Pockets of Darkness (10 page)

“Thou shalt not steal,” Adiella said. “Treasures gained by wickedness do not profit, but righteousness delivers from death.”

Whatever verse and chapter she quoted this time was a mystery to Bridget. “Adiella, I may well deserve this beast that’s affixed itself to me—”

“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.”

“—but Otter doesn’t deserve it.”

Adiella growled. “You deserve it. You, Bridget O’Shea are a waste of human flesh.”

“The beast kills people close to the one who has the briefcase,” Bridget repeated. “Tavio’s gone, that leaves Otter. You’re the most powerful witch in the city, Adiella. Don’t break the curse for me, break it for Otter.”

Her expression softened. “This beast, Bridget—”

Bridget had to lean close to hear the witch. Adiella’s voice had dropped to a mere suggestion.

“It’s right here. The beast … monster is too polite a word, I think. The beast is in your shop,” Bridget said. “It is watching us. It’s sitting right there.” She gestured to her right, toward the base of a shelf stuffed with paperback romances. “It’s ugly as hell, evil, and—as much as I truly hate to say it—I need your help.”

“This beast … it is a demon,” Adiella pronounced, her voice a shade louder.

“Christ!” Bridget closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, the air in the shop filled with Adiella’s perfume, the fusty odor of old books, and of the creature … the
demon
. “Without casting a single spell, you know what it is? Can you see it? It’s a feckin’ demon?” Adiella indeed might be powerful enough to see the monstrosity. “Pissmires. I didn’t think anyone but me could see it.”

The witch shook her head, hoop earrings jingling. “See it? No. But I can sense it, Bridget O’Shea. I can sense that it is a dominant demon that has attached itself to your soul. Old, defiant, powerful. It wants something.”

“No shit. I know it wants something. Blood … hearts. Tavio’s heart, life, women and men before that. A boy, too. The FBI thinks their so-called serial killer got a boy some years ago. It ripped the heart out of a boy. So Otter’s probably next on its menu. The …
demon
 … has been around this country a while, passing from hand to hand to hand and leaving a trail of bodies. I could probably find a way to have the damn briefcase stolen from me. That’s how I got the curse, Adiella, I stole it. I took on the curse that was probably eating away at a fellow named Elijah Stone.”

“Elijah Stone?”

“Yes, that is the man I stole the case from. And he’s up and left the city. No wonder, huh? Probably vacationing in some tropics, demon free. God, but I was set up. Had to be. Stone needed the briefcase stolen and somehow I fell into his plan. A friend of Marsh … hell, you don’t know Marsh. And Marsh said he didn’t know Harry Black or Brown or Gray. It was all a damnable setup.”

“I see. Greed brought this upon you, and so greed is the trigger to the curse. Ever the greedy bitch, Bridget O’Shea. ‘I was enraged by her sinful greed; I punished her, and hid my face in anger, yet she kept on in her willful ways.’”

“I don’t need the Bible lesson, Adiella.”

“Your greed—”

“I suppose in turn I could find another greedy bitch. I could certainly find a way to have it stolen from me. There are plenty of greedy bitches out there I could lure.” Bridget took in another deep breath and nearly retched from the swirl of odors. The beast belched a sulfurous cloud. “But I don’t want to go that route. I want to find a way to send this foul thing back to whatever hell it came from, no more killing people by ripping out their hearts.” She paused and studied the witch. “I don’t want to pass along the curse. I want to end the curse.” Adiella had regained a measure of her composure, the wrinkles around her eyes and on the backs of her hands gone. “I don’t want to take the chance that even if I do manage to get rid of the briefcase, to have it pinched by another thief, the thing won’t go after Otter anyway.” Otter was Adiella’s weak spot, and Bridget needed to play on that. “I’ve not been a good mother, Adiella, I’ll give you that. But I love my son, and I’m going to do what I must to keep him safe.”

Adiella chanted as she pulled several books out from beneath her counter, not bothering to close her shop or flick off the fluorescent lights to create a magical mood. Bridget could tell she was panicked at the thought of Otter dying like Tavio. Then Bridget couldn’t hear, the witch’s lips working, but no sound coming out, her fingers trembling in her worry and grief and anger. Bridget couldn’t hear the witch thump the books on the counter or turn the pages, and could no longer hear any of the traffic or sirens out on the street. She stepped closer, out of the bubble-like barrier Adiella had created to keep anyone upstairs or outside from hearing the magic.

Bridget didn’t know what language Adiella spoke. Maybe Romanian, it had a Slavic feel. Her last name was a meld of Slavic and Spanish. She’d only once asked Adiella about her ancestry, and the glare she got in response kept her from asking again. The witch’s fingers fluttered as she continued, like she was knitting something invisible. There was a pattern to the movements. One book, two, three. Adiella had seven on the counter now and it had grown dark outside, the streetlights coming on.

She went through the books again, and Bridget had to step back, her legs cramping. Bridget leaned against a bookshelf, out of the “bubble,” hearing nothing again and not minding. She couldn’t even hear the demon, which she was certain continued to babble. It always babbled. Only in her sleep had she escaped the hellish chatter. She realized when it had killed Tavio. It was when she went up on the roof to spar with Jimmy. The creature hadn’t followed her … because it went to visit Tavio. That it knew about Tavio had been disturbing. It had to have searched her mind.

And so it knew about Otter.

Dustin.

Michael.

And now Adiella.

Bridget choked back a laugh. If the beast ripped Adiella’s heart out, she wouldn’t overmuch mourn the witch. But she doubted the demon would find Adiella a choice target. The creature would select something with more meaning.

Otter.

Adiella’s voice rose and then she collapsed. The sounds of the city came in through the cracks, the wind and traffic, music from across the street, a television program from an apartment overhead. Bridget didn’t budge; she waited.

The witch dragged herself to her feet, spider web white hair poking out from under the red scarf that had slipped. Her chest heaved and she gripped the counter. For a moment, Bridget feared the witch was having a seizure.

“It defies me,” Adiella gasped, regaining control and again chasing the wrinkles from her diminutive frame. “So very powerful.”

“Try again.” Bridget said. “Let’s go to where your magic is stronger. Take me to one of your secret pits that Tavio told me about. Then try again and again and again.”

“You will need your coat,” Adiella said, her expression flat. “Though I doubt it will be enough to keep you warm.”

***

Sixteen

Adiella bundled herself like an Arctic explorer, complete with knee-high boots trimmed in what looked to be real fur. She led Bridget to the nearest subway stop and waited for the train to arrive, load, and depart. When it was just the two of them on the platform—plus a homeless man sleeping against the wall, she climbed over the edge and down onto the track bed, having no difficulty despite her years and voluminous layers of clothing. Bridget followed, surprised at the witch’s speed.

“The video feed?” Bridget asked, gesturing back toward the platform. “Won’t someone have—”

“I did not allow it to record us.”

Bridget carried the briefcase, though she briefly considered tossing it on the third rail to see what would happen. Before, she’d only let a train simply run over the damned thing, she’d not thought to try to electrocute the beast.

She decided against the notion, thinking that electrocution might only make the demon more pissed off and cause it to immediately go after Otter. The beast accompanied the case, and so if Bridget held onto its handle, she figured she was keeping her son safe—at least for the moment.

They’d traveled less than a block when she felt the ground tremble, another train coming. Adiella stepped onto a ledge and disappeared into a niche Bridget hadn’t noticed. It took her a few moments to figure out where the witch had gone. There were service lights the length of the subway tunnel proper, but nothing in this narrow corridor. Black as pitch, she shuffled forward, holding a hand out to the wall and feeling her way. Somehow Adiella could see in this absolute black.

Bridget sorted through the sounds: the clatter of a train arriving behind her, the hiss of steam from somewhere overhead, the chitter of what she guessed were well more than a few rats, finding the slap-slap-slap of Adiella’s footsteps, and judging that the witch was less than a dozen yards ahead. She focused on the slap-slap-slap and plowed blindly forward.

This place was …
awful
 … no better word for it, she decided. In addition to the stench from the demon, Bridget smelled foul odors that were likely a mix of sewage and dead things. She’d wished she’d brought some peppermints, something to cut the horrid taste that had nested in her mouth, and a cell phone for a sense of security, though it was probably impossible to get a signal down here. She’d left the phone behind at her brownstone, not wanting to be disturbed. Plus, it was bone-cold here, evil-cold; she wore no gloves and her jacket wasn’t sufficient. Adiella had been right that she wouldn’t be warm enough, but she wouldn’t let the witch know just how terribly cold she was. Bridget felt frost forming at the corners of her mouth and figured frostbite wouldn’t be far behind. This place was wholly, thoroughly dreadful, one step removed from hell. And yet she’d suggested the witch go to one of her pits. Wonderful.

Sometimes Bridget’s business dealings took her into closed subway tunnels to meet with brokers and smugglers. But that was usually under Manhattan, where the air was better, the nooks and crannies were cleaner, and where she was smart enough not to venture during the depths of winter. In her various explorations following Jimmy one day, she’d discovered people living in the city’s hidden infrastructure—moles, they’d been dubbed in news reports. Because of Jimmy, Bridget had connections to one mole community that numbered about a hundred and fifty and had an ersatz mayor. But, again, that was under Manhattan. Whatever moles might live down here … Bridget thought they might not be the human kind.

The tunnel sloped down, the air growing colder still, and several steps later Bridget felt frigid water—or something mostly liquid—swirling around her ankles. Awful? No, this was an appalling, horrifying hell-hole the witch was leading her through. And if she died here, no one would ever find her body. Suddenly the sound of Adiella’s footfalls stopped and Bridget froze. The beast at her side started jabbering louder.

“Shut up!” Bridget spat. “Just—”

“Come along,” Adiella shouted. “It’s not much farther.”

“Pissmires and spiders.” Her teeth chattered as she sloshed forward, feeling the biting liquid swirl higher. Her toes had gone numb and her fingers ached. Would Adiella shed her of the curse and the demon and leave her in this dark labyrinth to die … justice for Tavio? A way to get Otter? For an instant Bridget considered retreating, but the demon belched a sulfurous cloud that spurred her on. The texture of the wall changed, her fingers now grazing bricks that were covered in frost and icicles in one spot, dry in another and dotted with the husks of insects that crumbled as she touched them. She sent her senses into the stone, thinking psychometry might provide a clue where they were going. Bridget focused, still walking forward but slow and cautious, finding a picture forming in the back of her mind and pausing to take it in.

Construction workers laid the bricks. The tunnel was well-lit way back then, but by lanterns. William Adams was the name of the man who’d put in place the very brick Bridget now pressed her palm against. William had just turned thirty-one on the day that Bridget observed him, born in 1860, which meant this double-barreled sewer tunnel was built in 1891. William was talking to his fellows, but Bridget couldn’t hear for the loudening prattle of the demon. She gave up and discarded the image and slogged forward, hoping she wouldn’t step in some depression that would drop her all the way into this icy muck.

Where the hell had Adiella gone?

As if in answer, Bridget saw a pale glow ahead. She quickened her pace, crouched, and slipped through a gap only as wide as a coffin and that might have served for sewer or rainwater runoff more than a century ago. The glow brightened and Bridget emerged into a chamber the size of her walk-in closet, the earth-and-brick walls covered with faded graffiti: “DiViDeD WE fall” in rose, blue, and white, the Statue of Liberty with a sword in her hand and a snarl on her face, “goofus ’58,” symbols that might represent various gangs—nothing Bridget recognized, caricatures of singers including Bob Marley, John Lennon, Captain and Tennille, and Jim Croce, hinting the place had been tagged in the early to mid-1970s. A generator sat in one corner, its purr powering a bank of overhead fluorescent lights and a state-of-the-art space heater. She spotted the outline of a larger doorway that was boarded over. The witch had no doubt brought the generator and furniture in through there, though clearly not by herself. There was a narrow bed piled high with comforters, a large crucifix hanging above it, a wide wooden rocking chair, a miniature refrigerator like you’d find in a dorm, with a single-burner hotplate sitting atop it, and a pristine wardrobe trunk that Bridget didn’t need to touch to recognize its value: vintage Louis Vuitton circa 1920, an easy ten grand. She wondered if Adiella had purchased the trunk the year it was manufactured. Braided rugs were scattered on the floor. The place smelled of old stone and incense. The general stench of the tunnel had not encroached.

The demon?

It hadn’t yet entered the chamber, was squatting in the opening, sniffing, all of its eyes rotating. If Bridget could ascribe an emotion to it, she’d call it nervous. After a moment, it edged closer, but only a few inches, looking angry and wary, and staying out of the chamber.

Adiella moved the rocking chair so it sat halfway between the space heater and the antique trunk. She opened the trunk and rummaged around inside. Bridget kept her attention on the demon. It crept farther forward, but did not pass beyond an arc-like symbol chiseled in the floor and filled in with a silvery metal. The demon snarled at the line, then looked around like it was studying the graffiti.

“The demon doesn’t like this place,” Bridget said.

“It is consecrated in an old, old way. It should not be able to come inside. No demon should be able, no matter how powerful. Perhaps not even the devil itself.”

“Well, that gobshite of a beast hasn’t stepped past your line in the sand. So I suppose you’re right. But I don’t think it’s happy.”

“And well it shouldn’t be. This ‘pit’ as you call it is sanctified and warded. I have the bone shards of three saints here.” Adiella made the sign of the cross. “That it came as far as the doorway is another testament to its power. Still, it cannot pass my ‘line in the sand.’ It can look all it wants, but it can’t touch. As I said, I doubt the devil itself could step beyond my ward.”

Bridget wondered how many “pits” Adiella had in the city. And were they all sanctified and warded with saint bones? Tavio had talked of them, places in the earth where his mother had found a natural, arcane pulse that augmented her magic. Clearly the witch could live here if she had to, with the heater and the bed and the generator that probably bled electricity from a city power line. Maybe this is where she lived when she wasn’t in her rundown bookstore.

Bridget noticed that Adiella was sweating and squinting at notes she’d pulled from the trunk and spread on the floor next to the chair. She’d brought out candles, too, thick misshapen things that she lit with a snap of her fingers and held to her nose, inhaling the smoke. She placed the candles in a semicircle. The marks on the wall—that Bridget had at first thought unfamiliar gang symbols—glowed. They were sigils the witch had put up, maybe protecting this pit, maybe boosting her spells.

Bridget’s legs cramped, and still she couldn’t feel her toes. She wanted to sit, even on the brick floor, but she resisted and continued to alternately watch Adiella and the demon, which had turned its warty, puss-oozing back to her.

There were odd symbols on Adiella’s pages, some of which she traced with a gloved finger, some of which vaguely matched some on the walls. With the other hand, she drew invisible diagrams in the air above the largest candle, the smoke from the taper holding her designs for a moment, then curling toward the fluorescent lights. She spoke in a monotone, singsong voice that Bridget figured was a spell and that went on for many long minutes.

“The demon—”

“Is still here,” Bridget said. “It reached a claw out, but it looked like something stopped it.”

“Sanctified, I said. Protected. It cannot come in here.” Adiella resumed chanting, padding again to her trunk and sorting through things Bridget couldn’t see. She retrieved several stoppered vials, sat on the floor cross-legged in front of the pages, and arranged the vials in some sort of order. The chanting reminded Bridget of a CD she’d recently purchased, featuring Benedictine monks; there were no instruments involved, and yet the monks’ chanting tones suggested such. Bridget flexed her fingers and shifted her weight from foot to foot, still having no feeling in them.

Adiella uncorked the first vial and gently spilled the powdered silver from it in a pattern. The next vial contained brass shavings, the final three appeared to be filled with red, green, and blue glitter that one could purchase in a craft store. She clapped her hands and a wind arose, swirling around her pit and whipping the various shavings and powders into a miniature twister that joined the tendrils of smoke rising from the candles.

Bridget blinked, grit spitting at her eyes.

The wind was gone as quick as it had come, and what spread across much of the floor were intricate lines of the powders and shavings. Glitter covered Adiella’s brow except for where she’d rubbed at her hairline. Bridget stared: the lines intersected with some of the symbols and diagrams on the pages, and at sharp junctures blobs of wax from the candles hardened. Wisps of acrid smoke spiraled up from the blackened wicks. Adiella adjusted her scarf, tucked in a few errant white hairs, and chanted once more. Her age had come back upon her, wrinkles everywhere and her back rounded like a turtle shell. Her shoulders shook, and Bridget believed it was from grief. She’d not given the witch any proper amount of time to deal with the loss of her son. In truth, Bridget hadn’t taken time to properly mourn either. Tavio had been her world many years ago, and no matter that the marriage had unraveled, that he’d repeatedly cheated on her, he hadn’t deserved to die like that. There’d been good times, she’d been happy with him when the marriage was new. There was Otter.

Adiella had been right. Tavio’s death was Bridget’s fault. Had she not been tempted to pick up the ugly briefcase in Elijah Stone’s place, Tavio would still be breathing. Otter would not be in danger.

And Bridget would not be freezing in this hellish pit.

All of this was her fault.

The numbness from Bridget’s feet had spread up to her thighs. She considered stepping in front of the space heater, but stopped when Adiella let out a hissing breath and looked up.

“The demon—”

“Try again,” Bridget remonstrated. “It’s still here.”

“The satchel. Set it in front of me.”

Bridget edged forward, pausing and looking at the arcane mess on the floor.

“Anywhere here. Just set it down.”

Bridget did, turning it so the buckle faced the witch. “That buckle, I was wondering—”

“Hush. Stand back, over by that crack.” She gestured with her chin and Bridget took it to mean the coffin-thick crevasse they’d come through to get here. “Stand in front of that.”

She complied, her legs feeling heavy and stiff like steel girders. From here Bridget could see everything in the room, and—if it was possible—it felt even colder in this spot. Maybe Adiella wanted her to block a draft or put her at the edge of pneumonia. Maybe if Adiella severed the demon she’d kill Bridget for good measure. Bridget doubted she’d stand much of a chance against the angered witch. Then Adiella would have Otter.

The demon looked over what passed for a shoulder and set all five of its eyes on Bridget. Then it snapped its attention to Adiella, who was chanting and fluttering her fingers, calling up another wind that sent the powders and shavings swirling around the ugly briefcase.

If only Bridget hadn’t taken the damn satchel from Stone’s apartment! Bridget wondered how she’d been set up, the tip about the ancient treasure not coming from one of her men, but a “friend” of one of them. A fellow named Harry Black or Brown or Gray. Somehow Elijah Stone had gotten the word out about some great treasure, and eventually that word had reached Bridget, who was quick to go after it. She could never have enough wealth or enough relics, the more ancient the better. Never satisfied, she’d brought this all on herself.