Draven and I just look at each other. I’d expected to be yelled at, questioned, threatened even, maybe, not just casually ignored.
“We’re here about something a friend might have bought here,” Draven starts. He ventures one step in and pauses, his eyes scanning the corners of the room for traps. This seems like the kind of place that would have traps.
The man just dares a bite of his sandwich. I hold my breath a moment until he seems satisfied with it, and swallows without even looking like he had to force it. It makes me want to gag.
“No returns,” he says. The shopkeeper takes his time wiping his hands across the back of his pockets, and then very slowly pulls back the end of his shirt sleeve to check the time.
“Ah, would you look at that,” he says, making a little waving motion towards the door. “It’s just gotten to midnight. The shop’s closed.”
I squeeze out from the end of the table and step into the cramped room beyond with him and Draven.
“But we were here earlier. We need this information from you.”
Draven tugs on my own sleeve and leans in close for me to hear. “This isn’t the place, Octavia. They’re fakes, remember?”
“That reminds me,” the man says, after he has taken another bite. “How did you get in? I swear I pulled that door shut locked behind me. I left my keys here, so I really was lucky but…” he trails off a bit. “Did Herbert let you in?”
“Who’s…”
Suddenly, he isn’t interested in his sandwich anymore. He scoots around the register and comes up close before switching on a flashlight to get a better look at us. This time I do have to raise my arm up to block the light, and as I do so, he catches a breath at the sight of the glowing blue brand on my wrist.
34
Octavia
His face pales a moment, and he glances back towards the door like he is trying to decide whether or not to escape. But the next place he looks is the empty wall to his left. No sooner has his gaze fallen back on me and my brand, that Draven steps over to that same wall and gives it a little push.
Only there is nothing there to push. A perfectly matched wall of beads tinkle and part at the touch—his hands pushing through to another room beyond.
I am so mesmerized by how they got the beads to lay so perfectly like that, that I almost don’t register the fact that in order for him to see my brand in the first place, he too has to be a mage. Almost.
I step between him and the door.
“Who do you think we are, exactly?”
Draven pulls the beads to the side and takes another half step into that room beyond.
“N—no one,” the man begins, his voice suddenly coming out with a faltering stutter.
“Octavia,” Draven says, “I think you should take a look at this.”
I keep my eye on this shopkeeper, but I edge my way closer to Draven to get a look at what he sees.
It is so dark in there that at first that is all I see. Blackness. Empty and yawning.
But then my eyes adjust a bit, and I see something else. The sight of it propels me forward as if not of my own design. This room is lined, every inch of it, with masks and dolls of all shapes and sizes. Unlike those trinkets in the front room, I can tell right away that what I am seeing in here are true Voodoo artifacts.
Idols line the walls, carved finely from the native wood of the countries where the religion and magic have been practiced for centuries. The masks that stare down at us are not simply for decoration or even intimidation—I can almost hear them whisper at the magic held inside.
But most important is the large glass-front cabinet behind another counter at the very end of this long, narrow room. There is nothing particularly special about it, or even the objects it contains. It is old and plain, and it’s quite obvious no one has cared for it in years, but that is not the point. It may be plain, but I recognize it. I recognize it at once.
The shopkeeper has suddenly appeared at my side. I don’t know how he squeezed past me and Draven without my noticing. His face is screwed up in some mix that is both annoyed with us and asking us to take pity on him.
“Really, really, you should’ve made an appointment to tell us you were coming. Herbert doesn’t like surprise guests.”
“We didn’t know we were coming,” Draven says. He tries to rest a hand on me, but I shake it off and take another step closer to that cabinet. Just being here, in the same room that my vision took place, it is like I can remember it all so much clearer. But at the same time, not at all. Like Déjà vu, but where I know what once happened here, rather than what is about to.
“So, you’ve really never been here before? How odd. Well then, tell me this…how did you get in?”
Draven waves a tiny metal pin between two of his fingers. “I’ve learned to be clever with my hands. We Ritual Mages have to if we want to keep up.”
“I’d say,” the man says, warming at bit at the mention of a fellow Ritual Mage and lifting his arm to show his matching brand. “Well, since you are here already, I might as well see what I can do to help you. Though in return, I would appreciate it if you didn’t let Herbert know that I wasn’t here when you called.”
He glances back towards the front of the shop. “There used to be a ritual to protect this shop. Should have it performed again.”
His eyes rove between the both of us, like he is trying to decide something. “Though, really there are simpler ways to go about this, you know.”
When his gaze lowers to rest on my stomach, and then back over at Draven, it takes me a couple seconds to realize what he means.
“I’m not pregnant,” I snap, snatching Flynn’s paper from Draven and slapping it down into the shopkeeper’s hand. I point to the name written neatly across the top.
Allister Davenport.
“We’re here to see what he came for. It’ll have been a while now. Twelve, maybe thirteen years.”
Any warmth that he was starting to show immediately wears off.
“Now now, it’s against house policy to share information about other customers.”
“I’m sure it is also against company policy to leave during opening hours,” Draven counters.
The shopkeeper just shrugs his shoulders. “That was before my time, anyway,” he says. “I’ve only been with Herbert for the last couple of years.”
I stop them bickering by raising my hand. I keep staring up at the massive, green-painted peeling cabinet. I point to the very top shelf.
“The book. There’ll be a record in the book.” I glance back at Draven and the shopkeeper. “That one.”
I point to the oldest, largest book of them all. Even from here, and through the thick, dust-coated panes of glass, I can see the binding is the most worn.
Draven bears his teeth at the shopkeeper in a way that makes even me shudder. “You heard the lady, show us the book or we tell Herbert how you weren’t here to let us in.”
The shopkeeper makes a slight gurgling sound at the back of his throat, but he does scoot around the second counter and start pulling out a stool that will allow him to reach up to the top shelf. The way he does it, moving so slowly that I swear I can see the thought processes behind every single simple motion, it makes me so anxious I start digging my nails into Draven’s arm. I hadn’t realized I’d grabbed it, but there is no denying it after he makes a little throaty whine of his own and tries to wrench himself free as subtly as possible.
A large quantity of dust erupts from between the pages when the shopkeeper finally finds the book he was looking for and slams it down on the counter. All three of us flinch, and he glances hurriedly back towards another doorway I had not paid any attention to until now.
Draven’s lips draw close to mine. “That must be where Herbert lives.”
I shudder at the thought. Even though I know that the masks and the dolls around me serve all manner of purposes, not just dark ones, I can’t help but imagine how living in a place like this could twist the mind over time. If
nothing else, I would grow altogether too used to seeing faces peering back at me from dark corners.
“Aha, here’s an entry.”
Draven and I step forward. I try to read the entry upside down, but the handwriting is so tiny and cramped I can’t make any of it out myself.
“Odd.”
“What is it?” I ask, leaning forward even further.
“Fourteen years ago, Mr. Davenport purchased a potion containing tetrodotoxin, a Coupe poudre.”
Draven frowns. “I swear I’ve heard of that before.”
The shopkeeper slams the book shut. “It became quite popular some time ago, for use in conjunction with other spells for its great preservation properties.”
“What’s so odd about it then?”
The shopkeeper looks at me and furrows his brows even further. He keeps staring down at the countertop, deep in thought as he flips back through several pages. “I was younger then, working for another shop that’s long since closed down. In Brooklyn, you know. But I remember it well, because it took a terrible toll on business.”
Draven slaps a hand down on the counter to pull the shopkeeper out of his reverie, before he forgets the point of why we are here. “And why was that?”
He finally looks up at us.
“One of Mr. Davenport’s first acts as judge on the tribunal just a few years later was to outlaw it.”
“So you no longer carry it?”
“Of course not,” he says, rather too quickly. He grabs the book up off the table and climbs back up on the step stool to put it away.
He pauses where he stands a moment, one hand still shoving the book up onto the shelf in a way that makes me flinch. I’ve never considered myself to be much of a bookworm, but even I know a book that old deserves to be treated with at least a little respect.
He gives it one final shove back into place, and then slams the cabinet door behind him. Something doesn’t seem right, however, because the shopkeeper just keeps staring at the cabinet doors.
“What is it?”
“I just find it odd…” he says, glancing at us. “That you would come here, tonight, asking about that.”
“Why?”
His gaze flickers over to the door leading into the owner, Herbert’s, house. I can tell he is considering something.
“I looks like Mr. Davenport was once a very frequent customer of Herbert’s. After that night…” he trails off. “He purchased quite a large quantity of that potion. I wish I could ask Herbert about it.” He’s started stuttering again. “You shouldn’t sell such large quantities of Coupe poudre. It isn’t right.”
He shakes his head.
“And that is strange, because…”
His eyes catch mine a moment.
“You ask too many questions,” he says. “You shouldn’t be here now. Not so late.”
His eyes keep cutting to the door to the back.
“On second thought,” he says. “Perhaps I should get Herbert.” He stops again at the door, his ear cocked to the side. “He’s been awfully quiet this whole time. He does usually like to greet customers. At least once they’ve gotten into the real shop.”
I feel a slight prickling on my right hand. I rub the top of my knuckles absentmindedly, but the feeling does not go away.
The moment he pushes open the door into the rest of the house, I know something is wrong.
Death, in all its sickly, rotten, glory washes over us.
I wish I wasn’t standing so close to see it. I wish the shopkeeper didn’t stumble back in disgust and give me a full view of what lay beyond. But he did. And I do.
35
Octavia
“Who…who would do that?”
I shove my head back into the sink and splash more cold water on it. The last of the protection potion disappears in long, blood-red tendrils down the drain. It only serves to remind me of the image of that man…that poor man…lying dead, no, murdered, on the floor of his own shop. No matter how much I scrub and scrub, I will never be able to wash away the image. We had been there the whole time, in the other room, just talking.
And he was just lying there dead. Or dying.
I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the edges of the sink so hard my hands begin to hurt.
We couldn’t get out of that Voodoo shop fast enough. The others at school are already probably panicking, and if we were to get caught up in a murder investigation like this...there is no way the principal and Dr. Fashu won’t find out.
I was able to make it all of three blocks to the edge of a park before I had to hurl. Luckily there was a public restroom there. I didn’t wait for Draven to use his lock picking skills, but somehow got the door myself through some combination of sheer luck and whatever Psychic Magic I still could muster in my desperation.
“Who would do that?” I repeat to myself again, knowing Draven probably can’t hear me. I’m not really looking for an answer, not from him or anybody else. I am just trying to come to terms with the kind of person that could do…do that.
I look up into the polished metal meant to replace a mirror, expecting to see my tear-streaked and makeup-smudged face looking back. But it is not the only face I see.
“We’ve been hoping to get the chance to speak to you, Octavia.”
I whirl around and lean my back against the porcelain sink to hold myself up. It takes me a second to clear my throat well enough to speak.
“I wondered when you would be turning up.”
The man steps forward, and I get a better look at his face in the fluorescent lighting. It is not bashed in with a blunt object, but I am about as happy to see him now as I was the latter.
Draven’s contact from The Underground has finally turned up. But from the look of him, the hunger that I see in his eyes, it was not Draven he came for this time.
I can feel my hands shake no matter how hard I try to still them.
“What do you want?”
I never really got a good look at him before, but I do now. He is older, not quite Cedric’s father old, but getting close. His face is gaunt and the hair peeking out from under his hat is evenly dispersed with as much salt as it is pepper.
He makes a tutting sound with his mouth.
“Please,” he says, slipping one hand into the breast of his jacket, “We’ve never even had a proper introduction.”
When his hand reappears, he holds a business card in his hand, not a weapon. I still have to force myself to ease off. I reach out as calmly and gingerly as I can, and I take it. There is no name on the card, just a circular symbol stamped across the front in silver foil.
“My name is Bram.” He tips the corner of his hat, dipping his head and yet never breaking eye contact. “We at The Underground would like to make you an offer.”
I shift on my feet, trying to get more steady footing on the slippery bathroom floor. I glance over at the door to my right. I have no idea how he even got in without Draven noticing. A sudden, terrible thought makes me suddenly very dizzy. I can barely keep my voice together enough to breathe the question out as a single word.
“Draven?”
Bram doesn’t even look to the door. “Don’t worry, we still have plans that require Draven to be alive and well. Besides, I didn’t come in that way…but I think you know that.”
I don’t know for certain that he is telling the truth, but it is true I didn’t hear the door open behind me, and it still appears locked from the inside as I left it. I wish I’d allowed Draven inside. I just wanted to be alone, for a minute, to process everything I just saw. And look where that led me.
I am at least able to find my voice again.
“What kind of offer?”
A sly smile tugs at the corner of this man’s mouth, and I don’t like it.
“An exchange,” he says, “Your protection, for a spell.”
“Protection? I don’t follow.”
Bram chuckles. “You think you’re safe there at the school? Even now, while we speak, there are forces at wo
rk that you do not know. You may come to need our protection very soon indeed.”
“Okay,” I say. I realize my face is still dripping wet, and I take the moment to drag one of my sleeves across my mouth. “What do you expect in exchange?”
He taps the corner of his hat once. “I think you know what we want. When the time comes, just use the card.”
Briefly, so briefly, the lights flicker. Something rends in the air in front of me, and just like that, Bram is gone.
I glance down to my hands, and I still have the card. It is the only sign that Bram was actually here, and not just another vision. I unlock the door with shaking fingers, and as soon as I do, Draven stumbles in.
“Octavia,” he says. He helps me straighten up, his hands a manic flurry as they check me over for something wrong. “I thought I heard another voice in there with you.”
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” I say, though I sound far from it.
His hands slow, but they do not stop clutching at me.
I am not the only one who looks like they have seen a ghost tonight.
“What is it, Draven?”
“A moment ago, I just remembered where I heard of that potion. The one that Cedric’s father bought all those years ago?”
He pulls out his phone, and the screen lights up for me to see. He holds it out.
The image on the screen looks eerily like the one that has been haunting my nightmares.
“It’s used to make undead.”
For a second Bram, The Underground, their offer of protection…it all gets swept aside.
What Draven just told me, it makes sense. Too much sense. The rumors about Cedric’s mother’s sudden turn for the worse. How her body looked odd at the funeral…like it had decayed too rapidly, how Cedric has convinced himself that his memory of it is false. The cancer ravished her, they said. But what if, what if it was something else?
What if the reason the principal never seemed to diminish in power, the reason he never remarried, never re-paired, was because his original bond was never broken?
Adapt: Book Two of the Forgotten Affinities Series Page 18
