《Little Death [Dark Paranormal Fated Mates Romance]》 Chapter 1: Sam In the international aisle at Whole Foods, Sam switched the plastic shopping basket to his left hand and held his cellphone against his ear with his right. Amy¡¯s voice, once she answered, sounded distracted. ¡°I told you, it¡¯s in the Indian section.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not seeing it. There¡¯s a hundred things here and not one of them is labeled in a language I speak.¡± ¡°It¡¯s in a canister. It¡¯s called ghee. G-H-E-E. Clarified butter. I know it¡¯s there.¡± ¡°Amy, it¡¯s not¡ªah. Got it.¡± He chucked the canister in the basket. ¡°Right in front of me the whole time.¡± ¡°Great. Any idea when you¡¯ll be home?¡± ¡°Forty minutes or so.¡± ¡°Forty minutes? How long does it take to get through the checkout line?¡± ¡°Yeah, well.¡± He hurried down the aisle past a woman who had come to a stop with two toddlers hanging off her cart. ¡°I need to make a pit stop on the way back.¡± ¡°Just hurry. Everybody will be here in an hour.¡± ¡°Got it.¡± He clicked out of the call, swung past the floral displays, and grabbed three bouquets of flowers. Spilling out everything onto a conveyor belt, he stretched his arms behind his head and exhaled an energetic sigh. The cashier, a slender woman about his age with dark hair tucked under a sky-blue bandanna, offered a sly smile. ¡°Busy evening?¡± He smiled back, but without the subtle flirtation. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m only getting started.¡± ~ * ~ After leaving Whole Foods, he drove to Fairview Lake on the eastern end of Portland. The parking lot was beginning to clear out as families gathered up their kids and took them home to dinner. Sam grabbed the bouquets from the back seat of his car¡ªAmy¡¯s car, really¡ªand carried them over to the lake¡¯s most isolated corner, far from the playgrounds and water-spray park and even the old guys fishing for trout. Taking a pen and a folded scrap of paper from his pocket, he wrote a note, his thigh making do as a writing surface. He went over every letter several times to darken it, until at last it was satisfactory. TABBY, LOVE YOU ALWAYS. The result, thanks to the scratching of his pen, came out looking a little violent. A little desperate. But then, that wasn¡¯t wrong. He fastened it to the stem of one rose using the skinny rubber band that had secured the bouquet. Then, one by one, he began tossing the flowers into the water. They rested on the surface at first, drifting along briefly, before gradually succumbing to the pull of gravity. He tossed them far enough out that they would not get caught in the lake¡¯s muddy edges, and would drift, he hoped, to the bottom at full depth. After the last flower of the second bouquet, he threw in the rose with the note attached. It went down headfirst, its stem tipping upward. He imagined it falling slowly past her eyes down there, the little note waving like a bit of waterweed. He wondered if she even knew it was April the twenty-third. One year, exactly. He threw most of the remaining flowers into the lake in a single fistful. They disturbed the surface, sending out ripples in every direction, and lingered for some time before disappearing beneath. If she could see them, they would come upon her like a shower of blossoms from above, and she would have no doubt that he remembered her. It was a fanciful idea and he knew it, but it was what he needed, so he could go on. For several minutes, he looked out over the still surface of the lake, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets, and simply suffered his thoughts. His memories. The long, long list of things he wanted to say to her, and tell her about, and reassure her that he was doing. But Amy was waiting for him. He needed to go. He waited one final minute, as if she might emerge, and then set off reluctantly for his car. ~ * ~ The house was a Craftsman bungalow on one of Portland¡¯s older streets, set back from the street and half-hidden behind the sprawling, low-hanging branches of a eucalyptus tree. Along the porch, large potted ferns partially concealed the occupants from view when they stepped out to chat or smoke or escape the close air of a home that harbored six busy adults. Sam hurried up the steps and pushed the door open with his shoulder, stepping directly into the kitchen in which Amy was bent over the oven, pulling out naan bread. Tufts of her hair had rebelled from her chestnut ponytail, and her gaze looked a little frantic. She wore an apron¡ªthe one her sister had sent her for Christmas, pink and covered in cartoonish drawings of cupcakes, trimmed with a white frill. She had made a face of disgust when she first opened it, but it would suffice when all the ones from the bakery were in the wash. ¡°Finally, you¡¯re back,¡± she said. She set the tray of naan on the stovetop and pushed her hair out of her eyes with the side of her hand. ¡°Did you find everything?¡± ¡°Yep.¡± As she looked through the paper shopping bag, he grabbed her around the waist and nuzzled her just above the ear. ¡°That apron¡¯s kind of hot.¡± ¡°Oh, stop. I feel like a ¡¯50s housewife.¡± ¡°Maybe that¡¯s what¡¯s hot.¡± She elbowed him in the ribs, although he knew she didn¡¯t mean it. In a few hours, once dinner was over and the other couples had wandered off to their rooms and left them alone, she would be on him like a junkie going after a fix. She always was. He left her to her cooking¡ªit irritated her when he tried to help, anyway¡ªand climbed the stairs to their bedroom. The door beside theirs was closed, with murmuring noises coming from behind it; Rose and Kevin were already here, then. He shut his door quietly and sat down on his side of the unmade bed, touching the contact name of his missed call from earlier that day. The call connected immediately. ¡°Isaac,¡± he greeted his friend, keeping his voice low despite the mercifully thick plaster walls. ¡°Sorry I missed you earlier. I was at the grocery store for Amy.¡± All the way down in Tennessee, Isaac was laughing at him. ¡°Gotta say, I never thought I¡¯d see you on this short of a leash.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that bad.¡± ¡°Sure. So tell me what I can do for you.¡± ¡°I need an Oregon driver¡¯s license.¡± Isaac made a noise of disdain. ¡°The Massachusetts one I made for you is just fine. It doesn¡¯t expire for like three more years.¡± ¡°Yeah, except¡ªone, I¡¯m in Oregon now¡ªand two, it says ¡®Jesse Maclaren¡¯ on it.¡± ¡°So what?¡± ¡°Eventually Amy¡¯s going to see it. Look, man, I¡¯ll pay you whatever it costs. I just need one that says ¡®Sam Sullivan¡¯ and shows my current address. And fairly quick, if you can.¡± ¡°Sam Sullivan,¡± Isaac repeated. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡ªhave you lost your damn mind? I am not putting your real name on a fake license. And what current address are you even talking about?¡± ¡°This house. The one I¡¯m living in, in Portland.¡± ¡°With Amy?¡± Now he sounded genuinely dismayed. ¡°You¡¯re living with Amy?¡± ¡°At the moment. I moved in the rest of my stuff a couple weeks ago.¡± ¡°You¡¯re living there full time? How are you even pulling that off?¡± ¡°Very carefully.¡± Isaac snorted. ¡°Man¡ªyou don¡¯t need a driver¡¯s license. What you need is an intervention. Listen to me¡ªright now, pack your shit, get in your car, and come down here to stay with Susanna and me. There is no way you can¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s going just fine,¡± Sam interrupted. ¡°I only need a license.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not fine.¡± Isaac¡¯s voice had risen to something closer to a shout. ¡°It¡¯s bullshit and you know it. We all know you miss Tabitha, and I know it¡¯s hard to hang on, but living with a¡ªJesus¡ª¡± ¡°Is that a no?¡± Sam¡¯s patience was thin, but more of concern was that this would become a shouting match that Amy would overhear. ¡°Do I need to order one from China or something?¡± ¡°You need to leave tonight,¡± insisted Isaac. ¡°She¡¯s going to figure it out. If you think she won¡¯t, you are fucking delusional. And then you¡¯re never going to get Tabitha back. Have you given any thought to that at all?¡± Sam blurted a laugh. All I do is think about her, he wanted to say. But instead he replied, ¡°Let me be the one to worry about that.¡± ¡°Listen, I gotta go. But I¡¯m gonna have Susanna call you tomorrow to sort this out. And in the meantime, I¡¯m dead serious, man. I¡¯m making up the guest bed this second. Your ass had better be in it by tomorrow night.¡± From downstairs, Sam could hear Amy calling his name. He clicked out of the call and stepped out of the bedroom, falling behind Rose and Kevin as they headed down to dinner, his presence attracting no more attention than it ever did. Blow me, Isaac, Sam thought, but he smiled at Amy as if nothing were amiss.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ~ * ~ Sure enough, after the meal, once Rose and Kevin had returned to their room and Lola and Remy had left to catch a movie, Amy caught up with Sam out on the porch. She snuck up behind him as he stood looking out at the rain-soaked street, smoking his after-dinner cigarette. Her timing wasn¡¯t great; in that moment of peace and quiet, after the hours of convivial chatter and meal-sharing and even a game of Cards Against Humanity around the kitchen table, Sam¡¯s mind was inevitably pulled back to the significance of the day. April the twenty-third. One year ago, almost precisely to the hour, he had kissed Tabby goodbye on the shore of that lake, feeling her sob in his arms. At the time he had taken it in stride, certain that she was overreacting, that she would be back before dawn. The news, when it finally came, struck him like a series of seismic waves. He had actually vomited, which he had believed his body couldn¡¯t even do in its current state. And yet here he was, one year later. Working a job at the restaurant supply warehouse, paying bills, forming one little wedge in an intimate circle of friends who, twelve months ago, he hadn¡¯t known at all. Standing on the porch of a comfortable house, finishing a smoke, and feeling a girl¡¯s cool hands slide up under his shirt, waist to ribs. He turned around, crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray, and grinned at her. She took the opportunity to run her hands over his stomach and up to his chest, moving them as if torn between whether to memorize him or devour him. ¡°This body,¡± she said, and stopped there, as though the phrase explained it all. He cradled her face between his hands and kissed her. This face¡ªthe elfin angles of her wide cheekbones and pointed chin, the cool hazel of her eyes, the way the tiny stud in the corner of her nose accentuated its rounded shape. Hers was a bohemian face, distant gypsy ancestors mixed with paler folk of the peasant class. Beside him, with his black hair and broadly formed Irish features, they called forth whispers of an ancient Europe. Their children, if it had been possible to have them, would look like imps. ¡°You ready to go upstairs?¡± she asked. He slid her hand down to the front of his jeans, and she had her answer. In their bed, he kissed down her body, lingering on each of the places he found most worshipful¡ªher nipples, the tattoos at each of her hips, her navel, the smooth insides of her thighs. He went down on her until he felt the throbbing pulse of her orgasm, then kissed up her arms as she recovered. From his kiss she turned away, disliking the taste of herself, but she was eager when he aligned his body with hers and eased himself into her. She twined her legs around his and made little effortful noises as he worked on her, until at last he grew tired of this polite form of lovemaking. He disentangled himself from her, coaxed her sideways on the bed, and slid her up until her head hung off its side, and then he took her decisively, lifting her hips as he thrust into her. Her climax rocked her muscles so thoroughly that she nearly slipped from his grasp, but he held her firm and took his own. By the time he set her down, he was panting from the exertion. ¡°Holy shit,¡± she said, her head still more or less inverted, her voice slow and gravelly. ¡°How do you do stuff like that.¡± Sam knew better than to answer. He laid down on his side of the bed and pushed the sweat from his forehead to his hair. She followed slowly, with clumsy, half-drunken movements, until she lay nestled against his side. He wrapped an arm around her and tried to focus on the ceiling, but still his eyes closed to relish the moment of postcoital bliss. Getting off felt so good. There was no better high this world could offer. She reached a curious hand between his legs and began to play with him. At his body¡¯s response, she laughed. ¡°You have no waiting time at all,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s called a refractory period.¡± ¡°Yeah, you don¡¯t have one of those.¡± ¡°Sure I do,¡± he told her, though it was mostly a lie. To distract her, he brushed away her hand and said, ¡°I have to pee.¡± She rolled onto her stomach as he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The fan turned on automatically with the light, which he was grateful for. That feature had saved him many, many times from actually having to produce urine, or at least the sound of it. Instead, he looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. He couldn¡¯t imagine how she couldn¡¯t see on his face what was going on inside his mind. To his own gaze, his dark eyes looked hollow and distressed, the set of his mouth reflected resignation, and his overall expression¡ªhis countenance, as they used to say¡ªwas both weary and bleak. But Amy didn¡¯t see that, or if she did, she didn¡¯t let on. Maybe it read to her as an appealing brooding quality. Or maybe she was so obsessed with his body that she cared little about his face, which was not handsome by anyone¡¯s definition, anyway. He flushed the toilet, then quickly washed his hands and face. While he was at it, he took a swig from the Listerine bottle and rinsed out his mouth, so she would kiss him again. Of all the sexual quirks that Amy had introduced to his life lately, her refusal to let him kiss her after he had serviced her with his mouth was one of the top three most obnoxious. Tabitha had liked the taste, and with good reason. But then, Tabitha did a lot of things that would have set Amy shivering with Puritanical revulsion. He emerged from the bathroom and, at the sight of Amy half-asleep on her stomach, felt a wave of remorse about his critical thoughts. Amy was lovely. She indulged his bottomless sexual appetite, and she put up with his foolishness outside the bedroom, too. She was fun and mischievous and provided him with constant companionship, which, when compared with the miserably lonely months he had spent after Tabitha¡¯s vanishing, was downright blissful. And she gave of herself freely and honestly, which was far more than Sam could say of himself. He flicked off the light and crawled into bed beside her, setting her alarm for the next morning. Carefully, he nudged her into his arms, her back curled against his chest, the way he had fallen asleep with Tabitha for years and years. ¡°You¡¯re so warm,¡± she murmured, and shook back her hair as if his heat bothered her. For a moment he remembered Isaac¡¯s words of warning: she¡¯s going to figure it out. But he was tired, and she was soft against him, and so he fell asleep without further thought. ~ * ~ Six months earlier Sam had seen the trio at Brunson¡¯s Restaurant Supply dozens of times in the months before the conversation that shifted everything. Checking receipts at the exit, examining people¡¯s carts to ensure they only carried out what they¡¯d paid for, he chatted daily with many of the regulars who kept Portland¡¯s brewhouses and delis and bakeries running. Some he knew by name, others by face, and these particular three fell into the latter group¡ªbut they were easy to remember. There was a tall, bespectacled guy in his late twenties who bore a passing resemblance to Jude Law, though more Cold Mountain and less The Talented Mr. Ripley; a ballerina-slim woman with cornsilk hair streaked with pink and magenta and twisted up into two tight little buns like a nymph¡¯s horns; and the shorter, darker, cuter girl whose bed he would eventually share. He knew only that they worked at a bakery-and-coffeehouse called Cascade Mocha Crafters, specializing in coffee-flavored brownies and cake pops that had developed a cult following in the area. And this he knew only because they bought King Arthur flour and insanely expensive artisanal butter in copious quantities. On a particular afternoon, while he was taking a smoke break on the loading dock behind the building, he saw the three of them wheeling out their flatbed cart to an old Honda Civic that looked absurdly undersized for the task. By mutual effort, they loaded everything into the trunk and back seat, then stood there conferring as the man held the orange cart to prevent its drift through the parking lot. Some decision was reached; the man handed the cart to the pink-haired girl, and he walked over to Sam. ¡°Hey, man,¡± he said. He offered a half-chagrined smile that informed Sam that this errand was not fully by choice. ¡°The girls over there want to know if you¡¯re interested in coming to a party.¡± ¡°Depends on the party.¡± ¡°Like, food and games and stuff. And beer. Just hanging out.¡± He looked for Sam¡¯s reaction with an expression absent of any guile, although in retrospect, Sam suspected otherwise. ¡°At our place here in Portland, around eight. On Rockledge Street.¡± ¡°Tonight?¡± ¡°Yeah¡ªyou got plans?¡± Sam always had plans. But he said, truthfully, ¡°I¡¯m flexible.¡± ¡°That¡¯s cool. Here¡¯s the address.¡± He handed Sam a slip of paper written in a feminine hand obviously not his own. It listed an address and phone number, punctuated with a smiley face. He jerked his head toward the women. ¡°And Amy¡¯s number. She¡¯s the brunette.¡± Sam concealed a grin. He looked up at the girl in question, and she gave a sheepish little wave. He waved back and said, ¡°Tell her I¡¯ll try to make it.¡± It had all seemed a little childish at the time, almost hinting at a prank, but there was nothing dishonest about that party. When he arrived, the steps were already crowded with people drinking and talking; the distinctive perfume of weed drifted out the door, mixing with the crisp scent of the autumn air. He slipped inside and was greeted like an old friend¡ªIt¡¯s Sam from the warehouse!, the pink-haired girl shouted¡ªand within less than a minute, someone had plunked a beer into his hand and was giving him a sommelier-level description of its flavor notes and provenance. The party was, to his surprise, fantastic. And sorely needed. Things had been on a steady downhill spiral for him since that day in April, and the job at Brunson¡¯s was the one constant and dependable thing that he hadn¡¯t yet found a way to fuck up. He was technically homeless, although that was nothing very new, but his choices of sleeping grounds and had grown increasingly indifferent and careless. In early July, he had totaled his car by wrapping it around a tree¡ªan accident severe enough that he had climbed out the passenger window and sat by an adjacent tree for a while with his head in his hands, looking at the crushed metal and excoriating himself over what would have happened to Tabby if she had been in the car, which was an irrational line of thinking on every level. Fortunately, it was in the middle of the night and nobody had witnessed it, and he eventually gathered the presence of mind to empty the car of identifying items and leave unseen, mourning for that SUV as he had mourned for little else. It had been a good, faithful car. And then there was his sex life, the one thing he should by all rights have been able to control, and even that was shitty. But that was his own fault. He observed his partners¡¯ pleasure with a dim sympathetic satisfaction, like the sun peeking over a dark Arctic horizon, before collecting his own like a ticket from a machine. He took solace in the knowledge that they couldn¡¯t tell¡ªbut nonetheless, it was barely an existence. ¡°Hello, Sam-from-the-Warehouse.¡± The girl named Amy appeared in front of him, a coy smile lighting her face, a bottle of beer in her hand. Above the deep scoop of her neckline, he observed a tattoo of elaborate script that dipped in a semicircle from one shoulder to the other: Not all who wander are lost. ¡°Glad you could make it.¡± ¡°Thanks for the invite.¡± He gestured to the top of his own chest. ¡°That¡¯s a Grateful Dead thing, right?¡± ¡°No, Lord of the Rings. You see it on stickers on Deadheads¡¯ cars sometimes, though.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a good quote, whoever said it.¡± Her smile broadened, showing a dimple. ¡°Do you have any?¡± ¡°Tattoos? No.¡± ¡°Not even one?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Oh, come on¡ªeverybody has at least one these days. Really? Wow. A real tattoo virgin.¡± He almost snorted at the characterization. It had been a very long time since anyone had accused him of being a virgin of any kind. ¡°I¡¯m saving myself for marriage,¡± he replied gamely. ¡°You should get one right here.¡± She traced a line on his bicep, lingering a bit longer than was necessary. ¡°Or here,¡± she added, and poked him in the hip. ¡°Those are sexy on a man.¡± ¡°I¡¯d have to think about what I¡¯d get.¡± She lifted the bottom edge of her shirt and flashed him a little skin¡ªher own hip, decorated with a stylized bird in flight, a dove or a swallow. The gesture stirred him, and he felt the spark of attraction¡ªthat zigzag of energy between them, setting aside any doubt that this flirtation was worth a try. But she was a little bit high, he could tell, and messing around with girls who were drunk or stoned ran afoul of his code of conduct. Still, he reached out and touched the bird with his thumb, tracing it from its tailfeathers to its beak. ¡°I like it,¡± he said. Before the evening was over, she had lured him into the shadowy corner by the coat closet, and he gladly took the bait and kissed her. He did it the way he knew she wanted, backing her against the wall gradually, keeping up the banter while letting the electricity of the moment crackle around them until, at last, he locked his mouth over hers. It was a hungry kiss on both their parts¡ªone that spoke to a slow starvation each was experiencing unseen, and of the ruthless kamikaze desire that each would loose to satiate it. But for nearly a month, until he couldn¡¯t push it off any longer without causing her to take it personally, that was all they did. He knew she had no idea what she was getting into, after all. And there was also the matter of his heart. How could he lose himself in making love to her, he wondered, when he was already lost? Chapter 2: Tabitha Tabitha surveyed the bright Thompson Street pub with a skeptical eye, taking in the high polish of its wooden bar, the fresh flowers in mason jars, the sharp haircuts and crisp dress shirts on the men slouched over glasses holding whiskey on the rocks. Happy hour had just begun, and the customers were scanty enough that she wasn¡¯t yet sure it was worth her while to stop in. But she was thirsty, and after a long day of walking around New York City, the cool, clean interior beckoned. ¡°Just water with lemon to start, and a drink menu,¡± she said, taking a seat, easing her bag off her shoulder to hang across the back of the stool. A corner of the bartender¡¯s mouth lifted in a smile. ¡°See some ID?¡± She produced her driver¡¯s license, and he examined it closely before handing it back with only a slightly disbelieving smile. Nice work, Isaac, she thought. Sipping her water, she looked over the worn paper map, crisscrossed with white folding lines, that she had spread on the glossy surface before her. This portion showed only Lower Manhattan¡ªthe other pieces, carefully torn, were tucked into her bag¡ªwith each square crammed with tightly inked notes, X¡¯es and circles, arrows labeled with multiple question marks. At first she had fancied herself a researcher, scrappy and intrepid like all the great female journalists she had admired over the years, but now her notes simply looked like the scribblings of a madwoman. ¡°Here on a visit?¡± asked the man who had sidled up to her¡ªdark-haired and smiling with feigned innocence, smelling of cologne. Though he was pretty enough, the lack of true attraction was instantaneous on her end, and so she felt no qualms about running him off. ¡°Just doing a little historical research.¡± He tapped an intersection authoritatively. ¡°The Tenement Museum is right here. You should check that out to start with.¡± Does it look like I¡¯m just now starting? she thought with disdain, but, by force of long habit, she only smiled. ¡°This is where I¡¯m focusing,¡± she told him, indicating a section a long walk south from the bar. ¡°It¡¯s Chinatown now, but it used to be a neighborhood called the Five Points. In the 1800s it was full of slums and gangs and crime. The book How the Other Half Lives was written about it.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve heard of it. Never read it.¡± ¡°This area used to be all tenements, and a really dangerous place to live. Do you know where Columbus Park is?¡± ¡°Yep,¡± he replied. He smiled at her, and she sensed exactly what was behind it. ¡°My apartment¡¯s pretty close to there.¡± He wasn¡¯t even subtle. She decided to go with the anecdote that would put an end to the conversation. ¡°Neat,¡± she said. ¡°There¡¯s so much history in that part of the city. You know, right on that block, in 1852, a fire tore through a row of houses and killed a dozen people. A guy named Sam Sullivan died there, and his whole family¡ªhis mom and sisters. And then slumlords just rebuilt the tenements, but even smaller and shabbier than before. So sad.¡± The guy smiled thinly and picked up his drink. ¡°Fuck the rich,¡± he said. ¡°Indeed,¡± she said cheerfully, which, since he was walking away, was sincere enough. She ordered an Old Fashioned and gazed out the window at Washington Square Park just up the block, its fountain and triumphal arch lovely among the blooming Spring trees. It was perfectly picturesque, but in a way, like all of the city¡¯s cleaned-up and gentrified spaces, it was a beautiful fa?ade. The park was built upon a cemetery, and beneath the feet of all those joggers and musicians and playing children lay the bones of thousands of people. Most had long since gone to heaven, or perhaps hell, according to the complex arithmetic of their lives and the orientation of their souls. Not many had remained in between, trapped in a sort of terrestrial eternity. It was meant to be a punishment, Tabitha knew, but most days it hadn¡¯t felt that way. For more than three hundred years, half of which she had spent with Sam at her side, this life had seemed more like the distant borderlands of heaven, thin on luxuries and conveniences but altogether fulfilling. Until a year ago. And then, at last, the day arrived when it was finally indistinguishable from hell.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ~ * ~ As evening began to fall, Tabitha stepped into the nicely kept public bathrooms of Washington Square Park and changed from her college-kid jeans and tee into an older, more broken-in set of clothes. She didn¡¯t like the way the short dress attracted male attention, but it looked upscale enough that she could avoid all presumptions of homelessness, and in any case she still hated wearing pants¡ªalthough she had conceded that an active daytime life in the city required them. Old habits died hard, and even after all these years, wearing pants still made her feel like she was dressing in drag. She walked a few blocks to the self-storage lockers to secure her backpack, made her way to the subway, and took the train uptown. It was strange to imagine now that six months ago she had never set foot in this city and knew it mainly through Sam¡¯s stories¡ªall of which told of a New York of cobblestone streets and horse-drawn wagons, of violence and filth and alleys filled with drunken women and young men with knives tucked into their sleeves. He had told her of the cholera outbreak that killed his two brothers, the misery of tannery work under a sadistic manager, and, when he was feeling generous in remembering his previous life, the fleeting joys of a fresh pretzel eaten on the pier or the exhilaration of kissing a girl. He remembered the terror of the fire, and the strange detachment of watching from a distance as the firemen pulled his charred body from the wreckage of the tenement. The new Sam would have been a simple spark then¡ªan ember drifting above the scene, inhabited by his old soul, unaware that a new body even awaited him. Tabitha had experienced the same thing, but the watery version of it: staring up from the bottom of the pond in her Massachusetts village to see her old body flopped just beneath the water¡¯s surface like a rag doll, held in place by the ropes wound around the dunking stool. Her drowning, such an honest human death, had been the definitive evidence that she was not, in fact, the witch her peers had accused her of being. The trial by water had cleared her name, and turned her into something much worse. She got off the train at the Eighty-Sixth Street station and walked the now-familiar route to a particular apartment building near Central Park. Such buildings, which catered to the super-wealthy and the well-known, all had doormen and codes and tight security; they were built to keep out all intruders, and to guard against every possible way a motivated outsider might get in. Every way but hers. Name the forms of water, the Searcher had said to her, when she found Tabitha at the bottom of the pond on that chill winter day. Ice and vapor, and¡ªwell¡ªwater, Tabitha had said. The solid, the gas, and the liquid, said the Searcher. Yes. And there¡¯s one more form. The enchanted one. You. It had made no sense to Tabitha. She could tell that her soul was free of her body. She remembered a brief flash of a moment after her drowning, when the space above her burst white and a form made of light appeared, reaching out to her. Tabitha had scrambled away from it in terror. She did not want to take its hand. She would not succumb to its pull. Instead she swam hard against it, plunging herself deeper into the dark water. And it had worked. The light shrank and snapped away, leaving her to the cool formlessness of the watery space. You rejected the Angel of Death, the Searcher explained, but you aren¡¯t damned. Take comfort in that. You chose earth over heaven, and so earth it will be. But your body will be formed now of the element that consumed you. I suppose you could call it magic. The idea had petrified her. She had been raised all her life to know that magic was a kind of evil and that earthly things were of the Devil. I want to change my mind, Tabitha told her. I¡¯ll go with the angel. The Searcher sounded weary, and perhaps a little amused. Child, if your soul cried out for heaven, it would have chosen heaven. There¡¯s no need to fear what you wanted, and no need to long for what you didn¡¯t. We all end up in the place where we belong. Sam said it much better, many years later, as they sat in a little booth at a smoky and jovial bar in Boston with his arm around her shoulders, taking stock of each new person who walked through the door. She remembered Sam¡¯s leather vest, his floppy half-groomed hair, the way the cigarette smoldered between his fingers as he watched the carousing crowd. Let¡¯s be honest, he said then. I was born to be an incubus. The apartment building loomed thirty stories high, its roof a deep blue against the blackness of the night. Up on the rooftop patio of the penthouse, bright lights showcased the topiaries¡ªleafy balls and spirals, plants from a dream world. She snapped into a thousand droplets and splashed down to the sidewalk, then drew together again, a small puddle rolling toward the gray emergency-exit door on the building¡¯s side, with its tiny crannies that stood no chance against a sudden unlikely storm. Chapter 3: Sam After work, Sam swung by the bakery with the three bars of Guittard baking chocolate that Lola had requested. It was just past closing, but Kevin let him in and waved him back to the kitchen, where Lola was sitting at the stainless-steel table with a notepad and pencil, surrounded by the rest of the staff on random chairs and stools. ¡°Three to five items that really represent Portland,¡± she was saying. ¡°Or at least the Pacific Northwest. We can¡¯t just offer a pan of brownies and some chocolate chip cookies and call it a day. This a region-specific food tour, and they want hyper-local stuff only.¡± ¡°They¡¯re kickass chocolate chip cookies,¡± Sam offered, taking a few from the remaining batch on the tray. ¡°Be that as it may,¡± Lola continued, ¡°we need to brainstorm and give this some deep thought. Because this is one opportunity we don¡¯t want to screw up.¡± Amy raised her eyebrows. ¡°We need at least one vegan item. That¡¯s something that says ¡®Portland¡¯ for sure. I think we should go with the almond milk salted caramel bar.¡± Sam grimaced, but paused as he passed behind her to lean down and kiss her on the neck. ¡°God, get a room, you two,¡± said Lola. She pointed at Sam accusingly with her pencil. ¡°How does he eat like that and stay in that kind of shape? I never even see him exercise.¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t,¡± said Amy. ¡°It¡¯s weird.¡± ¡°I work it off in the sack,¡± said Sam. Laughter rose up from around the table, and Sam polished off his second cookie. But Lola had turned to him with a serious gaze, which was a little intimidating. Like Amy, she was covered in tattoos, and the pink hair and sparkling studs that climbed her ears gave her a pixieish, ethereal beauty, but the tight pull of those little buns made her thin face more severe. She asked, ¡°Seriously, how do you do it?¡± He shrugged. ¡°Fast metabolism.¡± ¡°A good metabolism won¡¯t make you that muscular if you don¡¯t exercise.¡± ¡°I lift fifty-pound bags of flour all day. Believe me, it¡¯s a workout.¡± With a slight frown and a lift of her eyebrows, she conceded the argument. ¡°What about some sort of wild mushroom tart? Should we include a savory item?¡± An energetic debate arose, and Sam palmed his buzzing phone from his pocket. Two missed calls and a text from Susanna. Call me, you moron, it read. Sam slipped out the back door and made the call. The sweet tone of Susanna¡¯s feminine voice belied her recent text. ¡°I¡¯m a little confused,¡± she said. ¡°Isaac was telling me your living situation has changed.¡± ¡°All I did was ask him for a driver¡¯s license. I appreciate the concern and all, but really.¡± Sam¡¯s laugh was short. ¡°Nobody ought to be judging me. I¡¯m being discreet and I¡¯m putting one foot in front of the other. That¡¯s all anyone can ask of me.¡± ¡°Nobody¡¯s judging you. I think our concern¡ªIsaac¡¯s and mine¡ªis that right now, Tabitha¡¯s the one who got in trouble, and it¡¯s because of her that you¡¯re on a temporary ban from each other¡ª¡± ¡°Seventy-five years,¡± Sam interjected. ¡°That¡¯s a pretty broad definition of ¡®temporary.¡¯¡± ¡°But it¡¯s still not permanent.¡± Susanna¡¯s voice stressed each syllable. ¡°Yet if you do something stupid, where you draw attention to yourself, and people start watching you closely and figuring you out¡ªthen you¡¯ll get in trouble, and it will be permanent. So you have to keep your eye on the prize, like they say in sports. This won¡¯t last forever.¡± ¡°Just seventy-four more years.¡± ¡°Well . . . yes, but you¡¯ve lived more than twice that long already.¡± Sam laughed ruefully. ¡°I can¡¯t make it. You can¡¯t imagine¡ªI mean, we hit the one-year mark the other day, and I went down to the lake where they took her. It¡¯s absolute torture to stand there, knowing she¡¯s down there, and not be able to see her. And at the same time, I can¡¯t leave her. Portland is practically the worst place in America for somebody like me¡ªI mean, the rain alone . . . but I can¡¯t leave knowing she¡¯s here.¡± ¡°Sam¡ª¡± Susanna sounded almost apologetic. ¡°She¡¯s not in that lake. Why do you think she¡¯s there?¡± The words seized his heart. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± ¡°I mean, yes, the Searcher made her come to that lake to deal with the . . . issue, but they only held her there for six months or something. She¡¯s moving around freely. But she¡¯s definitely not in Oregon.¡± The thought that he had been wrong all this time¡ªso wrong, and for so long¡ªmade Sam instantly frantic. ¡°Where is she?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. You can¡¯t talk to her anyway. You can¡¯t, Sam. But it isn¡¯t right for you to go on thinking this is like her grave right down the street from you. I mean, no.¡± ¡°You know where she is,¡± he insisted. ¡°Just tell me. I know the ban means I can¡¯t talk to her or see her. I just want to know.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, okay? I only heard that she left Oregon. That¡¯s it.¡± ¡°Who told you that?¡± ¡°Meridiana.¡± Meridiana was Tabitha¡¯s oldest friend. Of course she knew. And Sam had asked her that exact question directly, twice in the past six months, and she had claimed to have no idea. He didn¡¯t believe Susanna, either, in her dubious claim to know where Tabby wasn¡¯t but not where she was. He closed his eyes and wished with all his soul that it was possible to strangle a succubus. ¡°This is good news for you,¡± Susanna said¡ªpersuading, soothing. ¡°See, you don¡¯t have to take some crazy step of living with this Amy person just so you can stick around for Tabitha. Travel the country. Come visit me and Isaac. Live it up like you¡¯re still single. The time will pass like it¡¯s nothing. And before you know it, Tabitha will be off punishment and you can go back to being the sweet, adorable couple you¡¯ve always been.¡±This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. That gave him a pang. He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his face wearily. ¡°I¡¯ll figure it out.¡± ¡°Our offer will still stand, anytime you need a place to crash. But text first, because we¡¯ll probably move again in a couple years. Last week one of my neighbors asked me my secret to looking so young, and I said ¡®Neutrogena.¡¯ Isaac had to stop me from packing my bags that very night.¡± Sam laughed, already feeling a bit more relaxed. It was good to have options¡ªbut now, faced with the truth, he wasn¡¯t sure whether it eased things or complicated them. All this time, it had crushed him to imagine Tabitha in a place where he couldn¡¯t reach her, couldn¡¯t touch her. If none of that was true, he had no idea how he would handle the temptation just to see her face or hear her voice. If there was one thing this life had taught him, it was that avoiding temptation was not his strong suit. That was, after all, how he had ended up here in the first place. ~ * ~ Owing to their early shifts at the bakery, Sam¡¯s housemates retired very early¡ªat eight o¡¯clock, most nights, so they could rise at three. It was Kevin¡¯s business, in the legal sense, but Lola and Amy and Remy had all been with it from the beginning, and it was easy to see why. Kevin was a generous benefactor. He paid the lion¡¯s share of rent on the house, plus most of the utilities, and threw around money here and there when somebody needed a car repair or dental work or any of the surprise expenses that came with being a regular human living an ordinary life. A few days after Sam¡¯s talk with Susanna, his mind was still in a fog over how to handle the new information, and thus nothing had changed. He fell asleep beside Amy as he always did, curled up against her, knowing that before the night was over he would be awoken by the dependable alarm clock of his own desire. Prepared for this inevitability, he had mentioned to her in passing that he was on the schedule to unload a shipment at Brunson¡¯s and would be gone in the middle of the night. She was used to this; as far as she knew, Brunson¡¯s took such deliveries two or three times a week, which was the most he had dared to use this excuse since he began sleeping there regularly. It was fortunate that bakery workers had no blessed idea of how their suppliers operated. When he awoke, he slipped out of bed carefully so as not to disturb her, pulling on the boxers he had dropped on the floor a few hours earlier. The rest of his clothes lay in a heap beside the dresser¡ªit was a good thing she was nearly as messy as he¡ªand he quietly carried them downstairs to dress. But when he reached the landing, he spotted a small light glowing in the kitchen. It was the one above the stove, illuminating one corner of the room with a moonlike glow while leaving the rest shrouded in darkness. Turning the corner, he saw Rose sitting at the table with a mug of tea before her, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. Rose was Kevin¡¯s longtime girlfriend, and the one resident besides himself who didn¡¯t work at the bakery; she was a first-year teacher at a nearby elementary school, and to Sam, she looked the part. She had a round face with the faint beginning of a double chin, and a body that seemed to call out for children to sit on her lap¡ªsoft hips, soft breasts, but a nipped little waist. Her long brown hair was usually gathered up in a careless bun, which drew attention, at least for Sam, to her large, vulnerable brown eyes, which Sam suspected were part of the source of her day-to-day tribulations in her classroom. He had been a schoolboy once, and for all her apparent sweetness, she was not a teacher he would have taken seriously. ¡°Oh, hey,¡± he said. ¡°Sorry, I didn¡¯t realize anybody was up.¡± She dismissed his intrusion with a wave of her hand. ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± He set down the bundle of clothes on the floor and quickly pulled on his pants¡ªblack jeans, well-worn¡ªto at least be decent in front of her. As he buckled his belt and glanced at her, he realized her face was wet with tears. He asked, ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± ¡°Just work.¡± ¡°Something happen?¡± She replied with a jerky shrug, but then began crying in earnest. He hastily finished pulling on his black T-shirt and stepped over to her. Crouching beside her chair, he rested his hands on her arm and knee. ¡°Hey. Don¡¯t be upset, okay? Tell me about it.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the same thing as always. My boss, the kids¡ªthey all hate me. Well, the kids don¡¯t hate me. They terrorize me, and then when I try to crack down on them, their parents hate me.¡± She roughly brushed away her tears. ¡°And then they email my boss. It¡¯s an endless cycle. And I know they¡¯re not bad kids¡ª¡± ¡°Sure they are,¡± said Sam. ¡°They¡¯re demonic little bastards.¡± She burst out with a laugh, made uneven by her crying. ¡°No, I know they aren¡¯t,¡± she said dutifully. ¡°I bet some of them are. Every asshole adult starts somewhere. You should have seen the kind of stuff I did when I was a kid. I once cut open my teacher¡¯s blouse with a pair of scissors when she was helping the kid next to me because I wanted to see her, uh¡ªher bra.¡± Rose laughed again, and Sam privately congratulated himself for dodging the word corset. Rose said, ¡°But you didn¡¯t grow up to be an asshole.¡± ¡°Depends on who you ask.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not. You¡¯re nice.¡± She took an uneven breath and wiped away her remaining tears. ¡°Kevin says I should just quit. He¡¯s tired of hearing about it. All he ever says is that this is why a person should own their own business and not have to deal with BS from administrators and the state.¡± ¡°That¡¯s one way to do it. Not sure running a bakery gets you out of BS from the state, though. Between inspections and licensing and taxes and everything else.¡± She jutted out a hand in agreement. ¡°Right? Ugh. I don¡¯t mean to complain about him. I just had a bad day. I know you have to get to work.¡± He rose up from his crouch and held out his arms to offer her a hug. She stood and accepted it, wrapping her arms around his neck. The gesture began to make her cry anew, a single shuddering sob, but then she stopped herself. He held her tight for a few moments, and then she pushed back. She said, ¡°That¡¯s one heck of a cologne you¡¯re wearing.¡± He felt momentarily embarrassed. Eau de Sam, Tabitha used to call it¡ªthe cocktail of pheromones his body produced to make him appealing to human women, which in quantity was practically an enchantment in itself. His prowling clothes, in which he had just dressed, were saturated in it. He let her go. ¡°How are you doing?¡± she asked, to his surprise. He cocked his head. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Just¡ª¡± Her shoulders lifted and fell, as if the words to explain it eluded her. ¡°You always look so sad.¡± In the awkwardness of her observing this, he laughed. ¡°Just getting past a rough year.¡± ¡°Well, if you ever want to talk about it¡ªI¡¯m glad to listen, all right? And I can keep a confidence.¡± He smiled tightly. Not about this stuff, you can¡¯t, he thought. He could just imagine how she would react if he sat down beside her and spelled it out. It¡¯s like this, see, he would begin. I¡¯m one of the Mara¡ªthe people of nightmares. It¡¯s an old Norse name, because we¡¯ve been around for a long, long time. We bring you your filthy dreams, and make you think it really was just a dream, and not us in your bed, in a version of this body you¡¯re looking at right now, having you. Those big brown eyes. How they would grow. But then, she would surely think it was just another of his jokes. And even if she might believe him, to tell her would break the one inviolable rule: never to interfere with the illusion that such dreams were merely dreams. He and Tabitha were in this mess precisely because they had broken it, and as bad as things already seemed, he couldn¡¯t bear the thought of how much worse they could get if he did it twice. The leaders of the succubi could make the ban permanent, for one thing; and if it ever came to that, he would throw up his hands and call it a day. He wasn¡¯t immortal, just hard to kill. There were still plenty of ways he could snuff himself out. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said. Right now his existential crisis was of less importance than his immediate need, which was to get the hell out of this house and find himself a dreamer. ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡± He kissed her on the top of her head, spontaneously, and headed out into the chilly spring darkness. Chapter 4: Tabitha Twenty-six stories above Fifth Avenue, Tabitha found her dreamer fast asleep. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she slipped under the door and saw him lying in his bed, one arm lazing off the edge, dressed in basketball shorts and nothing else. The past two times she had visited him, he had been gone. It was an impossibly large bedroom, with a ceiling rising to an extravagant height and windows that looked out over the busy side street, where it had started to rain, causing the stone of the nearby buildings to gleam in the streetlight-gilded dark. The boy who lived there¡ªand he was really not much more than a boy¡ªhad rebelliously longish blond hair tousled by sleep and a long Roman nose a bit too prominent for his narrow face. He stood at least six feet tall and his biceps were rather pretty, but he was otherwise skinnier and paler than she preferred. Typically, she sought out bigger men, thicker men, ones with strong shoulders and indifferent haircuts and noses that suggested they didn¡¯t always walk away from a fight. She liked variety, but even when she ventured far from her usual preferences, she rarely wandered as far as the Kid. He had other endearing qualities, however. She had chatted with him briefly at a crowded coffee shop just around the corner, where he had awkwardly hit on her as she waited for the barista to prepare her latte. He had asked her if she went to the private high school a couple of blocks away, which she knew was one of the most expensive in the city. When she said a simple no, he told her he was home for the weekend from his university in Boston and tried to get her number. As they talked, she concluded three things: first, that his family was very wealthy; second, that he would be an enthusiastic and uncomplicated dreamer; and third, that he still took her for a high school girl yet continued to pursue her, which would cancel out any guilt she might feel at taking a gratuity for a job well done. She stepped over to his bedside and lowered her face to his, tucking her long hair behind her ear. Softly, she breathed over his mouth and nose. His nostrils flared as he sensed the presence of what the Mara called miasma¡ªa wisp of the vapor that made up her body, allowing her to connect with the dreamer¡¯s unconscious mind, along with a touch of twilight anesthesia to ensure nothing would disturb the beautiful dream. His eyes flickered behind his lids. This was the crucial moment, because if he spurned her presence, she had to leave. Miasma was just a knock at the door; from here, he could summon her, but also dismiss her. And she very much hoped that he would not do that. Instead, he parted his lips and kissed her. Immediately, his dreaming mind opened to her. Having been here before, she knew the landscape: scraps of images and whispers of sounds that were his memories, a borderless valley in which she was a stranger, but could find her way well enough. In the same moment, her body took the form it had become when the Searcher first found her in the pond: a shadow the color of water, yet recognizably herself; almost a hologram. In her early days, in dreamers¡¯ beds, she would marvel at how this body felt no less substantial to her than her solid one, and that the dreamers responded to her touch as they would to skin on skin. It had seemed miraculous then, even though she understood that she, as a succubus, was a type of demon, and any quality she possessed could hardly be called a miracle. She climbed into the dreamer¡¯s bed, straddling his hips, and kissed him deeply. He pulled at her dress¡ªfor her clothes would shift along with her, if enough of her essence was embedded in them¡ªand she tugged it over her head, letting it drop to the floor. His hands were on her breasts, pushing her bra roughly down, but she didn¡¯t care that he was overeager. For that, she was not in a position to criticize. The space around them was conspicuously silent. In her mind¡¯s eye, she could see, dimly, the vanilla fantasy of his unfolding dream, but it interested her only in her need to ensure it remained pleasant, and to nudge it in a better direction if it began to take a turn. His mind could do as it wanted; it was his body she was concerned with. His touch on her nipples quickly eliminated what was left of her patience, and as she eased down his shorts, she found him quite sufficiently ready. When she mounted him, he clasped her hips and moaned. She tipped her face upward, toward that grandiose ceiling, and closed her eyes, letting the feeling of him suffuse her. There was pleasure to be had with men like this, even if she would rather be, every day and every hour, with Sam. After they had finished, and she had kissed him one last time to keep him dreaming, she pulled her dress over her head and quickly located his khakis by the laundry hamper. In the left pocket, she found a set of earbuds and a cigarette lighter. In the right, a business card, a wrapper from a Jolly Rancher, a small empty cocaine baggie, and two hundred and seventy-six dollars. She tucked the two hundred-dollar bills into her bra and slipped back under the door, a shimmering puddle. Down on the street, she hurried toward the subway station, past police officers and businessmen coming home from the bars, and the occasional homeless person, though on rainy days like this one they mostly found shelter in one place or another. Soon she would do the same, slipping into one of the many water features that made the city parks so beautiful in the spring. But for now, she got on the train and headed downtown, where she could safely stash the cash in her bag with the rest of it. She knew the fear was probably irrational, but she worried that the money wouldn¡¯t stick with her when she was under the water all night, and it would somehow return to its form and float to the surface, offering a windfall to the locals and creating a night of wasted effort for her. It would all be worth it if she found the relic that could bring an end to the misery of this punishment. When she did¡ªand she was certain she would, she had to believe she would¡ªshe would have enough money to pay for it, whatever it cost. It was the only way out of this, or at least she hoped it was a way out, because she could think of nothing else. And she had to keep moving forward. She owed Sam everything, but to start with, at least this much.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ~ * ~ The section of Brooklyn called Williamsburg was a hipster paradise. The clothing shops were all minimalist, the grocery stores advertised vegan and non-GMO specialties, and the coffee shops showed rows of MacBooks along the window tables. As Tabitha walked up the street toward the museum she was seeking, the people flowing past her, especially the men, all had a certain unifying look. Close-fitting band T-shirts under plaid flannels, jeans that fit snugly all the way to the ankle, messenger bags, knitted beanie hats over carelessly mussed hair: it reminded her of the way Sam began dressing after they moved to Portland, which she had teased him about with regularity. Those pants look very inconvenient for prowling, she would point out, but he shrugged off her jests with the line he¡¯d been using for a long time: When in Rome. She stopped beside a glossy ¡°speakeasy¡±¡ªan idea that forced her to control a snort of derision¡ªto check the map on her phone. The museum was just a few blocks ahead, two up and one over. This neighborhood, in the balance of things, was not so bad; she would have to keep it in mind for evening excursions, for nights when she needed a break from the more pragmatic options. The vaguely industrial grittiness of its architecture reminded her of Lowell, her adopted hometown in Massachusetts that she still sorely missed, and she had passed a couple of very appealing small bookstores, which would be a fine way to kill time while awaiting a later hour. Besides, while she was fairly confident that there was a Searcher keeping an eye on her in Manhattan, she probably wouldn¡¯t be bothered to track Tabitha all the way across the river to Brooklyn. The nature of a Searcher was that she was a very old and weary succubus, and that she operated within certain geographical boundaries, trolling the waterways for newly created succubi and keeping watch over the troublesome ones in the same area. Manhattan itself had to be an exhausting assignment, and a second borough was surely not in her job description. It would be refreshing to be able to visit a dreamer without feeling as if someone might always be watching her, waiting with bated breath to see if he would awaken and she would speak to him directly again. As if she would ever have reason to do that twice. She arrived at the entrance to the museum, which proved, to her surprise, to be nothing but a small storefront with an ornate, slightly dilapidated sign. Museum of Gotham Ephemera, it read. Immediately inside, two dark wooden cases fitted into a corner caught her eye with a magnificent assortment of mementos. Painted ceramic plates and old bottles and medicine boxes from the pharmacies of days past, worn wooden tools, tickets on sepia paper, milky Depression glass and an old clock in an intricate silver setting. She pulled in a sharp breath and walked up to the display, enchanted. ¡°Good morning,¡± came a man¡¯s voice. The man sitting at a desk to the left was portly and scruffily dressed, with a frizz of gray hair and a bushy beard to match. He had on a tweed newsboy¡¯s cap, like the kind Sam had worn for many years and still sometimes did. Tabitha said, ¡°I¡¯ve seen you before.¡± ¡°And I, you.¡± He smiled in a shy way, lips closed over his teeth. ¡°Playing chess in the park.¡± The memory came back to her. He was one of the men who sat at the stone chess tables in Washington Square Park, offering to play against people for a few dollars per game. She stood and watched sometimes, enjoying the mild entertainment of some good-natured but cocky young man getting flustered as the old master slowly wiped the table with him. She smiled back. ¡°You never lose.¡± ¡°Sometimes I do.¡± He took out a ticket from the stack beside him, though it looked more like a memento itself than a necessity in this place. ¡°Are you here to see the museum?¡± ¡°I suppose so.¡± ¡°It¡¯s five dollars.¡± She unrolled a bill from the wad inside her bag and handed it over. ¡°Did you help put this place together?¡± ¡°Somewhat. It¡¯s a community effort. I¡¯m more of a curator of what¡¯s offered to us. Not every broken bottle swept up in a storage room is a piece of New York history.¡± ¡°Depends on what it held, I suppose. Or who held it.¡± ¡°Correct. We do have quite a few bottles that passed muster. They¡¯re over there, in the cabinet with the horses¡¯ teeth. People dig those out of their courtyards all the time.¡± He nodded toward the back of the room. ¡°Something in particular you¡¯re interested in?¡± ¡°As a matter of fact, yes.¡± He looked up at her with interest. She was glad to see it was not merely a polite question. This was a man who liked puzzles. ¡°I heard about a saint¡¯s relic that made its way to New York many years ago,¡± she told him. ¡°It¡¯s called the Hand of St. Bridget, but they say it was probably just a finger bone. An Irish immigrant woman brought it here, supposedly, and tried to sell it to a priest when she ran short of money. Have you heard of it?¡± He gave a single shake of his head. ¡°Can¡¯t say that I have. Did she sell it, or only try to?¡± ¡°Well, as the story goes, he looked it up and saw that it had been stolen in the twelfth century¡ªa knight led an army through a village, and ransacked it, and took the relic from the local church. So this priest¡ªsomewhere in Manhattan, it¡¯s said¡ªclaimed it as stolen church property and refused to pay her for it. She was angry, of course, and returned with her son, who demanded it back, and knocked the priest out when he refused. They got the relic back, but in the end they were both arrested and sent to prison, and she refused to say what she¡¯d done with it.¡± ¡°Huh.¡± Tabitha shifted her backpack on her shoulders. ¡°Of course, it could just be an anecdotal story. I . . . I hope it isn¡¯t, though.¡± The man looked at her with faintly amused curiosity. ¡°You have some connection to all this?¡± ¡°I just like St. Bridget.¡± ¡°Any idea what year this happened? The tussle with the priest, I mean.¡± ¡°No.¡± He nodded. ¡°Well, I can do a little research for you. See if anything turns up about it. Interesting story.¡± He pulled a hand through his beard. ¡°Sounds like she could have sold it on the black market. That, or she chucked it into the fireplace or the river.¡± ¡°She didn¡¯t throw it in the river.¡± The man looked at her sharply, and Tabitha realized at once how her comment had sounded. ¡°I mean, it wouldn¡¯t make sense for her to do that, if it was valuable.¡± ¡°No, but sometimes people would rather destroy something than let the wrong person get their hands on it.¡± ¡°Yes. Well . . . I¡¯d love it if you could let me know if you find out anything.¡± She wrote her phone number on the back of her ticket stub and handed it to the man, but he looked doubtful. ¡°Believe it or not, I¡¯m not very good at keeping track of things,¡± he said. ¡°And I don¡¯t really do cellphone business. You could just come by in a week or two, and I¡¯ll tell you if I¡¯ve learned anything. Or if you happen to see me in the park, but only after I¡¯m done playing for the day.¡± ¡°All right. That works for me.¡± It seemed an interminable wait, but she had been here for four months already. She could manage a little patience. ¡°In the meantime, enjoy the museum.¡± He swept a hand grandly toward the exhibits. ¡°Welcome to old New York.¡±