Playing Hooky (Paranormal Investigations) (4 page)

Chapter 6

~ EMMA ~

JASON KNOCKS AT the door at the back of a dark alley, at the bottom of a stairway leading down below the ground. The door creaks open, and on the other side, a craggy old woman with stooped shoulders scowls at us. “The door was unlocked. You know it’s always unlocked. I’m an old woman, and you made me come all the way over here.”

Jason bows his head slightly. “I’m sorry, Mama Maria, but last time, you had ghosts flying around and yelled at me for letting one out.”

“Who is this?” Grabbing my chin, she pulls my face down to her height and squints at me through glasses almost as big as her face.

“I’m Emma. Nice to meet you.” I pull away and curtsy to match Jason’s bow—seemed like the right thing to do. With her eyes magnified through the glasses, her white hair sticking up all over, she looks more like a cartoon witch than a bookstore owner, but my mother taught me to be respectful.

She huffs and turns on her heel, hobbling deeper into the dark room. We leave our skis on her doorstep and follow her inside.

The wall space is lined with bookshelves, even along the staircase, and more books stack on top of the tables in the center of the room. Dust and cobwebs cover everything, and the shadows cling to the corners as if hiding from the streams of light coming in through the two narrow windows at the top of one wall.

Green goo bubbles in a cauldron in the center of all this chaos. On a pedestal in front of it, a book is open. The old lady leans over the book so it almost touches her nose and peers at the page. “Marshmallows. No, that can’t be right. Jason,” she shrills. “Read this for me.”

“Marjoram,” Jason reads.

“Get it off the shelf over there. I’m too short.”

“Okay.” Jason drags the step-ladder-on-wheels over to the shelf.

“Not you. Last time you were here, you knocked over a bottle and let the air inside escape. The breath of a sleeping baby is hard to come by.” She waves her big spoon. “You can get me that orb-weaver spider from the corner over there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you kill it! I need it alive.”

“Can I have a jar to catch it with?”

“No. Use your hands.”

“Why?”

“The recipe says so.”

Jason arches an eyebrow. “Can I see that?”

“Who is the witch here? Me.” She swats him on the arm with her wooden spoon.

“Okay, okay.” With a sigh, he heads toward a dark corner.

She turns on me and raises her spoon.

“I got it!” I climb to the top of the ladder. Hundreds of glass bottles are packed into the space, and I pick up one after the other, sneezing from the dust. One is marked
cat piss
; another
ground dragon scales
; another
dried snake intestines
. I shudder.

I find one marked
marjoram
. At least, I think it is. The label is smudged and faded, but I can distinctly make out the
M
at the beginning of the word. I squint my eyes to see through the dusty glass, but I can’t tell what is inside. Even if I could, I don’t really know what marjoram looks like.

Clambering back down the metal stairs, I hand it to her. She peers at it through her thick glasses. “You sure this is marjoram?”

“I think so.”

“What did you say?” She cups her ear and leans closer to me.

“I said, I think so,” I say louder.

“No need to shout. I’m not deaf. And stop being so wishy-washy.”

She unscrews the cap, sniffs it, and then shrugs, dumping the entire contents into the bubbling brew. “It could be marjoram, but it might be mushrooms. I had a bottle of poisonous, green ones I dried out last winter on the solstice. Oh well.”

Leaning out over the cauldron, she stirs thrice counterclockwise, using the wooden spoon with a handle about as tall as she is. Then she scoops a bit and brings it to her mouth for a taste.

“No!” Jason and I scream at the same time.

She blinks at us. “What?”

“You just put something that may be poisonous in there,” I say.

“How else will I find out if it was the right ingredient? There’s a Cure Poison potion up on my shelf somewhere. If I pass out, you can dump it down my throat.” She slurps it up, hacks a bit, wheezes, and thumps
 
her chest. “See, it is good. Though I don’t think that was marjoram or mushrooms. Maybe moldy socks.”

“She’s insane, isn’t she?” I whisper to Jason.

“That’s right,” he whispers back.

She scowls at us. “I may be old, but I’m not blind or deaf.”

“Of course, Mama Maria. I wouldn’t dream of saying you are,” Jason says.

“Where’s my spider?”

Jason holds up a huge spider by one of its legs. It squirms.

She grabs the spider, tosses it into the cauldron, and stirs twice clockwise, once counterclockwise. “So you’re here looking for the siren, I take it.”

“How did you know?” I gasp.

“Someone was here looking for love potions. A girl. Which means she would need the blood of a siren or a succubus or certain types of fairies. A boy would need an incubus or a
naga
. Maybe a
manticore
, if he’s desperate, but that is more likely to impart strength. Since you visited
Mikey’s
M&M Circus today, I assume the siren was stolen and you want to help
Taylon
.”

“So, a girl? What did she look like?” I lean forward. “Wait, how’d you know about the circus?”

“I’m a witch. I have my sources.”

“Ravens watching us? Or did you
scry
us in your crystal ball?”

“Don’t be silly. I don’t have a crystal ball or ravens.”

“Then what?”

“You stink of unicorns.”

“The girl,” Jason prompts.

She scowls. “I want a price for this information.”

“What?”

“Blood.”

“Blood? Whose blood? Mine?” I ask at the same time Jason says, “No.”

“Not your blood, girlie. Your blood is just human. But Jason’s—” She steps close to him and sniffs. “Now his blood is rich with magic.”

“No.” Jason crosses his arms. “We’ll owe you a favor. One favor for the two of us to fulfill together. Not a favor each.”

Her eyes sparkle. “A favor.”

“A favor that brings no harms to babies, children, or small animals and is within our realm of possibilities,” he says.

“And we have the right to veto any request,” I add. You never know what kind of a favor an insane old witch might ask of you. Veto power may come in useful.

“Fine. You two take the fun out of it.” She mumbles something under her breath. “She was human, and looked like any other human girl. She could have been this one right here, if she’d had pink hair too. Now be gone with you. I have work to do.”

“Not enough, Mama.” Jason’s voice holds a thread of menace. “Not if you want your favor.”

“Fine. She was blonde with green eyes, and she had a cute little pug nose and the smile of a sweet angel. But I swear an evil seed hides in her heart.”

“Where do we find her?”

“I sent her to the Hunter to help her find the blood ingredient she would need.”

“What did she give you for that information?” Jason asks.

She cackles. “A lock of hair, the foolish girl.”

“Where can we find this hunter?” I ask.

“You mean, THE Hunter. He hangs out at Bailey’s Bar.”

“What does he hunt?” I ask.

Jason clears his throat. “Vampires. Werewolves. Witches. Trolls. You pay him; he’ll hunt it for you. My mother says to stay far away from him.”

“And she’s right too,
dearie
.” Mama Maria turns her back on us while stirring her pot and mumbling obscenities to herself that would make a sailor blush.

“Incantations,” Jason mouths to me.

I’d never thought
those
words would be for chanting spells.

We wind our way through the mountains of dusty books and let ourselves out into the snowstorm. I cough as the cold air hits my lungs and tug my scarf over my nose.

We strap skis on our feet and slide down the alley. Hunching down into my coat, I dig the ski pole into the snow and propel myself forward—away from Mama Maria’s and away from the truck. Toward Bailey’s Bar.

I wonder what creatures I’ll find this time.

Snow flurries swirl around us in the afternoon sun, lights playing on the silvery surface, some spinning slowly, others dashing wildly. My world has turned as upside down as the mad snow dancing in spirals.

Chapter 7

~ JASON ~

LIKE THE WITCH’S bookstore, Bailey’s is hidden in an alley behind smelly dumpsters and old wooden crates. A drunk, cradling his bottle in its brown paper bag, watches us make our way up the alley.

“Who are you? What do you want in my alley?” he slurs, rising to his feet and wobbling toward us.

“Looking for Bailey’s. Mama Maria sent us.”

The wobble disappears, and he stands upright, saying without slurring, “Why didn’t you say so? It’s right through that door.” He points to the bare wall.

I take Emma’s hand and lead her toward the empty wall. I glance around, trying to figure out where the door really is, but when we step within five feet, the wall shimmers and wriggles until it congeals into a new shape:
 
a large, metal door with a sliding peephole. I rap my knuckles and then step back and wait.

The peephole slides open and two black eyes stare out at us. I mean, all the way black, from corner to corner.

“What do you want?”

“To talk to the Hunter,” Emma says.

“We want no trouble from a human . . . or from him either.” The gaze flits to me, and scowling, I fold my arms.

“We won’t make trouble.” She gives her sweetest smile. Unlike Angelina, her smiles are sincere.

I snort and she elbows me in the gut, hard enough I gasp for breath. Sweet to everyone but me. To me, she gives all her feisty stubbornness.

He looks her over, from the pink hair to her fur lined ski jacket, to the school bag over one shoulder. “No alcohol. We don’t serve minors.”

“I’m not a minor. I turned twenty-one today.”

“Even worse. You’re not getting drunk for the first time in our bar. We’re not responsible for a
lit’ling
like you.”

The door swings open, and we step inside. Whoever was on the other side of the peephole, he’s already gone.

Inside, a smoky haze blurs the room, and although it isn’t even five o’clock, every table has somebody hunkered over a bottle of beer or whiskey. A band plays Celtic music, the kind that worms into your feet and makes them dance the jig even if you don’t know how. The strains of the fiddle wrap around the music of the guitar, accordion, and bagpipes and around my heart, and I can’t help but fall in love with the sound.

Bare-chested even in this cold weather, the four musicians (three male and one female . . . yes, even the girl is bare-chested and jiggling nicely) dance on the small stage while still playing instruments and singing, drunker than anybody in the room, and when I look closely, I realize they’re not wearing brown pants but instead fur covers their legs.

Legs that end in hooves.

Three satyrs and a
satyress
.

Thank goodness for ninth grade English lessons in Greek mythology. Most professors would likely be happy to know that
satyresses
prance around just as naked as their male counterparts.

Emma smacks the back of my head. “It’s just boobs. Even I have a pair. No reason to stare so hard. Put your eyes back in your head.” She grabs my hand, leading me toward the bar . . . and positions me with my back to the stage.

“But you’ve never shown me yours. Take your shirt off, and I’ll stare at yours instead.”

“You did not just say that.”

“Yeah, I think I did.”

“Men.” She rolls her eyes.

The bartender grabs a wet glass, flips it up in the air, catches it, and then swipes it with his towel before setting it upside down on a shelf. It all happened so fast, his hands blurred as they moved. Shaved head, he looks like a pirate with a patch over his eye and a scar running down his forehead, under his eye patch, and puckering up his cheek. Rings pierce his lips, eyebrows, and ears, and tattoos cover the every inch of exposed flesh on his neck and arms and chest.

“What’s with the pink hair?”

“An accident with a magician.”

He nods. “No alcohol for minors.” He eyes me. “And no trouble from your kind. Here, we abide by the laws of both lands.”

There it is again:
 
my kind. What am I? I feel like a label is tattooed over my forehead, and everyone can see it but me.

“I’m not a minor.” She winks at him. “Just one shot?”

“No alcohol.”

“We’re just looking for the Hunter,” I say.

With a quirk of his eyebrow, the bartender nods at a table on the far side of the room where a man sits in the shadows, a Stetson low over his brow.

I got a bad feeling about this.

“You should stay here.”

“I don’t think so. I never sit on the sidelines.” Her jaw juts out.

That’s my girl, plunging into the craziest adventures by my side. She hasn’t changed much over the years. Tell her to stay safe and she’ll go in the opposite direction.

That’s what I love about her.

“All right, all right. But let’s be careful,” I say.

He watches us navigate the room, his eyes calculating a hundred ways to kill us—me—and deciding if it’s worth the trouble. He looks like he has more of an arsenal on his body than a whole platoon in the army.

She stops in front of his table, one hand on her hip, and dazzles him with her smile. “Can we sit with you?”

He raises a bushy eyebrow. A beard filthier than
Gruff’s
—hard to believe that’s even possible—hides most of his face, and his coat is made from patches of fur in various shades of brown. His large frame doesn’t fit in the chair, and he dwarfs the table in front of him. The bottle in his hand looks like it will crush if he squeezes a fraction of an inch tighter.

He curls his lip. “Don’t bother sitting down. I’m not working with you.”

She pulls the chair out, sits down, and leans forward. “Please. We really need your help.”

His image shimmers and wiggles before solidifying back into the grizzly old man again. For a moment, he seems taken aback. Then growling, he stands and leans over the table, towering over my girl. “Girlie, I could eat you for a snack.”

“But you won’t,” she says.

The entire room is silent for a long moment. The band stopped playing, and everyone watches us.

“We have money,” I say.

“The American dollar means nothing where I come from.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her. The fire in the pit of my stomach writhes and squirms in response to his threat to her, and I struggle to keep it in check.

“What about gold?” I hold up a thick gold coin. I always have a pouch of gold from the chest my mom found with me.

The man backs up and reaches a hand out, and I drop it in the open palm. He bites it, studies the emblem on it, and grunts. “Draconian gold is hard to come by.”

I shrug, pretending I know what
Draconian gold
is. But now I have another clue to where I’m from. Maybe a country named
Draconia
? Or a reference to the dragon symbol on the tail’s side.

Shit, I don’t know anything new. Just more questions.

He pockets the gold. “Fifteen more pieces, all of this quality, but just as you ask me to track down a client, I have no qualms tracking you for somebody else. Gold is gold. I have no loyalties to you once we find this girl.”

I pull out a bag and count out fifteen pieces.

“Not wise to show your pouch.” Threat laces his words, and that squirming ball of fire in the pit of my stomach flares up and engulfs me.

I can see nothing but his face flickering through the flames. Stepping forward, I grab the man by the throat before he can even reach for one of his weapons and slam him against the wall. Giant as he is, he weighs nothing in my hands.

“No threat from me; I don’t steal from my customers . . . sir.” The Hunter lowers his eyes from mine, but he doesn’t bow his head. His hand twitches. The flame isn’t satisfied with his duplicity. He should be giving me his belly in submission.

I show him my teeth.

He looks me in the eyes and pales, dropping the knife he had hidden in his sleeve. He swiftly bows his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize who you were, sir. Your kind doesn’t often interact with humans, except the sorcerers, and you mask your scent well.”

“Jason.” Emma touches my arm. “You can put him down now.”

The flame subsides, sinking back down into the pit of my stomach. Whatever kind of monster I am, I make the monsters shiver in their boots.

“Fine.” I drop him to the floor. Even though I am shorter, I somehow held him above the ground. “But if someone does come to you, asking you to track us, you won’t like what happens.”

The man rises from the floor and drains the whiskey from his bottle in one swallow. He grabs the crossbow hanging on the back of his chair, and as we head for the door, a quiet buzz rises in the room behind us.