Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2) (6 page)

“Ping! What’s happening?” Sam jumped up, sending his own chair to the floor.

Ping gritted his teeth and reached up into the air, grasping for something that wasn’t there. His entire frame bulged, his skin tightening to a sheen over his face. Staggering backward, he labored to take in air. “I, I, I don’t know, but you bet-better step back!”

Ping exploded into a cloud of dark gray dust that swirled frenetically filling the entire front of the bakery. Sam held his arms in front of his face as the granules pelted him. The maelstrom accelerated, throwing tables and chairs against the wall, flinging the pies off the counter, spinning in tighter and tighter circles, consolidating in a spherical mass at the center of the room. Out of the gritty, swirling blob, two appendages reached up to the ceiling and spread out toward the walls.

Sam peeked over his forearms, watching the gray extensions flatten out and flap, trying to catch air like wings. Another appendage, larger and more amorphous than the wings, emerged and stretched toward him. The dust roiled in midair, taking on an almost liquid quality as it sculpted itself into the visage of a serpent, three feet wide. Its sandy gray eyes opened, and its jaws snapped at the air. Staggering backward, Sam grabbed the edge of the counter and crab-walked behind it, sliding on pie remains along the way. The creature retracted, coiling on an unseen neck in preparation of striking.

Ducking behind the glass counter, Sam yelled, “No! You are supposed to be asleep. Sleep!”

The dust fell to the ground in a pile in the now-empty center of the room.

After a moment, the gray grit swirled again, but this time in a vertical cone, soon taking the shape of a man. It condensed and solidified into Ping, with a look of shock on his face.

“What happened?” Ping said.

Sam kicked remains of pumpkin pie off his shoe and said, “I’m not sure, but I think I prompted that dragon inside you to go back to sleep.”

Sam pulled a chair out of the mound of furniture blown up against the wall and walked it to the empty floor of the bakery’s public area in front of the counter. He set it down and returned to the periphery of the room to grab another. As he walked back and forth, setting up tables and chairs, he kicked green flyers out of his path that had blown off the counter. Ping pushed a mop in a yellow bucket on wheels through the swinging doors and started to clean up pumpkin pie filling that had splattered the floor.

“There doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage,” Sam said. “Luckily, with the rain coming down like it is, foot traffic has been slow.”

“Yes, it is fortunate no customers were here,” Ping said distractedly as he mopped.

“What was that all about? I thought you had a deal worked out with the dragon. He was supposed to sleep until you died, and then he could have your body. That was the dragon, right? It wasn’t my imagination.”

“I think so. Maybe it was the equivalent of tossing and turning in your sleep or a nightmare.”

“Has that happened before?”

“No. I’m always aware that he’s here, but nothing physical like that has occurred since we fused during the battle with Mara in Oregon City.”

“Well, let’s hope he doesn’t start sleepwalking or something,” Sam said, putting the last chair back in place. He looked up to see Ping staring at him with a look of panic.

“You don’t think that will happen do you?” Ping said.

“How would I know?”

“You said you prompted him to go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s when the whole scene ended.”

“So we have some way of dealing with it if it becomes an issue.”

“Maybe. It could have been a coincidence that it ended when I yelled. My prompting might not have been what caused it to stop at all. I didn’t interact enough with him to get a sense of that. Anyway you realize that, even if I did prompt him, the effect would only be temporary. It’s not like I can solve the problem, if there is a problem.”

“We’ll have to wait and see.” Ping leaned forward and wrung out the mop, then turned and pushed the bucket back through the swinging doors.

Sam wove between the tables, bending over and picking up the flyers and other loose papers that had blown to the floor. While he struggled to pull one from under a table leg, he heard the front door open. Someone rustled an overcoat, apparently shaking off the rain. Once Sam got the paper out from under the table leg, he looked up to see a burly bald man in a trench coat standing in the glass doorway, surveying the bakery. He looked annoyed.

Sam straightened and said, “Hi, can I help you?”

“Yeah, tell me what happened to the ceramics store.” His annoyance looked like it was turning to anger.

“Mr. Ping decided that he would rather have a bakery. Kinda cool, huh?”

“Not how I would characterize it, young man. Where’s Ping?”

“He’s in the back. Are you sure there’s not something I can get for you? We’ve got some fresh Danishes—just came out of the oven this morning.”

“Tell Ping that he’s got a visitor who would like to talk to him.”

“Can I tell him who—”

“That’s not your concern, young man. Go get Ping.”

Sam turned, walked behind the counter and pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Ping stood in front of a bank of ovens, bending between open doors removing a rack.

“More pies?” Sam said.

Ping smiled and said, “Pumpkin. Customers have been requesting them. We’re only two weeks from Thanksgiving. Have you ever had a Thanksgiving dinner before?”

“Where I come from we didn’t have a lot to give thanks for.”

“All that’s changed, hasn’t it? I’ll give you a slice of pie after they cool down.”

From the front of the store a growl reverberated, “Ping!”

Sam jutted his head back toward the doors and said, “There’s a guy out there who wants to see you. He doesn’t look too happy.”

Ping wiped his hands and walked into the front of the store. The man stood at the end of the counter, looking as if he were about to stomp into the back of the bakery. He held his place as Ping cleared the doors and said to him, “There you are.”

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Ping, it’s me, Carl.”

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“What are you trying to pull, Ping? It’s me, Carl Galinsky. I was driving by, and I noticed the ceramics place is gone. Vandy’s not going to be real happy when he hears. What’s going on?”

“If you are looking for a ceramics store, I’ve got the card of another establishment back in the office. Give me a minute, and I’ll get it.” He turned to go into the back.

“I don’t need another ceramics store. I need to know what happened to this one. Why is there a friggin’ bakery where my boss’s ceramics store is supposed to be?”

“I think there is some confusion here. This is my business. I don’t have a partner.”

The man rolled his shoulders, puffed out his chest and pulled up his belt. “I think Mr. Vanderberg is going to think differently.” He leaned across the counter to get into Ping’s face. “Look, you’ve got a choice to make. You can tell me what you’re up to now, or you can wait until Vandy tells me to pull it out of you. It’s up to you.”

Ping’s face flushed. “I’m sorry, um, Mr. Galinsky, but I don’t know anyone named Vandy. So, unless you’re going to buy a cake or some Danishes, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

Galinsky’s jaw flexed several times as he stared back, trying to figure out how to respond.

Ping subtly leaned away from him.

Slapping his hands down on the counter, Galinsky said, “Your call, Ping. I hope for your sake the inventory at the warehouse is accounted for.” He turned and walked out the door.

Ping didn’t move, only watched after him. He heard the light
shoosh
of the swinging doors behind him. Sam stuck his head out and asked, “Is it okay to come out?”

“Yes, he’s gone,” Ping said over his shoulder.

Sam stepped out with a soggy, steaming brown lump in his hand. “What was that all about?”

“I’m not sure. It appears there may have been more going on with my business interests than I had anticipated.”

“It’s your business. What right does that guy have to tell you what to do with it?”

“Again I’m not sure. I went over all the paperwork before I shut down the ceramics store. There was no mention of a partner. Of course my counterpart could have had arrangements that were, shall we say, off-the-books.”

“You mean, something illegal?”

“Or perhaps something everyone wanted to keep private for some reason.”

Sam licked at his dripping hands. “Sounds like it could be a mess, especially that part about the warehouse.”

“Yes, a steaming big brown mess. Sort of like that pumpkin pie you have mauled.”

“It’s kind of runny, but it tastes good.”

“You have to let it cool before you eat it.”

“Sorry, I guess I jumped the gun.”

“I think I may have as well.”

A bell jangled with a loud rattle as Mara opened the front door to Mason Fix-it Shop. She hopped across the threshold, shook the rain from her jacket and tossed back her hood. She turned, flipped the Open sign in the door’s window to face outward and reached for the light switch. As the main room of the little shop illuminated, she noticed the flicker of the stained-glass light fixture suspended over the front counter. The word
Billiards
winked from it several times before staying lit. She’d have to switch out the bulbs soon.

Hanging her wet jacket on the antique coat tree in the corner to the right of the door, her gaze swept the shop, making sure everything was in its place. Old lamps, reel-to-reel tape recorders, typewriters, assorted kitchen appliances and other gadgets filled the shelves and covered every wall of the little shop. Antique alarm clocks sporting huge ringers, alongside pocket watches, locket watches, plain wristwatches and electronics—such as calculators the size of bricks—were neatly displayed in a lit glass counter to the left of the door.

At the end of the display case, a wooden counter, Mara’s work space, featured an antique bronze cash register and an old black rotary-dial telephone off to one side. Behind the counter, a collection of lit neon signs advertised soft drinks, beer and cigarettes, hanging among cuckoo clocks and wall-mounted telephones. Mara looked past all those potential distractions and locked onto the cathedral radio sitting on a shelf next to the clocks. It was the Philco 90—actually the empty casing for a Philco 90 that Ping had employed to trick her into using her metaphysical abilities for the first time. A thin layer of dust accumulated across its arched wooden top. She needed to dust as well as change out some bulbs.

From the back of the shop came a shout. “Mara, that you out there?” It was Bruce Mason, the grandson of the shop’s owner who ran the bicycle repair business out of the rear of the gadget repair shop.

“Hi, Bruce, it’s me.”

“Some guy called earlier—named Bowhammer or something like that. He had a southern accent. He wants you to call him back. He wouldn’t leave a message, but it sounded like he really wanted you to call him.”

“Bohannon? Was his name Bohannon?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Oh, and Abby says she stopping by a little later to see you.”

Mara smiled. “I don’t think it’s me that she’s stopping by to see.”

“She did drop a hint that she was available for lunch.”

“Abby doesn’t hint.”

Bruce walked out front, wiping his hands on a rag. “No, she doesn’t. Actually she pretty much asked me to lunch. I get the impression she’s been angling to go out since we went on that bike ride.”

“She doesn’t
angle
either, Bruce.”

“I don’t mind hanging out, but I don’t want to give her the wrong impression, you know? I mean, she’s still in high school and all.”

“You need to be up-front with her. Abby doesn’t mince words, and she doesn’t pick up hints, so you need to be blunt back at her. Don’t worry. She won’t get her feelings hurt, and she’ll respect you more for saying what you mean.”

Bruce turned to go back to “his garage” as he called it. Over his shoulder he said, “I don’t know. Being blunt isn’t one of my strong suits.”

“Give it a shot. If I have to, I can wave her off,” Mara said.

The bell over the front door jangled, and Sam walked in. “Hey, Mar, you got a sec to talk?”

Mara reached into her jeans pocket, grabbed her keys and tossed them to him. “If you run out to my car and get the sewing machine and the bag of parts next to it while I get a till for the register, I’ll be able to talk for a minute.”

“Deal,” he said and walked out.

Mara went into the small office in the far end of the shop, removed a tray of cash from the safe and returned to the front as Sam pushed through the front door with his backside, carrying a wood case in both hands and holding a canvas bag against his side with one elbow. He waddled across the floor to the counter, struggling to keep the bag from slipping while balancing the machine.

“You can let the bag drop. You won’t break anything,” Mara said.

It dropped with a
thunk
. Sam straightened and set the sewing machine on the counter. “It’s got a little heft to it,” he said.

“That’s actually a half-weight antique model. It’s called a 1940c Harris hand-crank sewing machine. It’s porcelain, and it’s driven manually, not electrically. It’s very cool. I can’t wait to work on it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Why don’t people get a computerized model or, better yet, buy their clothes online, and save the time and hassle?”

“Sewing is a craft, an artistic expression. Using a simple mechanical device like this connects a person to the work in a way that pressing a bunch of buttons can’t. Haven’t you ever had a hobby?”

“Nothing that involved cranking an old machine.”

“So what do you want to talk about? And please tell me it isn’t Dad.”

“It’s not about Dad. It’s—”

“And why aren’t you at Mrs. Zimmerman’s getting educated?”

“I’m on my way over to her house right now. Now can I tell you what I came here to tell you without getting the third degree?”