Pockets of Darkness (14 page)

“You want freedom,” Bridget said. The demon in her office desired to be liberated from Bridget and the buckle, to go home, to not be tied to anyone. “I get it. I want that for you. I want you the hell out of my life. But I don’t know how to achieve that. I don’t know how you were hooked to this buckle, how to undo it. And I don’t know how in the hell you ended up in New York.”

The demon babbled almost angrily.

Liberate
, Bridget said in the ancient tongue. “So we’re crystal clear on that part. Liberate.”

The demon nodded and parroted the word in English, coming out
liburrrrrate
.

Bridget concentrated on the vision and pushed the scene forward again. At the end of that long-ago day, the priest went into another home, this of an apparently wealthy family, said a prayer, and called for the blessings of Enlil, Enki, and Ninhursag, the latter considered the mother of the gods. The priest and his boy-slave watched as a woman festooned with gold and silver jewelry mumbled over four small alabaster bowls that had been etched with symbols Bridget couldn’t get a good look at. She placed the bowls upside down, one in each corner of the home’s lower level. They were similar to the clay bowls that had been in the forge room of the woman who had made the accursed buckle. But these were intact. The ones in the forge room were all broken. The intact bowls were similar to other pieces Bridget had seen elsewhere, in a museum perhaps, none had come through her shop.

“If Lord of Storm desires, Aldî-nîfaeti will be taken here tonight,” the priest in the back of Bridget’s mind said. “In this home and that of your brother. Taken forever, if Lord of Storm’s blessings fall here, no longer will Aldî-nîfaeti ruin the crops and slay the livestock.” The conversation continued.

Prison.

Forever.

People.

Know—understand.

Aldî-nîfaeti—demons.

Unshackle.

Freedom.

Freedom.

Freedom.

Bridget repeated all of these words. When she couldn’t maintain the connection any longer, she slumped forward on the desk. When she woke, still slick with sweat, she looked at her watch: 12:41 p.m. Her stomach rumbled. The demon had wedged itself into a chair across from her, folds of pus-riddled fat hanging over the arms, and fetid goo running down the chair legs, disappearing before hitting the floor. Its tail twitched in time with the second hand ticking away on the wall clock.

Four of its eyes were closed, but the upper one—the fifth eye—was open wide and locked onto Bridget, holding her firmly in place. This time when the beast spoke, Bridget understood just enough.

“Bridget break prisons. Bridget unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti,” it said. “Bridget gain. Bridget break. Bridget unshackle. Bridget does not unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti … people of Bridget unshackled from life. Unshackled Tavio.”

Bridget’s people—Otter, Dustin, Michael. Bridget dropped the seal and ram into a pocket, with them and the buckle it felt like she was carrying a three-hundred-pound weight.

“Unshackled Tavio from life.” It had a smug look.

Bridget did not need the reminder that it had killed her ex-husband. She couldn’t get that burning thought out of her head. Neither could she successfully tamp down the guilt she felt. If she hadn’t taken that damnable briefcase out of Elijah Stone’s place, Tavio would be alive.

“Unshackle Bridget people from life.” Now it appeared to leer. “Unshackle all Bridget people.”

As the demon had apparently unshackled the loved ones of the buckle’s previous owners … owners without the ability to understand the ancient Sumerian dialect, and thereby unable to know the demon had a task in mind for them.

“Bridget gain prisons. Bridget break prisons. Know?”

“Yes, I know. I understand. If I don’t find the Sumerian demon bowls and break them, you will keep on killing. I’ll get the prisons, all right?” She tried to convey that in the Sumerian words she’d memorized. “There can’t be all that many intact demon bowls can there? “I’ll break them. I’ll break every damn one of them. I’ll let demons loose in New York City.” Whatever it took to keep Otter safe. “And I’ll find a way to free you, too.”

“Bridget gain prisons. Bridget break prisons.” The Sumerian tongue was coming easier to understand.

The prisons—demon bowls. They were relics Bridget had indeed seen in museums, and one had almost changed hands in this shop a few years ago. But the seller approaching her had asked too much, and Bridget knew there was no profit in the transaction. Babylonian relics … Sumerian relics. Pieces of etched pottery she’d thought products of primitive, superstitious societies that were valued by archaeologists and collectors because of their age. Like the alabaster bowls the woman in the vision had placed in the four corners of the Umma home. Like the bowls in the alchemist’s cave-like room.

Apparently the bowls had really worked to capture demons and to keep the occupants of a home safe. And now the demon sitting in Bridget’s office was demanding the release of its captured kin. Finally the beast had found an attendant who could communicate and who had the skills and shady connections to acquire the ancient pottery.

“Break prisons. Liburrrrrate. Unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti,” the demon said. All of its eyes narrowed. “Else unshackle Otter from life.”

“This day just keeps getting better and better and better,” Bridget said.

***

Twenty

“Do an Internet search,” Bridget told Rob. “Search on demon bowls, see what eBay has to offer. Get me a list of museums that display them. Sumerian, Babylonian. Sumerian preferably, but get both to be safe. We could’ve bought one a couple of years back, but the guy wanted too much.”

“But you want them now?”

“Auction houses that have some coming up for bid, antique stores. And call the captain, the one that does the Italy run. See if he can give you some leads for any bowls that might be attainable in Europe. See if Alvin and his brother have any contacts to check.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“The ones on eBay, at auction houses … buy them … however much it costs, I don’t care. Buy them now. Any of them. No, all of them. The others, in museums, we’ll make arrangements to get them somehow. As many as we can find, and as soon as we can get them. Christ, there can’t be many of them intact, as old as they are. Thousands of years old. Maybe one dozen, two at the most.”

“Sure, boss.” Rob looked only mildly puzzled. He still wrinkled his nose in her smelly presence. “You starting a pottery collection? If it’s bowls, we got some Depression-era—”

“Starting now. And Rob—”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Sure thing, boss. Hey, Alvin just sold that cylinder desk downstairs. The old goober’s pretty good, eh?” He quirked the corner of us lip up in a weak smile. “You look down, boss. Thought the cylinder desk deal would help your mood.”

“You finding those bowls … that’s the only thing that’s going to help, Rob.” Bridget took a different route back to the brownstone, not wanting to revisit the intersection where she’d been briefly airborne because of the speeding van. She got home a little before 1, and she thought about stopping in the kitchen and throwing something together for lunch; her stomach continued to rumble. When had she eaten last? Instead, she opted for a shower first. She couldn’t stand the smell of herself, and she could do nothing to appease the demon until Rob managed to find some bowls for her to smash into little pieces. She’d written down the best approximation of the pronunciation of the Sumerian words she’d learned, not wanting to forget them. She put the sheet under her cell phone on the bureau, placed the buckle next to it, stripped, and went into the shower.

She continued to let the words tumble through her mind as the hot water pounded away at her stench.

Prison.

Forever.

Clay.

Stone.

People.

Know.

Aldî-nîfaeti.

Unshackle.

Freedom.

Life.

Freedom.

Freedom.

Freedom.

“Freedom for Aldî-nîfaeti,” Bridget said. “Unshackle the demons. I understand.” Bridget prayed the demon understood that she was working on its demands. It sat just beyond the shower, waiting for her and looking utterly bored.

She turned up the pressure and the water came angry against the back of her neck, as hot as she could stand it, steam rising all around and fogging the glass. Her fingers fluttered to her stomach, finding no trace of the knife wound. Maybe there was a scar, though.

The door clicked opened, and Dustin reached a hand in to turn the knob so the water ran cooler.

“Mind if I join you?”

She hadn’t expected him to visit today. “Dustin, I think—”

“Shush. Don’t think.”

But she couldn’t stop thinking … about Otter, poor dead Tavio, and how was she going to find enough of the damnable ancient bowls to satisfy the demon. One dozen? Two?

“Don’t think, Brie,” Dustin said. “Not for a little while. Don’t think. Just feel.”

The water temperature apparently to his liking, Dustin slipped in behind her and ran his hands over Bridget’s shoulders. He kneaded the muscles in her neck. “Tight,
mon amour
. So much on your mind, I know. I am sorry about Tavio. I heard it on the television. I called, and Jimmy said the police look for the man who did the terrible thing.” He pressed himself against her. “Where is Otter?”

“School. He went to school.”

Bridget let him turn her around.

“He will live here now?”

“I don’t know. Yes. I just don’t know. But at least for the time being. At least until … oh, hell, I don’t know. Yes. I think yes. I hope yes. I think—”

“Brie, stop thinking.” Dustin kissed her, light at first, then deeper. “I like him, Otter. And I like that he liked my cooking on his birthday.” Dustin tipped Bridget’s face up, the mascara and eyeliner running from her eyes in thin, black rivulets. “But I am sorry for him, too,
mon amour
. A boy should have his father also. A boy should have a mother and a father.”

Bridget instantly recalled her own mother, all the hours she’d worked, too many for the two of them to be close. The memories were far away, and she’d done just fine without a mother. She’d done fine making a family in the Westies, then with Tavio, and now alone. Bridget was a rich, successful woman, and she really didn’t need anyone. “Otter deserves better than me, Dustin.”

“You are a good woman, Brie. A good provider.”

“A good provider? Sure. But I’m not a good woman, Dustin. You know that. I’m—”

“A criminal?”

“Yes, and—”

“I know that. But not a common one.”

“Well, no. But—”

Dustin cut off the rest of her words with another kiss, his hand on the back of her neck to pull her close, holding her tight. Dustin breathed into Bridget’s mouth and with his free hand stretched for the soap. It was a French milled, organic bar—he’d given Bridget several. This one smelled of grapefruit, tangerine, and musk, and he leaned away slightly and brought it up to Bridget’s nose.

“Your clothes outside on the floor,” he said, “stink.” He started lathering her. “You stink a little too. What did you get into?”

“Nothing good,” she said, remembering Adiella’s pit in the subway. “And nothing I can tell you about.”

“You have too many secrets, Brie. But I’ll let you keep them. I like you mysterious.”

She’d intended the shower to be short, just enough to pound away her awful odor. Then she’d planned on a brief nap, setting an alarm so she’d be awake before Otter returned from school. And so she almost stopped Dustin, but his hands were at the same time insistent and relaxing, his lips too soft and traveling everywhere. Bridget couldn’t get enough of him, soft skin, hard muscles, and gorgeous eyes.

She’d dally with him in the shower for just a little while—she’d allow herself that small pleasure. Bridget coaxed him to gently scrub her down to her toes. He lifted each foot in turn, cupped her heel and lathered her ankles. When he was finished, he stood and pressed the bar into her hands, turning his back to her.

“Your turn.” His voice was husky, and his eyelashes looked long and thick because of the water, like an artist had used a charcoal pencil to gracefully apply them.

Neither said anything for several moments, the only sound that intruded was the spat-a-tat-tat of the water jetting against them.

“Dance with me,” Dustin said when Bridget took a turn soaping him and sluicing off the scented foam. “Dance with me, Brie,” he repeated louder.

Bridget raised an eyebrow.

“Dance with me, I say, Brie O’Shea. Dance with me before your son comes home from school and you have to talk with him about unfortunate things, a funeral for his father. Dance with me to music only we can hear.”

She shook her head. “Not now, Dustin, I—” Bridget turned off the water and opened the shower door, stepped out and grabbed a towel. They shared it. She noticed the demon had squatted on her discarded clothes, probably fouling them. Bridget would toss them out in the morning. The demon belched; the cloud more visible than usual because of the damp air from the shower.

“Dance with me.”

Dustin bent and hooked his arm under the back of Bridget’s legs, picked her up and cradled her against his chest. She nested her face against his neck and nuzzled it, and let him carry her to the bed and slip her between the sheets. The demon followed and settled itself next to the nightstand, all eyes trained on the couple, no longer appearing bored.

“One dance,” Bridget said, riding a wave of pleasure that followed where his fingers traveled across her bare skin.

“One long and wonderful dance,” Dustin said.

She gave herself over to the rhythm and feel of him.

O O O

Bridget woke to a persistent tapping on her bedroom door. Dustin’s arm was draped across her, pleasantly pinning her, his eyes hazy with sleep. She looked at the clock on the nightstand: 6:03 p.m. The “4” dropped down, then the “5.” The demon’s eyes were closed, and it appeared that it was oozing less than usual. Perhaps it slept sometimes, too.

The tapping continued. “Miss O’Shea?”

“Yes, Michael. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Dinner, Miss O’Shea. In the formal dining room. Otter is used to eating early and so asked that it not be postponed any longer.”

Bridget disentangled herself from the sheet, kissed Dustin’s cheek, and hurried to the closet.

“We will dance again after dinner, eh?” Dustin laughed. “Dance and dance. I hope dinner is something tasty. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

“I suspect we’re having pizza. Otter said he likes pizza.”

It was pizza, two large pies served on silver platters on the dining table. Thick, one was topped with broccoli, mushrooms, eggplant, and peppers, the other with sausage and pepperoni.

“From Vesuvio’s,” Michael said. “I warmed them in the oven, Miss O’Shea. They were getting a little cold.”

Otter grabbed two slices of the meat pizza and gave Dustin a slight smile. “Glad you’re here.” He tucked the linen napkin into the collar of his shirt. “That veggie thing is all yours, Mom, since you seem to be counting calories.”

“Otter, I am very sorry about your father—” Dustin began.

“I know,” Otter said. “Thanks.”

“After dinner,” Bridget directed this to Otter, “you and I will—”

“Make arrangements for Dad? Already did that. I picked Carle-Rotzski’s, they do cremation. Stopped there after school. I want Dad cremated. I know what happened to him. They were talking about it at school. All tore up by the serial killer. I don’t want any closed casket thing. I want him cremated. I picked out the urn. It’s better this way. Who goes to cemeteries really? I’ll have the service catered by Dad’s restaurant …
my
restaurant … it would be appropriate, don’t you think. Mom, you’ll have to sign papers or something, pay for it, the cremation. The funeral home said you’d have to sign. I’ve set it all up and e-mailed a notice to be printed in the
Times
. I had enough on my debit card for the newspaper announcement.” He took a breath and kept going. “Cops aren’t releasing his body for a few days anyway. I stopped there, too, at the precinct, but the cops aren’t telling me anything. Nothing more than I heard at school. And they didn’t ask me as many questions as I thought they would. It wasn’t like the cop shows I’ve seen on TV.” He took a bite of the pizza, and nodded his approval. “Grandma Adiella’s going to help me go through some photos tomorrow … for the service. You know, put them up on a couple of posters, Dad’s life in review. Gotta have something like that for people to look at. I called her, Grandma Adiella, and I’m going to meet her at the condo, go through photo albums and see what pics he has … had … on his laptop. Download some on a flash drive so Carle-Rotzski’s can display them on their big TV.”

Fifteen, not fifty,
Bridget thought. Otter had already planned Tavio’s funeral. “Otter, I can help with all of that and—”

“Dad’s attorney called an hour ago,” Otter cut in. “Seems I’m the only beneficiary. I get everything, the condo … which I’ve been thinking about. I’m going to sell it. I don’t want to live there after Dad’s … you know. It would give me nightmares. You’ll probably have to sign some of the paperwork, the attorney said, ‘cause I’m a minor. I get the restaurant, too. Dad owned the building, apartments above it and everything. He owned half of some famous restaurant in Italy, too. Explains the vacations he’d take there. I didn’t know that, about the Italian place, he probably hid that from you in the divorce. Anyway, he’d sold his Microsoft stock to buy into that restaurant. Besides that, he had a good amount—but nothing amazing—in an investment portfolio. Looks like I’ll be set for life if I’m not extravagant. But it’s all fixed so I can’t withdraw anything or move the assets around until I turn nineteen.”

“Otter, I—” Bridget was flabbergasted: not that Tavio owned part of a restaurant in Italy, but that Otter was going to be so well off that he wouldn’t need her. And he’d likely leave her in the proverbial dust when he hit the magic age of nineteen. At best, she’d have four years with her son.

“I’m keeping the restaurant open here, I called Enrico earlier. Told him to keep everyone working, keep everyone paid, that someone’ll go over the books with me next week. Figure maybe I’ll use one of your accountants. Don’t worry, Mom, everything’ll get handled.” Otter stuffed his face with pizza, and his next words came muffled. “I have an appointment with the attorney early next week to sort through things.” He waved at Michael. “Get a plate and join us, Mike. This is a lot of pizza. And I’m not touching that one with the eggplant. Hey, I want to go to Italy when school breaks at Easter. I want to see the restaurant there that I own half of. I suppose you’ll have to come with me.”

Bridget reached into her slacks pocket, the buckle was there, though she’d thought she’d left it on the bureau—apparently it was indeed affixed to her just like it had been affixed to the briefcase. She felt rested enough, so she might venture into the buckle tonight to watch the ancient alchemist at work and try to get more information; that might keep her mind off her quickly-growing-up son. Her stomach rumbled loud enough for Dustin to hear, and he cut her a curious look. She grabbed one of the veggie slices. Certainly not something she would have ordered, though Dustin was refining her tastes and coaxed her to try new things. But she was hungry enough to eat just about anything. She held it to her nose—the sauce smelled good, and the cheese was considerable. So not completely healthy. She took a bite and found it actually quite good.