Chapter Nineteen
Nik took me by the arm and led me out of the alley. A small part of me was curious about where Josh was and how he was cleaning up my mess. In the end, I decided it was better not to know. As we continued down the streets of Olympia toward the main thoroughfare of Fourth Ave., I couldn't keep my mind off the woman I had just killed. I had taken a life. She was likely a mother, and she wouldn't come home tonight. In just a few minutes, those loved ones would be getting a visit from Olympia's finest, and they would hear that mommy wasn't going to come home tonight, or ever. And it was my fault. I had not only destroyed that woman's life, I had taken her away from all those who loved her. I had ruined their lives too.
I was a monster in the truest sense of the word. Nikolai, Mikhail, Josh. They might be able to pretend or forget, but I couldn't. I would never forget that woman's face, the taste of her cotton suit, or the sound of her distant screams. They were part of me now and I wasn't a computer. I couldn't delete the file.
We stopped in front of a building with many large window displays of pretty antiques. The sign across the top read “Drake's Antiques.” I followed Nik into the shop. The front of the store held displays of old four-poster beds dressed with antique quilts and gilded mirrors. Other displays had cast iron tubs surrounded by aged stools and other almost-antique items. Overall, it looked like a bunch of overpriced, slightly old stuff being hawked to idiots.
Were we really going to find that damn useless junk in here? Not that I really cared. I felt strangely numb, and not in a good way. The numbness fought against everything but the painful memories I wished would go away. It made me unable to distract myself with anything else.
From the back of the shop, a voice called out, “We're closed.”
Nik ignored the warning and continued to weave toward the back. The farther in the more realistic the antiques became. We passed one case with old pistols, some looking to date back to the American Civil War. Another case held simple jewelry that looked genuinely old, not that I'm very knowledgeable on the topic. Emma would probably know better.
A man stood up from behind a counter and glared at us for a moment before he recognized Nikolai.
He sauntered around the counter and leaned against the glass top, eying the two of us. His black hair was done up in a stylish manner that didn't match with his occupation. He had a thin mustache and goatee. His blade of a nose held Clark Kent glasses, and he wore a dark purple dress shirt and black slacks. Like the other fae I'd met, his appearance looked slightly off as if someone had created him from a description of humans without actually seeing one. He was too long, too narrow.
“Nikolai,” he said with a faint hint of an accent I couldn't place. “Who's your friend?” The shop owner eyed me slowly. I glanced down at the green dress Emma had loaned me. To my astonishment, there wasn't a drop of blood on it. Well, at least I didn't look like a Christmas ornament: a very morbid Christmas ornament. Though there was no red, the fabric was dotted with darker green where the drizzling rain had stained it.
“Ash,” Nik murmured.
The shop owner stepped forward, took my hand, and kissed it like they do in the movies before whispering, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Ash.” He didn't seem to notice the fact I had just been crying. Or maybe he didn't realize I didn't always look red and puffy. Or maybe vampires who cry don't become hideous like normal women. I couldn’t tell you; I didn’t have a mirror on hand.
I smiled. I couldn't help it. It's like a reflex to a girl when a strange, attractive man pays attention to her in a suave, debonair fashion. The fae’s hazel eyes glowed in the artificial light. I felt my lips tweak up into a smile as I took an involuntary step toward him.
“All right, Drake, leave off,” ordered Nik as he stepped to my side. Drake smiled at Nik, a look of perfect innocence clouding his features.
The sudden fire growing in my blood eased as the fae looked away from me. What just happened? But the minute he released me, the guilt reestablished itself. Its return was almost physically painful. I didn't deserve to feel relief, even for half a moment.
Drake returned to leaning against the glass counter. “And what can I do for you Nik?” he asked as though he hadn’t just tried to seduce me with his eyes.
Nik pulled out the list, now decorated with our notes, from his back pocket and handed it to Drake. “Know where we can find any of these items?”
Drake chuckled. “You realize all these items are part of a rather large collection celebrating Charles the Fifth?”
Nik rolled his eyes. “Not exactly an answer. Did you forget Drake; you have a debt still unpaid.”
Sheesh, another debt. Stupid supernatural favors. At least this one would help us. The proprietor's smile faded into a scowl. “True. A debt I am keen to discharge.”
“Answer my questions to my satisfaction, and I will consider your debt repaid.”
Drake forced a smile to his lips, the wheels in his head turning. He suddenly made up his mind and said, “Of course. Haven't seen these items in a long time.”
“When was the last time?”
He laughed again. “Oh, centuries now. I was involved in the making of this breastplate,” he tapped the paper, “But of course, that is not common knowledge. Kolman Helmschid was his name if I remember correctly. The blacksmith, that is. Last I heard of the breastplate, it was stolen from the Louvre a couple decades ago.”
“And being human, Kolman is long dead,” hinted Nik.
“Undeniably.”
“And you have no idea where any of it might be now?”
Drake hesitated a moment. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Nik and Drake began talking in circles, neither relating anything tangible. I lost interest in the conversation. My mind wandered back to the woman I'd just murdered. I didn't think about drinking her blood, how it tasted, or how it felt soothing my burning throat. If I allowed my mind to wander down that road, I'd lose control again.
While the others talked about that stupid Holy Roman Emperor, I started wandering through the displays. As I neared the entrance, a plan started to take shape. Okay, maybe not a plan, but a notion, a vague glimpse of an idea. I glanced toward the back of the store. The others were still talking.
I reached up and silently slipped my fingers into the small bell hanging from the door. I shifted it off its hook, my fingers keeping the tiny clacker from hitting the bell. Once the bell was safely placed on a display table, I slipped out the door. I charged down the street, really regretting Emma's choice of outfit.
I didn't know how long it would take for them to realize I'd left, but I figured it was about as long as it took the U.S. to resort to a missile strike—in other words, not long. I turned down the first corner into an alley and ran past a trio of homeless men. They stared at me. No doubt I was an odd sight—a girl dressed to visit the queen running slightly faster than a human should down a dark alley. I turned left on Washington Street and charged toward Sylvester Park. I crossed the park at a diagonal, absently noting the stump of a burned tree. The opposite corner met with Capitol Way, my street. A few more minutes of flat out sprinting brought me to my apartment complex.
Though I was breathing heavily, I felt like I could continue in this fashion for the rest of the night. Cool! I ran up my steps, trying to be quiet, and slipped into my apartment. A small part of my brain acknowledged the fact this was the first time I'd really been alone since I'd been turned.
I slid to a stop in front of the old phone sitting on my desk and dialed the number.
“Hello?” a familiar voice answered.
“Isaac?”