by Brie Tart
“Why?” Helen eased Dylan back to the ground, but didn’t let go of his shirt. “What’s stopping them from killing us to tie up loose ends?”
“There’s a…code they keep to. I can’t explain anymore than that.” Dylan grabbed both Helen’s forearms. “Come on, you know me.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, better than anyone,” Dylan said, never shrinking as he tugged Helen closer. “I wouldn’t be hiding any of this if it wasn’t the best thing for you and Lucy. Leave it. Please.”
Helen took a deep breath. What little she managed to wring from Dylan indicated somebody had to be watching him at all times, and keeping tabs on her and Lucy. Anything she did couldn’t involve him, not until she knew more. She gave him a slow nod as she let go. “Alright.”
Dylan sagged against the door, his whole body almost crumpling. He heaved a sigh as he reached for Helen’s hand. “We okay?”
“Not yet.” Helen pulled her hand away as she slid her keycard into the door. She needed time. And she knew just how to use it.
* * *
A few more days passed with them leaking money on takeout to feed themselves while Dylan insisted they stay inside, just to be safe. The police called Helen with the results of their investigation and confirmed that the fire had started from the office downstairs. There was no telling how, though. The case was considered open and ongoing. Helen doubted they would find anything to lead them to the cause. Her gut told her it lined up with Ewan’s attempted kidnapping, Tommy’s murder, and the whole crapfest her mom had gotten into.
Dylan notified everyone that needed to know about the fire and the incoming slump in business. So far, he’d fed them the same simple story: they hadn’t seen Tommy since they came back from a recent trip, then the fire happened. Helen chose to stick by it, for now.
She stewed over her keyring as Dylan talked on the phone to another company they paid bills to. There was a plastic blue seashell holding a laughing picture of her and Dylan on their first date, and the key to her Harley. Reminders of things she still had. She’d keep the key to the apartment and the key to Carver Investigations, even though she couldn’t use them. They were all she had left of her old life. She slipped the small key to Tommy’s desk drawer out of her pocket and attached it beside those. If only she’d been able to get something. All those papers and files gone. The only other place Tommy might have backed them up was on his laptop, which burned with all his other stuff. Helen closed the keys in her fist. Whoever did this would pay for everything they took from her.
She shoved the keys back in her pocket. A sharp corner poked her. She dug around and pulled out a black business card with a white tree on it. The bookstore. Between everything that had happened, she’d forgotten about it. She had to see it and talk with this Yoel guy. Tommy kept that card for a reason, and it had to be more than just feeding his mystery paperback addiction.
Helen glanced down at the business hours, 10:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. The alarm clock on the end table between the double beds read 3:59. If she hurried, she could make it across town before it closed.
“Hey, I need to get out of here.” Helen stood and put the card back in her jeans with her keys. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
“Woah, you’re not going anywhere, Missy.” Dylan inserted himself between Helen and the door. “Remember? We can’t go out for awhile with you-know-what.”
“If you don’t want me looking for you-know-who, I need to find other jobs.” Helen glanced at Lucy. Her daughter sat on the other bed with a clipboard, pencil, and printer paper on loan from the front desk. Their conversation hadn’t perked her attention yet. “That savings buffer ain’t gonna last forever. We need income. Might as well start now.”
Dylan puckered his mouth like he was sucking on a raw lemon. “You’re taking the Harley, right?”
“What else would I take? You need the Honda for Lucy.”
“You’re just going to the police station and back?”
“As long as nobody gets in my way, yeah.”
“Alright.” Dylan ran his fingers through his hair, tugging the curls so taught they bounced when they slipped out. “Check in at seven.”
“Will do.” Helen couldn’t bring herself to give Dylan their traditional kiss goodbye. She bit her lip as she thought of how to say bye to Lucy. The tenuous thing her and her daughter had built while Dylan was away had already begun to fray. “Be good for your dad while I’m gone, Diamond Girl. I’ll try to be back for story time.”
Lucy stopped her pencil. She cast a hopeful side-eye at her mother. Helen winked. The girl’s sketching sped up.
“Take this.” Dylan called after Helen as he tossed her something. “And be careful!”
Helen caught a switchblade with a rubber grip. She offered Dylan a thankful wave, but didn’t bother making any empty promises to be careful.
* * *
Helen used her favorite side roads and shortcuts to avoid the highway traffic. Her bike rumbled under her, making the same frustrated growl she felt as she gritted her teeth and sped toward the university. The buildings rose around her from two stories to three and four as she came to the address on the card. The hot wind bit into her bare arms as it whipped past her. She usually wore a solid jacket and sturdier boots than the clothing outlet had offered. At least she’d saved a pair of her jeans and kept both her helmets with the bike. She slid into a roadside parking spot and dismounted the Harley.
Daath Books had an antique storefront straight out of a Christmas Carol movie with red-painted wood and gridded windows. A sign hung over the door with a white tree on it, the same logo as the business card. A display shelf of hardbacks crowded the window, blocking her view inside. Another sign hung inside that read “Open.” Good, just in time.
Helen tucked her helmet into her saddlebag, then walked into the store. A set of sleigh bells jingled over her head. The long room divided by labeled aisles of bookcases felt bigger than it actually was. To Helen’s immediate left was a long desk with a tablet mounted on a black cash box, wire stands displaying a couple new hardbacks, and stacks of business cards and bookmarks. Another door on the back wall said “Employees Only.”.
“Coming, one moment,” a man said in the same lilting accent as a BBC broadcaster. Footsteps headed toward her from inside the maze of shelves. The top of a head peeked over them, showing gel-slicked black hair. Helen gave the voice’s owner a once-over as he strolled to the cashier’s counter. The tall man’s relaxed gait and rolled up sleeves clashed with his prim profile—polished derbies, pressed black slacks, and a maroon button-up shirt. He filled out his clothes like someone who did more cardio than weights, so she could take him down easy if it came to a fight. He adjusted his black-framed glasses as he returned her cursory inspection. “How can I help you?”
“I’m lookin’ for somebody. Yoel the...” What was the nickname on the business card? “...the Scribbler, I think. You know him?”
“Hmm, Yoel you say? It could sound familiar.” He bent out of sight and fiddled with something under the desk. Then he brought up a semi-automatic pistol with a silencer on it and aimed it at Helen. “But that all depends on who’s asking.”
“That’s gonna get you noticed real fast, don’t you think?” Helen slowly reached in her pocket for the business card and pulled it out so he got a clear view of it. She could escape into the bookshelves if he tried shooting at her. It’d be a better place to use the knife, too, once he chased her in.
“Precisely why I spent so much modifying my shop to accommodate gunfire.” He peered at the little card between Helen’s fingers. “Go on and say how you got that and who sent you.”
“You’re giving me some crappy customer service.”
“And you’re being presumptuous. The question remains.”
Helen hadn’t expected to show her hand that early. Part of her wanted to take her chances with the gun and pin him down until he spilled everything he knew. But Tommy had this guy’s secret nickname, and app
arently Yoel didn’t give it out to everybody. She could go out on a limb for that, right?
“The card was in my uncle’s stuff.” She tucked her hands in her pockets and grabbed the switchblade, ready to pull it out and use it. “I sent myself.”
“Does this uncle have a name?” He kept the barrel trained on her.
“Are you the one I’m looking for?”
“If I wasn’t, would I have a gun pointed at you?”
“Makes sense.” Helen pressed her mouth into a line. “Thomas Carver. He’s dead.”
“Ah, the hunter. My sympathies.” His finger stayed comfy close to that trigger. “Why are you here?”
“I wanna find who killed him.”
“You don’t already know?” The barrel lowered an inch, and Yoel the Scribe stared at Helen like she’d grown another head.
“I’ve got a pretty damn good idea. I’ve got a couple names connected to a big secret cult that either wants to kidnap me or kill me, and a ton of hints that add up to a conspiracy.”
“Do you even know who I am and what I do?”
“No. I’m coming to you because Uncle Tommy did.” Helen shifted her thumb over the switchblade’s button. “Is there a problem?”
“You really don’t know anything then.” Yoel stalked out from behind the register, keeping the gun trained in Helen’s direction. He stepped a wide circle around her until he came to the front door and flipped the sign on the chain so “Closed” faced out.
Helen drew out the knife and flicked the blade out, baring her teeth at the store-owner as if they were sharp.
“It’s so we can speak privately.” He pointed the pistol to the floor instead of her. While he hadn’t unloaded the magazine, but seemed like a sign of good faith.
“You changed your tune awful fast.” Helen pushed her knife blade back into the handle, for now.
“We started off on the wrong foot.” Yoel held out his right hand for Helen’s. “I’m Daniel Middleton to my customers, owner and operator of Daath Books. To Mr. Carver and yourself, I’m Yoel the Scribe, not Scribbler, a collector of rare artifacts and tomes.”
Helen paused, not sure how to introduce herself. She’d already slipped and given this guy Uncle Tommy’s full name. Her actual name was all over her public records and all over her uncle’s. Anybody with basic research skills could look her up through him. Being blunt and straight had served her so far. She shook his hand. “Helen Carver to you. Other people call me Hellfire.”
“Are you sure about that moniker?” Yoel raised his eyebrow as he shook back.
“Yeah.” If Helen’s nickname was good enough for her little girl, it was good enough for everybody else. “Got a problem?”
“Besides the blatant self-aggrandizement, no.” Yoel turned on his heel and started toward the “Employees Only” door. He motioned for Helen to follow with his finger. “Come along.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got some magic about you, Miss Carver. And I don’t mean your magnetic personality. If you want my help, I need a better look at it.” He opened the door and made room for Helen to go through. “Ladies first.”
“Hell no. I’m following you.” Helen popped the blade out on her switchblade as she blinked down the long, dimly lit basement staircase. What would she find down there, what kind of answers? She doubted actual magic. She could believe that someone wanted to kidnap her, that Tommy died under suspicious circumstances, and that an unknown arsonist tried to burn her and her family alive. Something supernatural being involved was too much of a stretch.
She could turn tail, try to forget what she knew like Dylan said, and focus on rebuilding what she’d lost. But that “what if?” would always lurk in the back of her mind. The mysterious organization behind the series of attacks against her would still be hunting. She couldn’t pretend to be ignorant again, not after all she’d already seen.
“As you wish.” Yoel made his way down the stairs, exposing his back to Helen and her knife.
Helen gulped and descended into the basement, away from the brighter lights of the shop. The only direction left to go was forward.
CHAPTER 7
The further they went, the more layers of something slid over Helen’s skin, like walking through a net of spider webs. Every tiny hair on her body prickled with goosebumps. Her gut twisted, and she couldn’t help thinking that something was off about the place. Was that feeling what he had meant by magic? Helen shuddered as she rubbed her bare arms, trying to scrape an alien itch away.
“Hmm, interesting reaction to the wards,” Yoel muttered as he came to the bottom of the stairs and led on.
Unlike the ground floor, the basement was wide open with every shelf screwed into the outer walls. Its books spanned from newer paperbacks to older, flaking leather tomes. They seemed ordinary enough, with titles in the same European languages Helen had found dictionaries for in Tommy’s desk. She sought out the few English ones in the collection. A lot of nonfiction about mythology and folklore, or occult practices and mysticism.
“How’d you get into collecting this stuff?” And how long had he known about the massive cult hunting her down? Was he a former member? How had he helped Tommy? She had more questions than that swimming through her head, but it was better to be smart. One at a time.
“The books have been a lifetime hobby, inspired by my mother actually.” Yoel went to a large antique safe set between the shelves, built like a cast iron coffin. He turned the dial on the combination lock and pulled the crank lever. He pulled open the door a crack.
The inside of the safe glowed like he’d installed a small electric light in it. Helen crept closer and spotted a couple gold goblets, a small brassy pot, a spear, and three swords piled on one another. Between those were massive books with yellowed pages and uneven edges. The covers had jewels and metal figures embossed into them. Helen made out the shape of a gangly dog on one. That dog blinked and scratched its ear with its paw.
Helen jumped back as a wave of nausea came over her. She doubled over and clutched her stomach, jaw tight. Focusing on those objects for too long made amplified waves of that same sensation she’d had coming down the stairs. The edges of her vision turned red, and her blood race in her ears. What the kind of “artifacts” were in that safe?
“You’re definitely Unseelie aligned.” Yoel gave her a sidelong glance as he took out something dull from among all the gold and gems.
He pulled out a white leather mask with primitive round goggles for eyes and a pointed beak like a stork. It didn’t glow like the other things in the safe.
“Here. Take this, but don’t put it on.” Yoel held out the bird mask to her.
Helen took it by the pointy end and held it for a solid minute as Yoel watched. “What’re you looking for?”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Not too different.” Helen shrugged. It was warm and welcoming as opposed to revolting like the inside of the safe. There was still a twinge of something she couldn’t place though, a quirk that put her on edge. “It’s mostly normal but...off.”
Yoel took the mask away. “And now?”
“Just me.”
“Fascinating.” Yoel carefully slipped the mask over his head. He examined Helen through the lenses and they glowed bright red, obscuring his natural hazel eyes.
The edge on the vibes coming from that thing intensified. It turned to skinny fingers prying into her ears, needles boring under her scalp, all trying to slither inside her head. She winced against the invasive sensation. “What the hell is that?”
“A plague doctor mask that gives the wearer true sight. Mustn’t wear it too often, though. It also carries the nasty side effect of warping its host’s mind.” Yoel unstrapped the mask and placed it back in the safe. He closed the heavy door and sealed it with a twist of the lever and the lock. “It’s a flawed prototype of one of the Unseelie Queen’s many experiments.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“It helped me co
nfirm what you are.” Yoel straightened his glasses that the mask had thrown off kilter. “You don’t know anything about Western European folklore, do you?”
Helen made a zero with her hand, a big fat goose egg. “Does the cult believe in it or something?”
“More than that. They originate from it.”
“You expect me to buy this load of bullshit?” Helen backed up toward the stairs. Bile bubbled up her throat the closer she came to them.
“Your uncle did. He came to me for information when he needed leads, to borrow tools for his cases. He was convinced creatures called fae had taken and killed his sister. Like you, he wanted to find the ones responsible and make them pay.” Yoel kept his pistol pointed at the floor with his finger parallel to the trigger instead of on it. No threats yet. “Sound familiar?”
“Then you’re lying to me like you lied to him.” Helen held her breath and stomped up the first few stairs. It didn’t help the itch that started in her bones.
“None of that changes what you are, Miss Carver. Would an ordinary person have such a violent reaction to an innocuous room or a set of old relics? This basement is special because I made it that way. Everything in that safe has some sort of energy I deem ‘magical’. Your response to them proves you do as well.”
Helen stopped midway up the stairs. The nausea could be explained by her skipping lunch. The tingling under her skin might be the atmosphere creeping her out. Something ran deeper than those explanations, though, straight to the danger sense she’d had since her mom stabbed her to a bedroom floor. It told her the glowing stuff in that safe was the same as Ewan, the Witty Blade. She nearly died every time she ignored that instinct. Should she question it now?
“You say your uncle was killed, right? He believed so strongly in his cause that he died for it. Are you going to walk away from that?”
“Lay off. You got my attention already.” Helen squeezed the stair rail as the crawling under her skin turned to an almost audible buzz. “What do you get out of this? Nobody’s that nice.”
“I’m sorry you have that impression of people.” Yoel pressed something on the pistol’s grip and the magazine fell into his waiting hand. He slipped that into his pocket and racked the slide back. A final bullet popped out of the chamber. “I liked Mr. Carver. I saved all of the pulp noir mysteries that came in for him. He brought back thrilling stories of how he ‘took down the bad guys,’ as he put it. I can see no better way to honor his memory than by equipping you to avenge him.”
