Agave Kiss cs-5 Page 21

  “Then you must be pretty excited, getting to see the place for the first time.”

  “I am, rather. The librarian who’s been running the place for the last twenty years has nearly squared her account with Twila, so I’m queued up to take her place.”

  “You don’t draw a salary, I guess?”

  “Of course not. But once I resolve my identity crisis and claim my inheritance, I’ll be fine. And I have some other irons in the fire, financially speaking.”

  I studied him, impressed with his fortitude and resilience. “You’re amazing. Not many could endure what you have.”

  “Loneliness and introspection made me a better man,” he admitted. “I had no choice but to own my role in the mess my life had become. Of course, after that I went a bit mad for ten years or so . . . but I got better.”

  I grinned as I climbed from the car and opened my arms to Butch. “Monty Python.”

  “Yes, I caught sketches on the Web. By the time they were new to me, they were old to the world. So odd, that. I had such a limited window to learn and experience anything.”

  “It’ll be different from now on.”

  Working in the library didn’t sound like a bad job, especially for an intellectual like Booke. He might even find it fascinating, and on the plus side, he got to go home at the end of the day. Presumably, there would be weekends off, a chance to travel around Texas, see the sights, and have sex with lots of women who couldn’t resist the accent. That picture of his prospects made me smile.

  “Let’s go see what my future holds, shall we?”

  Yet knowing Kel was out there, buying time, at such personal cost, knowing that the punishment for his escape might be death this time, it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. I felt as though in pursuing a ritual to bring Chance back, I was abandoning Kel. Regardless, I had made my decision in Sheol. No matter how much it hurt, this time, it wouldn’t change.

  Squaring my shoulders, I stowed Butch in my bag, shouldered it, and followed Booke. My stick made no sound against the pavement due to the rubber tips on the bottom, but it steadied me. Eventually the Englishman noticed I couldn’t keep up with his long strides and he slowed his pace to match mine. I had constant pain in my leg; part of me wondered if it was permanent, and if the injury would end up being for nothing if Kel got himself killed playing bait. But that was dark and desperate thinking. I couldn’t permit such ideas to take root. Without hope, I had nothing.

  Booke strode confidently toward the building and pushed open the doors, which took us into a real bowling alley. This time of day, there were a few people using the lanes, some bored waitresses filling plastic cups of beer. The place smelled simultaneously dusty and alcoholic with a soupçon of sweaty feet and oregano. He led the way past the shoe rental and the snack counter; nobody was interested in our business. When he opened a maintenance closet door, I thought he had to be kidding.

  But nope, he pushed it open, stepped in, and beckoned to me to follow. Shrugging, I closed the door behind me, which prompted him to jiggle one of the shelves, and a secret door opened; the whole unit moved to reveal cement steps leading down.

  “Is this safe?” I asked. “Couldn’t the janitor find that by mistake?”

  “Not unless he has one of these.” Booke showed me a token with Twila’s personal insignia branded on it.

  “Ah, so this is magickally secured as well as hidden.”

  “Yes. Come along.”

  Marveling at how weird reality could be, I followed him.

  Mystifying Secrets of Mystery

  No lie, the library had been built beneath a bowling alley. But it had the charm of a historical building, despite the subterranean locale. The shelves were burnished mahogany, filled with books that looked incredibly old. Overhead, the noise from the bowling alley wasn’t audible, which meant the walls were extremely thick . . . or that the spell securing the place also incorporated some soundproofing.

  There were a few other patrons paging through tomes at a couple of tables nearby. Booke spared them no attention; instead he made straight for the desk he would presumably occupy in just under a year’s time. His predecessor was a slim woman in her early fifties with retro tortoiseshell glasses and smooth silver hair, styled in an elegant bob. She wore a good gray suit and a string of quality pearls. The pawnshop owner in me immediately appraised them. Yeah, they’d fetch a nice price.

  “Twila didn’t mention you’d be stopping by today,” the woman said coolly. Her accent was hard to place at first, and then it came to me—Boston. Not Southie, but subtler, the vowels not quite as sharp. Between her appearance and her cultured tones, her whole presence spoke of moneyed antecedents.

  “This is personal business,” he told her. “But it’s good to meet you, Ms. Devlin. I expect we’ll have a number of details to cover . . . another time. Are we free to access library resources?”

  “Certainly. The books are available to all in good standing within Twila’s demesne.” Her eyes held a warning light, however.

  Booke ignored the subtext. “Could you acquaint me with the filing system?”

  While he handled our business with the curator, I wandered off to peruse the stacks. The tomes in here were impressive; some looked comical, as if they had been printed in someone’s garage as a joke. But I knew better than to dismiss something based on appearances. After all, you’d never guess by looking that my dog could talk.

  I had read a few pages of The Baroness’s Cure for Intimate Ailments by the time Booke joined me. “She gave me a few leads, though she wants you to know she doesn’t approve of our endeavor.”

  “I don’t care,” I said honestly. “I have one shot at this. One. If we don’t have the right ritual, or if something goes wrong? I’ll never see Chance again . . . and this kid won’t ever meet his dad.”

  “I understand. Just be warned that such powerful spells always exact a price. You may not like the cost of what you want.”

  “That’s not news.” After the trip to Sheol, I understood better than anyone how much could be taken in recompense.

  “Then let’s move forward. As you said, time’s running out.”

  He settled me at a table, then went off to collect a vast number of books, based on recommendations from Ms. Devlin. We split them down the middle, and that was a long damn day, punctuated by page turning and ponderous silence. Followed by another one just like it. All the while, I was aware of the clock ticking down. After the second day, I got smart and packed us a lunch. On the fourth day, I had a doctor’s appointment in the morning, so we got a late start. Booke went with me, which was odd, but cool. At least I didn’t endure everything alone.

  The doctor was aware I’d seek out another physician once I returned home, so he didn’t ask a lot of questions. He just gave me a general OB tune-up and assured me that the baby was fine, despite the damage to my leg. Then he put a gizmo on my stomach, so we could listen to the heartbeat, and that was when I fell in love. I pressed both hands to my stomach, unable to believe there was really somebody in there. I mean, I had known, but until this moment it wasn’t 100 percent real to me. Now I had this other person, somebody to love and protect, and everything I did going forward would be for him or her.

  The doctor pronounced me sound, but cautioned, “Make sure to take your prenatal vitamins daily and get plenty of rest.”

  “I’ll make sure she does,” Booke promised.

  I shot him a dirty look for making it sound like I couldn’t care for myself, but I knew he meant well, so I kept quiet. At the front desk, I paid for the office visit, then we walked out to the Pinto.

  “Do you mind if we stop by a pharmacy before going to Wonder Lanes?”

  “I intended to insist, if you didn’t mention it.”

  “You’re a sneaky alpha male, you know that?”

  “It often works to my advantage. Dress a man in wool cardigans and women simply don’t expect him to be domineering.”

  “That was pretty amazi
ng, right?” I touched my belly.

  His expression softened, his gray eyes warm and friendly. “It was. I’m honored I got to be there.” He paused as we got into the car, and he didn’t speak until we were almost at the drugstore. “They didn’t have anything like that when Marlena was pregnant. I never heard my son’s heartbeat like that . . . and after he was born, I saw him very little. I don’t think he ever knew—”

  Oh, man.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I think of them as belonging to another life,” he said quietly. “It’s the only way to manage it. Since escaping Stoke, I’m a new man. I have to be. I won’t make the same mistakes.”

  “No question of that. From what you told me you weren’t at all responsible or controlling back then, more of a hedonistic devil.” I grinned to show I was teasing.

  “I still have those tendencies, but I’m doing my best to quell them.”

  Booke waited in the car while I ran into the drugstore. As mine wasn’t a complicated scrip, it only took a few moments to get what I needed. Then I hurried back out. There wasn’t nearly enough time to do everything. With the baby to think about and Chance, whom I loved and might never see again, I felt like I was drowning; each breath was a gasp, pulled into tight, burning lungs.

  As if he shared my dark mood, Booke fell silent as we drove back to Wonder Lanes. This afternoon, it was packed—jumping even—due to league activity. Men in bowling shirts high-fived each other over pitchers of beer. The high population made it easier to slip into the maintenance closet and then venture downstairs. I supposed if the foot traffic were higher, people might eventually notice, but there had never been more than four other patrons downstairs, no matter how often we came. The gifted didn’t often need to do extensive research in San Antonio, it seemed.

  Another fruitless day dragged on. By the end of it, my eyes hurt, my back hurt, I was cranky, and I wanted a nap. Plus, I had a sick suspicion that I’d waited too long. Spent too much time on Booke and Kel—and that there was no way to find out what I needed to know before the deadline. Panic clutched at my throat with cold, clawing hands, until I had to put my head on the table to meter my breaths.

  Booke’s hand rested on the back of my head. “Calm down. Nobody said this search would be easy. We have a little time yet.”

  “I’m gonna fail. And then he’ll lose all desire to be human again—”

  “Shh, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

  Somehow I restrained my overactive pregnancy hormones; surely that was the reason I kept melting down. I’d been in some tough spots and rarely yielded to the urge to bawl about it. But lately, I couldn’t seem to help myself. The other night at Eva’s, I was watching a commercial about a woman who couldn’t get ahold of her mother due to a bad long-distance plan, and I nearly burst into tears.

  Gods, I don’t think I can stand nine months, being this emotional.

  Then I wanted to cry because that sounded like I didn’t want the baby—and that wasn’t true. In a long history of untenable situations and being an emotional mess, I had never been this mercurial or unstable. The inside of my head was a train wreck, teeming with dark thoughts and irrational fears.

  “Smack me or something. I’m crazy.” I sat up, striving for control.

  “In my day, it wasn’t remotely appropriate to manhandle expectant ladies.”

  “Yeah, they frown on it today too.” I paused. “Do you seriously think—”

  “I don’t know. But it’s certain he’ll never return if you give up. But that’s your call to make. I understand if it’s too much, especially right now.”

  An exhausted sigh pushed out of me. “No. We’ll keep at it, right up until the wire. If I fail, it won’t be because I stopped trying.”

  “We’ll start back in the morning. There are still twenty more books to examine, some of which might actually be relevant. Perhaps one full week will mark lucky seven indeed.”

  I could only hope.

  That night, I didn’t sleep much. I tossed and turned, and when I did finally drift off my dreams were haunted by images of failure. First, it was Chance, stranded in his father’s realm and forgetting all about his human life, and then it was my child’s accusing eyes every time some other kid mentioned his dad. From that point, the dreams morphed into nightmares, becoming odd and disjointed, and incorporated events from Sheol that still haunted me. I woke bathed in sweat that I’d thought was blood, and my heart was going like a trip-hammer. Taking a few bolstering breaths, I got up and padded barefoot to the bathroom. The fixtures were dull and water-stained, and the whole place needed to be regrouted, but for five hundred bucks a month, it was the best I could hope for. I tried not to wake Booke, but he was used to being alone so my footfalls roused him as I crept back toward the bedroom.

  “Bad dreams?” he asked.

  “That obvious?”

  Booke shrugged. “I’ve had a few in my time.”

  “I’d imagine so.”

  “The worst one used to be dying alone and undiscovered.”

  I came toward him, then perched on the edge of the couch, which was covered in rumpled bedding. “At least you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

  He smiled at me. “See, things do get better.”

  At that point, I really didn’t want to talk about it. “What time does the library open?” It made sense that it could only be accessible to the public during bowling alley operating hours, but I waited for confirmation.

  “Not until ten.”

  I smiled. “You’ll get to sleep in once you start this new gig.”

  “It works out beautifully for all my anticipated carousing. You should try to get a bit more rest, Corine. For the baby, if not yourself.”

  “That’s a low blow.” I was still tired, but I couldn’t face going back to bed. “Tell me something about your life.”

  “Are you asking for a bedtime story?” His tone was amused.

  Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the back of the sofa. “Maybe.”

  “I’ve already told you the worst, but there are some amusing anecdotes along the way. You know that my father was an influential man among his peers. His spells were powerful and highly sought-after. Which meant we lived well.”

  I didn’t ask what he meant by that, but I figured people hired his dad as a kind of magickal merc. Though not everyone did that, there were a number of practitioners who found it to be the most practical way to make ends meet. Some would cast any spell for the right coin; others had a code that prevented inflicting harm.

  “Go on,” I prompted.

  “I grew spoiled. Self-indulgent. As you already know from my behavior with Marlena. So when I chose to enlist, my father was surprised. And resistant. He couldn’t have his only son and heir at risk with common barbarians.”

  “This was the Second World War?” I felt reasonably confident on that, based on what I knew of his life and my history classes, but it couldn’t hurt to confirm.

  “Yes. My reasons for joining up were complicated. Part of it was hoping to impress Marlena, make her love me. But some small aspect of me wanted to do something important—fight the good fight. The propaganda films in those days were incredibly effective.”

  “That was before the Internet.”

  Ignoring me, he went on at length, describing the German countryside and the people he met. His voice took on a suspicious lull, but before I could protest, Booke did the job, and I passed out. It was daylight when I woke next; my sleep was dreamless. I didn’t know if he’d slept any more, but he’d clearly showered and was fiddling in the kitchen with an old toaster.

  “What a dirty trick,” I muttered. “Was there ever a point to any of it?”

  “Of course. And that point was to get you some rest. Mission accomplished.”

  “One of these days, I want a real story out of you. I’m sure you have one.”

  “I do,” he said, smiling. “Peanut butter toast and fruit sound all right for breakfast? Is your stomach soun
d today?”

  I shifted in an experimental fashion. No nausea. I was a little queasy, but unless somebody started cooking pork roast, I should be fine.

  “Got a crick in my neck, and I think I drooled in my sleep, but otherwise I’m well enough.”

  Deadpan, he offered, “That is, obviously, your most charming quality.”

  “Whatever. I’m taking a shower.”

  Because I actually was hungry, I hurried through my daily routine—scrubbing up, washing my hair, and then moisturizing in the steamy bathroom. The niceties didn’t run to an air extractor, which meant by the time I finished, it was hard to see for all the steam. In the misty whorls and the fog covering the glass, I imagined I glimpsed Chance peering at me through the mirror, his expression anxious and imploring. But when I stepped forward to get a clearer look, the picture vanished, leaving me with a tightness in my stomach comprised entirely of fear. At that moment, I desperately wanted to hear his voice, a reiteration of his promise: Even death will not keep me from you. But there was only the sad drip-drip from the showerhead. Chance’s vow could only go so far; I had to do my part or there could be no happy ending.

  A little voice whispered, Maybe his father’s right. He’s not meant for you.

  With great fortitude, I shut the doubts down. I couldn’t afford them. After wrapping in a rough towel, I went to the bedroom to dress and braid my hair. All signs indicated it would be another long, fruitless day at the arcane library, poring over our last few possible tomes. If we didn’t find the spell soon—well.

  I took care of Butch’s needs and then headed grimly out to the car. Though we had a week left, it felt as though time had already run out.

  Against All Odds

  At four that afternoon, I gave up hope.

  It might be hormones, but I had spent so many days belowground that I was probably suffering from SAD, as well as feeling sad, but when I laid my head down on the library table, I didn’t have the heart to read on. This was just wasting my time when I should be planning for my baby’s future, not spinning my wheels. The tears I expected didn’t come, though. Instead I had this awful, creeping numbness.