Guardian's Patience, page 3
part #5 of Guardians of the Race Series
“I’ll set it up,” she told him.
“No, my dear, this one is mine and I want her to come to me willingly. That will be half the fun. Now get your gag and blindfold and remove those awful clothes. Daddy wants to celebrate and he can’t celebrate alone.”
Andi smiled under the shirt she peeled up over her head. This was one of the few things left to love about her demon. He might stray to play, but he always came home to her.
~*~
There was a problem with owning your own little shop and being its sole employee. You never got to leave. You had to stay from open to close.
Good Fortune was open from one in the afternoon to midnight, six days a week. The hours suited the clientele. No one ever came looking for a reading at ten in the morning, nor did they show up on Sunday. The type of services Pinkie offered had something to do with that, but so did the neighborhood, which was undergoing a renaissance of sorts.
After dark, the lights from the shops and trendy restaurants gave a soft, golden glow to the place. It gave the old buildings and storefronts a shabby-chic appeal. Music spilled out onto the sidewalks from bars offering mojitos, pomegranate martinis, and hand crafted beer. Well dressed people with money to spend filled the sidewalks. There was safety in their numbers and in the occasional police patrol car passing by.
During the day, the neighborhood showed its true colors; shabby without the chic. The chipped paint was easier to spot, the cracks in the sidewalks more prominent. The windows of abandoned storefronts stood out like blackened eyes in old and worn faces. The few people on the street were mostly those who had nowhere else to go. They lived in the cheap rents above the shops, awaiting their turn for eviction in the name of upscale renovation. Canal Street was a place to meet friends for dinner and drinks, not yet a place to go for lunch.
In between the restaurants and bars were the shops like Good Fortune, odd little shops selling goods and services you hopefully couldn’t find anywhere else. Most of Pinkie’s customers were walk-ins from the restaurants and bars; people strolling back to their cars who stopped in for the giggle of having their fortunes told. Softened by good food and drink, they often bought her crystals and bottled charms or the jewelry she crafted from semi-precious stones and silver. Some, finding the accuracy in her predictions, returned. Those were the ones who came in the afternoon when no one would see. Pinkie was developing quite a base of repeat customers and she wondered how long it would be before they started bumping into each other while darting in and out of her door.
Usually, it wasn’t too hard to find a Good Deed waiting right outside the Good Fortune, but this day was not a usual day. Heavy rains had blanketed the area from morning until night, keeping the locals indoors and the customers away. Those that braved the weather hurried to their eatery of choice shielded by umbrellas or folded newspapers over their heads. Men predominated. Being gentlemen, they dropped their ladies off at their destinations before parking the car and reversed the order when going home. For Pinkie, business was at a dead standstill.
Finally, the rain ceased, though clouds still gathered above and the night sky showed no sign of moon or star. More storms were predicted throughout the night. At midnight, she pulled the metal grates across the front of the shop and locked the jewelry in the safe that had come with the building when she purchased it two years before. Like the building, it was old and battered. She’d been in the place almost a year before she found the combination scratched into the underside of a counter in the workroom.
Followed closely by her familiar, Pinkie passed through the curtains to the reading room where her crystal ball was in its usual place on the pedestal in the corner. She had no aptitude for tarot cards and rune stones. They were used for show. The ball, however, usually responded to her touch. A solid sphere of quartz, it was highly polished with milky clouding within. She didn’t like to touch it and only used it when she had to.
Placing it in the center of the table, she flipped off the lights, sat back in her chair and waited. She emptied her mind of all mundane thoughts and replaced them with thoughts of someone in need. Minutes passed as she stared into the depths of the ball. Against the shimmering silk of the midnight blue tablecloth, the ball began to glow with a soft, almost effervescent light, so faint it would go unnoticed in a lighted room. The more skeptical clients thought this was a medium’s trick and the ball was lit from some battery source within. It wasn’t.
With all Pinkie’s concentration now centered on the ball, a picture began to form at the swirling center. She recognized Canal Street, but the formations within the quartz made it difficult to see exactly where. Once she recognized the street, the image usually changed to a building or a number, telling her where she should go. This time, there was no image, only darkness and blurry steaks. Rain!
Pinkie’s heart began to pound with a growing sense of foreboding. She knew, knew something awful was going to happen, but couldn’t see what or where. Damn it! Not for the first time, she wished this sixth sense of hers was more controllable, more precise. This had happened to her before when using the ball, this feeling of coming disaster, but the ball had always showed it clearly. Her lungs began to keep pace with her heart. Her concentration was breaking and so was her connection to her crystal ball.
“No!”
There was a thud and a thump as the cat jumped down from the small shelf where it had been watching and leapt up to the table. With a nudge to her hand that said ‘pet me’, it stared at the crystal ball. Still staring at the polished quartz, fearful she would lose the connection altogether, Pinkie absentmindedly lifted her hand to the cat’s head.
With the first stroke along the cat’s silky back, her heart slowed. Her breathing began to lose its jagged edge. With the second stroke, the swirling clouds in the crystal cleared. There was no third stroke. The vision hit her like a physical blow. At the same time, a new storm broke, rattling the front windows with thunder and pelting rain.
Pinkie didn’t think. She ran. Bottles tumbled to the floor as her hip caught the corner of a table, the sound of their fall muted by the crash of thunder instantly following the blinding flare of lightning. Cursing herself for not oiling the locks, she fumbled with the oval knob of the latch, forcing it to release the bolt. She cursed again when the second and third bolts were as contrary as the first. The last bolt slid back and as she turned the knob, a gust of wind grabbed the door from her trembling fingers and sent it crashing back, almost sweeping her from her feet. Lightning and thunder flashed and crashed so closely overhead, the street was lit as bright as day.
Wind whipped at her swirling skirts. Rain soaked her flimsy blouse in seconds. It didn’t matter. Pinkie ran for all she was worth, wishing her legs were longer, her body slimmer, her muscles stronger, anything to speed her along, anything to make this come out right. Mrs. Prashad needed her.
The woman who, along with her husband, owned the spice shop two blocks down was in trouble. The Indian couple had opened the shop only six months before. They were kind and friendly and came with their young grandson, of whom they were very proud. Two weeks ago, they and their shop had been her Good Deed.
Poor Mr. Prashad had slipped while moving a large, heavy cabinet. The cabinet had fallen on him, slicing into his leg and breaking his pelvis. Pinkie had been taking a morning stroll to see what was happening in the neighborhood when she heard Mrs. Prashad scream.
Others called for an ambulance. Pinkie stayed behind to secure the shop while Mrs. Prashad and her grandson were taken to her husband at the hospital. He was still laid up at home and unable to help at the shop.
Now this! It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Pinkie didn’t know how, but knew she had to stop it. Her side was aching with the effort of her run. The street was deserted and the storm raged around her, whipping up paper debris from the gutter, all of it seemingly aimed at her. Her silky ballet slippers weren’t meant for running. They were sodden and the soles were slick. She slipped. She fell. She picked herself up and ran, heedless of the pain of her skinned knees.
The Prashads lived one street over on the second floor of a house owned by a cousin. It was an easy walk from the shop through the alley across from it. Pinkie cut across the street and headed for the alley, knowing that was where the woman would be.
The alley was narrow, with tall buildings on both sides, and the flashes of lightning barely reached its floor. She could hear nothing but the thundering boom overhead. Her toe stubbed against something hard and she stooped to retrieve the possible weapon. Her magic was strong enough to stop a violent act, but the results would draw attention and it took too long to weave the spells.
Chunk of brick in hand, she advanced. A flash of lightning gave just enough illumination to outline two figures struggling up ahead.
“Stop!” Pinkie cried as she began to run again, brick raised and ready. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”
~*~
“Why can’t we just call in and go home,” Dov complained.
“We are to patrol until three,” Broadbent stated for the third time. He would not be reduced to arguing.
“Aw, come on,” Col pleaded, “Nico stayed at the docks and let me go. You know you’re not gonna catch a demon out in this kind of weather. They don’t like cold and wet. It’s too much like the Otherworld.”
“That’s only a theory. You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, well it’s Mom’s theory, so I’ll just leave it to you to tell her you disagree.” Col winked at his brother. “It would be fun to watch. Care to place a bet?”
“I’d put money on Mom. You’d think she’d be easy to take down,” Dov told Broadbent, “but you’d be wrong. Stronger Paenitentia than you have tried. You don’t believe me, ask my uncle,” he added, referring to their Liege Lord.
“Ye gods, that’s frightening. We actually have something in common.” Broadbent chuckled to himself, though it really wasn’t amusing.
“Your mother’s a hard ass, too, huh?”
Broadbent bristled at the epithet, but conceded that it fit. “I prefer to think of her as a female of determined mind.”
“That’s just a fancy way of saying hard ass,” Dov concluded accurately. Rainwater dripped from the bill of his ball cap onto his jacket front. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. It was the stuff running down the back of the cap that made its way down his neck and under the collar of his jacket that made him shrug and shift. Inside the lightweight jacket, the back of his shirt was soaked. “This fucking jacket is supposed to be waterproof.”
“Not waterproof, water resistant,” his twin corrected. He, being a little wiser, had turned his cap backward on his head, so the water sheeted over his back. He plucked at the sleeve of his own jacket. “This is waterproof.”
“You only wore that because you took the bike,” Dov said of his brother’s motorcycle raingear.
“Ya think?” Col grinned. “You could have taken yours, too. Oh no, wait, you couldn’t. Yours is in the shop. Again.”
“Very funny. I still could have worn the gear,” Dov argued and realized he’d lost the argument when his brother’s grin widened.
“Duh.”
Dov called to Broadbent, who was now walking a few feet ahead. “Hey Professor, give me a word to describe the look on his ugly mug.”
Without looking back, Broadbent threw over his shoulder, “Supercilious.”
“Yeah, good one. So shut the fuck up before I wipe that supercilious look off your face. At least I don’t swish when I walk.” He referred to the sound the raingear made as Col walked. Dov swiped at his jacket front as if he could wipe the water soaking it away. “I still want my money back. Fucking jacket.”
Broadbent sighed. He did a lot of that when in the presence of the twins.
“A jacket,” he admonished, though why he bothered he didn’t know, “Is not capable of a sexual act and I wish you would stop such references.”
“I dunno,” Dov said with a glance and a wink at his twin. “That guy we found the other night down by the docks thought it was capable enough. Man, the way he was going at it...”
The older Guardian kept walking, but raised his flattened palm over his shoulder. “Don’t. It is an image I wish to wash from my mind.”
“I thought it was kind of educational,” Dov snickered, “I mean, who knew you could get that turned on by a little sequined jacket. Then again, Col used to get off on Mrs. Gorman’s panties hanging on her...Ow!”
Broadbent’s shoulders slumped as Dov reverted to his complaints about his jacket. Had he really said he missed their nonsensical banter?
Behind him, the twins grinned at each other.
“Don’t worry, bro, I’m sure the Professor can give you the name of his tailor,” Col consoled his twin. “Next time it rains, you and the Lone Ranger here, could look like twins.”
Broadbent looked down at the waterproof duster he wore along with a western style cowboy hat with a drooping brim. It was perfectly suited for stormy weather.
“Nico wears a duster,” he defended his attire. Nico, his fellow Guardian, always looked sophisticated and elegant in his.
“Yeah, but it’s leather and it’s cool. And Nico wouldn’t be caught dead in that hat.”
“The Lone Ranger wouldn’t be caught dead in it either,” Dov added as if the fictional character’s opinion made a difference.
Broadbent mentally shook his head. This was how it had always been and would continue to be. He’d always been on the receiving end of other people’s humor. He’d always been tall with long legs and arms. No matter how well tailored his clothes might be, they never seemed to properly fit. His mother declared him sickly as a child and continued to treat him thusly as he grew, though whether she believed it or used it as an excuse for his lack of robust build, he wasn’t sure. He was gangly and weak looking because she refused him exercise, and he’d suffered for it during his years away at school.
He’d suffered for his interests, too. He was highly intelligent, but bookish, something his father saw as a feminine trait. That alone might have been considered a venial sin in his father’s world, but worse, his son had no interest in business, and that sin was a mortal one. On the rare occasions when father was forced to spend time with son, he spent it trying to toughen Broadbent’s anemic hide. Broadbent had spent almost his entire life battling two opposing forces of parental guidance while suffering the barbs of his peers.
The difference between those peers and the twins, who were still Guardian trainees, was that the twins actually liked him, and gave him a difficult time because of that affection. They teased everyone they liked, and while their crude remarks in reference to their mother might seem otherwise, they adored her and loved her dearly.
They knew nothing of his early life or of the painful jibes he’d endured. He never spoke of his years at school, or those spent in service to the Ruling Council where snickers and derisive comments were regularly issued behind his back. He was well aware of his shortcomings, but his attempts to conform had always met with disaster.
His introduction to Canaan’s House of Guardians had been like a shining light at the end of a long tunnel of disappointment. They were different, too, but instead of trying to conform, they embraced their differences and dared the world to fault them for it. They accepted him for what he was and in their doing so, he’d become much more. It was for that reason he turned back to the twins.
“Once again, your pestering has won out. Go home, and try to stay out of trouble on the way.”
After enduring their chest bumping and high five hand slapping, Broadbent was left mercifully alone to complete his rounds. They were right, of course. The likelihood of finding a demon to slay on a night such as this was doubtful. Even if the creatures weren’t bothered by such dreadful weather, there would be few human victims on which to prey.
The new storm broke with such sudden force, it startled Broadbent. He grabbed his hat, tilted his head downward, and continued up Canal Street. If the lightning became much worse, he would have to seek shelter until the danger of it passed. The Paenitentia were immune to most human ills, but the laws of nature applied to both, and a lightning strike could kill. The only difference would be that a human would stay dead. After such a violent death, a Paenitentia would rise as a vampire.
It was as his eyes scanned ahead, searching for a likely spot to wait out the storm that he spotted her. Human eyes might have missed the small figure tearing across the street, stumbling and falling in her haste, but he was not human and darkness was no hindrance to the Paenitentia who spent their waking lives in it.
He could tell by her demeanor that this woman was not running to escape the storm. Was she running to or from something? Amidst the din of the thunder, her frightened shout had Broadbent running, too.
Chapter 3
Pinkie ran toward the attacker who was dragging Mrs. Prashad along the ground in an attempt to wrest the leather satchel from her. Originally draped securely across her chest, the leather strap now caught beneath her chin, strangling her. Still, the woman would not let go. One hand gripping the strap, the other wrapped around the thief’s leg, she was pulled along behind him.
At Pinkie’s second shout, the attacker looked up, paused briefly and seeing no threat, went back to his task. He glanced up again, no doubt judging her hesitant advance, but this time he stopped mid-tug. Even in the darkness, Pinkie saw his eyes widen in fear.
“Unhand her, you cad!”
The dramatic order, boomed from behind her, had Pinkie turning, too.
At the mouth of the alley, backlit by the rapid bursts of lightning, a tall stranger stood. She knew it was a stranger, because she knew everyone in their little city village and no one she knew could carry off that impressive stance. Hat pulled low over his eyes, feet spread and ankle length coat billowing in the wind, he was either an avenging angel or a cowboy hero missing from the set of a Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Western; a hero of magnificent proportions. He advanced down the alley, filling the space with his presence.
