Dead to Me by Anton Strout Page B

eyes darted back and forth between the two of us. Suddenly, I did feel an overwhelming desire to relax—and I knew he was up to something supernatural. There had been power in his words. Connor’s grip tightened on my arm until the pain caused me to snap out of it. He forcefully pulled me out of Cyrus’s direct line of sight and stepped forward.
     
    “Good,” Connor said. “I don’t want—”
     
    “But understandthis , gentlemen,” Cyrus interrupted. He seemed miffed that his little trick hadn’t held us in his sway. “You know and I know that a lot of the hoodoo-voodoo we deal with is even beyond our comprehension. Our mortal lives are nothing in the face of the unseen world, and what comprises the Black Stacks has a life all its own. Things are only as under control or out of control asthey allow them to be. If you want to know the truth, or the truth as I believe it, I don’t think anyone can control what is in those books. And like I said, I am merely…a gatekeeper.”
     
    Gatekeeper. I noticed the pride in his voice as the word rolled off the tattooed man’s tongue. Anyone, not just a paranormal investigator, could see the man took his dangerous dealings seriously. He’d had his say.
     
    He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a ledger, picking up a pen at the same time.
     
    “Will that be cash or charge?” Cyrus purred out, slick as a cat.
     
    I couldn’t let my last few moments of righteous anger slip by as if they hadn’t happened. I was petty like that. I lashed out in the only way left to me.
     
    “Just put it on our tab…before we close your ass down,” I said. I wasn’t sure if we even had the power to do so, but even if it was an empty threat, it felt immensely satisfying.
     
     
     
    The path winding back to the sectioned-off area known as the Black Stacks wove throughout a lengthy portion of Tome, Sweet Tome’s main floor. Connor and I followed Cyrus carefully through the labyrinthlike twists and turns that were mostly made up of musty stacks of ancient—possibly rotting—books. They were piled everywhere and threatened to tumble over at the slightest touch. I pulled up closer to Connor and whispered, “You ever knock over one of these precariously balanced piles?”
     
    “I don’t think so, no,” he said. “Come to think of it, I can’t recall a single stack of books falling over ever in Tome, Sweet Tome.”
     
    I stopped for a moment and placed both my hands against one of the more dangerous-looking towers of books, tempted to see what would happen if I gave it a little nudge, but Connor pulled my hands away.
     
    “I really don’t want to do the paperwork when you get buried in an avalanche of literature,” he said, pushing me in front of him.
     
    We quickened our pace to keep up with Cyrus, who had already reached the back of the store. The Black Stacks themselves were caged off from the main stock by tarnished copper bars that ran from floor to ceiling. Connor and I stood back as Cyrus made a few arcane gestures and spoke in a tongue I wasn’t familiar with.
     
    Cyrus moved aside and gestured for us to enter. “Good luck, gentlemen.”
     
    “Don’t wait around on our account, Cy,” Connor said and elbowed his way past him. “We’ll call if we need anything.”
     
    Cyrus chuckled at that. “I’ve got a first aid kit up front should anything…unfortunate happen,” he said as he wandered back to the front of the shop. “It’s at your disposal. For a nominal fee, of course.”
     
    “Of course,” I said and pushed my way past him also, but with less force than Connor.
     
    As I passed the threshold, the familiar smell of brimstone hit my nostrils. It was a tried-and-true stereotype, like cops in a donut shop, but brimstone always seemed to permeate the air anywhere the dark arts hung around in any great concentration. And let’s face it—the dark arts didn’t get more concentrated than here. The smell was still hard on the nose, though.