The shadows.
The shadows were pursuing her. Down every alley. Deep in the hallows of the parking garages. Lurking in the recessed doorways of the businesses that lined the streets.
Getting closer.
They were the same ones, the same ones that lived in basements, inside closets . . . under the beds of sensitive, lonely children.
More of them.
Bigger.
Soul-sucking.
The light was sanctuary. Being around other people was a refuge.
Home.
Home was safe.
She had no home.
SMOKE AND ASHES
CHAPTER ONE
An Offering
The woman looked desperate.
She was young, she looked perhaps eighteen, with dank, limp hair and dulled eyes. Her clothes were castoffs, ill-fitting and, like the rest of her, dirty. Old dirt, built up from days, weeks, of not being able to wash properly. She wore multiple layers of mismatched tattered garments to protect against the biting, bitter wind. She had on several pairs of socks and over them she wore a pair of old sneakers. She carried a small backpack, strapped to her back. She stood, breathlessly, just inside the door, not sure of what she should do next.
She had never noticed this particular pawn and antiquities shop. It was in an old building set in a block of more old buildings. Most had chipping paint, rotting sills, and faded signage, but this one was better kept. The building had been painted a silver grey. The windows appeared to have polished mahogany for the lintel, sill and jambs (although the glass within the wood could have used cleaning). The door into the shop, also polished mahogany, had a large window which allowed a passerby to see into the store.
How could she have not noticed this place? She had walked this block so many times before. She would have thought she knew every building downtown, which ones had safe doorsteps to sleep in, which restaurants would let her have the food that hadn't sold and would have gone into the garbage, even which dumpsters were the cleanest in case she had to take shelter in them.
There were two signs in the window. One advertised a room for rent. The other let her know the hours of the shop; it was past closing time although clearly the owner hadn't locked the door just yet. She stepped inside. The place was dark, dusty, cluttered with a myriad of odds and ends and old furniture. There were knickknacks, curios, trinkets and bric-a-brac set behind, in and on glass display cases. She stood on the burnished wooden floor, the echo of the little bell on the door behind her still reverberating.
"What can I do for you, dearie?"
She heard a voice, slightly accented, coming from behind the huge old-time key-stroke register set atop a glass display case. She could barely make the man out, standing as he was in the shadows. The shadows. There was a moment she drew back, wanting to flee back out to the streets. But then he stepped around coming to the side of the counter. She could see that he wasn't very big, but even in the dim light, she could see he was well dressed, polished, looking more like a high-priced lawyer than a pawn broker. Not what she was expecting.
When she didn't say anything, he spoke again, "Can I help you?"
"I. . . I . . . have a necklace," she began.
"You wish to pawn it?"
"Maybe," No, no, she didn't wish to pawn it. It was the last valuable thing she owned and when it was gone. . .
And it was from her mother.
She nodded.
"Let me see it."
She hesitantly walked over to the man and slowly removed the necklace. It was difficult for her to let it go. It was the last thing. . . the last thing that tied her to what had been, the good part of what had been.
She dropped it into his outstretched hand.
He looked it over examining it closely. "Silver. Nice quality. A little old-fashioned. The blue sapphire appears to be real." and was a stone of extraordinary power. He assessed it like the professional he was.
She cast occasional, fitful glances at the man. Well-dressed for sure, with longish hair, brown with maybe a touch of grey. Dangerous, very dangerous.
And attractive.
"What. . . what can you give me for it?" she managed to ask, wringing her hands together, her fingertips blue from the cold.
The pawnbroker looked at the girl closely. Homeless, probably a runaway. Running from. . . well, it really didn't matter, did it? The necklace might have been stolen but. . .
He knew it had not been.
"I probably can't give you what it's worth to you," he spoke very softly, almost kindly. He realized she had no clue how valuable the ensorcelled stone might actually be. Hell, he didn't know how valuable the stone might actually be.
She didn't say anything, didn't meet his gaze. She held her breath and felt as if her heart had stopped beating, waiting for him to make his offer.
"Fifty dollars," he offered.
Fifty dollars! That was more, much more, than she had been expecting! She could live for maybe three months, even four, on fifty dollars and by then it would be spring! She wouldn't get a better offer.
She looked up at him, her dulled blue eyes meeting his warm whiskey brown eyes for the first time.
"All right," she nodded in agreement. Maybe things would turn around. Maybe she'd be able to redeem it.
The man held the necklace up. "I have another offer," he began.
Oh god, was he going to offer her twenty dollars for a quick blow job? Well, at least he was clean, looking clean, smelling clean. She'd never done it before, although there had been plenty of similar offers, but she was desperate enough to consider him being her first.
"Would you be interested in a job?"
She was immediately wary. "Wh. . .what kinda job?" she managed to ask wiping her nose on her sleeve.
"This shop has become a rather large estate for me to manage. I need help keeping it clean. Someone to dust, sweep. It's rather larger than it looks," he gestured around the place. "I would pay you a small salary but I can also offer you a room, actually a small apartment."
Now she was puzzled. She knew she looked homeless. She was, after all, homeless. At most, people might offer her a meal or a couple of dollars, but not a job, never a job. Did he have some hidden agenda?
"I'm on the level. You look like you could use a job."
He could have been reading her mind. "I could," she agreed. "But I don't exactly have references."
"I know, but I pride myself on being intuitive. I'm a good judge of character. You're not a drug user, not an alcoholic?"
"No sir." And she wasn't. Even in the depths of despair, she hadn't retreated to the solace of drugs or alcohol.
"You're not a working prostitute. You don't have a pimp."
"No sir," she had been propositioned enough times, but hadn't quite reached the desperate level of selling herself.
"You're a runaway," he stated it as a fact.
She nodded.
"Are you interested in the job?"
Tenuously, she nodded. Oh god, please don't let this guy be some kind of white slaver, looking for runaways to traffic!
"I think so."
"Well, tell you what," the man picked up a cane there was something about his cane and limped around to the front of the counter. "Why don't you spend the night here, in the shop? I can only let you have a cot in my back room tonight, but it's warmer than sleeping on the street. You can think about it. Tomorrow, I can let you see the little apartment you could have if you're still interested. And make sure you get some breakfast. If you decide you're not interested, you can pawn your necklace with me and be on your way." He was giving her a gentle smile and offering her his hand.
She stood a moment but then took his hand. Well, he was right. It was better than sleeping on the streets and if there was a meal in it, it might well be worth the risk.
He quietly guided her behind the dark wooden counter and through a curtain into a small alcove.
If she had thought the shop was cluttered, she had no words for this room. It was dominated by a large work table that was loaded with. . . well. . . stuff. It was apparently where he kept everything that he couldn't find a place for anywhere else. Some of the items were obviously broken. Some were in need of cleaning. Some were just leftovers, probably odd pieces that didn't belong anywhere else. She felt, strangely enough, as if she belonged in this strange little room, along with all the other throwaway pieces.
The man began to pull things off an old Victorian style sofa that went along one wall. "There's a toilet behind that door," he pointed. "And the sink's right there," she could see the small sink next to the door for the facility. "Not the most comfortable bed, I'm afraid. We'll find you something nicer if you decide to begin working here."
He managed to find some throw pillows and a couple of what she guessed might be old linen tablecloths to serve as sheets. He also found a couple of quilts for blankets. She took the cloths and quilts from him and began to lay them out on the sofa.
"Have you had supper?" he asked.
She nodded. "I ate at Rosetta's"
He grimaced, "Their 'Everybody Eats' beans and rice special?"
She nodded. It was filling and offered protein. She'd been able to pay that particular evening. She'd found a quarter on the street and had proudly offered it to the waitress.
"I probably have some yogurt in this little fridge and some juice. You'll welcome to any of that if you want it." He pointed her towards a little refrigerator that sat in the corner underneath a small countertop that had a coffee maker and a single free-standing burner on it. "Or I could make you some tea if you like."
A hot drink. Something besides water. How long had it been?
She managed a smile. "Tea sounds wonderful."
"Why there it is," he said catching her eye.
"What?" she was confused.
"A smile. I was wondering if you had any in you."
She watched as he heated a teapot on a single burner, pulled out two bags of Earl Grey and found two mismatched teacups. Despite his limp, the man moved gracefully and surely around the little room.
"Why. . . Why are you doing this?" she finally managed to ask.
He poured the hot water over the tea bags. "You looked rather desperate."
She couldn't argue with that. "I guess I am," she admitted and was grateful when he didn't press her.
"What will you have in your tea?"
"Just a little sugar," she told him. She watched as he put a little sugar into both cups. She then got up to get one of the cups from him. As she reached for it, her fingertips brushed his and she startled. There had been a sparkling current of energy run between their fingers. Her eyes widened but she didn't say anything and he hadn't seemed to notice.
She watched for him to take a sip from his own cup and then, only then, did she go ahead and sit down to sip from her own cup of tea. It was delicious. She hadn't noticed how raw her throat was until the hot liquid bathed it. Just holding the hot cup was a sensory delight, the heat bleeding into her fingers and hands. She had forgotten how cold she was.
"You aren't worried that I'll steal your money and take whatever I can carry away after you go to bed?" she asked him settling onto the old sofa.
He looked at her, his eyes narrowed, crinkling at the corners of his soft brown eyes. "No . . . for two reasons. First, I told you, I'm a good judge of character and I don't think you're a thief. And second," he gave her another smile, this one feral and somehow predatory, "people usually have more sense than to steal from me. I wouldn't take such an affront lightly."
She recognized a threat, and even though it wasn't directed at her, she shuddered.
"Now my dear, It's past time for me to close up. Please excuse me," he told her and he gave another smile, this time a gentle one, and left her. She could hear him moving around slowly, locking the front door and turning off lights. He came back into the alcove one more time.
"Will you be all right here, tonight?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Tomorrow morning? Would you prefer to breakfast first or shower first?"
She considered. She hadn't been able to wash herself or her clothes in weeks. She probably smelled.
Probably?
She definitely smelled. But breakfast, a real breakfast with eggs and bacon and the like?
She decided, "Shower first, please."
He nodded in agreement then started out, but suddenly stopped.
"Oh yes, your necklace. Hang on to it," he dropped it back into her hand and then left, letting the curtain drop behind himself. She heard his footsteps alternating with the click of the cane trailing off, then a door opened and closed, and then . . . nothing.
She was left alone in the little room.
There were shadows here, but not the things that were chasing her. She felt safe here.
She considered getting up and getting one of the yogurts but realized that she was bone tired and somehow the hot tea had relaxed her and made her sleepy. Good lord, she hoped he hadn't drugged it! But no, she had watched him make it, he put the same sugar into each one and he had allowed her to choose which cup she wanted. And he'd taken the first sip and drank a cup of the tea himself.
She opted first to put on her necklace, then to use the toilet. This one sat in a tiny white-washed room with a single window set high up in the wall. It not only looked clean, it had a fresh piney scent. It was nice not having to use one of the public, downtown bathrooms . . . or the back of an alley. And she could wash her hands afterwards. . . with soap, something scented with sea salt and neroli. She found the switch and turned off the light and was plunged into pitch dark. She waited a moment, orienting herself and made her way back to the sofa. She sat back down, pulling her feet up, keeping on her shoes. Then, as she had for the past six months, she reversed the backpack so that it was in front of her body. It contained everything she owned that wasn't on her body and she wouldn't risk having it stolen from her in her sleep. She lay down putting the throw pillows under her head. She wrapped the cloths and the quilts around herself, relishing the warmth, the real warmth, they provided her.
She lay a long moment. Then she reached out with all her senses. There were people above her, including the pawnbroker. He felt different to her, different from anyone she had ever met. Some of the other energies were odd, some powerful, very powerful . . . but nothing hostile. She curled up hugging her backpack with one hand and clutching her mother's necklace with her other hand. She drifted off.
The pawnbroker was not to go to sleep so easily.
He'd slowly climbed the four flights of stairs to his apartment. All the way he up was preoccupied, thinking about the new tenant. Such a slight girl, and young, so very young.
He got to his door and stopped. He had long since placed a ward around his door no one was allowed in his apartment. The ward was not so much to keep others out but to let him know if his privacy had been violated.
He immediately could see that the ward had been disturbed . . . and rather clumsily so. Someone was in his apartment.
How had they gotten into the building?
. . . they must have already been in the building.
He said some quiet words and stilled any life forms that might be skulking about his domain. Who would be foolish enough to invade his stronghold?
Slowly, cautiously, he moved around the luxurious rooms that constituted his apartment home. It was twice the size of any of the apartments downstairs, set next to the Map Room on the top floor of the building.
He couldn't detect anything threatening. At first he couldn't detect anything at all. Whatever it was, it was small.
Could it have been some kind of vermin, something completely mundane?
He searched the living room, the kitchen and dining area and finally went down the hall to his bedroom.
He didn't have to turn on the light. There it was.
"Milah," he managed to keep his voice calm and gentle as he released the Still Spell.
"Gold," the young woman stirred, then stretched. She was in his bed and, he suspected, she had stripped off her clothing.
"Milah, we've had this conversation before." He sat down on the end of his bed. "While I'm responsible for the well-being of this little group, I cannot have a . . . uh . . . any relationship with any of my. . . uh. . . the tenants."
"No one would have to know," the young woman pleaded with him. "It could be our secret."
He was trying to be careful for several reasons. "But I can't risk one relationship, even one with someone as special as yourself. It could interfere with my relationships with everyone else. And if you and I were. . . uh . . . intimate, it would be hard for us to keep it secret," he managed to smile at the girl, "You and I are both passionate creatures. We can't risk it."
"You don't like me?" the pretty brunette pouted, her black lustrous hair hanging around her face. She had pulled the sheet up around her voluptuous figure somehow managing to position it to cover her body yet still managing to reveal a tantalizing amount of cleavage. Yeah, she had gone ahead and stripped herself off. "You don't think I'm pretty."
How could he respond to this? Milah was certainly one of the prettiest of the Chosen, perhaps not the brightest, but very pretty. And she was valuable to him. In her own way.
"Milah, I think you're beautiful."
"As beautiful as Regina and Emma?" she asked him in a little girl voice.
"Every bit as beautiful as Regina and Emma," he answered her, and he felt he was telling her the truth.
Milah with her long black hair and dark blue eyes was indeed very beautiful and, to his mind, very dangerous. She seemed to have set her cap for him, to what end he couldn't imagine. She had been making suggestive remarks, dressing seductively, flirting with him for some time now and he had consistently, persistently rebuffed her. Landing herself in his bed, bereft of clothing was her latest, most flagrant, least ignorable effort.
Milah twirled her hair. "Are you sure you want to walk away from me? They all tell me that I'm the best." She licked her lips, darting her tongue over the dark red lipstick she had carefully applied.
He closed his eyes, "I'm sure you are, dearie. But, regrettably, you must be the one to walk away from me. Now, my sweet girl, why don't you get your clothes back on."
Milah didn't move. "You take Regina and Emma out for dinner sometime." She had stuck her lower lip out; he suspected she was trying to appear adorably pouty.
"I take Jefferson and Archie out to dinner sometimes too. To see how their training is going," he reminded her, but then relented and asked, "Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night . . . to see how your training is going?"
She gave him a brilliant smile. "Yes, please."
He stepped out of the room to allow her to dress herself in privacy. He told her to be ready at 8:00 and scooted her out the door. He then re-set his ward, with a little extra special to keep out the little weather witch just in case she would try to break in again.
He slowly undressed himself, showered and readied himself for bed. He thought about the new girl that had walked into the building.
When she had first walked by his shop he could feel The House calling out to her, inviting her in. She had answered, not even realizing that she had been invited in, but of course only those who were invited would even notice the shop. She had needed help and the old energies that had created this structure, changing it with the times, disguising it across the centuries, had answered her pleas. He could see her aura spiking, telegraphing her desperation, and compelling him to offer assistance. He wasn't quite sure what she was.
That would have to wait.
Was she their new Thirteenth? Since Graham had died, so unnecessarily, so unexpectedly, his group had been incomplete. He had assured them all that someone would come to take Graham's place, that they would just know when the right person came along, but after meeting this girl, well, now he wasn't quite sure. Was she the one? She had certainly sparked when their fingers had touched, but she had no idea of what had happened. And she was young, so young, younger even than Ashley.
Did she even know she was Talented?
He ruminated over his position. Could he take the time to train a raw Talent? Did he even have the time? They needed someone now. He would never be able to get someone untrained ready in time. He was getting tired of this.
But she could be their only chance. It was only their united front, their appearance of competence that kept the shadows, The Greater Darkness, at bay.
The Fae had put him in this hell-hole fully expecting him to fail, no doubt planning to use his failure as an excuse to dispose of him. He could hear the pompous little bitches now, he'd agreed to help them in exchange for his freedom, but they didn't trust him. But they couldn't kill him outright not without some justification. They had been waiting a long time now, a very long time for him to mess up.
What if this new girl wasn't the Thirteenth? That left him with even more problems. They would still be one short and he would never be able to turn the poor thing back out into the streets. He'd have to find another place for her.
And then he felt her. He stilled himself and allowed her touch to wash over him. She wasn't prying, just a gentle touch to get the sense of his character. Then she moved on.
He smiled to himself while he lay in the bed.
She might do. Perhaps she would do.
He'd promised her a breakfast and a shower. Breakfast would be easy to arrange, but a shower? She would absolutely need a change of clothing. He'd have to get help with that.
A.N. Yes, of course this is Belle come into the shop (in case you were wondering).