hand of hate 01 - destiny blues (10 page)

Bunny is my friend, but also an incurable gossip, and I wasn’t about to tell her anything I didn’t need to.
 

“So what’s this Rhys guy like? How do I get hold of him?”
 

“It’s a two bedroom over in Webster.” She made a face. “I know, but the rent was cheap. And it has a garage. Why are you moving? Is it because of Patty? I would never have suspected her of being a demon master. Did you--”
 

“Actually, it’s for Lance,” I lied. “He is thinking of moving to a bigger place. He’s out of town; I told him I’d try to find something for him this week.”
 

“What are you talking about? Lance isn’t out of town, Ronnie and I saw him last night.”
 

“Excuse me?”  
 

“Yeah, a big crowd of us partied after hours at the Stick and Stein pool tournament. Lance was brilliant; I’d never seen him shoot before. Big-name players showed up from all over; Detroit, New York City, even Philadelphia. A lot of people lost money on those tables, but Lance wasn’t one of them. By the time we left, he had a wad on him the size of a baseball.”
 

I stared at her, unable to speak. He’d lied to me. No wonder he hadn’t called me back. What a--
focus Mattie
. I exhaled, and stomped all my fury back down. I couldn’t do anything about that now.  
 

“Where I can find Rhys?”
 

“He eats lunch at the Amble Inn every day.”
 

“That dump? I can’t believe they’re still open.”
 

She laughed. “You know, the AI was the first bar I ever went to.”
 

When we were in high school, Karen and Bunny and I used to sneak into the place on Tuesday nights for the cheap beer and college boys. She glanced at her watch. “Say, since I’m the boss this week, how about I close up for a bit, and take you over there for a Joe’s Special?”
 

“You’re on.”
 

The entrance to the AI was a few doors away, and as I followed Bunny into the gloom, I was assailed by the scent of hot dogs, stale peanuts, and several decades’ worth of alcohol fumes.
 

Time had not passed the AI unnoticed. It was still a dive bar, but had been remodeled at some point.  Two large skylights brightened the place up, and a few booths had been added beneath the front windows.  The décor was still early rope and marine hardware, but an electric train ran around the room near the ceiling, adding a touch of whimsy. Big-screen televisions loomed over the patrons, each screen tuned to a different sports event.  
 

“Hey Herman,” Bunny called out to the bearded guy behind the bar. “Two Molsons and two specials.”
 

I followed her to the closest empty booth. We sat, and the man came around with a basket of unshelled peanuts and our beers.  
 

“You’re early today,” he smiled at Bunny. “Be a minute on the specials. The cooker is almost ready.”  
 

“Mattie this is Herman the German. Herman, this is my friend Mattie Blackman.”
 

“Ah, a pleasure to meet you.” He shook my hand. His grip, firm and strong, scored big points with me for not crunching my knuckles. His eyes twinkled, and he scampered back to the kitchen. I liked him.
 

“Ever since Herman took over, this place has become a gold mine.”  
 

“I can tell.  We got here at the right time.” The lunch crowd was already starting to arrive. We sipped our beers, and a few minutes later, the waitress came with our food, a pot of mustard and a wad of napkins.
 

“You need anything else?”
 

Bunny looked at me, and I shook my head. “Thanks Trina, we’re good.”  
 

I eyed the heap of deep fried red hots, grilled onions, sauerkraut, and pickle, piled high between two slices of dark rye.  
 

“How do I eat this?” My mouth watered; I wanted to get a bite in before another wave of stinkum showed up.  
 

Bunny laughed, and slathered mustard on hers, then wrapped the bottom half in napkins.
 

“Very carefully,” she said, and took a big bite.  
 

I copied her, and groaned with surprised delight as I bit into the juicy, greasy sandwich. I could actually taste it. Clearly, deep-fried hot dogs trumped demon-stink. I had just taken another luscious bite when Bunny pointed to two men standing at the bar. The older fellow, a clean-shaven pot-bellied professor-type, wore a tonsured wreath of grey hair around his bald pate. He spoke animatedly to a dark-haired biker dude with a Fu-Manchu moustache.  
 

“That’s him.  Hey Rhys, over here.”
 

To my surprise, biker dude turned and walked toward us.  Rhys approached our table like a panther stalks prey: all muscled steel, sleek suntanned skin, and glitter-green eyes. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket over his naked torso, and scuffed, black leather chaps over black jeans. He moved casually, but I could see the shift and glide of powerful muscles with every step. Mesmerized, the only thoughts that came to my mind were animal magnetism and yum-mee.  
 

Bunny made the introductions, and his eyes settled on my chest. I followed his eyes to a big splot of mustard on my shirt. Blushing furiously, I grabbed a napkin to wipe it off while trying to gulp down my mouthful of hot dog sandwich without choking.  
 

“Um, hi,” I said, when I could almost talk.  
 

His metallic green eyes flicked to the corner of the booth where Blix and the gang sat, then drained his beer in a single long swallow, and shook his head at me, as if contemplating what to say. Finally, he jerked his head toward the front door.
 

“Let’s go.”
 

CHAPTER 13
 

“You didn’t say he was a biker.” I scrambled out of the booth after the mage, hurriedly tossing Bunny a ten. Her laughter chased me out the door.  
 

The mage appeared substantially younger than I expected, his demeanor completely at odds with his academic credentials. The temperature must have been in the upper eighties, and the humidity was stifling, yet he wore denim and leather like his own skin. Black hair curled over his collar, held back with a leather thong. I’d expected someone more bookish. Not so, um, badass. I wondered what he smelled like.  
 

We reached Mystic Properties, and I waited as he unlocked the door. “Aren’t you hot? How can you stand to wear black leather in this heat?”
 

“You’re criticizing how I dress?” He held the door open for me. “Black is my favorite color.”
 

I paused for a moment, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. His eyes glowed with an inner gleam, scaring the daylights out of me in an incredibly primal, sexual way.
Focus, Mattie.
This guy was supposed to get rid of my stupid demons or spirits or whatever, not complicate my love life. Besides, I’d already committed myself to a certain local restaurateur. I took a deep, cleansing breath, and exhaled slowly. I could tell, his guy wouldn’t have a lot of patience. I tried to picture myself plunging into an icy pool. It helped a little, but every time I looked at him, man oh man.  
 

I followed him into a room at the back of the building, which was furnished with second-hand furniture, a braided rug, metal file cabinets, and wall-to-wall bookshelves. I perched on a folding chair while Rhys sprawled on an old grey sofa. I told him all about my little teratosis gang, the accidents, Porter, and pretty much everything else. He listened without interrupting, his face open and accepting, as if this sort of thing came along every day. By the time I finished my story, I knew I’d come to the right place.  
 

“Who are you,” he asked.  
 

“I told you, I’m Mattie Blackman. I’m a parking control officer for the City of Picston.”
 

“No, I mean who are your people?”
 

A flush rose in my cheeks. Hadn’t I already said enough? How could he ask me for information I’d barely admitted to myself, much less told a stranger? I couldn’t shake the feeling that the mage was the right guy for the answers I needed. If I had to go through some additional personal discomfort to get there, so be it. I trusted him.  
 

I shrugged, with a nonchalance I didn’t feel.  
 

“Um, I don’t know. My mom grew up an orphan. Her husband divorced her when she got pregnant with me.” I blushed, in spite of myself. “She never spoke a word about my father.”  
 

“Did your mother ever speak about her family, or where she came from?”
 

I shook my head. “She grew up in foster care. She went to Shoreline High, though. Same as me.”
 

“Where is she now?”
 

I strove to keep my voice steady. “She committed suicide when I was sixteen.”  
 

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he got up and began searching through the metal file drawers for something.  
 

I don’t know what I expected as a result of sharing the most painful moments of my childhood, but some sort of acknowledgement seemed appropriate. The silence stretched between us, as he closed the first drawer and started in on the second. What’s with this guy? I held my temper in check, reminding myself he was my last resort. I decided to try another tack.  
 

“You can see these spirit things of mine, can’t you?”
 

He stopped searching and raised his hypnotic eyes to mine. I held my breath.  
 

“No.  I get a sense of something, but no. Here it is.” He selected an old photograph from a folder and handed it to me. “Do you know this woman?”
 

My heart ached with loss and the pain of seeing her again. I choked back the emotions that threatened to undo me in front of this apparently unfeeling stranger. She looked so much younger than I remembered. Slim and black-haired, she had a brilliant smile. Her dark eyes bore no trace of the madness that would plague her later in life. Why the heck did he have a picture of my mother locked in his files?  
 

“Where did you get this?”  
 

“You look like her.”
 

“What are you doing with my mother’s picture? Can you help me?”  
 

He considered me with a thoughtful expression. “I might know someone.”
 

I sagged and fought back tears of relief. “You believe me.”
 

“I doesn’t matter what I believe. You say you failed the FBI test?”
 

“Porter told me I had the lowest score of anyone he ever tested.” My hand shook as I handed the picture back to him.
 

A genuine smile crossed his face for the first time, and changed my whole opinion of him. He had crinkles around his eyes and exceedingly white, even teeth. He reached out to me, almost as if to touch my hair and caught himself. I wondered what kissing him would be like. I imagined he was a good kisser; that is, if I was interested. Which I wasn’t. And even if I was, he wasn’t my type.    
 

“That wasn’t your mother, Mattie. Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”  
 

I followed him out, thinking we were going to his car, but he kept walking.  
 

“Well, who is she?  Where are we going?”
 

“It’s not far.” He had a long stride, and I had to hustle a bit to keep up. He noticed, and slowed down, which somehow embarrassed me.  
 

We crossed the street and turned left at Empress, a pretty street lined with turn-of-the-century painted ladies, mostly Victorian and Queen Anne architecture. Large trees shaded the uneven sidewalk, which lay broken and crumbled by the groping limbs of massive roots.   
 

My anxiety grew with each house we passed. We stopped at the end of the block, in front of a dilapidated turquoise and lavender Queen Anne with flakes of pale yellow trim. The place needed about six more coats of paint in order to be called shabby. Stepping-stones in the overgrown lawn led to a deeply sagging front porch. I knew this place. So did everyone else in town.
 

I wrapped my arms around myself, and fought to keep my voice calm. “Why are we stopping here?”  
 

A large, freshly-painted, butter-yellow wooden sign hung from the front porch overhang.  Carved in the shape of a hand, the garish sign boasted in blood-red letters:
 

DESTINY
 

By appointment only
 

Madame Coumlie