E J Stevens - [Ivy Granger, Psychic Detective 01] Page 3

  I told Jinx all about my encounter with Forneus and his pseudo threats about a needy client and a danger that faced our city.

  “Shut up!” Jinx said. “That’s, that’s…”

  “Inconceivable?” I said.

  “Yes, but I believe you,” Jinx said, tapping a red lacquered nail against her teeth. “You always have bad luck with men…”

  She started to giggle. It was completely contagious.

  When we finally settled down, I wiped watery eyes with the edge of my shirt and grabbed my shopping list.

  “I better head to Kaye’s now if I’m going to get back before dark,” I said. “Can you lock up?”

  “Sure,” Jinx said.

  We bumped knuckles and I walked to the front door. I felt the weight of the crucifix in my back pocket and fingered a small cross necklace that now lay beneath my tank top. I hoped leaving the safety of our building wards was a good idea. I guess I’d find out soon enough.

  In fact, I was going to have to ask Kaye why the wards hadn’t kept the demon out. I didn’t like having a Forneus sized hole in our security. With one last wave, I stepped out into the sweltering heat and onto the city streets.

  Chapter 3

  From the west, Harborsmouth is a gleaming city of tall, glass and steel office buildings and swanky convention centers that sit along a ridge overlooking the harbor. Heading toward the waterfront, the modern city is quickly replaced by brick and stone. I often expect to hear the clop of horse hooves and see the flickering light of gas lanterns here in the Old Port quarter, and it’s not just because of my visions.

  I mean, I’ve seen what the Old Port looked like a century ago and it really hasn’t changed much on the surface. The cobbles are still uneven, the brick sidewalks slanting toward the waterfront remain treacherous during our icy winters, and the alleys still reek of urine after dark. Even the shop fronts retain an old charm, but the wooden signs swinging from wrought iron brackets now advertise sex toys and internet cafes. So much for the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker.

  I walked past a bar, dance club, two pubs, and a tavern before leaving Water Street behind. That is one thing you’ll notice when walking the Old Port—we have no shortage of drinking establishments. One more reason for Jinx to close up early tonight. Monsters and demons weren’t the only dangers after dark.

  I turned up Wharf Street and kept to the middle of the pavement. There is little traffic here, most cars won’t attempt to weave through the pedestrian hordes, and I didn’t want to bump into anyone or anything that could induce a vision. I had enough on my mind without adding someone else’s emotional baggage. For the first time today, I was in luck. Most locals were indoors, minding shops or pints, and the tourists that braved the cobbles were keeping to the shade of the buildings. I strode up the sun-scorched street unmolested.

  At the top of Wharf Street sat Madame Kaye’s Magic Emporium. It was impressive. The entrance was located on the corner and Kaye’s shop encompassed the store fronts leading in both directions. The wood and brick façade had been painted royal purple and midnight blue with astrological symbols carved around the door. Huge gold-trimmed windows displayed witchy (and kitschy) wares.

  I walked though the doorway and into a riot of sights, sounds, and smells. Every surface, from floor to ceiling, was covered in displays of magic and non-magic merchandise. Baskets of glow-in-the-dark rubber skeletons sat beside tarot cards. Glass jars filled with herbs cluttered rows of shelves that covered an entire wall. Need ingredients for a basic spell, potion, or tisane? You’d come to the right place. Require the really potent stuff? You had to speak with Madame Kaye directly.

  At this time of day Kaye would probably be working in the back of the shop. I looked for one of her staff who I could ask. I didn’t have time to waste wandering the aisles of The Emporium.

  A blond girl stood so still beside the door, I nearly mistook her for a mannequin. I suppose that was one way to keep customers from asking questions. I wonder if she’s given anyone a heart attack yet today. I stifled a smile and walked up to Arachne, Kaye’s newest employee.

  “Hi, Arachne,” I said. “Kaye here today?”

  “Hey, Ivy,” Arachne said. “How’d you know it was me? I was, like, totally invisible, right?”

  “Um, not totally…” I said.

  “But Kaye told me to drink an invisibility potion and stand by the front door…” Arachne said.

  “Ever wonder why people don’t work here for long?” I said. “Kaye likes to mess with her employees. Don’t take it personal.”

  “Oh, okay,” Arachne said, brow wrinkling. “So, I’m not invisible at all? Not even a little transparent?”

  Arachne was completely visible. Everything from her purple headband holding perfectly straight, blond, shoulder length hair, to the black bowling shirt with purple piping, black skinny jeans, and purple converse. I guess she was in her purple phase.

  I just shook my head and tried to look apologetic. Kaye was a total trickster. I don’t know what she told the kid, but Arachne seemed pretty disappointed. Maybe Kaye promised ninja powers. If so, I’d be disappointed too.

  “Is she in the back?” I asked.

  “Yes, she’s in the kitchen working on potion mixing,” Arachne said. “Go on back.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I left Arachne puzzling over her lack of concealment and strode to the back of the store. I had to dodge past an urn filled with plastic and foam reaper scythes. Ducking low, I almost missed the dark shape that flitted through the shadows to my right. I jinked left and twisted in a spinning crouch only to face a black cat with huge emerald eyes.

  “Meorow,” Kaye’s cat Midnight said, rushing forward to brush against my leg.

  I tensed, but no visions flooded my mind. I wasn’t used to anyone touching me, even a cat. Thankfully, Midnight hadn’t witnessed anything heinous…or if he had, it hadn’t bothered him enough to leave an emotional imprint. It probably took a lot to phase a cat.

  Now that I was claimed by the ritual leg bump, a rightful mode of cat ownership, I no longer mattered. Midnight sat at my feet grooming his shoulder with a bright pink tongue. He looked at me disdainfully as I scratched behind his ear and returned to his grooming.

  I pushed myself up and resumed my trip to the back room. Kaye didn’t make it easy. Obstacles slowed my progress and I had to stop and climb under the counter arm at the end of the Oddments and Accoutrements display case, since it was bolted shut from the inside.

  Once behind the counter, I pushed a button marked with an Eye of Ra symbol on the cash register and the door behind me clicked open. I slipped through the door and passed through a beaded curtain laced with tiny silver bells. I was all for security, but there was no way that anyone could sneak up on Kaye. The current store layout seemed excessive.

  Then again, there was a demon in town. With the failure of my own security, I should probably consider making my clients run such a gauntlet. Somehow, I didn’t think Jinx would agree to remodeling our office.

  I stopped at the opening to the kitchen where Kaye was busy frowning over an old tome on the stone counter. The leather-bound book rested against a large mortar and pestle that seemed to be created for giants. A trail of large muddy footprints led from the kitchen to a huge wooden door at the rear of the room. Ah, not giants…trolls.

  Madame Kaye employed a number of fae creatures, including trolls. Trolls were strong and well-skilled in the art of lift and fetch, but they lacked the finesse of the domestic fae. They were also devoid of basic personal hygiene. If I had my choice, I’d stick with Brownies and Hobgoblins.

  A steaming cast iron pot bubbled on the nearby industrial stovetop. I tried not to look too closely at its contents. With Kaye, and her troll helpers, there was no saying what could be in that pot. Best to ignore the strange burbling and tapping and look away from the stove. Fewer nightmares that way.

  My wandering gaze took in the beautiful, cavernous room. Kaye’s spell kitchen always m
ade my chest constrict with envy. I wasn’t one for drooling over material objects, you could fit my personal belongings in a steam trunk and my entire wardrobe in a cake box, but I would give anything for a kitchen like this.

  A large protective circle was carved deeply into the floor. It was lined with silver and completely encircled the cooking area. If you made a mistake while brewing a potion in this kitchen, which was always a likely possibility due to the delicate and sensitive nature of most spell ingredients, the city outside these doors would remain intact. The same couldn’t be said for the person standing inside the protective silver ring—another reminder to take every possible precaution.

  There’s a good reason why Kaye’s potions are so expensive. The danger to the person brewing a spell potion increases exponentially with the potency of the final spell and Kaye’s brews are very, very effective. Her potions always pack a wallop. Most new customers are often surprised to discover that Madame Kaye herself is so small and frail in appearance, since her spells kick such major butt. They assume that a person must be a physically large goliath to wield the power necessary to wrestle the very elements of nature into submission, a specialty of Kaye’s, but the truth is that true power resides within. Kaye uses her sharp mind to combine years of wisdom and an iron will to brew her spells. One minute under Kaye’s intense, owl-like gaze will teach you that.

  Those eyes were currently turned inward…rolled completely back inside her head. Kaye’s arms were lifted, palms turned upward to face the constellation and rune-marked ceiling, and her spine was ramrod straight. Low guttural sounds escaped her lips.

  Probably not the best time to bother her with questions.

  I skirted the spell circle and walked to the old stone hearth across, but worlds away, from the modern stove. This section of kitchen closely resembled an old roadside inn with long, wood benches and a comfortable chair where someone could sit by the fire. The gaping mouth of the hearth was large enough for three grown men, or one troll, to stand upright with arms outstretched. Trolls however avoided this section of kitchen. The hearth was the demesne of the kitchen’s resident brownie, Hob-o-Waggle.

  Hob was a crusty old coot. The shriveled little brownie was moody enough to make a PMS-ing Jinx look like a purring kitten. Hob could be a sweetheart, but if he thought you’d slighted him, even the teensiest bit, he’d torment you for a week.

  Ever been pinched by a wizened old man in rags whose hat didn’t reach your knee? It may not sound dire, but trust me—after the first hour you won’t have an inch of skin that isn’t black and blue. Souring milk, tying your shoelaces together, putting spiders in your bed, and tangling your hair into faerie-locks are a few of the more innocent pranks in Hob’s bag of tricks.

  I went to a small fridge and retrieved a glass milk bottle. Opening cupboards, I found a small porcelain tea cup and filled it with sweet cream. I put the bottle back in the fridge and carried the cup to the hearth where I set it carefully on the mantel. I’d learned the hard way that it was worth the extra effort. Hob was a tiny, angry, time-bomb—filled with the potential to destroy my day, but easily diffused with a cup of cream.

  Plus, bringing Hob’s cup to the hearth before knocking on his door was a sign of respect that brought a smile to his gnarled face. I liked making Hob happy. Over the years, he had become a friend.

  If anyone but Kaye had been in the room, they would have thought I was completely crazy. Only humans with strong magic or second-sight can see fae folk like Hob. Hob’s front door was also in an unusual location, though common for a domestic brownie, hobgoblin, bwbach, or bwca. I knelt down in front of the large fireplace, careful not to kneel directly on the old stones, and rapped three times on the hearthstone. It probably looked like I was talking to the floor.

  “Go ‘way!” shouted Hob. “Eem not a comin’ out ‘till de foul troll go e’way!”

  “Hob?” I asked sweetly. “It’s me, Ivy. The troll appears to be gone, for now, and I have a cup of cream here. It would be a waste to see it spoil.”

  Spoiled milk was something Hob wouldn’t tolerate, not unless he used his magic to spoil it himself. Brownies take great pride in the tidiness of the home and hearth they attach themselves to. If he let the cup of cream curdle on the mantel, he’d never be able to live with himself. And I hadn’t lied. There were no trolls in the kitchen at present though there were plenty of signs that at least one troll had been here recently.

  The edge of the hearthstone lifted an inch to reveal a gleaming eye beneath a furry caterpillar-like eyebrow.

  “’Tis it be sweet cream?” Hob asked.

  “Yes, your favorite,” I said. “But maybe I should go now. If this isn’t a good time…”

  “Gawww!” Hob shouted. He sprung out of his faerie home and shot straight up into the air to land on the pot hook. He was now able to look down his nose at me from his perch. “Human-folk! Always rush, rush, rush. Sa quick ta leave.”

  “I don’t have to leave, Hob,” I said, slowly.

  Talking to a grumpy brownie is a bit like calming a Tasmanian devil after stealing its dinner. There tends to be lots of screeching and posturing—you just hope to come away without a case of rabies and with all your fingers intact.

  “Dinna bring a gift for Hob?” Hob asked.

  He was sitting in the crook of the pot hook, straddling it like a saddle. His stumpy legs swung in the air, but I was sure to keep the rising smile off my face. We were entering into a ritual that was older than time itself. It was best to remain serious. Fae rituals were never something to scoff at.

  “I brought your cup of cream,” I said, nodding toward the mantel.

  “Wha ‘bout my payment,” Hob asked. He placed his fists on his hips. He was trying to look stern, but the effect was diminished as he began to lose his balance. Hob was listing dangerously to the right.

  “Um, yes, I do have something here,” I said.

  I reached into my back pocket and made a show of rummaging through my wallet. I always kept something on me for Hob. Brownies are curious creatures by nature and Hob was leaning even more precariously in his effort to see inside my wallet.

  “Hob don’t want yer pocket lint,” he said. Hob crossed his arms across his barrel chest, but continued to lean forward eagerly.

  “It’s a good thing then that I brought something less dull and dusty,” I said.

  I pulled out a shiny silver pin. It was the shape of a feather with a stick pin on the back. Brownies like shiny things, especially silver, but anything resembling clothing can cause them to become angry or leave a hearth for good. I just hoped that Hob liked the gift and didn’t think of jewelry as clothing.

  I held out my hand, with the tiny silver feather resting on my palm, and crossed my toes. Crossing my fingers would have been rude. If Hob took offense to my gift and Kaye lost her hearth brownie, I’d have worse things to worry about than Hob’s departure. There was only one thing scarier than an angry brownie…and that was an angry witch.

  “Ah, a respec’able gift,” Hob said, furry brow rising in admiration. The grey caterpillar-like eyebrow looked ready to spring into the air and complete its metamorphosis into a butterfly.

  “Can I set it beside your cup?” I asked.

  It was never prudent to step within a brownie’s hearth without his permission, no matter how wide his smile.

  “Aye, lass, set it dere,” Hob said, rubbing his knobby hands together.

  As soon as I set the down the pin, it was gone. Hob shot up to the mantel, lickety split, and held the shiny bobble up to the light. Brownies could move so fast that you’d swear they could fly or had access to teleportation.

  I tried not to picture Hob in a spandex trekkie uniform demanding, “Beam me up, Scotty!” I failed. The image was so ridiculous that I had to cover my laughter with a cough. Fortunately, Hob was distracted by the gleam of his new gift.

  If this heat wave didn’t abate soon, I’d end up getting myself into trouble. It was never a good idea to let your min
d and imagination wander when dealing with the fae, and now there was a demon in town. Time to buck up and stay alert, or die.

  There were, of course, worse things than death.

  I shook my head to clear the mental cobwebs and nodded at Hob.

  “Mind if I grab a cup of tea while I’m here?” I asked. The tea was really Kaye’s, but Hob ruled the kitchen…and Kaye was still busy cooking her spell.

  “Pour ye’self a cuppa and tell ol’ Hob about this purty bit o’ silver,” Hob said. “Jus’ be sure to mind which pot ye pour from. Wouldn’t do ta have ye turn into a spotty toad or slimy slug, now would eet?”

  Hob let out a wheezing laugh and slapped his knee.

  “Um, thanks,” I said.

  I swallowed and tried not to look green. Hob was right. Checking, and double-checking, the labels on Kaye’s ingredients was always a good idea. Belladonna tea would kill me just as quick as Forneus—and then I’d never know what the demon was up to.

  A quick search through the cupboards turned up a teapot and a tin of Earl Gray. I was lifting the teapot down gingerly, the handle wrapped in a linen napkin, when the back door crashed noisily against the wall. I nearly dropped the pot.

  A huge form came lumbering through the opening, his head (I’m guessing it was a male since there aren’t many female trolls) so wide it nearly didn’t fit through. The troll was bent at the waist, his long, greasy hair dragging across the floor. A loud fart exploded from his direction and the troll scooted forward, quickly kicking the door closed behind him.

  Great. Trolls always smell bad. I can’t imagine what a troll fart smells like. If it was bad enough to make a troll try to put a door between him and the foul odor, then I was sure I didn’t want to find out. I pulled the front of my tank top up over my mouth and nose.

  “Nasty, smelly, filthy!” Hob screamed. “Take yer stink hide ‘way from me kitchen!”

  Hob was red with rage, his hand fisted over his treasure.

  “Me fetch,” the troll said.

  He smiled and pointed at the lumpy sack he carried over his shoulder. The troll’s smile was a nightmare…and I’ve seen some very scary things. Large, broken stumps of rotten teeth stood crookedly like old headstones in a neglected graveyard. His tongue lolled to the side and drool slid to the floor.