Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

Just as I neared the clothing rack next to the door, I heard, “He may be, but I’m not.”

I knew that voice. It stopped me. “Beau?”

He came into view, buzzed white hair seeming brighter for all the rich wood tones and dim lighting here. Not unlike the first time we’d met, he wore a plaid flannel shirt with rolled sleeves revealing thermal underwear beneath. This time, the flannel print was blue and green. He tapped the ashes off a little cigar and put it back to his lips. He punched a button on the register and the drawer popped open. “Maurice, go have a cup of coffee.” He provided the bearded man a five-dollar bill. “And drink slow.”

Maurice took the bill and seconds later passed me as he left the store.

“What do you want, doll?” Beau called as the bell on the door stopped clanging.

I slowly made my way toward the register again. “Do you remember me?”

“Yeah. Johnny calls you Red. What do you want?”

“Do you own this shop?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I was sent to ask you something.”

“Johnny send you?”

“No. Not him. And I had no idea I’d find you here.”

He brushed the ashes off the end of his cigar—I think it was the source of the peachy smell—and laid it beside the register. Taking his cane from somewhere just inside the purple curtains, he moved stiffly along the counter toward a stool. “You need some kind of . . . herb ?”

Something about how he said that made me think he was asking if I was here to buy pot. “Um, no.” But I didn’t truly know what I was here for. “Or at least I doubt it.”

“What?” He squinted at me as if the sun were in his eyes, the way Clint Eastwood did in the spaghetti Westerns before he drew his gun. “Who sent you?”

“Menessos.”

“So you run with waerewolves and vamp-execs?” He dropped his head down and shook it. Then something seemed to occur to him that made him still. He looked at me, and from under the bushy white eyebrows, it wasn’t quite friendly. “What did he tell you?”

“That you were the only one who can instruct me in what I must do.”

Beauregard didn’t ask the obvious. He just kept staring at me.

“I need to protect myself against being Bindspoken.”

He laughed, the irritated, I-bet-you-do kind of laugh, and jabbed at something behind the display case with the tip of his cane. “I’ve seen the news, doll.” He continued poking his cane at whatever was on the floor. “And I’ve seen YouTube.”

I leveled my chin and said nothing.

“I know why WEC wants you Bindspoken. I know what you are, and what you’re here for. I even know what you’re trying to do.” Beau stared at me. “The Lustrata is a promise and a threat. The promise of justice and balance, but there’s also the threat of making things worse by failing in her task. Twice before the Lustrata has failed. They’d rather keep things as they are than risk them getting any worse.” Beau shifted on the stool. “Are you going to fail, doll?”

“If I’m Bindspoken, we’ll never know.” It wasn’t an answer, so it didn’t surprise me that he didn’t comment. “Help me, Beau. Tell me how to protect myself.”

For an interminable minute he sat unmoving, thinking, studying me. Then he laughed. He rose from the stool and returned to the curtain, pausing to glance at me before pushing through, still chuckling.

He wasn’t going to help. I started for the door. Again I made it as far as the clothing rack.

“Where are you going?” Beau called, holding the curtain open.

“You’re not going to help me.”

“But I am.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“If you only knew, doll. If you only knew.” He waved for me to follow him into the back and let the curtain fall.

The back room of Wolfsbane and Absinthe was dark and had aisles created between rows of industrial shelving filled with boxes and small crates. There were two dark doors to the right, both shut. My tongue seemed immediately coated with dust—before I even opened my mouth.

“Marco,” I said softly.

“Polo,” Beau shot back.

I caught sight of him then, like a shadow, moving down the left row, and followed.

“Help me.” He leaned his cane against the back wall and started lugging a crate from the bottom shelf into the pathway. “The lid.” Together we hefted the wooden lid up, but when my hand slipped and touched his, Beau recoiled and lost his grip. The lid crashed down on his foot. He didn’t so much as move his foot, he just wiggled his fingers and then made and unmade a fist as if I’d shocked him.

“Beau . . . are you okay?”

“Yes, hell, just don’t touch me.”

“I didn’t mean to.” The memory of his reaction to my handshake hadn’t left me.

“Is your foot okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“The lid hit your foot. Hard.”

“Did it?” He shook his hand in my direction as if waving me off. “Prosthetic. Don’t worry about it.”

He had a fake leg. No wonder he used a cane and walked stiffly.

He dug around in the crate. Packing peanuts cascaded over the edge. “Here it is.” More packing peanuts rained to the floor as he lifted out an antique jewelry box. He opened its glass door, pulled on a drawer within, and removed a key. He offered it to me. “Hold this.” He replaced the jewelry box as he’d found it then relieved me of the key. “Pick up those peanuts, will you?”

What was I supposed to say? He was old and had a prosthetic leg.

When I’d scooped up the peanuts and replaced them, I hefted the lid into place.

“Missed a few,” Beau said.

He was right. Several had hidden between the lid and the crate. So, when I was certain I’d gotten every last piece of the crackly foam stuffed inside where it belonged, I dropped the lid shut and proceeded to shove the crate back under the shelving by myself. It wasn’t easy and he didn’t offer to help.

Smacking my hands together jarred most of the dust from them and, hopefully, it indicated “job done,” too. “What’s the key to?”

“This way.”

We revisited the public portion of the store. Beau opened a case and flipped up the felt liner on the bottommost shelf, revealing a lock. He inserted the key, lifted the shelf up, and pulled out what could only be described as a wooden briefcase. Punching the register, he dropped the key into the drawer and shut the register again. “In the office.”

I hoped this rigmarole would be over soon.

He twisted the knob on the closer of the two doors, yanked the string hanging from the overhead lamp, and a murky forty watts did little more than illuminate the dust floating in the air.

Beau put the briefcase on the desk. I studied the item before us. The hinges were rusting, and the wood had a nice patina to it. Then Beau reached into his pants pocket. He brought out a key ring that any janitor would have been proud to carry. There were at least forty locks in this world that Beau could open. Planting my backside on the rusty metal folding chair across from the desk, I hoped he knew which one he needed.

After the first three keys didn’t unlock it, he confided in me that he hadn’t opened this briefcase in over ten years, and that he’d completely forgotten about it until I’d brought up protecting myself. Beau hadn’t struck me as the absentminded type, but as the seconds relentlessly ticked by, I found myself willing to reconsider.

Three full minutes later, I heard the lock click and Beau mumbled, “Of course that’s the one.”

He spun the case a quarter turn, then opened it. I expected both sides to lie flat on his desk and reveal two traylike halves, but my guess was wrong. This “briefcase” opened flat, but more like a pop-up book. Fragile paper of brilliant colors created a scene of unicorns, griffons, phoenixes, and dragons.