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Part 3-8: Alley
The last time I’d sought the book, it eluded me, snatched up by Eden before I could get to it. I couldn’t help but wonder if it’d be gone this time as well, or if those pages would be blank when I looked inside… or if it was a terrible trap. As we got closer to the now quite familiar (and practically routine) Bannerman Drive, a swirling debate clashed in my head.
I’d tricked Eden by taking the book before—this could be revenge.
But it had been useful, no: critical, in saving the people at the ballgame.
But the book had been laid out in front of those vines plain and pretty as cheese on a mousetrap.
But the ring had sent a vision. The ring had been good so far.
By the time we were strolling up the cracked and weedy sidewalk to the alleyway, I’d managed to negotiate a tentative truce with myself. If the book was still there, and if it felt okay, then I’d peek, and that’s all we’d do.
We turned into the alley. A group of young boys lounged by our door, smoking and looking like trouble.
“Keep going,” murmured Dack. Thoughts of demons and magical books evaporated as an inborn instinct rebelled inside of me, begging that I not ‘keep going’ and turn heel ASAP. I kept going.
One of the thugs peeled off the wall and eyed Dack. The others seemed to pretend not to notice.
“Hey,” said Dack. “Sellin’ anything?”
“What’re you, a fuckin’ cop?” said the kid. His friends stopped smoking, still not watching us.
“Nah, potential customer. You have shit or not?” said Dack.
“Not for you. Get the fuck up on outta here.”
Now the others looked. The one furthest from us had a tattoo under his right eye. It was a shape I thought I recognized, from back in the big city—a gang sign. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. Dack didn’t move.
“You deaf?” said the one beside Mr. Tattoo. “She can stay though. ‘Sup sexy?”
They were between me and my door, and they were a few moments away from getting violent. One group had to leave, and it couldn’t be us. Dack might be able to fight two of them, but if they had weapons…
“Sure, I’ll stay!” I said, bright and chipper, possibly laced with notes of shrill insanity. The boys exchanged amused glances.
“She’ll, uh, um,” said Dack.
“As long as I can bring my sexy friends too!” I continued, and pulled out my cell phone. I smiled at the little crew and winked, pretending to thumb a phone number. I put it to my ear and held out my other finger. The amused glances melted into suspicion, and all three of them started to square up. The tattooed guy kept his hands in his pockets.
“Bitch, what are you—” started the first guy.
“Come over unit five, I’ve a ten-ninety-two on Bannerman,” I intoned, doing my best Sheila Crownsford impression. “Three suspects, punkish, south alley along the Zachary building, over.”
“Shit, shit,” said the ringleader, and scrambled backward. Two of them fled. Tattoo-guy remained and eyed me.
“What’d we do?” he said.
“Verbal threats, disturbing the peace,” I snapped.
“Forget your radio, then? Officers?” he sneered.
“Who says we’re police?” said Dack, taking a step forward. He was a head taller than the punk.
“I know you ain’t. Hope you had fun. Hope you thought that was worth it.” He waited and stayed silent just long enough to make me start to doubt myself, then turned and strolled after his pals. After he disappeared around a corner, we hurried into the side stairwell entrance.
“Wow,” said Dack, once the door was shut and a phone flashlight was on.
“I, sorry, uh, I, just sorta…” It was hard to talk around my racing heart.
“No, that was… inspired. But a ten-ninety-two?”
“No idea, was what came to mind, probably heard them say it on the monitor before.”
“It means ‘improperly parked vehicle.’” Dack grinned.
For reasons related to stress, I assume, I found this utterly hilarious and had to sit down and clutch the railings to keep from cry-laughing out loud. My struggles got Dack going, and soon we were a pile of shaking, giggling morons in the bottom of a poorly lit, abandoned, haunted stairwell.
As the fit passed, a sobering thought wandered in.
“Are we going to get shot by a gang when we come out of here?” I asked.
Dack sat in the corner of grimy space, texting. “I think we’ll be okay. I’ve an exit strategy. You better get what you came for.”
“Okay. Yeah. Right.”
I wiped tears from my eyes and shone my light around to the back of the steps. The little blue book was right where I’d left it. I placed my right palm on the cover, letting the ring make contact. Tiny tingles greeted me, like they always did when I touched it. They had a different texture than my ring, I noticed. Different, but not hostile.
“Here goes nothin’” I said, and flipped the cover open.
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