Pockets of Darkness Read online

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  About the Author

  Book Description

  Bridget O’Shea is a mother, a successful business woman, an expert on antiques…and a thief, a damn good one. But when she steals an ancient relic from a Manhattan apartment, she acquires a curse in the form of a Sumerian demon. The demon wants something from Bridget, killing people she cares about to force her cooperation, and it will continue to kill unless she meets its demands. Next in the demon’s sights? Bridget’s teenage son. Bridget must learn to communicate with the demon, divine what it wants, and satisfy it to keep her son alive. But she soon discovers that mollifying a creature from the pits of hell could damn her soul and send the world into chaos.

  Smashwords Edition –2015

  WordFire Press

  wordfirepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61475-278-3

  Copyright © 2015 Jean Rabe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover image by Dollar Photo Club

  Cover design by Janet McDonald

  Art Director Kevin J. Anderson

  Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

  Published by

  WordFire Press, an imprint of

  WordFire, Inc.

  PO Box 1840

  Monument, CO 80132

  ***

  Dedication

  For Donna Thomsen,

  who breathed life into my city

  ***

  One

  Elijah rocked back on the heels of his Brunello Cucinelli wingtips. He drew his collar up and fixed his gaze on the weathered sign hanging slightly askew above the door: Don’t Judge a Book …

  By what? By its cover, the saying went.

  His mind replaced the ellipsis with something more fitting: by the neighborhood it’s sold in. This was an abysmal borough, and the buildings—this one in particular—ought to be condemned. The structures were grimy shades of gray, separated here and there by darker charcoal smudges of alleys. Despite the cold wind that deadened his senses he smelled grease and dirt and the biting odor of piss.

  Elijah couldn’t remember when, if ever, he’d been in a part of the city so beat down.

  A siren’s wail sliced through the air. Always he could hear sirens in the city. It just seemed a little louder here, more desperate. There were other traffic sounds, too, but from beyond his line of sight—the constant shush of tires against pavement oddly snowless for the middle of January, the blat of horns. There’d been only a couple of cars trundling along in this block, more rust than paint, their occupants eyeing him, necks craning as they drifted past. Not a single cab. He’d taken one from Hudson Street, but it dropped him off five blocks to the south. He’d written the address of this bookseller wrong, transposing the first two numbers, and so he’d had to hoof it for a stretch.

  Don’t judge a book by the absolute utter dump it sits in, he mused. After several minutes he had made no move to step inside.

  Elijah shuddered when three teenagers swaggered past, one purposefully elbowing him to set him off balance.

  “’Scuse me,” the youth laughed.

  The trio stopped a few doors down and huddled in conversation; the one who’d bumped him had a flat, angry face and gave him a serious up and down. Elijah knew they were talking about him.

  With any luck they’d mug him. His appearance practically screamed: Come and get me! Middle-aged white man in a sheepskin-lined overcoat, designer shoes, thick leather briefcase at his side that looked a few decades out of date, but by its bulk promising something interesting inside. He looked down at the briefcase and sneered.

  Elijah wore a Rolex. He worked his arm so the coat sleeve came up to show the watch. It was 5:45. According to a placard nailed to the door, the bookseller closed in fifteen minutes.

  Please come and get me! he silently begged. Dear, God, let them come and get me.

  He’d been mugged a few times this month and emerged with only a handful of stitches and bruises that he’d hid beneath his expensive clothes and that had cleared up quickly. Just last week he tarried at a Brownsville subway stop in the early morning hours when some homeless man took the bait and beat him up. Didn’t take the watch, or the briefcase, only his wallet and the virgin wool Armani jacket he’d been wearing at the time.

  He didn’t file a report with the police, not then or the times before. The hoods were only after his cash on all those occasions, and he never carried more than a few hundred. No serious damage done, no lingering wounds or scars. Didn’t muggers recognize a Rolex?

  He’d tried the ploy again just two nights ago, this time braving one of the subway stops in Washington Heights. Two muscle-bound gang members with matching tats had been intent on taking him up on his unspoken offer: Come and get me. But a cop appeared on the steps, and they veered away. Tired, Elijah had called it a night.

  This trio? They might prove his salvation and negate the need to enter the bookseller and shell out a considerable amount of cash. He could weather one more beating, couldn’t he?

  “Come and get me you sons of bitches,” he whispered. “Come and fuckin’ get me. Come and take it all, assholes.”

  The one who’d bumped him had a gun. Elijah saw the grip of it when the kid adjusted his hoodie. His stomach twisted. He just wanted them to mug him, to rob him blind. Take everything and thereby save his soul. But the gun had escalated the threat; he did not want to die.

  The tallest said something loudly in Spanish: something something idioto rico something else.

  Elijah recognized “idiot” and figured they were talking about him.

  “El necio se quede parado alli,” the tall one said. “Idioto.” A pause. “Ahora!”

  They all faced Elijah. The gun he’d spotted was drawn, along with a second that was waved proudly like a flag. More Spanish was uttered; they rushed at him, and …

  Elijah propelled himself forward and into the bookshop, closing the door behind him and exhaling loudly.

  “Más tarde!” The tall one called through the glass. He tapped on the door with the gun fo
r effect. “Vamos a esperar para usted.”

  Elijah didn’t know a lick of Spanish, but the threat was clear enough. He expected them to follow him inside, but that didn’t happen.

  “Come and get me. Yeah, right,” he mumbled. “Come and fuckin’ get me.”

  ***

  Two

  The three youths walked past the bookseller twice more, peering in through the window and tapping on it. They crossed the street and disappeared from view.

  Elijah relaxed.

  “Los hombres se quedará fuera. The cholos won’t come in here, no.”

  Though narrow, the shop was deep, and Elijah had to walk in farther to see the speaker: a woman in the back corner. She sat behind a pitted wood counter that had an old-time cash register on it.

  “The cholos are afraid of me.” Her accent was thick, and Elijah had to concentrate to pick through it. “But they might wait for you, dressed the way you are, fancy man. Call a cab when you’re done shopping, yes.” A pause: “And you better shop fast, hombre muy blanco. I close in a few and I’m thirsty. Qué chamaco más lindo.”

  She was Latin, he assumed, like everyone else he’d seen since hitting this section of the city. Small, almost tiny, certainly not even five feet. Her hands and fingers fluttered like bird wings. At first glance he guessed her to be about twenty, but she was maybe twice that; she had little age crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

  “Excuse me, I—” He continued to stare. The woman’s sweater was a stark white cable knit, thick and without any indication of nubs from wear. Elijah knew clothes; it wasn’t cheap. “I’m not here for books.” He looked down and to his right. “I’m here for … I’m looking for—”

  “We don’t carry those dirty magazines.”

  “No. I’m—”

  She drew her lower lip under her teeth, and her eyes narrowed as she studied him. She had a nametag, a little plastic one: Adiella. It was Hebrew; his own name came from Hebrew and meant the Lord is my God. He didn’t know what hers meant, and it didn’t matter; a Hebrew name certainly didn’t fit her.

  “You Elijah Stone? The güey who called yesterday?” She wore lots of makeup, silvery blue shadow and long eyelashes that were probably false. Her manicured nails were painted peach and tipped in glitter. “You called and—”

  “Yes. I called yesterday. I—” Elijah noticed two customers in the shop, an elderly woman and a teenage boy who carried a plastic shopping bag that advertised Dollar General. Maybe grandson and grandmother. Both Latino. Elijah figured he was the only white man in the neighborhood. The pair stood in front of a shelf of books with Spanish titles. “I called yesterday afternoon. It was about—”

  Adiella shook her head, her bird-fingers fluttering faster. Huge silver hoop earrings bumped against her shoulders. A wooden necklace with colorful beads carved in the shapes of wild animals dangled from her neck, and a silk scarf with more animals on it was wrapped tight around her head, hiding whatever hair she had. “This business we will conduct is for after hours. Like I told you yesterday, yes. The Corona will wait for me a little while.” She looked to her customers. “And you’ll have to wait too, Elijah Stone … for a few.”

  Elijah shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and set the briefcase down, scowling. The floor was a dark hardwood, deeply scuffed and with no trace of wax, gently dipping in places. He unbuttoned his coat. It was warm in here; or maybe it was just his nerves causing him to sweat. It smelled fusty, the air heavy with old paper.

  He glanced at the shelves. Some sections were clearly marked: mystery, science fiction, romance, textbooks. Everything looked used and had colored dots on the spines—red, yellow, blue, green, likely price codes. The covers had been stripped from many of them. The sale rack had no rhyme or reason. William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet was shelved between a dictionary of word origins and a volume titled Aviation Awards of Imperial Germany in World War I.

  Don’t judge a book by the company it’s shelved with, Elijah thought, or by its price. He stepped forward and picked up the Shakespeare. No sticker on its side, but a price was penciled inside: $230, with a line drawn through it and remarked to $90.

  Elijah would pay good money for clothes, but for a half-inch thick volume with flea-sized type and dated 1918.… he wouldn’t shell out a quarter. He didn’t have much time for reading, and when he did it was usually the Wall Street Journal on his iPad. Who read real bound books anymore? He only owned a half-dozen—these passed down from his father and kept because he thought they would look good on a shelf. He replaced the Shakespeare.

  On the only empty space of wall hung a poster of a border collie leaping into the sky after a toy. The slogan beneath it: Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.

  Elijah suspected his soul was going to be stuck in a very bad place if the bookseller didn’t help him. Again he glanced down and to his right.

  “Necesito chamba. Tú sabes de algo.” The teenager and the old woman were at the counter making their purchases.

  “No job here, kid,” Adiella said. “I’m the owner and the sole employee. But try El Burrito Loco on the corner. He’s looking for a dishwasher.”

  The teen mumbled a thanks and left with the old woman in tow.

  Adiella walked around the counter and to the front of the shop, turned the sign to “closed,” and deadbolted the door. Elijah noticed there were no bars to pull across the window like in the other storefronts in the block. He guessed she either wasn’t worried the shop would be targeted—her merchandise not appealing to the neighborhood thieves, or she had some security not readily noticeable.

  It was growing darker outside. Night rushed at the city during winter. Streetlights popped on as he watched, the ones not broken. Neon flickered from Mo’s Tap across the way. A big tan and rust-colored car chugged past, slowed, and a man got out and headed into the bar. Faintly, Elijah heard sirens again.

  Adiella had been saying something, but he’d missed the first part.

  “… find me, eh?”

  He turned from the window and looked at her. She’d taken off her nametag and was smoothing her bird-fingers against her sweater. Her pants were forest green linen, well-tailored and pressed, creased in the front and ending above a pair of khaki tennis shoes that were scuffed on the toes. Elijah gritted his teeth at her fashion faux pas. She was overly dark, had to have some black in her, he decided.

  “I said, Elijah Stone, how did such a fancy white man find me?”

  He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a business card. Lady Lakshmi was in block letters. Beneath it in italics: fortunes told, séances hosted, exorcisms performed.

  “She told me about you. I mentioned that yesterday when I called.”

  “Because Lakshmi, she couldn’t help you.” Adiella folded her arms. “Strong in the arts, that woman. And she did nothing? Other than to send you here?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “More to the point, how did you find her?”

  He didn’t answer. A client from a few years ago knew about these places, and Elijah had called in a favor to get a referral. That took him from one shop to the next to the next, most of them in the Village. Finally to Lady Lakshmi in Manhattan, and now here to this dump in the Bronx.

  “Ah, secrets, confidences you don’t want to reveal, eh?” Adiella shrugged. “No matter then, Elijah Stone. Did Lakshmi tell you I am expensive?”

  “I have money.” Elijah had a lot of money, and he was willing to give her all of it. Every last one of his more than considerable cents. I don’t care what it costs, he almost said. Could she read the anxiety in his voice?

  “I charge by the hour,” she said. “Three thousand.”

  “How long will it—”

  “More, depending.”

  “Depending on—” In truth he didn’t care. “Just … can you just—”

  Adiella stepped past him and slipped behind the counter again. He caught a whiff of her: she had on something by Estée L
auder. Probably White Linen, running about $80 a bottle. His secretary only wore Estée fragrances, and after half a dozen years he was intimately familiar with her and them. Another whiff: definitely White Linen. The floor had creaked with every step he took in this shop, but Adiella moved soundless across it, graceful like a cat. Keeping her eyes on him, she reached low and brought out two thick red candles, reached again and retrieved a heavy-looking book.

  “You’re going to do this here? In a bookstore?”

  “From the street, no one can see into this corner,” she said.

  “Excuse me,” Elijah said. “Don’t you want to know what the problem is? Why I’ve—”

  A wave of her bird-fingers, and he shut up. She lit the candles and flicked the light switch behind her, dropping the shop into shadows.

  The candles smelled of something exotic that Elijah couldn’t place; it blended well with her perfume. He stared at the flames, straight and tall as if they’d been painted in place.

  He padded closer and felt a heady rush of dizziness, like he’d just done a line of the purest coke and was floating from the effects. Adiella’s lips worked, but no words came out, her thin fingers twitching rapidly. In fact, Elijah could no longer hear anything: no sirens, no shush from cars, no music from the bar that had its door wide open despite the cold. He swallowed and tapped his foot and couldn’t hear that either. Her bird-fingers fluttered, and he saw a pattern to the movements, like a woman knitting.

  Dizzier still, he watched her open the book and turn to the center. It was written in a foreign language, looking like Japanese or Chinese Kanji. He couldn’t see it clearly. Her fingers floated across the characters as if she was reading Braille. He noticed wrinkles on the backs of her hands and studied her more closely. No lines on her face save around her eyes. Those eyes had a rheumy look, the brown of them washed out. Perhaps she was quite a bit older than he’d first placed her. A strand of white hair came free from beneath her scarf to tease her ear. There was roundness to her shoulders that hadn’t been there before and that also spoke of age. Her mouth continued to work.