near as much as it looked like it should.
Sure enough, the book was hollowed out. And in the hollowed space? A bunch of dust and a single key that looked just the right size for the chest.
I took out the key, set the book aside, and tried the key in the chest’s lock.
Perfect fit. It turned easily and emitted a single, solid click.
“Bingo.”
I didn’t know exactly what I’d find inside, but I knew I hit the jackpot the moment I cracked open the chest’s lid. I could feel the magical energy pour out. Warmth and a tingling sensation flowed through me as I opened the chest the rest of the way. The hinges only gave a short squeak. Otherwise it opened smoothly, as if the hinges had been recently oiled. Somehow the dust of the years had not corrupted them.
While nothing inside glowed bright and shiny right in my face, I trembled at the pent up power emanating from within the velvet-lined box.
Only a few items sat within. One was a huge stack of hundred dollar bills. They looked crisp, freshly printed. I eyeballed and made an estimate on the amount. Ten thousand. Maybe twenty.
Dad had been holding out. Or keeping it aside for an emergency.
I also found a stack of passports rubber banded together. I removed the rubber band and flipped through the passports. Six in total, three with pictures of my father, three with my mother, none of them under their real names. There were drivers’ licenses matching the false IDs on the passports. It was like something out of a spy movie.
But the oddity of this find didn’t surprise me as much as the last item in the chest. I immediately recognized the silver case with the black enamel decoration. The gilt floral pattern.
It was my father’s Longines pocket watch.
He had kept it on him at all times. I remember him constantly drawing it out, flipping it open, and checking the time. I also remembered the small conjurations he used to make with it to entertain me. He would put on these ghostly puppet shows by creating illusions in the air, like three dimensional holograms. He would narrate the stories, the watch always clutched in his free hand, the chain occasionally clinking as he gestured grandiosely and made his holographic puppets dance.
A lump formed in my throat. My vision blurred. When I wiped at my eyes with the back of my wrist, my wrist came away wet.
I reached in for the watch.
Before I touched it, I could feel it. I recognized the magic coursing from it the same way I could recall a particular scent. The energy was purely Dad’s.
I took up the watch and immediately felt an invigorating wave roll through me. The wound on my neck tingled. My weary muscles gained sudden strength. Even the sorrow coiling in my chest from the memories of my father seemed to clear like a fog in the sunlight.
There was some serious power in this thing. I had never held it before. Dad would never let me. Now I understood why. When I was younger I wouldn’t have known how to handle such power. The raw flow of it could have scrambled the fledgling control I had over my own natural power. One touch of this and I could have shorted out every electronic in the house, or shattered all the windows, or set the carpet on fire.
I was older now. I had plenty of control. Still, a wave of vertigo made me unsteady. I had to lean against the table to keep my balance.
I gripped the watch more tightly and felt the energy thrum up my arm. The chain dangled and swung like a pendulum.
Wow. I could feel myself healing inside. My vampire bite had begun to pop and sizzle as if someone had dumped a bottle of peroxide on it. Instead of stinging, though, it felt marvelous, a little ticklish yet somewhat like a mini massage as well.
Damn, if anything could fight back the vampire infection, this was it.
I wondered why Sly hadn’t mentioned it. He knew my father and his capabilities as much as I did. Maybe more so. Then another question occurred to me.
What was this watch doing in this chest, locked up in the basement?
My father never
went anywhere without the watch. He should have had it on him when he was killed. At the time I had been so distraught, I hadn’t missed it.
So why hadn’t he taken it? Would it have made a difference in his fate to have had such a powerful talisman? Would he have survived? And, back to the original question…what had prompted him to leave it behind, locked up in this old chest?
Had he known what was going to happen to him? Or at least suspected? What had they gone into that he would purposefully leave this powerful item behind? Had he intended to leave it for me to find?
I swallowed and wiped more tears from my eyes. I didn’t have answers to these questions. And nowhere to look for clues. So I had to add them to the million other unanswered questions piled up around the mysterious event that took my parents from me.
Clutching the watch, I went upstairs. I never loosened my grip. I laid down on my bed, the watch’s energy buzzing inside of me. I stared at the ceiling and quickly fell asleep.
Chapter Eleven
The pounding that woke me synced with the throbbing in my head. Not exactly a headache, more like my pulse had grown some heft and wanted to pound its way out of my skull. I grunted, thinking the sound would pass along with the sensation.
The noise stopped for a moment, then returned again. An even five thumps punctuated by another pause.
I realized the pounding (the outward pounding) came from my front door. I was tempted to pull my pillow over my head and ignore it. Something about the insistence behind the knocks gave me the impression whoever wanted to see me wasn’t going away.
Better not be some overzealous religious freak trying to push pamphlets into my hand. I might have to show them a real life miracle and set their pamphlets on fire with a quick word.
Thinking about magic reminded me of my father’s watch. I sat up in bed and the watch slipped down from my chest where it had been resting. The chain clattered against the silver case. I gathered the watch up and tucked it in the pocket of the pants I had spent all day yesterday in, and had slept in. A funky smell rose up from my body. I pitied whoever stood on my porch and was about to get a good whiff of that.
On my way down the hall, I absently touched my neck where the vampire had fed on me. The wound had shrunk to a rough scar. My father’s watch had worked some serious mojo on me while I slept. I wondered if I could hold out hope that it had eliminated the infection. Doubt hung around me, though, as I remembered what Sly had said last night. He had seemed pretty certain clearing the infection wouldn’t be so easy.
The pasty taste in my mouth made me grimace. I bet my breath smelled twice as nasty as my body. I probably wouldn’t have to set anybody’s pamphlets on fire with magic. I could do it with my dragon breath alone.
But when I opened the door, it wasn’t to a religious zealot.
It was Fiona.
I took a startled step backward. I also held my breath to keep from blowing any nastiness in her direction.
She wore a snug pair of jeans and a pink Hello Kitty T-shirt. Her face looked fresh and her hair a little damp, as if she had recently come out of the shower.
I wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was full on daylight, so I guessed it was probably on the other side of noon. In fact, the sunlight hurt my eyes, forcing me to squint.
The first sign of vampirism kicking in?
Don’t get all freaked out. You just woke up and you have a bass drummer practicing his drum line routine in your head. Don’t read too much into it.
“You’re that happy to see me, huh?” Fiona said. One corner of her mouth turned up. She was putting me on. Which, I had to admit, I found surprising, since I had totally stood her up last night. Good excuse or not.
“No,” I said, then realized what that sounded like. I sputtered for a moment before I could find a better set of words. “I mean, yes, I’m happy to see you. Just surprised.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t really think I would let you off the hook so easily for your no-show, did you?”
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to think. I haven’t had much time to think.”
She tilted her head to one side to get a look at my neck. My skin burned with sudden self-consciousness.
“You okay?” she asked slowly.
A nice, open ended question. She was giving me an out, I realized. Rather than asking about the fresh scar on my neck directly. This girl really was too good to be true.
“I had a rough night. And I’m really sorry about standing you up. I had…” I glanced past her to the ripped up part of my lawn. “Car trouble?”
Her eyes narrowed. She seemed to process my words for a second before giving a small shrug. “Whatever. It’s your business, not mine.” That could have sounded sarcastic, or derogatory. Instead, she sounded perfectly genuine.
Again, I thought, this girl is way too good to be true. I almost reached out and swung my hand at her to see if it would pass through her like one of my father’s puppet conjurations. A faint soapy scent blowing in on the breeze hinted she was real enough. I tried a smile. My mouth felt stiff, but I think I got it right.
“So I’m forgiven?” I asked.
She screwed her lips up to one side and hummed. “One condition,” she said. “We reschedule. Make it an official date.”
Date? Had she just said date?
I stood there with my mouth hanging open. She laughed.
“Speak,” she said.
I shook off my initial shock when my father’s watch suddenly flared with magical heat in my pocket. It was like it was trying to tell me something. Or remind me.
Remind me that my life was way too damn complicated for dating. Especially a normal like Fiona. She deserved better. Like I had said at least twice already, she was too good to be true. Operative words in my case—too good.
“I can’t,” I said.
Her gaze went to my neck, then quickly recovered, looking me in the eyes. “Did I sound like I was asking?”
“Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t asking, Sebastian. I was giving you a condition of my forgiveness.”
I laughed. “I’m sorry. I really can’t. My life got really complicated in a few hours time. I really wish—”
“Don’t wish,” she said and stepped off the porch and through my door. She came in real close and I cringed at the idea that she could smell me. She didn’t appear bothered though. In fact, she moved so close we were practically touching. “You want to go out with me, don’t you? Catch an early dinner before I go in for my shift?”
“I…” Didn’t want to lie to her. Of course I wanted to. But we don’t always get what we want. Besides, she had no idea what she was getting herself into. I really liked her. I didn’t want to make her angry. I also didn’t want to lead her on. I had no idea how to get through this without coming across as a total asshole.
Before I could think up an answer, she reached up and gently touched my cheek. “I know things with your mom are rough. And I know that whatever you have going on in your personal life is a mess, even if I don’t know the details. I can see the pain in your eyes. Every time I look at you, ever since you brought Judith to the home.” She let her hand drift down off my check and lifted her chin. “I hate it,” she said. “I hate seeing such a caring man have no joy in his life.”
What could I say to that? Thanks for those amazing sentiments, but I still refuse to have dinner with you? It was just dinner. Not a marriage proposal.
I smiled. And really felt it.
“How is it you aren’t already hitched?” I asked.
“I have high standards.”
I laughed. She had buttered me up and good. I simply could not deny her anything. She could have asked for my deepest, darkest secret and I probably would have given it to her.
“Okay,” I said. “It’s a…”
“A date?”
“A date.”
Chapter Twelve
First thing I did after Fiona left was get my ass in the shower. I simply could no
t stand to smell myself any longer. I felt a lot better in general once the hot water sluiced off the grime and dried blood.
Once out of the shower, I wiped the steam off the mirror and checked my bite.
I winced. It was puckered and ugly even though it had completely closed up. It still looked like a bite mark, though. Gods help me, how in hell would I come up with a decent explanation for that?
I made reservations at El Barzon in Mexicantown. I loved the place. It combined two of my favorite foods on one menu—Mexican and Italian. Hopefully, Fiona liked either of those. Everybody likes pasta, right?
When evening fell, I caught myself pacing the living room floor and counting off the minutes on my father’s pocket watch until I had to leave and pick up Fiona. She had told me to pick her up from the nursing home. That way I could drop her right back after dinner in time for her shift.
I waited a couple minutes longer than necessary before finally heading out, shooting for fashionably late. I didn’t want to look too eager.
I had to use my parents’ Buick parked out in the garage, seeing as someone had taken my car. Not that it would have run all that well considering its condition when I last saw it. I couldn’t very well pick up Fiona in a car covered in vampire guts anyway, so…
For a second, I worried the car might not start. I hadn’t run it in a while. Not like the first year, when I dutifully started it up at least once a week to make sure the motor didn’t get corroded. I had even driven it around the block a few times. But after that first year, with more and more evidence that Mom wasn’t coming out of her fugue, I lost the will to so much as look at the car, never mind climbing behind the wheel.
The engine did its equivalent of a throat clearing, but it purred right along once it got going.
