tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86194121277439183702024-03-13T08:10:38.468-04:00The Lighthouse Chronicles : YA Webnovel, Updates FridaysFranceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-75773643486698193832011-04-22T12:45:00.004-04:002011-04-22T13:13:01.086-04:00The New Houdini 21He took the Blue Line. He sat in a corner and focused on the smooth motion of the train, the bounce in his seat and closed his eyes. Every time he opened them he was surrounded by new people, and had to look at a map to figure out where he was. He got off at the airport because everyone else was getting off, and he acceded to the impulse to follow them. They crowded on the escalators, jostling each other with wheeled luggage along white gleaming walkways. If he filmed a movie here he would take advantage of the bright lights, the reflective surfaces that cast a pallor on everyone's faces and highlighted the sleepless circles under their eyes. Announcements rang over the intercom.<br /><br />There was a knot of anger in him, fierce and tangled, and he didn't know where to direct it. Right now it was aimed at himself, at Max, and inexplicably at his brother. He wandered the terminals and bought a bag of gummy bears at a newsstand. He stood at a decorative Rube Goldberg machine encased in glass, watching as a marble slid from the top to a series of spinning wheels and pulleys. He could see his reflection in the glass: his lank blond hair, the dark circles under bright blue eyes. His clothes were mismatched, torn jeans and an old shirt; he hadn't put a thought to dressing well. A grimace turned his otherwise charming features ugly. <br /><br />He had never felt such despair in his life, not when his first film was mocked by his professor, not when he listened helplessly to Ben's screams in that museum as his younger brother's eye was ripped from the socket. He had demanded details of how he looked, how he seemed, from Max, ignoring how recounting them hurt her. She had complied quietly, a deadened, white edge to her lips. The blank look, the silence, the obedience to the commands of a stranger -- insulting, heinous! The nerve of that bastard. How could anyone work for a ghost anyhow? Was there an ad in the paper, were there interviews? The rage boiled in his belly. Quentins didn't bow to anyone, let alone their kidnappers. The marble clanged against a steel wire to rest at the bottom of the glass tank, before rolling to the top of the contraption on a plastic lift and beginning its descent once more. How could Max leave him alone? How could Ben, a boy smart as a whip, not fight for control of his brain? And – the thought sent bile rising to his throat – the whole time, Chuck had been less than ten yards away, engaged in a battle for an Artifact no one could determined the use of.<br /><br />A useless group, the lot of them, he determined. He crumpled up the empty bag of gummy bears, aimed for a bin and missed the shot. A janitor nearby shot him a dark glare. He sauntered away to the windows, fat airplanes parked at the gates. Aderyn had spent an entire day poring over the amber, poking it with gloved hands, studying the carving. The amber was hinted to be a flame of power, but no one knew what kind of power nor how to activate it. It was a blow on top of other blows, and finally Chuck had taken it back to store in the Quentin home, unwilling to trust it to the fools. For once, Aderyn had not argued with him. Max had only looked at him with tired eyes before disappearing into the stacks to look for books. Leigh Anne, tossing Chuck a reproachful glare, had followed her to help. The angry knot in Chuck tightened. He paced, but the airport wasn't soothing him in any way. He kept imagining he saw the dark brown head of his brother among the bustling travelers. He took the Blue Line back but switched to the Red, letting his feet decide the direction.<br /><br />As the train crossed the Charles River into Cambridge the knot in his chest began to ease. He could breathe a little easier. Glumly he did not stop himself, but let his feet take him to Max's apartment building. The sun was beginning to set and lights were on in the Pilars' windows. The house was outlined in the gray of the late afternoon and he stood outside looking up at the windows, unsure whether he wanted to ring the doorbell or not. Then he heard a sigh behind him.<br /><br />Max stood watching him a careful distance away. Her hair was down, flowing in dark waves over her shoulders, and she looked as bad as he did. The street lamps along the boulevard began to flicker on, casting shadows over her drawn face. She was lovely, dark almond eyes and a full mouth pulled tight in an expression of brave resignation for what he might say. And she was small, the bones of her cheeks and nose delicate as she cocked her head at him, and the knot burst in Chuck's chest and dissolved into relief and a heady, warm affection that frightened him. Max's face softened to one of concern. Chuck crossed the space between them to take her hands and press them between his own, trying to convey his regret, his sadness, and his tenderness in the pressure of his palms. She let him.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-28390935985041720592010-10-02T11:26:00.002-04:002010-10-02T11:30:46.214-04:00The New Houdini 20Ben was as still as if someone had flicked a switch and turned him off. He stood in the midst of broken crockery, torn paintings and spilled jewelry, staring sightlessly at a point near the door. Mr. Curry's head was cocked as he posed against the shelf, examining a World War I artillery shell.<br /><br />"Why are you still here?" Max snapped. "Your Artifact's not here."<br /><br />He shrugged, a smile playing on his lips. "I like drama."<br /><br />Max ignored him and clasped Ben's unresponsive hand in hers, feeling strange for doing so when he would least care for the gesture. They had only ever touched once before: in a darkened museum exhibit room he reached for her to stop her from leaving. His hand was cold, the fingers long and nimble, the nails overgrown and dirty. <br /><br />"Hey," she said, "let's get out of here, okay?" Her voice shook.<br /><br />His hand was limp in hers.<br /><br />One of the fallen guards moaned and stirred. Max flinched at how loud the noise seemed. She tugged at Ben's hand with a rising urgency.<br /><br />"Let's go," she begged again, more quietly this time. The guard was beginning to wake.<br /><br />"He won't." Mr. Curry didn't seem much troubled by the guard; he barely strayed from his spot. He sounded almost pitying. "Unless you want to get caught I suggest you leave immediately."<br /><br />She gripped Ben's hand tightly. "I can't leave him. I just found him. I can't. And Chuck –" pain lanced through her chest – "he doesn't even know, how can I?"<br /><br />The guard let out another long moan, louder this time. Max stilled, panic overflowing and nearly bringing her to tears. She cast a beseeching glance at Ben, who didn't even notice. <br /><br />"You're going to take him and go, with or without the Artifact?" she asked Mr. Curry.<br /><br />The older man nodded.<br /><br />Her choices began to unravel; there wasn't anything she could do right now. If they stayed and were caught having demolished a few dozen antique works there'd be hell to pay. No one would believe that Ben hadn't done it willingly and he would only escape again as long as Peter remained in control. As for Max... the jig would be up right then. Her mother wouldn't let her out of the apartment after this kind of mess. That would be end. Why was everything so unfair?<br /><br />Feeling sick and trapped, Max let go of Ben's hand.<br /><br />"Get out," Max said.<br /><br />"You first," Mr. Curry retorted.<br /><br />"What is happening?" the guard slurred.<br /><br />With one last burning glare at her high school teacher, Max fled. She ran out of the room, down the twisting hallways, and opened the door to the main auction room. No one noticed her enter. The entire room thrummed with applause as Chuck Quentin stood from his seat, smiling graciously as he was announced the owner of item sixteen-oh-two. All of the room's faces were turned to him but for Maxine's. She pressed herself against a wall and looked at the bright lights of the stage, which blurred in her vision as she cried.<br /><br /><br />Four days after the auction Chuck still wasn't speaking to Max. He didn't pick up her calls, he stopped loitering at the Lighthouse, and he guarded the amber as jealously as a dragon guarding treasure. His parents were baffled at his purchase and even more surprised that he had even attended an auction. He had never had an interest in ancient art before, always preferring the more modern work of films and photography. But they took it in stride, to his relief. Maybe they thought the activity was better than his usual moping and stressing about Ben. The thought rankled him. If only they knew how connected it all was!<br /><br />He knew, distantly, that his parents were just as worried as he was, perhaps even more so, but were too dignified to do more than call the police daily in hopes of news. Max would not have called it dignified. She called it repressed, but then again she didn't quite understand how his family worked.<br /><br />He would not think about her. Because if he did he inevitably thought of what she did, and the rage would boil in him so fast he thought he would choke on it.<br /><br />He would go for a walk.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-90018136075097083482010-09-18T00:35:00.004-04:002010-09-18T11:11:17.514-04:00The New Houdini 19"If you're as good as you say you wouldn't be afraid of dying," she shot back. "Where's Peter?"<br /><br />He waggled his eyebrows at her, his nondescript face breaking into a smile. "Your friend Ben's contribution has made him a bit more stable, but it's still exhausting for him to move around in the world," he explained. He swept a fancy bow, a strange contradiction with his ratty clothes. "So, me. And him," he added as an afterthought, glancing toward Ben, who stalked through the shelves toppling art pieces at random. "But he doesn't count. He fights a bit too much up here." He tapped the side of his head.<br /><br />Bile rose in Max's throat. So Ben was still somewhere inside his own head, fighting a losing battle for control. "You're horrible. I can't believe I learned Shakespeare from you."<br /><br />She turned and looked through the shelves as quickly as she could, abandoning one aisle to search in the next, turning things over to look beneath them and making as much noise as Ben. The two of them checked each basket and shelf, Ben ignoring every brush of Max against him and every whispered plea between bins. Max's teacher looking on in idle amusement.<br /><br />"It's really not here if you can't find it." Mr. Curry's voice was calm, the statement a fact. He rested now against a shelf, twisting a bauble between his fingers. "Especially with the boy in the same room. He is trained to look for nothing else."<br /><br />"He's trained as a violinist," Max spat. "First chair."<br /><br />Mr. Curry's smile widened. "That kind of violin?" <br /><br />He poked at a mess of wood and strings with his loafered feet. Ben had broken it, smashed it down without a thought when he determined it wasn't an Artifact. He hadn't seemed to recognize it. Max looked away.<br /><br /><br />She was taking a seriously long bathroom break. Chuck stretched out his long legs in front of him, his knees tapping the back of the chair in front of him, and ignored the dark looks of the woman sitting in it. The movers had brought out four separate items over half an hour ago, each covered in cloth for dramatic effect. Belmouth could never get enough of dramatic effects. The first three items had been uninteresting. Chuck wondered if Max was maybe feeling sick. She had certainly looked sick when they first entered the reception hall.<br /><br />The woman on stage trimmed the wick for a new candle.<br /><br />"Next item," Barrett announced. "An exciting one. Number sixteen-oh-two."<br /><br />Chuck sat up. That sounded like –<br /><br />"A sphere of blue amber from the Dominican Republic, six inches in diameter, polished and cut with a design of an open eye in the center, no visible streaks."<br /><br />Where, where the hell was Max? <br /><br />The woman lifted the edge of the black cloth with relish, lingering until the crowd's curiosity hit its peak. With a flourish, she pulled off the cloth to reveal the stone that sat on a velvet dais like a king. It was small globe, smaller than a baseball, but when the lights of the stage shone on it the rock seemed to grab at the light and hold it for itself. It glowed blue and orange and angry red like a fire banked in a hearth. The design of the staring eye was barely visible amid the flashes of color.<br /><br />A murmur rushed through the crowd. Chuck had studied the photos, had memorized the dimensions of the stone. He had grown up surrounded by beautiful things all his life. There was no reason for him to be impressed. Yet he was.<br /><br />The candle was lit and the bidding began. Chuck had not been the only person impressed by the stone; more people opened the bidding than he had expected, and the auction that had been losing ground with boring items suddenly picked up speed. In response Barrett spoke less and gestured more, saying only prices and paddle numbers, no longer cajoling people into placing bids. The flame of the candle wavered with all of the movement. In minutes the price entered the four-digit range.<br /><br />Chuck raised his paddle.<br /><br />Number eighteen did the same.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-65873134299384501462010-09-10T23:25:00.001-04:002010-09-10T23:27:33.583-04:00The New Houdini 18She almost didn't see the knife in his hand. Without turning he lifted it and slashed the painting with such violence that Max leapt back. <br /><br />"Ben," she said hoarsely. Then her voice lifted in panic as she watched him slice at the canvas with a rage she had not known him to possess. "Ben!"<br /><br />At his name the boy stopped, knife dropping to his side. The painting was in tatters. He turned to look at her and she gaped: a black patch covered the empty right socket, the band of it hidden beneath his hair. The brown of his remaining eye was a blank mirror. His mouth was set in a firm line, neither frowning nor smiling, and his face was smeared with dirt and so thin Max felt her eyes sting with tears. She had known logically that he had likely lost his memories, his right eye having been turned into the Artifact of memory for Peter Quentin's resurrection. It hurt to see that truth in reality.<br /><br />She had kept the memory of his face -- smirking, cajoling, sparking with interest – in her mind as a reminder of her task. Only now did she realize that she had kept it as a secret hope of how he might be when she found him, and she felt an ache as that hope was dashed. <br /><br />"It's me," she said. But he only looked at her for a moment before returning his focus to the next auction item. "Ben, it's Maxine." <br /><br />"He doesn't remember you." A voice volunteered from behind her, partly pitying and partly amused. "Poor kid doesn't know a damn thing."<br /><br />Mr. Curry closed the door behind him and leaned against it, surveying the damaged room and the unconscious men with a faintly disapproving look. "I wish you wouldn't make more mess than you have to," he said to Ben. When the boy ignored him he shot Max a rueful glance. "I think I talk to him out of habit," he confided to her. "He never answers."<br /><br />"Why are you here?" she asked, too confused to process what he was saying. "I didn't know you went to these types of auctions."<br /><br />Mr. Curry – damn, why did she not know his name? – shot her an appraising glance so very different from the absent-minded, gentle way he addressed her in school. The look was keen and focused and coolly disinterested. <br /><br />"There are a lot of things students rarely discover about their teachers. Did you know I used to be an Artifact hunter like you?" he said conversationally. "I worked for several private collectors and could always tell when there was a good one at an auction. Just a natural talent from birth, nothing gained late like yours."<br /><br />Max wondered if she was hallucinating his presence. He knew her secret life, shared in it himself. Worse, he knew she could tell when an object was an Artifact, a talent she had only discovered after Peter's escape and one she suspected had to do with meeting him. She had never told anyone about it but Chuck and Aderyn. Any minute now, she thought dazedly, he'd start describing a facet of a book she hadn't read using an elevated vocabulary only Nadia could understand.<br /><br />Oh, Nadia. Max spared a despairing moment for her best friend. She had never paid attention to Nadia's deep crush on their teacher when she should have.<br /><br />Behind her Ben shoved another item to the ground with a crash. She didn't turn to look at him, keeping her eyes on Mr. Curry's innocuous features.<br /><br />"He's getting frustrated," Mr. Curry said amusedly. He rubbed at his elbow through his patched jacket. "I suppose it's not here after all."<br /><br />Max immediately recalled the amber. Chuck had been right; it was an Artifact. Was Ben searching for it? Did that mean it was already in the auction room? "You didn't answer my question," Max said. "Why are you here?"<br /><br />Mr. Curry's gaze turned inscrutable. "Maybe I want to buy something nice at auction. I do have my man out there winning me prizes. I think you know him: paddle eighteen? Your friend out in the auction room will know him soon enough. Or maybe I'm sick of collecting Artifacts for no reason and finally have a real fun one with this bringing-back-to-life talk."<br /><br />"A fun reason?" Max bit out. "So you have no problem working for a homicidal ghost for amusement?"<br /><br />The smile vanished, replaced again by that shuttered look. His pose was carefully casual against the door. "It would be nice never to die. Wouldn't you say so?"<br /><br />Max reeled as though she had been slapped. "You can't," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady and to keep her feelings on the subject of death at bay. "If you'd studied anything in your career as a hunter you'd know. There are rules, forces in the world you can't rearrange."<br /><br />"Says who? Books? The scholars?" Mr. Curry's laugh was soft and derisive but it carried across the room. "Maxine, I was a treasure hunter that could escape a room laden with traps that would kill anyone who breathed on them wrongly, and have treasure to boot. They called me the Houdini of Hunts, I was so good at getting out of scrapes that everyone, including my own mother, assumed would kill me." His eyes held hers. She dared not show weakness by avoiding his gaze. "Don't quote conventional wisdom and expect me to believe it."Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-30866531836384504772010-09-03T19:55:00.003-04:002010-09-03T21:01:34.612-04:00The New Houdini 17Mr. Curry – what was his first name? She had never bothered to know – waggled his fingers at her in greeting, then shot an interested glance at Chuck. The young man didn't notice but Max felt herself frowning. She stood and began to worm her way through the maze of seats, ignoring the dark mutters of the people forced to move out of her way.<br /><br />She had crossed more than half of the distance dividing her from her teacher and was impatiently waiting for a woman to move her handbag out of aisle when Mr. Curry held up a lazy hand in warning then pointed to the stage. Max didn't hesitate, moving quicker now that she was out of the thick of auction-bidders, and so she only spared a glance where the older man gestured. She stopped in her tracks, ignoring the curses of a young woman whose view she now impeded. <br /><br />She could see the stage much more clearly now. What she thought was a storage room for auction items was not a room at all but a door to a hallway. Two burly men stepped through the doorway carrying an old writing desk between them, grunting under the weight of it. Max glanced at them in time to see a thin, black-haired body slip past them into the hallway like a ripple. The men didn't notice.<br /><br />Mr. Curry gave her a half-smile.<br /><br />Max recognized that thin back, hair that was now wildly overgrown. She felt sick, her eyes blurring for a moment. Frantically she turned to Chuck but he seemingly had not noticed, still intent on the stage. She stifled the urge to call out to him in the silent room; it would ruin the auction, ruin their best chance to get the amber, and he was too far away. They would lose Ben in an instant.<br /><br />So she followed, forgetting Mr. Curry and moving to the edges of the room to wait until the men had deposited the writing desk and disappeared back into the hallway. Once they were safely inside and hopefully out of the hallway she sauntered up to the door and opened it nonchalantly, closing it behind her before anyone could ask who she was.<br /><br />It was a dingy narrow hall, unlike either the fancy modern anteroom where waiters poured wine and the solemn polished auction room. The floor was grungy cement pocked with round black gum marks, the walls a simple cream color marked by the occasional print-out: schedules, sign-in sheets, and reminders not to clog the toilets. Her nice shoes were loud on the cement. Painted steel doors lined the walls and the hall converged with other identical hallways in other directions. This was one of the halls where the real operations of the building took place, one of the paths janitors, waiters and staff used to get around the building without being seen. <br /><br />Thankfully the hall was empty of staff or movers. Max moved rapidly, searching for another glimpse of Ben while hoping to avoid getting kicked out of this obviously verboten area. She tried the doors, most of them locked, until she heard a crashing sound like broken glass. She ran to the end of the hall and turned left, following the sounds of shattering, until she came upon an open door.<br /><br />It was the storage room of antiquities for the auction. It looked like the storage room of a museum, full of artworks and small valuables. Each item was carefully labeled and shelved, individually protected by layers of plastic bubble wrap and plywood. Max recognized an early Van Gogh sketch on a scrap of paper in a tiny frame. A shelf on the far corner had collapsed, its trinkets smashed to pieces on the ground.<br /><br />Benjamin Franklin Quentin stood amongst the metal shelves, contemplating a row of gold Russian nesting dolls. He had his back to Max and didn't seem to notice her arrival, staring at the dolls with his back hunched, looking ready to spring. He was so thin, she thought with a pang; his clothes seemed to hang off him. He was in the same clothes he had worn when she saw him last in the Museum of Fine Arts four months ago: a pair of blue jeans now almost black with dirt, a dark blue button down shirt, now untucked and fraying at the bottom, the elbows nearly worn through. One of the sleeves was torn. She wondered how that happened. His long hair was stiff with dirt and grease, with permanent tunnels where fingers had run through them.<br /><br />Ben seemed to have come to a conclusion about the dolls. Without a comment or a gesture of warning, Ben leaned forward and swept the nesting dolls to the ground. They fell with a noise like an avalanche, echoing in the small room, and Max jumped and cursed. People would be coming any moment now, wondering about that racket – it was too loud to be ignored.<br /><br />It was only then that she noticed the movers that lay on the ground before her, those large intimidating men now bloodied and silent. She stared at them, frozen, and prayed that they weren't dead.<br /><br />Throat too dry to speak, she crossed the room to where Ben now stared at a painting of a sea shore at daybreak. His back was to her still; she longed for him to turn around. She reached a trembling hand out and touched his cold arm.<br /><br />She almost didn't see the knife in his hand.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-61338572949693660392010-08-27T15:56:00.000-04:002010-08-27T15:57:13.198-04:00The New Houdini 16Chuck's hand found the paddle clutched in hers. "I've been at these before. As long as we stay calm and don't let on that we truly want anything, we stand a chance of not provoking anyone to bid against us." He took the paddle from her hand, but not before resting his cool fingers on her palm. <br /><br />Kenneth Barrett was the opposite of the portly and dignified Belmouth; he was tall and thin with a head that looked as though it had been squashed vertically, and whose face was defined by thinning brown hair and a hawk's beak nose. His eyes were guileless, big and practical, and he held his polished gavel with ease. <br /><br />Barrett nodded at a woman who had appeared by the table of candles. The woman trimmed the wick of one and lit it with an expert hand. The light flared brightly for a moment before the flame settled on the candle, a steady gold glow in the dark room.<br /><br />"First item is number six-four-nine, Yuan dynasty vase, dated 1322 BC." Barrett voice was soothing but clear, carried to the far reaches of the room by the microphone. "Made in Kiangsi province, porcelain and kaolin, white and displaying artwork of peaches and willows. We'll start the bidding at a thousand dollars." <br /><br />Barrett glanced around the room; people were now sitting carefully still, the room full of ducked heads and tightly-clutched paddles, lest someone move his paddle in an innocent gesture and place a bid accidentally. <br /><br />"A thousand dollars is the opening bid," Barrett repeated. "A thousand dollars, anyone? Yes, a thousand dollars," and he gestured to the back of the room. His voice was leisurely, very different from the breakneck rambling Max saw in movies and had expected. Max resisted the urge to turn and guess who had raised his paddle to bid. "A thousand one hundred? A thousand one hundred!" And Barrett nodded at an old woman in the front row.<br /><br />The price of bids began escalating quickly as others began raising their paddles, each gesture knocking the price up by a hundred dollars. Soon the candle burned low and the price was five thousand one hundred. As if the flickering flame of the candlelight had been an unspoken signal, the bids suddenly began to increase as well.<br /><br />"Five thousand eight hundred," a man's gravelly voice murmured from the back as he raised his paddle with an arthritic hand. A bright red 18 was stamped on it. Murmurs crested around the room; he had upped the bid by five hundred dollars.<br /><br />"Six thousand," the old lady at the front interjected. Her paddle was stamped 45. <br /><br />"Six thousand five hundred," the man retorted.<br /><br />"Seven thousand," she answered.<br /><br />The other bidders dropped away, leaving only the two in the game. Barrett repeated each rising bid, looking unruffled and on top of his game, but the rest of the room was tense with interest. People glanced back and forth from the old woman in the front to the man in the back as if watching an enthralling tennis match. <br /><br />"Eight thousand four hundred."<br /><br />"Eight thousand six hundred," the gravel-voiced man said, and at that moment the candle sputtered and died.<br /><br />"The candle has expired. The final bid is eight thousand six hundred," Barrett said swiftly. "Item number six-four-nine sold to number eighteen, the man with the gray suit in the last row."<br /><br />There was some impressed applause. Max let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.<br /><br />The auction proceeded with much less fanfare, beautiful item after beautiful item sold often before the candle expired. Everything from oil paintings to uncomfortable-looking furniture to a collection of jewelry boxes made of delicate shell was trotted out on the stage. Chuck bid on several items half-heartedly but let other people win them, careful to appear as though he were bidding without a plan and was not waiting for any one item. The man with the paddle numbered 18 won several items, often swooping in at the last moment before the candle blew out to place the final bid. <br /><br />It was during the auction of the set of three ancient Egyptian thimbles that Max saw him. He stood at the corner of the room near the storage room without a paddle, arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the works of art that entered and left the stage. At first Max thought she was imagining things. But he was right there with patches on his coat and ink-stained trousers, woefully out of place in the room of businessmen and art collectors.<br /><br />What was her English teacher doing here?Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-45267629545528496252010-08-24T23:24:00.003-04:002010-08-24T23:40:20.302-04:00The New Houdini 15Max was too pleased to argue, dodging forward in the crowded anteroom to find a numbered paddle. Most of the people ignored her, accepting their presence now that Chuck had kept his dignity. A few even stepped back and allowed her to pass ahead of them. She signed up for the paddle numbered 34 and found Chuck in the auction room already seated and waiting for her.<br /><br />The room was mahogany-paneled, the dark wood glossy with the soft lights from the chandeliers that peppered the ceiling. The room was filled with cushioned chairs that faced a stage on the far side of the room, the stage bare but for a display stand, a microphone, an easel, and a table full of one-inch tapered candles. A closed door stood to the left of the stage. People filed in and chose seats silently, murmuring only when the closed door opened and two latex-gloved men appeared carrying a heavy Chinese vase. They placed it on the display stand on stage and vanished into the doorway, closing it carefully behind them.<br /><br />Max sat beside Chuck heavily and waved the fat paddle at him. "Do I get to bid a little?" she asked hopefully. "That'd be fun, I've never done that."<br /><br />Chuck stared at the stage, his lips thinned in worry. "It's candle."<br /><br />"Excuse me?"<br /><br />"That old Belmouth said there'd be changes." He pitched his voice low enough for only Max to hear. "Couldn't he have waited til next year when I didn't actually need anything?" He sat back in his chair, posture fully relaxed, but his eyes were frustrated.<br /><br />"I'm not following. What do you mean by candle?"<br /><br />"It's a type of auction," he murmured. "Each item is up for bidding only as long as one of those candles stays lit. Last bid before lights out stands."<br /><br />Max glanced at the table of stubby white candles, their fat wicks as long as the candles themselves. "So they'll light a candle each time something's up on the auction block, and the last person to bid before the candle's out wins?"<br /><br />Chuck's fingers flexed, as if he longed to run them through his hair in agitation. "Yeah. Those won't last longer than ten minutes each. The fatter the wick is the faster it burns, and candles usually stop burning roughly half an inch from the bottom." He sighed. "With the air conditioning and people waving their paddles around the flame won't be steady either. It could go out way before ten minutes."<br /><br />Max stared at Chuck, the impact of this new addition to their plans finally taking root in her brain. "You mean it could go out whenever?"<br /><br />"Yeah." His voice, low as it was, had so much anger in it that she looked away. "I could have a million dollars at my disposal and be out of luck if some bastard places the last bid before I can. And without a set time limit I'll have no idea when that last bid will be. Our plans are in the toilet."<br /><br />Max studied his face and saw at last the panic and fear nestled in the downturn of his mouth, the set of his jaw and the dancing of his fingertips on the chair upholstery. It was panic and wild fear struggling to escape, clamped down only by his self-control. And she knew.<br /><br />Mr. Belmouth clambered up the stage. There was a light scattering of applause. He coughed into the microphone. "I'm sure you've all caught on to this year's fun trick by now! The candle auction was very popular until the eighteenth century or so, and as this is an auction of historical goods I thought it'd be quite proper to use an historical auction style as well."<br /><br />The crowd tittered in approval.<br /><br />"This is the real thing, isn't it," Max whispered. She barely registered Belmouth's words. She suddenly felt somber and weighted down, as if she had just been handed a heavy parcel. "This isn't some far-fetched reconnaissance mission. Why didn't you tell me?"<br /><br />"I know it, Max, I know this." Chuck reached across their seats to grab her hand tightly for a moment, squeezing so hard she squeaked in protest. "I know it's not official til you check but I'm telling you –"<br /><br />"I'm not much for speeches," Mr. Belmouth continued, "so let's simply get on with it. Let's have a round of applause for our great auctioneer, Kenneth Barrett!"<br /><br />More half-hearted applause filled the room.<br /><br />"Okay," she said. She took a deep breath. "Okay."Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-43611835297680921712010-08-13T16:47:00.003-04:002010-08-24T23:23:45.308-04:00The New Houdini 14The elevator's walls were made of reinforced glass with a view of the street outside. As the elevator rose she watched the sidewalk become smaller and further away and felt a moment of stomach-dropping vertigo. Chuck kept his eye on the polished steel doors, his pulse leaping in his throat.<br /><br />The trick was keeping calm, not letting on that the amber was valuable or a potential Artifact to keep the price from skyrocketing, the owner from absconding with it, or any of the myriad thieves who specialized in such objects from having a chance to steal it. Chuck was naturally calm and poised. So why was he so nervous?<br /><br />The elevator doors slid open before she could ask. Max's first impression was of a solemn cocktail party: small tables covered by crisp white cloths, modern steel and glass decor against black walls, tuxedoed servers carrying trays of canapes and half-full bottles, men and women in gray suits and cream dresses holding slim glasses of wine. Max and Chuck were easily the youngest people in the room by at least ten years. People's eyes slid over Chuck, taking in his features then gazing beyond him, as if it were rude to show interest in him. No one looked at Max at all. The room was full of quiet murmurs and false tinkling laughs.<br /><br />Max wanted to flee immediately, feeling outdone in ways she had never taken seriously in the past. Her clothes were not enough. Her face was too expressive. She was way, way too poor and they could somehow tell. How had Ben lived in this world? She wondered how he stood it for so long, this game of masks and manners, when he had been so forthright.<br /><br />She must have made a strangled noise; Chuck shot her a quelling look, taking clean bites from his spinach canape as he strode into the morass of barely-smiling people. Max followed, remembering her role just in time. She suppressed a growl as Chuck tossed her his dirty napkin.<br /><br />A round man in his fifties intercepted them like a shark. He shook Chuck's hand vigorously. Chuck, to his credit, did not pull away.<br /><br />"Mr. Belmouth." Chuck's voice was smooth, tinged with warmth.<br /><br />This was the art dealer who had arranged the auction and owned the amber. Max stole a measuring glance. He didn't match her grand suppositions, instead being a portly man with graying hair and a lined face. His suit was nearly pressed and his eyes alert and surrounded by crinkling laugh lines. He wore power and surety like a comfortable mantle, a man who knew his opinions on people and objects were valued and sought and enjoyed that fact.<br /><br />"Young Quentin!" Belmouth was louder than necessary; the people around them hushed for a moment before resuming their conversations. "I haven't seen you at one of these in ages."<br /><br />"I've been in school, sir," Chuck explained. "But when the auction is a Belmouth one feels compelled to attend."<br /><br />The edges of Belmouth's mouth rose slightly. "I did not think your family had time for such things considering your unique circumstances." His eyes watched Chuck with intent. "Some wait to see what becomes of your family's empire after such unfortunate distractions, gawkers watching a stone land in a pond and hoping the ripples don't cause them harm." He chuckled. "They forget that water stills quickly enough for stones to be forgotten entirely."<br /><br />Chuck's face remained impassive. Max knew she was bristling at his side, aching to retort but unsure what to say. Belmouth had managed to question Chuck's presence, throw Ben's disappearance into the room, insult the stability of the Quentins' trading business and dismiss that business all in one go. She could feel the room's stares.<br /><br />"There is always time for art and beauty, Mr. Belmouth." Chuck's voice was a calm murmur that somehow carried across the room. "Especially in times of trouble. Of course, stones endure long after the pond is dry."<br /><br />Chuck met Belmouth's gaze and held it. Max quieted at his side. Belmouth's bushy eyebrow quirked upward in surrender. Max sensed it in the room, a release of tension like an exhalation. Belmouth turned to face the crowd.<br /><br />"The auction will begin in ten minutes," he said, gesturing to a wood-paneled room on his left. "We'll be handing out paddles as you enter, please make sure to log your number at the entrance." Belmouth nodded to Chuck. "I'll see you inside. You chose to come at the most opportune time. A few tricks this year, yes?"<br /><br />"I look forward to it," said Chuck gravely. Belmouth joined the burgeoning crowd at the entrance collecting their numbered paddles, and only when the man was out of sight did Chuck grin at Max.<br /><br />"That was marvelous," Max said.<br /><br />"Go get me my paddle." Chuck managed to make the statement both a leer and a command. "Go forth."<br /><br />Max was too pleased to argue.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-54205642728512916122010-08-06T17:00:00.003-04:002010-08-06T17:11:46.905-04:00The New Houdini 13Max watched covertly as Chuck gazed out the window, the back of his neck stiff under his pristine collar. He had smiled his trademark grin when they got into the car but had lapsed into a troubling silence, observing the traffic flowing by. The afternoon light edged his hair in gold.<br /><br />"I bet you took forever deciding what car to use."<br /><br />Chuck ignored her and pointed to a brown paper bag at her feet. Inside sat a fresh-baked blueberry muffin, still warm. She smiled ruefully; he really did know what she liked. She was halfway through the muffin when he finally spoke. He shifted in his seat, the soft leather barely protesting. <br /><br />"You'll be in fine form today, I hope?" <br /><br />She tilted her head, the loose strands of hair from her bun tickling her face. "Will there be much for me to do? The plan is admirably simple."<br /><br />The plan was direct, to her relief. Vincent, the driver, was already taking them to an auction during which the amber would be on the block. All they had to do was buy it before anyone else did. Stealing it was too difficult, the amber was too well-protected to crack with their meager skills. Chuck had no hindrances from digging into the deep Quentin coffers and even fewer scruples about spending. She hoped they would not have to dig too deep. It wasn't exactly money she could pay back. <br /><br />A slow smile spread across Chuck's face, warm and so genuine that Max couldn't help but answer with a smile. She was puzzled for a moment; did she compliment him so rarely? Perhaps. She felt a twinge of guilt and the smile faded.<br /><br />"You'll be playing my girlfriend, of course," Chuck said blithely. "The amber would make a lovely gift for you."<br /><br />Max flushed. "I'm a social secretary, an intern for the summer."<br /><br />"Same thing." He didn't bat an eye.<br /><br />"Chuck," she said, and she tried to inject the word with as much warning and weight as it could bear. <br /><br />He shrugged delicately. "Your way is extremely boring, you know."<br /><br />The driver broke in before she could throw the remains of her muffin at Chuck's head. "We're here, sir." <br /><br />Outside the tinted windows of the Continental Max saw the glass skyscrapers of the Financial District rising over the highways, the older, stouter colonial-style buildings that littered almost every part of Boston tucked between them like boulders among trees. The skyscrapers glimmered blue in the light, reflecting the sky and the water of the nearby harbor.<br /><br />The auction, she knew, would be in one of those sleek towers, and she felt a sharp moment of trepidation. She'd never been in one of those buildings, had never given them more than a curious glance or ever thought she'd have a reason to enter one of them. Chuck laid a hand on her shoulder, a reassuring, feather-light touch that both calmed her nerves and set a warm spark in her skin that made her frown. He gazed out the window, cool and unruffled and his eyes darkening to a deeper blue at thoughts she could not fathom. Max took a deep breath and steeled herself against the unease she felt since she had woke this morning, and of which she hoped to spare Chuck from knowing.<br /><br />They pulled up the curb and Vincent scrambled out of the driver's seat to open the door on Max's side. She got out, tugging her skirt down in discomfort, and Chuck followed. She moved to tug open one of the wide, sparkling glass double doors that served as the tower entrance when Chuck admonished her with the slightest shake of his head. She dropped her hand. She watched through the glass walls as a doorman in a suit strode toward them to open the door with a gloved hand. She stepped through first as she knew she should and swallowed the urge to thank the doorman, nodding to him instead.<br /><br />The doorman's eyes passed over her without care and halted on Chuck. Chuck met his eyes steadily.<br /><br />"Mr. Quentin, sir," the doorman said gravely. "Eighth floor."<br /><br />Chuck smiled at him, his thoughts still shuttered behind his eyes. It led to an odd expression that Max had never seen before, kindly but distant instead of manic and teasing, a smile that was a shield. "Thank you."<br /><br />Startled she followed him wordlessly to the elevator.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-5751801434341649762010-07-30T12:37:00.001-04:002010-07-30T12:39:29.969-04:00The New Houdini 12The Weather Man hated visiting the office. The place always reeked of burritos and he couldn't see farther than the building next door from the tiny windows and nothing of the sky. The Weather Man preferred being out in the elements, in the parks and associating in the real world. The office was Aderyn's domain.<br /><br />He strode the perimeter of the library, unbolting locks and opening windows as he went, letting the summer breeze of the early afternoon cool his dark skin.<br /><br />"Opening windows when the air conditioner is on? I'll send you the bill in the mail." <br /><br />Aderyn's voice was crisp but amused. She stood in the door of the Lighthouse's makeshift office and kitchen, watching him with her sharp gray eyes. She could be pretty if she wasn't so severe, the old man reflected. She had a full mouth and high cheekbones and deathly pale skin that burned without sunscreen even in winter. She was a little plump, had settled a little into her late thirties, but he liked that kind of shape. Everything about her from her close-cropped dark hair, her Roman nose, and her tailored pantsuit was orderly, sparse and elegant. He wondered if she was married. In three years of working together he'd never felt comfortable enough to ask, nor she inclined to speak of anything but work.<br /><br />"There's nobody at the front desk," The Weather Man complained. "Who was supposed to check my credentials?"<br /><br />"Maybe if you did your job and found us some actual Artifacts we'd have enough clout to hire a secretary. Leigh Anne and Varij are on a scouting trip, and your pet incompetents are following up your amber suggestion."<br /><br />The Weather Man followed her into the office and made a beeline for the mini fridge. He was in luck: Varij, their overweight but fierce South African specialist, had left a bottle of cream soda labeled with his name. The Weather Man peeled off the label and cracked open the bottle.<br /><br />"Maxine is far from incompetent, and we're lucky to have a Seer in our group," he remarked. He shut the fridge door and drained half the bottle in one gulp, patting his round belly in satisfaction and straightening his tie. He was as impeccably dressed as she, wearing a three-piece suit in severe black. "I think we're the first to have an actual Seer and not some fool throwing Tarot cards to the wind. I hoped you'd get over your dislike of him."<br /><br />Aderyn settled behind her desk. "Varij will be furious. That's the third time you've taken his food. He'll snap and beat you into a bloody pulp with one punch."<br /><br />The Weather Man barked a laugh. "That'll be a fun day."<br /><br />She looked at him quizzically. "I still don't understand why I had to assign it to them. Why give them the credit for your scoop? You could've looked into it on your own or even assigned it to them yourself."<br /><br />"I'm not the director of the Lighthouse." He grinned at her, tossing the open bottle from hand to hand without spilling a drop. "Better this way. I don't have to waste my time if it's fake. If it's real they get a good lead and you get the drop on Harvard."<br /><br />"We," she corrected. "We get the drop on Harvard."<br /><br />"I was never as big on competing as you," he mused.<br /><br />The Weather Man paced around the long glass table, slowly drinking the last of his cream soda. Aderyn watched him from her desk, fingers steepled against her cheek in thought.<br /><br />"Those kids," she said. "They've been through hell. It's not over in the least, is it?"<br /><br />The Weather Man tipped his head back to catch the last drops of soda. Bottle empty, he pulled a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed his mouth delicately. "It depends."<br /><br />"On what?"<br /><br />He tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket. "It depends on what they want."Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-80436441092523376432010-07-26T18:10:00.002-04:002010-07-26T19:03:08.291-04:00The New Houdini 11Maybe that was why Ben had called out to him, reached out to him in his dreams. Max didn't know the first thing about money and Ben was always made uncomfortable by it. But Chuck knew what money could do. Money afforded his rolls of film, his cameras and shooting permits. Money got him into places that would be barred otherwise; money made people believe in him. Maybe it was cynical and manipulative, but it was true and Chuck never had a problem using this fact. This was why Aderyn wanted him on this job. <br /><br />It hurt a little, he supposed, to think he offered nothing else but funds and a cheery word toward their endeavors. He didn't have Max's instincts, borne of mourning and brushing against strange worlds, nor of the other Society members' intricate knowledge. If the end result was Ben's return it didn't really matter. <br /><br />Max's mother opened the door, a firecracker of a short lady. The top of her head reached Chuck's eyebrows.<br /><br />"Wasn't expecting you this early, Chuckles. The front of this house is a no-parking zone, you know."<br /><br />Chuck grimaced; the woman had an unholy fascination with terrible nicknames. "It won't get towed, miss."<br /><br />Kalea thinned her lips before letting him in, and he knew she was suppressing a comment about rules not applying to those at the top. In the kitchen she offered him cereal, which he declined – he couldn't afford crumbs. They stood in the kitchen, Chuck standing tall and smiling benignly, and Kalea studying him openly. This was fairly typical; he learned early on that an effort to charm her was effort wasted. Max had never elaborated on the Museum of Fine Arts attack but her mother was no fool, and Chuck knew she considered him the root cause of her daughter's problems.<br /><br />Max clattered out of her bedroom and Chuck's felt his eyebrows rise in appreciation. She wore a slim dark skirt and matching ruffled shirt with a cropped jacket, and had styled her hair in a no-nonsense bun. She had followed his directions precisely. Privately he admitted that it flattered her.<br /><br />"What kind of seminar is this again?" Kalea asked wearily.<br /><br />"I was supposed to meet you there," Max bit out, "what do you think you're doing?"<br /><br />Chuck waved cheerily. "I was passing by, thought I'd save you the effort."<br /><br />"I'm not riding in some limo."<br /><br />Kalea said with careful mildness, "Do you mind telling me where you're going?"<br /><br />"It's not a limo." Chuck was remorseful. "I didn't know that's what you preferred."<br /><br />Max sighed. "Ignore him, Mom. It's a seminar on how to conduct a college interview."<br /><br />"Conveniently located at my college." Chuck beamed. "Would you like a muffin, Maxine? Carl's muffins are outstanding. I saved you one."<br /><br />"No, thank you." Max shot him daggers with her eyes.<br /><br />"I can handle the rejection," Chuck confided to Kalea, before following Max out the door. "But I'm not so sure how Carl's gonna take it."<br /><br />Kalea didn't answer him. He noticed as they left that she watched them get into the Bentley, her face tired and mouth pursed with worry. He wanted to reassure her. But Chuck didn't dare.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-39628182634141925652010-02-13T17:41:00.005-05:002010-08-24T23:23:56.884-04:00The New Houdini 10And then he woke. The summer sun streamed through the large windows of his bedroom, blinding him, and Chuck covered his face with a sweaty hand. Slowly his senses adjusted from the dream's alley to his presence nestled between the fluffy sheets of his king-sized bed. His room was easily three times as big as the alley where he saw Ben, with more than enough space to hold his antique dressers, his couch, his television, his desk and his shelves of films. His film equipment sat dusty in a corner by the walk-in closet, unused for four months. It was silent aside from the rustling of trees outside his windows, the Quentin house situated far enough outside of Boston's city center for privacy. Chuck wished he could hear even the faintest car horn; the dream felt too real, and his bedroom alien and overlarge. Some noise, any noise, might have made him feel more human. Instead he felt like he was still asleep.<br /><br />The clock read ten in the morning; Max would be waiting to meet him at one. He had a lot of preparations to complete before then, if his plan was going to succeed. And it was imperative, more than ever, that they had to succeed. This was connected to Ben.<br /><br />He rose and showered until the water ran cold. His parents, despite the day being a fine summer Saturday, had likely already disappeared into their world of business meetings, lunch parties and phone conferences. Chuck doubted the idea of a lazy weekend even existed for them. Even when Ben had disappeared, they had only spent three days away from the office, trusting in the police to manage things. <br /><br />He chose his outfit carefully, wanting to express wealth and prestige without stating it openly. This wasn't difficult, really; he shunned visible designer labels and never purchased anything that wasn't made of the finest fabrics and stitching. Anything less made him uncomfortable. Ben and Max claimed his standards made him a snob. Ben in particular had always gone out of his way to dress as casually as possible. Chuck chose a pair of soft gray slacks and a pressed slate shirt and matching blazer. He considered a gray ascot, tying it around his neck and scrutinizing himself in the mirror before deciding against it. He wasn't going to a polo match. Briefly he wondered what Max thought of the idea of polo. He pictured her looking incredulous, mouth frowning and eyes wide, and his mouth quirked up. He brushed his blonde hair carefully, though not too much. <br /><br />A basket of fresh muffins sat at the dining table waiting for him. A folded newspaper rested beside his plate. Their cook, Carl, came out of the swinging kitchen doors and offered to make him an omelet. Chuck refused, though he did take two muffins with him.<br /><br />He spent time in the garage choosing a car, pacing between the glistening machines until he settled on a Bentley Continental. Max would hate it, he knew, and so he decided to pick her up instead of meeting her at the auction house. As the driver made his way out of Chestnut Hill's plush residences and over the Charles River into Cambridge, Chuck contemplated his move. Should he tell her about his dream? Would it upset her more than necessary?<br /><br />"Park directly in front of the house," he ordered the driver, who hesitated, his gray head peeking at Chuck carefully in the rearview mirror.<br /><br />"We're picking up Miss Pilar, correct?"<br /><br />"Of course," Chuck snapped from the backseat, "who else lives at that address?"<br /><br />"She hates being picked up," the driver said. "Sir."<br /><br />Chuck threw his head back in laughter, nearly wrinkling his blazer. "Are you afraid of a girl Ben's age, Vincent?"<br /><br />"It's not that," Vincent said sourly. "She's a sweet girl when she's not made moody by your antics."<br /><br />Chuck settled into the leather seat and looked out the window at the sturdy, nondescript houses that they zoomed by without a thought. Max lived in one of those houses, in an apartment nonetheless. He couldn't decide if an apartment would be cozy or suffocating. <br /><br />"Unfortunately," Chuck said to his reflection, "it's going to be a very moody day."Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-50659560449397842152010-02-07T19:38:00.001-05:002010-02-07T19:41:58.194-05:00The New Houdini 9It was a dream, he knew, but what kind he could no longer determine. He was at school, wandering through the film department of his university, the halls familiar yet faded around the edges, like a photo taken with a shaky hand. It was a wealthy school, a fact he never really considered in the past, but now he could not help but notice that the new linoleum floors had fresh wax and the walls were newly painted. They seemed to glow with wealth and prestige, bright markers carving a dark path. He looked down at his hands, shadowed in the glow of the yellow paint.<br /><br />The hall was empty, the doors peppering its length all locked tight except for one. The door furthest down the hallway was wide open, a faint light emitting from the doorway like a beacon. Chuck moved toward it with soundless steps – he never heard his footsteps in his dreams – but it was hard to walk, like walking at the bottom of a swimming pool with the water bearing down on his long limbs. Patiently he traversed the hall one slow step at a time, passing one closed door and the next.<br /><br />The lack of mobility in his dreams used to make him panic. When his own body refused to work as he knew it, when it was slower than in real life or wouldn't move at all – the panic that came with the lack of control often made him wake before the dream had even begun. It had taken a few years for the fear of his dreams to cease completely, a few more years to grasp that those dreams weren't just uncanny coincidences or his brain working through last night's dinner, but visions of coming events, boring events: his cousin spilling cake at a party, his brother practicing a jolly folk song on his violin, a joke about a badger and a raccoon his professor would tell in documentary class. It amused him to know these things would happen even if he could not be sure of when they might take place or how. In the past, before this whole mess unfolded -- before his little brother had been abducted by some psychopathic dead guy -- Chuck had been glad of the limitedness of his visions. It was no fun, he had supposed, to know everything to come down to the very second. It would make for a very boring life, and Charlemagne Quentin was not a man to stand for boredom of any sort. But then he had had a vision of his brother being injured, of that girl Max standing over him, and from then on he cursed his prophetic sight. What was the good of being able to see what was coming if you didn't know why or when? <br /><br />And so he had done the only thing he could. He warned Ben, who laughed him off. He waited for that girl to show up, waited for his chance to frighten her away. But he had failed and Ben was gone and so were his visions at night, replaced by nagging suspicions that there was more he should have done and clues he should have seen.<br /> <br />But now he walked in his first dream in four months.<br /><br />There was a tingling in his joints that could have been excitement or fear. He suppressed it; strong feelings weakened his hold on his dreams, and he was not ready to wake up just yet. He neared the open door, posters that sought roommates and offered to sell textbooks shining like illuminated roadsigns along his path. He slowly raised his hand (the pressure was always worse when moving upwards) to rest it on the doorframe. His edges of his hand blurred; he ignored it and stepped into the room – and fell into an alley.<br /><br />Chuck stumbled on the gray pavement and tried to curse. The words wouldn't form in his throat; it would be that kind of dream, it seemed. Instead of a dark room he stood in an alley as bright as midday, ensconced between two dusty brick buildings and a heap of trash cans that reeked of rotting fruit and stale breads. The bricks were sharp and clear, each individual rectangle outlined in gray plaster, the cement beneath his sneakered feet pocked with dried gum. <br /><br />At the mouth of the alley stood Benjamin Quentin. The dream wavered, breaking into ripples that shook the brick walls and blurred Ben; Chuck wrestled with his desperation, his relief, his fear, until the world quieted again. He raised his hand and took a step forward, tried to speak – still heavy, still silent. Still a dream.<br /><br />He wore the same pressed jeans, his favorite, the same blue shirt from the museum, the front dark with blood. His dark hair was gray with dust, his face ashen and thin. He was carefully blank, neither smiling nor frowning, an expression so alien Chuck was hard pressed to believe it was his same brother. Chuck's hands shook; he stilled them with care. Ben had both his eyes, two warm brown eyes – <br /><br />Except he didn't –<br /><br />One brown eye and one of blue amber –<br /><br />Chuck clenched his fists, tried to run forward but it was too hard, the air was too thick like molasses or rope or wire and he took a deep breath and shouted hard, until the words forced their way through his throat and into the sky, "Is that what I need to find, Ben? I'll find it if it is, promise!"<br /><br />And then he woke.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-87422488258402445342010-01-08T17:49:00.000-05:002010-01-08T17:50:18.967-05:00New Houdini 8Chuck gave her a look of grand superiority. "Better up your enthusiasm. That's not the same thing as your ugly adder stone. That's a piece of blue amber you've got –"<br /><br />"It's a photo," Max attempted.<br /><br />"—that's a collector's item and a rarity. They're only found in one place in the whole world, in the Dominican Republic. We've got a few as heirlooms, speaking of which, that better not be one of ours again."<br /><br />Max glanced at the accompanying profile. "It's owned by some New York art and jewelry dealer."<br /><br />Max spoke with some trepidation; her last attempt at theft had ended disastrously. A New York art dealer? She tried to recall if she'd ever encountered this sort of person and drew a blank. <br /><br />Chuck gave a bouyant laugh, theatrical and overwrought. Max cringed and shielded her ears; he sounded like a baritone hyena: "This is the easiest job ever." His eyes lost the troubled look they had been harboring for weeks, replaced by the sparkle of enthusiasm – or mania, thought Max gloomily – that had shone in him when they had first met, that handful of months ago. It seemed like such a very long time ago that they had met, when she knew enough to be able to tell when that spark had gone and come back.<br /><br />She glanced down at the photo. It was a pretty rock, to be sure: a perfectly round stone that shared zero characteristics with the adder stone. While the adder stone was rough and unpolished, this was carefully carved and lovingly shined. It was delicate and gossamer, a cool pale blue that was almost white. In the bright flash of the camera the edges of the stone took on the reddish-orange color Max usually associated with amber, the reddish tint a faint glimmer within the blue. The stone reminded Max of sparkling Caribbean waters, the sun glinting off the cerulean waves. Her finger moved along the photograph, tracing the line of a wide eye carved in the middle of the rock.<br /><br />"Gorgeous, right?" Chuck asked, as proudly as if he'd carved and polished it himself. "Depending on the way light touches it, it'll shine either blue or orange. It puts on a nice show."<br /><br />"It's worse than the museum," Max said. "In the museum those pieces had been in their cases for years, none of the guards had any particular reason to care or suspect if one of those went missing. But an art dealer? And something like this?" She pictured a gargantuan, mafia-type boss, loaded with rings, carrying rolls of hundred dollar bills and, for some reason, eating a chicken wing. "He'd probably care."<br /><br />Chuck seated himself on the overstuffed blue chair like a king on a throne. He looked regal and overconfident, the look and stature of a person of who used his privileges like a well-worn toy. It was incredibly irritating. "You leave that guy to me."<br /><br />The sun was only beginning to set when the two of them parted ways from the Lighthouse, Chuck brimming with plans about the amber and Max carefully keeping her doubts to herself. She didn't mention how blue amber wasn't mentioned in any of the books the Lighthouse carried, nor how the stone was only a few years old if the profile was to be believed – modern Artifacts tended to be fakes in her experience. They would check it out and that would be it. She didn't want to make any more promises. Max was having a hard enough time fulfilling the ones she'd already made.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-79985610452050299242010-01-01T18:42:00.005-05:002010-01-01T18:49:57.294-05:00The New Houdini 7"Your attentions were not fully engaged today, Nadia," Mr. Curry remarked. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, shifting in his long-sleeved shirt in an attempt to stir the still air, and began collecting the electrical cords. Class was over and the students rushed to escape the classroom to sweet freedom, bottlenecking at the door in a mess of backpacks and swearing.<br /><br />Nadia, wary of the crowd's impatience, collected her things more slowly and flushed from a mixture of heat and embarrassment. She had always considered herself a master at feigning interest, was considered an intellectually bright student despite a complete lack of interest in academic subjects. She was slipping. <br /><br />"It's a bit uncomfortable today," she said, with genuine contriteness. Part of the reason she feigned interest was sympathy; it wasn't the teacher's fault she didn't care much for school.<br /><br />"Yes," he said. "Perhaps we'll have an outdoor lesson on Friday." He smiled a bit absently as he searched beneath the projector for a missing slide, a crooked expression that masked the frown lines on his face and deepened the crinkles around his eyes, framed by silver glasses Nadia never saw him without. "Of course, that means I'll count on all of you to retain absolutely nothing of intellectual merit."<br /><br />Three conversational options were available to Nadia at that moment: a joke about the laziness of students; a optimistic rejoinder about the class's interest in the material; or a simple thank you for the kind suggestion of an outdoor lesson. On most professors any of the three, followed by a quick retreat out the door, would have been sufficient. But she hesitated to employ those tactics now.<br /><br />The classroom was empty now but for the two of them. She watched as Mr. Curry, yellow hair flat on his head with damp and pen marks on his trousers, wheeled the projector to the back of the classroom and hid it in a closet before he looked at her in mild puzzlement.<br /><br />"You all right, Miss Nadia? Usually you're full of empty witticisms, unless the muggy weather's fogged your brain as badly as it has mine."<br /><br />She cringed internally a bit at the 'empty' jab, but smiled brightly nonetheless as she shouldered her backpack. "Just planning the rest of my day. It revolves around bemoaning the stupidity of taking summer classes."<br /><br />He squinted at her from behind the silver frames. "Not going to spend time with that friend of yours – Maxine Pilar, is it? You're always roaming the halls together."<br /><br />"She's busy, summer job, being responsible," Nadia said breezily. "Something like that."<br /><br />In all honesty she had no idea if Max had a summer job or not; all she knew was that the phone calls and Quincy Market shopping trips were scarcer and Max's face growing more ashen in a way she was unsure how to address. Max was fierce about privacy. Maybe the other girl regretted discussing her father's death with Nadia; when Nadia had asked why Max had been at the Museum of Fine Arts the day that rich boy had been freakishly hurt Max had said some vague story about doing research for a class. But Max didn't have any art classes and the museum had been closed. Maybe Max was traumatized and didn't want to talk about it. Maybe she thought she was doing Nadia a favor. It was an idea Nadia could mostly forgive. Mostly.<br /><br />From across the classroom she sensed an unusual unease from Mr. Curry, one that was hard to properly pin down. There were no outward signs of it, no hand-wringing or deep frowns. "Sir?" Nadia asked.<br /><br />"Funny that you're not aware of what your best friend is up to," Mr. Curry said mildly, leaning against the locked closet door. "You're not curious at all?"<br /><br />Nadia toyed with the straps of her backpack in agitation. "She knows I care." (I think.) "Of course I know what's going on." (I don't.) Stung, Nadia left the classroom. It didn't occur to her until she had left the school building that it was odd for a teacher to care who their students hung out with, let alone what those kids did with their free time.<br /><br /><br />"It's another stupid stone," Max said, dismayed. "That's a disappointment."<br /><br />"Only an uneducated dollop like you would find this a disappointment." Looking over her shoulder at the folder, Chuck was practically buzzing with excitement. <br /><br />Max was nonplussed. "What the hell's a dollop?"<br /><br />They were in the back of the Lighthouse's library at Chuck's favorite table, a worn round mahogany flanked by Chuck's favorite blue paisley armchair and a not-quite-matching red chair. The folder's contents were spread over the table, Max crouching over the surface to examine a photograph. She'd found Chuck sprawled over his chair with a book on the ancient death rituals of the Himalayans and had chucked the folder at his head.<br /><br />"It's gorgeous, it's divine. This might be the thing, Maxie." Chuck patted her on the back with enthusiasm, a pat that was more like a punch. He danced a jig between the shelves.<br /><br />Max groaned in pain. "You're only like this because you get to help for once."<br /><br />Chuck gave her a look of grand superiority. "Better up your enthusiasm. That's not the same thing as your ugly adder stone. That's a piece of blue amber you've got."Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-5520532354520185082009-12-19T11:27:00.004-05:002009-12-19T11:31:02.770-05:00The New Houdini 6Max placed her hands on the shining tabletop. Her palms left sweaty streaks on the glass, to her satisfaction. Aderyn liked to keep a clean house. "I'm not doing it."<br /><br />Aderyn was unperturbed. "It's all in the file." She motioned to a blue folder on the top of a hefty stack of papers on her side of the table. She pulled out a bottle of hydrangea-scented lotion from her handbag and rubbed a dollop on her hands. "I do hope you manage to get this before Harvard does, they've beaten us to the punch for the last two Artifacts. Not your fault, of course, you weren't with us yet, but it was quite embarrassing."<br /><br />"Did you hear me? You've sent me on twelve missions and all of them have been busts. I'm not doing another pointless task. "<br /><br />"I did hear you." The older woman sealed the bottle of lotion and inspected the rim for stray drops. "And you're illustrating, in fine form, why I never wanted you in this Society. You're a petulant child with the fortitude of a string." She ran a manicured fingernail around the bottle before replacing it in the bag. "Not every Artifact is real. Not every claim is true. You were allowed into this group to ascertain these things. You cannot pick and choose which claims to investigate and which to ignore."<br /><br />"If I did get to choose," Max interrupted, her face flushing with anger, "you'd save both my time and yours." The glass squeaked in protest under the grips of her fingers. "You've sent me to look at total frauds. I didn't join to measure the validity of every Artifact that comes around, I joined to find the ones I need."<br /><br />Aderyn's gray eyes speared her at a glance, even across the long conference table. "And which would those be? Egyptian, British, Himalayan? Bronze Age, Stone Age, Victorian? Artifacts of prophesy or of creation?" When Max opened her mouth to argue the fierce woman silenced her with a long raised finger held to her thin lips. "Don't pretend you have any idea. I'll remind you that the Weather Man informed me of your situation. Any person that gets taken in by a so-called prophecy that was so obviously founded on a pipe dream can't claim the sense to judge Artifacts without looking at them."<br /><br />Max inhaled involuntarily, a rush of air in the still room. Her stomach twisted; it was a cheap shot, she knew, but it was also unfortunately true. It would always be true. Her judgment would always be called into question. It was deserved, of course, but that didn't stop the fact from stinging. "It's not a pipe dream," she managed to say. Her hands shook and she balled them to make them stop. "Peter Quentin's back from the dead right now, so it's not as far-fetched as you think."<br /><br />The stone-like gray of Aderyn's eyes softened almost imperceptibly. After the smallest of hesitations, she reached for the stack of papers and held the blue folder out to Max. Slowly Max rose from her seat and crossed the room to take it.<br /><br />"You need not take everything so deeply to heart," Aderyn murmured, as Max clutched the folder to her chest. "You'd survive this world better that way."<br /><br />Unsure of what to say, Max didn't answer, taking up her bag to go. At the door, however, she paused. She turned to look at the older woman, who was now pulling on her latex gloves with sharp snaps.<br /><br />"It's been four months."<br /><br />"You said that already."<br /><br />"I know, yes." Max didn't know where to look; her gaze focused somewhere on the ceiling. "Why only twelve missions in four months? We're here every day."<br /><br />Aderyn's response was distracted, her eyes focused once again on the weathered manuscript. In her hands it looked translucent, as if about to crumble at the slightest ill-tempered breath. "Your schedule seemed quite full already."<br /><br />There was a moment of blank confusion before Max flushed a deep red. She and Chuck's independent research investigations, so carefully hidden from the Lighthouse, weren't so secret after all. With a startled sound that was a cross between a laugh and frustrated yowl, Max left the office and shut the door behind her.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-13563587060662639972009-12-09T13:17:00.003-05:002009-12-09T13:28:47.204-05:00The New Houdini 5The second floor of the building that served as the base for the Lighthouse Artifact Society (motto: "Shining a Light Upon the Supernatural Studies") consisted of two shabby rooms covered in thin blue carpet with a layer of whitewash freshly painted on the walls, and lit by yellowing fluorescent lights. The first room, which Max and Chuck entered when they opened the front door, served as both reception and the main library. A row of windows ran along one wall. The room was large but looked small, as it was packed with slanted rows of tall teak bookshelves overflowing with dusty volumes, from generations of paranormal reading material filling the stacks and sorted by century, to binders of news clippings and old copies of the newsletters that were circulated by various Artifact societies, including the Lighthouse – whose newsletter tended to be printed on plain notebook paper when the funds ran low. Squashy, moth-eaten and mismatched armchairs dotted the room, paired with large round wooden tables covered in pen marks and obscene graffiti, and small battered desk lamps. The tables had been salvaged from a nearby reform school. <br /><br />A desk sat near the front door, at whose seat the Lighthouse members rotated phone duty – and tried desperately to avoid their turn, as the desk chair was uncomfortable and the phone never rang. Leigh Anne sat hunched behind the desk, reading a Wonder Woman comic book and squirming in the hard-backed wooden seat, brown hair twisted around her fingers. She peeked over the edge of the book when the door opened, casting Max and Chuck a happy grin before returning to her book. Max simply nodded. Chuck winked lasciviously. Leigh Anne giggled in response.<br /><br />"Where's Aderyn?" Max tried to gentle her voice for Leigh Anne, whom she genuinely liked, but the words were curt nonetheless.<br /><br />Leigh Anne's happy expression became a look of anxiety, her Bambi-like eyes intense. "Did the tip not work out well?"<br /><br />"Take a guess." And now Max sounded tired, and felt badly for putting that on the other girl. It was only noon and this day was going down the tubes.<br /><br />Leigh Anne's brows knit in consternation. "At least you know," she offered. "You know you had to check that out, just in case."<br /><br />Max bit her tongue, unhappy about being lectured about things she already knew but knowing her friend meant well by it. "The other room, then?"<br /><br />Chuck said, "So I'll stay in here then. In my chair, you know, if you need me." He stepped closer to the bookshelves, lightly and casually, but Max knew it was a strategic retreat. Aderyn did not think well of Chuck, considering him a tag-along and a nuisance that she should not have to tolerate as he was not a member. This was different from the others, whom Aderyn also considered occasional nuisances but could do nothing about as they were already members.<br /><br />Chuck retreated to his favorite blue paisley armchair, the squashiest in the room and one discreetly hidden at the end of two particularly long shelves. Max passed the reception desk and crossed the length of the long room until she reached the very end, where another door was cracked slightly open. The second, smaller room, similarly whitewashed and carpeted, served as a kitchen and a conference room. A long rectangular table took up most of the space. A mini-refrigerator, hot pot and basket of snacks stood in a lonely corner. Conferences were rare, and so Aderyn (and the Weather Man when he was inclined to feel regal) used to the room as a private office.<br /> <br />Max closed the door behind her, a controlled and soft motion. "Are you done sending me on pointless retrieval missions, in which nothing is ever worth the effort of retrieving?"<br /><br />Aderyn didn't looked up from the weathered manuscript she held in her gloved hands. "No. Now shut up for a second. That is, if you're not dead set on ruining the whole thing."<br /><br />She couldn't help it – Max immediately felt chastened. She set her bag down and sat at the other end of the long conference table and watched the older woman place the manuscript page on its tray with the ease of long practice, and slowly peel off the latex gloves to reveal pale, thin hands. She let out a sigh that Max interpreted as a signal to proceed.<br /><br />"It's been almost four months," Max said.<br /><br />"Oh, I'm well aware," the co-founder and financier of the Lighthouse retorted. "Is your idiot friend outside, sitting in my armchairs and dirtying my books?"<br /><br />"Don't change the subject."<br /><br />"I'm not." Aderyn's gaze was level, her sharp gray eyes set in a hawkish, lined face as pale as her hands, her eyebrows plucked to thin strands. "You'll need him for the next one."Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-35128860342743238322009-12-04T18:51:00.004-05:002009-12-04T18:59:56.804-05:00The New Houdini 4Maxine Pilar left Quick Ink in a bad temper, stomping down the alley of small shops in a flounce of green sundress. She'd known the bookshop's so-called mystical cup would be a bust. The name itself had been a dead giveaway – The Quick Ink Cup? Come on. Another wild goose chase from Aderyn, wasting Max's precious time with idiocies.<br /><br />She slowed her pace, anger giving way to a dark disappointment so familiar it was almost comforting. Again she hadn't found anything useful. Again a day would go by without any news, without any signs, and this whole thing was a giant mess from the ground up. She stopped to let a group of older college girls pass, giggling and clutching so many overstuffed shopping bags they tottered with the weight of them. Max suddenly felt aware of her scratched flat boots and old sundress, and wondered where this sort of self-pity had come from. She had never been a big shopper; that was Nadia's favorite sport. Yet here she was, jealous of a handful of airhead trust fund babies because they had new clothes and she didn't. What the hell was her problem?<br /><br />She stopped at the Finagle-a-Bagel for a late breakfast, waiting in line with businessmen with loosened ties and their suit jackets in the crook of their arms, college kids from the thirty-odd schools in the Boston metropolitan area, and other high school kids goofing off and enjoying the long summer day. Max ducked her head at the sight of the high schoolers, the kids her own age who seemed to exist in a different world entirely. There it was, that self-pity again. The bad tip on the cup must have bothered her more than she expected.<br /><br />She paid for her egg and cheese on poppyseed bagel and stepped back outside, eating as she walked. She ate quickly, not wanting to arrive at the Lighthouse with fast food – chances were good that Chuck was already there, and she didn't need another lecture about her bad eating habits. His lectures rankled her; as an only child she didn't have much understanding of affection masked as sibling cajolery, and the fact they spent enough time together that he knew her eating habits was upsetting. It meant that this task of finding Ben and Peter Quentin was taking too long; it meant they were on the brink of failure.<br /><br />The scent of fresh tortillas and spicy chilis wafted through the air as she navigated the narrow streets of shops, dodging between raucous groups of dowdy summer tourists and roaming shoppers. Across the busy street the Boston Common fountain bubbled brightly in the hot sun, hipsters lounging at its base reading novels and chatting on cell phones. She was here already, and she wiped the crumbs of her bagel off her sundress and threw the remains into the trash. She turned down the quiet sidestreet across from the fountain. Here there were few tourists; the hair salon and the bookshops on this street were for the more savvy locals. She passed by Fajita's & 'Rita's Mexican restaurant, though she looked longingly into the windows, to open a small side door tucked into a corner between the restaurant and the bookshop beside it. The Lighthouse was situated on the second floor of the building, above Fajitas & 'Ritas, in a former office space. <br /><br />She climbed the creaking narrow stairs to the second floor, cursing under her breath; yet again the lightbulb over the stairs had gone out, and the dark carpet of the steps was nearly impossible to see once the outer door had closed. Max made her way carefully to the landing, still unsure despite four months of climbing this same set of stairs almost daily. At least there was must light in the hall.<br /><br />Chuck posed on the couch like he was waiting for a photo shoot, long legs encased in designer jeans and set carefully akimbo, his arms folded across his chest. His yellow hair looked green in the light. "You took your time."<br /><br />"I checked out a tip," Max muttered, fumbling in the pockets in her dress for her key. "You could've called me and asked what time I was getting here."<br /><br />Chuck snorted, folding his legs and rising from the couch to tower over her. "You never pick up. You make me wait on purpose."<br /><br />There was only one door in the short hallway. Max fitted her key into the wooden door's lock and jimmied it; it tended to get stuck. "You're not gonna ask what the tip was?"<br /><br />"I don't have to." He smiled at her, as mild as always, but his shoulders slumped. "If it was any good you would have said so first thing."<br /><br />There was something reassuring in not having to explain to at least one person, but it was mixed in with something painful. Max felt her mouth twist but couldn't tell if it was a smile or a frown. Wordlessly she opened the door, moving aside to let Chuck in first.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-32582611598381609702009-10-24T16:04:00.001-04:002009-10-24T16:05:43.635-04:00The New Houdini 3Charlemagne Anthony Quentin sat in the waiting room of the Lighthouse, practicing his signature. His handwriting was atrocious, as his brother was once quick to point out, but his signature was divine. His name unfurled across the page like an inky flower, a beautiful script of flowing lines and delicate arches and loops, without a single unnecessary gesture.<br /><br />Signatures were important things for Quentins, an old family of power and prestige. They had a lot of things to sign for and a lot of things to be frightened of signing away. There was a lot of power in writing your name if you were a Quentin. Chuck was vaguely aware that signatures were not exclusively important to Quentins, that they were the legal solidification of every tragic, impulsively-decided contract and bet of people with more anonymous names. He was aware of this, but none of it was very important. He doubted those anonymous people had more to lose than a Quentin anyway.<br /><br />The waiting room of the Lighthouse wasn't quite a room and it wasn't quite built for the purpose of waiting. It was a narrow hallway poorly lit by yellow bulbs in dusty antique cases. What little light shone was absorbed by the dark carpet and the wood-paneled walls. Chuck tapped a wall, listening to the crackle of cheap paneling, and snickered to himself. He sat on a moth-eaten couch that took up most of the hallway, notebook perched on his lap, across from a nondescript, unlabeled brown door through which he was not allowed to enter without a certain someone. Max was late so often Chuck suspected she took a delight in the annoying rule that forbade non-members of the Lighthouse from entering their headquarters unless accompanied by a member. He had tried in the past to break in. He had been caught each time with embarrassing ease.<br /><br />Chuck rumpled his fair hair with care – not too messy, just enough to give it the right amount of body. Ben, no matter how often the younger boy swore up and down that the two brothers were polar opposites, did the exact same thing to his dark hair, especially when anticipating Max's presence in his future. Chuck had never told Max this, though there were moments when he wanted to – moments that were so grim with despair that it would have been hard to tell if the story would have cheered her or upset her. Maybe that was why he wanted to tell her such a small thing in those moments. In those dark moments he didn't know if he felt a tenderness for her or a hatred of her, the cause of the events that now left his brother missing for four months. Maybe Ben was trapped in some netherworld, courtesy of the ghost of Peter Quentin, cold and longing for warmth. Maybe he was in worse situations, situations that woke Chuck from his sleep covered in sweat. He hoped those dreams weren't prophetic. He used to be able to tell which were predictions and which were the processes of his fevered REM cycle. He hadn't been able to prophesy anything more interesting than a broken shoelace in weeks.<br /><br />The door creaked open, the delicate, adorable face of Leigh Anne Harte poking out, framed by ringlets of brown hair. Max was the youngest member of the Lighthouse but Leigh Anne was a close second at seventeen, a bookworm that specialized in Greco-Roman antiquities. Where Chuck thought of Max as a tiny, deadly volcano, Leigh Anne was a still spring of water.<br /><br />"How long are you going to sit out here?" God, even her voice was pensive. Chuck couldn't help but feel cheered; he fought the urge to wrap her in a hug and shake the stuffing out of her in affection. It was an urge he never resisted around his brother. "I'd let you in if I could."<br /><br />"I know, dear," Chuck said fondly. "But it's my fate to be tied with the tardy beast known as Maxine Pilar." He held out his notebook to her, his long arms crossing the small space between the couch and the door. "Which signature is the best, do you think? I only trust your keen eyes on this, Miss Harte!"<br /><br />She giggled a little and took the notebook, the door opening a little further to expose the tiniest glimmer of a bookshelf within. Chuck kept his expression neutral and disinterested as she scanned the page of delicate scrawls.<br /><br />"It's a little hard to read," she admitted. "The letters are so ornate I'd never pick out the name to be yours at first glance."<br /><br />"That's the point," he explained. "Mysterious and ornate, that's me in a nutshell."<br /><br />Leigh Anne cast him such a serious, considering look that Chuck instinctively looked away, presenting his better profile. Okay, it wasn't quite instinctive. He rose, languidly and with grace. He could sense without looking Leigh Anne's eyebrow rise with him. He took a careful step across the space toward her. He hit her with his most dazzling smile.<br /><br />"Of course," he murmured to her, "that's only if one considers me fit for nutshells."<br /><br />He leaned forward over the slightly smaller girl, whose mouth hung open. The notebook dropped to her side. He had a fingertip on the doorway. He was going to make it, just one small step and he could dodge in before she could close the door on him. He twinkled at her, gentle and inviting.<br /><br />She giggled.<br /><br />He sputtered.<br /><br />"Thanks for the entertainment," she said gaily. She pushed the notebook into his chest and stepped back out of the doorframe. "Let me know when Max gets here, okay?"<br /><br />"But –" Chuck reached a desperate hand forward but it was too late. The door shut gently in his face.<br /><br />On the bright side, he thought as he settled back down on the couch to wait, at least it hadn't been Varij at the door. He would've gotten a slam in the face then, rather than a quiet rejection.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-34976447428801218432009-10-15T17:55:00.000-04:002009-10-15T17:58:00.132-04:00The New Houdini 2It was a hot day, even for July. Nadia Jackson fanned herself with her binder and cursed whatever part of her brain that caused her to be responsible and ambitious. Everyone else was at the beach or at the pool or at some place with water involved in a fun, carefree way. Well, maybe not Max. But Max was always a bit of a nutjob. If Nadia had her way she would have dragged Max to the beach in an instant. The girl needed to relax.<br /><br />The sweat prickled her neck. She had tied her blonde hair away from her neck into a bun, but strands of hair kept escaping to irritate her skin. Maybe she'd shave her head, that'd be a hoot. She brightened at the thought of everyone's wild reactions to her shaved head, twirling her pen in her hand. People overreacted to the silliest things, as if they mattered. She had been sophomore class president and would probably be the junior class president in September; she could do whatever the hell she liked. So why was she in a stuffy classroom taking a college-credit art class? Nadia fidgeted at her desk, the wooden back creaking as she adjusted her skirt. God, her skin was stuck to the goddamn desk.<br /><br />She and a dozen other prospective juniors were crammed into the worn desks of what was ordinarily their high school English classroom. Posters of book jacket art hung on the mauve walls, and a colorful banner of the alphabet (one better suited for kindergarten classrooms than high schools) circled the chalkboard. The projector's whirring fan blew warm air directly into Nadia's face. She surreptitiously stuck her tongue out at it.<br /><br />"As you can see, <span style="font-style: italic;">Guernica</span> draws heavy influence from the cubist period. Cylinders, triangles, squares, rectangles and circles make up his heavily weighted piece, massive in size and only black, white and gray. Not a cheery painting." Mr. Curry gave a breathy sort of laugh, half-chuckle and half-cough. He was young but didn't dress like it in his uniform of a worn long-sleeved button down and brown trousers streaked with pen marks. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead with sweat as he leaned over the projector to point out a detail of the Picasso painting with a pencil.<br /><br />Not for the first time, Nadia wondered about her teacher. At first glance there wasn't anything to wonder about – he was a tall, stodgy high school English teacher with horn-rimmed glasses, old clothes, a slight potbelly and a penchant for ten dollar words and corny jokes. Pretty standard fare.<br /><br />She just got an odd vibe from him, this sense that he was more than he looked. Most of their teachers walked around with a glazed expression in their eyes, tired and going through the motions. Mr. Curry acted lazy and lethargic, with a slouch in his shoulders that made him look permanently stooped. But after what Nadia dubbed "The Bookshelf Incident," she began paying attention to him a little more closely.<br /><br />The Bookshelf Incident wasn't a particularly exciting affair. Nothing in Nadia's life ever was; tragedies and dramatics usually reserved themselves for Max. Study hall took place in their small library, supervised by a teacher assigned via rotation. That day the teacher in charge happened to be Mr. Curry. Nadia had sat at a round table a few other members of the student council under the pretense of doing precalculus homework. In actuality they had been drawing caricatures of their student body president, Sara Collins. Mr. Curry sat at the table beside them, yawning with his nose buried in an old issue of Scientific American. Some guys from the basketball team were horsing around in the bookshelves behind her table, trash-talking and generally being the idiots Nadia considered them to be.<br /><br />She still wasn't quite sure what happened next. One of the guys insulted another guy's mother or something idiotic like that, the instinctive caveman response of the insulted was to shove the insulter, there was a heavy creaking sound, the sound of things falling, and Nadia's tablemates leapt away from their seats. She just looked at them, baffled as they stared at her in horror... no, not at her, behind her.<br /><br />She turned and saw Mr. Curry leaning over her, holding up the bookshelf that would otherwise have fallen right on her head. His face was red as he held it up, the shelves empty and the books scattered on the floor. Nadia stared at him, frozen in her seat as some of the students ran into the hallway for help.<br /><br />"Hi," he said, voice strained. "Miss Nadia, if you could please get up and push the table away so I could let go -- ?"<br /><br />"Oh!" She rose, feeling foolish, and pushed the tables and chairs away hastily.<br /><br />With a gusty sigh he slowly lowered the bookshelf. Several students came forward to help but he shook his head at them. "If you get hurt the school's liable," he wheezed. Finally he let go of the shelf. It rested on the floor with the barest whisper of impact.<br /><br />The kids stared at their English teacher stunned. He wiped his brow with a firm hand. "I'm a bit out of practice," he mumbled to himself. "I'll take it you'll clean up this mess?" he asked the chagrined boys, who nodded frantically. "Most excellent." And he sat down in his chair and picked up his magazine.<br /><br />Obviously she started watching him after that, and soon discovered that his bad posture and sleepy eyes hid a surprising alertness. He never tripped over spilled books, was never hit with a dodgeball when passing through the gym, picked up pens as they rolled off desks before people even realized their pens had moved. It was weird. Kind of awesome, but definitely weird.<br /><br />Nadia stretched her legs out, the projection changing from <span style="font-style: italic;">Guernica</span> to <span style="font-style: italic;">Les Demoiselles d'Avignon</span>. Nadia blushed at the cubist poses of naked women; she was a bigger prude than she thought. Mr. Curry seemed to spy this; he gave her the mildest of smiles. She blushed harder.<br /><br />Yes, definitely weird.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-1136106788370218872009-10-09T14:49:00.003-04:002009-10-09T14:53:35.465-04:00The New Houdini 1Another sucker would be here soon to look at the cup and things had to be perfect. Stephen held the cup to the single bulb in the back room of the book shop, checking for scratches and wiping away fingerprints and spots with a damp rag. The yellow light glinted off his light hair, turning it green. It was a decent cup, bought for three dollars at a yard sale in Detroit. It was a silver goblet (really plated but he kept that to himself), set with a single ruby in the cup (really quartz), and a crosshatch of fine gold thread around the stem (pyrite, unsurprisingly). This was the cup that paid his bills. No one had ever visited The Quick Ink Used Book Shop until he'd brought the cup here. For the umpteenth time he cursed his location, squinting as he gave the cup a final once-over. His shop had never been able to tap into The Brattle Bookshop's hipster, collegiate fanbase – the only demographic in Boston that bought used books –on pure merit alone. Reputation was everything to those overprivileged bastards, and Quick Ink had none. The cup had changed that; believers came in reverence and donated money to support the cause while skeptics visited for ironic reasons – and often left with books anyway.<br /><br />Another one was coming soon, some sort of journalist for a high school paper. This was good; high schoolers were always hopping on the next trend, desperate to imitate their peers in higher learning. If he could reach the high schoolers, the shop would be set for at least the upcoming year.<br /><br />He had just set the cup down on its table in the back of the shop when the bell above the door tinkled. Stephen turned to see a small, shortish girl step through, dark brown hair braided down to her waist and dark almond eyes. She looked about fourteen or fifteen, cute and innocent-looking if one ignored her sharp and impatient eyes, and she wore a short sundress suitable for the afternoon heat of July. Her boots made brisk clacking sounds on the worn floorboards as she wandered between the full shelves of books, taking in everything from the dusty corners of the ceiling to the peeling paint on the walls. Stephen strode to meet her. She shook his hand firmly, though she had to crane her head to look up at him; he was more than a full head taller though he slouched.<br /><br />"Welcome to Quick Ink," he said cheerily. "I hope you're a book fan."<br /><br />She didn't smile, though her eyes crinkled at the corners – in amusement or distaste, he couldn't be sure. "I am, yes. Historicals especially."<br /><br />This was a good sign. History-minded people (though not historians of course) tended to find the cup in good favor. It was like getting a dose of the romantic fables in reality. "Would you like to look around more or –"<br /><br />"I'd prefer looking at the cup," she interrupted. "I've got a place to be soon and I'd like to get this over with."<br /><br />Stephen blinked, taken aback, before he pasted his humble face back on. So much for the sale. He turned to lead her to the back, making sure to take a meandering route, winding in an out of the stacks and through the historical fiction section. "I found this cup through pure luck," he began. "At a yard sale in Denver. Something about it called to me. I can't say what that would be, I'm no scientist" (he gave a well-practiced, self-deprecating chuckle) "but right away odd things started happening. I poured water into it and it turned into wine. Any surface I put it on would break or vibrate uncontrollably. I thought I was going mad until I realized what was going on."<br /><br />The cup was in view at last, at the end of the aisle, as it always was at this point in the speech. He stopped walking; she almost crashed into his backside, grunting in annoyance. He turned slowly, seriously, with aplomb. "When I held it I heard voices. It was the cup speaking to me."<br /><br />This caught her attention at last, as he knew it would. She stiffened, her mouth thinning as she considered his words. Her eyes flicked to the cup behind him. He kept his face sheepish, almost penitent. If she laughed she was a skeptic here for kicks. If she nodded, she was a believer here to give a donation.<br /><br />She craned her head back to meet his gaze, solemn. "Was the voice outside yourself or a part of it?"<br /><br />He stepped back, wary. "What do you mean?"<br /><br />"If you hear a voice outside of your head, near your ear like an outside person is speaking to you," she explained, "you might be schizophrenic. If you hear a voice that sounds like you inside yourself, you're an average person. If you hear a voice that is neither yourself nor outside you," and her eyes darkened at this, "then you might be hearing something else entirely."<br /><br />Stephen puffed out his chest and brought himself to his full height. "I don't appreciate being mocked by a high schooler."<br /><br />The girl smiled suddenly, her solemnity gone in an instant. "Of course. I'll be going now. Thanks for letting me see it." She turned to leave.<br /><br />"But you haven't!" Stephen refrained from pulling her back. "You don't want a closer look?" <br /><br />"No." She was bored now. She lifted a book from the shelf and turned through the pages. "It's not made of any real metals. The table is rigged to shake when we come closer. The stem is likely hollow and filled with wine. And the only voice you've ever heard is your own. How much is this book?"<br /><br />Stephen's throat closed; his knees shook. Distantly, as if he were somewhere else looking on, he knew his teeth were clenched. He stared at the short girl in wonder, in fear. "You're mistaken," he croaked.<br /><br />"No, I'm not." Her voice was authoritative; she closed the book, a history of Mesopotamian architecture, with a snap. She pulled a five dollar bill out of a pocket hidden in her dress and offered it to him. "I'll take this book, thank you."<br /><br />"Don't tell people," he begged. His fists clenched in terror. "We'll be ruined, this shop will be ruined if you write about this."<br /><br />She bit her lip, the hard look on her face replaced by surprise, then sympathy. She took his clenched hand, opened it and put the bill inside. "I'm not a part of any school paper. I just wanted a look at it." She closed his hand. "It's none of my business, how you run yours."<br /><br />"Why?" he asked.<br /><br /> "You should drop the voices idea," she said, more kindly. "It was a dead giveaway. Keep the wine bit though, I like that one." She waved the book at him in goodbye, a blur of braided hair and a green dress, and left.<br /><br />It was long after she was gone that he realized he was still sweating, his palms chilled and clammy. He hadn't asked her name. A pity, that. She would've made a great partner, had some really swell ideas.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619412127743918370.post-62015591231024876042009-02-19T14:53:00.004-05:002010-02-07T18:36:05.881-05:00Diamond Dust 1<span style="font-weight:bold;">BELOW: AN EXCERPT FROM BOOK 1 OF THE LIGHTHOUSE CHRONICLES<br /><br />Purchase the rest of the book <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Lighthouse-Chronicles/Frances-Gonzalez/e/2940000704851/?itm=1&USRI=lighthouse+chronicles">here</a>, or read <a href="http://thelighthousechronicles.blogspot.com/2009/10/new-houdini-1.html">book two for free</a>.</span><br /><br />The first time Max heard the voice, she was four years old and about to be hit by a bicycle. Her father was still alive and they were living in what was called the Combat Zone of Boston before it was less-insultingly known as Chinatown, nestled between the sprawling public park of the Boston Common and the glass-and-granite Financial District.<br /><br />Her parents had been fighting quietly again, trading barbs under their breath and scornful looks when one thought the other was looking. She was young enough not to know what they were yelling about (she still didn’t now), but she could sense the tension and biting anger collecting, stirring and fermenting, soon to explode from their tiny apartment like a bottled soda did once after Max shook it. As her mother watched television and her father chopped vegetables for lunch, each ignoring the other, Max sneaked outside with her Barbie doll and its pink plastic jukebox.<br /><br />(“It actually played music,” she would tell Ben one day, “just a few notes, but it was so cute. I miss that thing, do you believe it?” And he would nod, understanding, and gently rub his fist in her hair.)<br /><br />She wanted to get away from the stuffiness in their home that existed even with the windows wide open. Max never knew what to say or do, never knew when those moment of thick air between her parents were coming, and all the usual cute things she did to put smiles on their faces didn’t work then. Whenever she asked what was wrong, her parents would say, “It’s too important for you, Maxie.” The only thing to do was stay out of their way.<br />She sat on the front steps, watching the occasional car go by on the street.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I wish I knew important things</span>, Max thought. <span style="font-style: italic;">I could handle important things.</span> She gripped Barbie’s plastic legs. They don’t even know what to do with those things. Barbie’s feet were bare. Her pink plastic heels were always the first of Barbie’s things Max lost. She tried to picture something Important. A tall glass building came to mind, high as the sky like the Prudential Center they shopped in sometimes. But who fought about buildings?<br /><br />If they divorced, who would get the little girl? Would no one get Max? Tears sprang to the little girl’s eyes. Her parents, what was wrong with them? Who was willing to lose everything, lose their home and Max, all for a silly building? What building was it? Frantically Max thought of all the buildings she’d been in recently. Was it her school?<br /><br />Her fingers ached, reddening under her grip on her Barbie. Fighting over a building. She wouldn’t even get to keep her toys.<br /><br />Through the open windows she could hear her parents start to yell two floors up. This was it. It was starting. She wouldn’t get to keep her parents or her toys.<br /><br />Then she’d do away with them herself. Max flung her Barbie as far away from her as she could. It flew in an arc, legs and arms askew, and landed softly on the street. Its face looked at Max, blankly smiling. The tiny pink jukebox disappeared from sight.<br /><br />Max instantly regretted the loss. Barbie was probably furious now too! She ran to fetch it, reaching the edge of the sidewalk and putting one foot in the street before she heard a voice say –<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Don’t go any further, please.</span><br /><br />Max paused to look around, and the bicycle zoomed past so closely that Max’s outstretched hand touched chrome for the briefest of moments. The voice sounded like Daddy’s, but Daddy was yelling upstairs wasn’t he? There was no one else around.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">If you want your doll, get it.</span><br /><br />Not-Daddy’s voice again, but it sounded kind, and she obeyed it. Max grabbed the doll, looked around for the pink jukebox but couldn’t find it, then returned to the safety of the front steps.<br />I helped you so I’ll be your friend, okay?<br /><br />Not sure if she could answer him aloud, Max nodded.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">If you like, I could tell you whatever important things you want.</span><br /><br />That was exactly what Max wanted. The voice began telling her stories, fairy tales, parables, most of which Max did not realize the meaning of until she was fifteen years old. Her parents never learned of the bicycle. Max never found the pink jukebox.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Purchase the rest of the book <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Lighthouse-Chronicles/Frances-Gonzalez/e/2940000704851/?itm=1&USRI=lighthouse+chronicles">here</a>, or read <a href="http://thelighthousechronicles.blogspot.com/2009/10/new-houdini-1.html">book two for free</a>.</span>Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005210013172134681noreply@blogger.com10