bowl glowed red momentarily, and he blew the smoke out. It perfumed the close quarters with a smell that reminded him of another room, high-ceilinged, heavy-timbered, and chill, where he’d first been introduced to the pleasures of the pipe. Bayard enjoyed another languorous pull from the pipe, savored the taste and scent of the cherry-flavored tobacco. She knew he was coming down, but she could wait in Hell until he was good and ready.
He watched the bowl glow red and dark again. And then he remembered. What in the name of all unholy had he seen onstage in that scene between Faustus and Lucifer? Ruben swore it was nothing he’d done, although he liked the idea and asked if he could try to recreate the illusion for the show. Bayard demurred—that had been no illusion. Had Tom been aware of anything outré during that moment when he’d uttered Faustus’s lines and exited with Morris? His sharpened senses now scanned the stage area of the theater downstairs, but it was cold and empty.
He sat and smoked and when his pipe was done, he knocked out the ashes and fetched the thermos. It was time. He headed downstairs in the dark, unlocked the door to the basement, and snapped on the staircase light in case any lurking rats might want to be warned beforehand. His footfalls clumped down the narrow steps till he reached the black and white tiled floor. Bayard gathered his focus and sat down facing the alcove under the stairs.
Chapter 8
Friday, same night — 1:30 A.M.
“I’m gonna go tally up the receipts and reconcile the register, can you lock up out front?” Nanette, owner of The Rookery and purveyor of all things used and esoteric in the book buying world, tossed Tom the keys, which he caught one-handed.
“No prob—I’m on it.”
“Thanks. Sorry to keep you so late, what with your accident and all. But we have to stay open later during the holidays and you’re the one I trust the most…”
Tom sorted through the keys on the master ring, looking for the one he recognized as the front door key. “I don’t mind. Nowhere else I need to be.” At nearly 1:30 in the A.M., that was true enough.
Nanette winked one kohl-ringed eye at him. “You’re a love.” Her flirtation with him was harmless—she was longtime married to the bookstore’s co-owner, a man her age who also ran a successful personal business as a practicing stage magician, which might explain the store’s extensive tarot card section. He wondered idly if Adelaide’s deck had come from here. The cultivation of a sultry mystique was part of Nanette’s persona and added to the bookstore’s atmosphere. He watched her straight bottle-black hair sway across the butt of her skin-tight leather pants as she made her way with the money pouch through the crowded stacks to the back room. She wasn’t his type, being too brassy and painted-woman extrovertish, so any flirtations returned on his part were mere courtesy and of no consequence.
Since coming to Atlanta, he’d not allowed himself any entanglements, emotional or otherwise, except for his involvement with the Mummers. Instinct, again, had led him there and he did not question the rightness of his being accepted into their little congregation, as he thought of them. Bayard played Pope to his acolytes, who hung on his words and worshipped his brilliance, or so it seemed to Tom. But that assessment of Kit Bayard was for himself and no one else.
Tom went to the front door, pulling the doorknob tight. He was fitting the key to the lock when a tremor went through his hands as if it were coming from the door frame or the floorboards under his feet. His body tensed and muscle memory telegraphed the sensation to his brain—earthquake. Which was ridiculous because as far as he knew, the great state of Georgia was not an earthquake zone. That being said, he’d lived in Greece where quakes large and small occurred too often, and his body remembered. He held the doorknob and felt the tremor
He watched the bowl glow red and dark again. And then he remembered. What in the name of all unholy had he seen onstage in that scene between Faustus and Lucifer? Ruben swore it was nothing he’d done, although he liked the idea and asked if he could try to recreate the illusion for the show. Bayard demurred—that had been no illusion. Had Tom been aware of anything outré during that moment when he’d uttered Faustus’s lines and exited with Morris? His sharpened senses now scanned the stage area of the theater downstairs, but it was cold and empty.
He sat and smoked and when his pipe was done, he knocked out the ashes and fetched the thermos. It was time. He headed downstairs in the dark, unlocked the door to the basement, and snapped on the staircase light in case any lurking rats might want to be warned beforehand. His footfalls clumped down the narrow steps till he reached the black and white tiled floor. Bayard gathered his focus and sat down facing the alcove under the stairs.
Chapter 8
Friday, same night — 1:30 A.M.
“I’m gonna go tally up the receipts and reconcile the register, can you lock up out front?” Nanette, owner of The Rookery and purveyor of all things used and esoteric in the book buying world, tossed Tom the keys, which he caught one-handed.
“No prob—I’m on it.”
“Thanks. Sorry to keep you so late, what with your accident and all. But we have to stay open later during the holidays and you’re the one I trust the most…”
Tom sorted through the keys on the master ring, looking for the one he recognized as the front door key. “I don’t mind. Nowhere else I need to be.” At nearly 1:30 in the A.M., that was true enough.
Nanette winked one kohl-ringed eye at him. “You’re a love.” Her flirtation with him was harmless—she was longtime married to the bookstore’s co-owner, a man her age who also ran a successful personal business as a practicing stage magician, which might explain the store’s extensive tarot card section. He wondered idly if Adelaide’s deck had come from here. The cultivation of a sultry mystique was part of Nanette’s persona and added to the bookstore’s atmosphere. He watched her straight bottle-black hair sway across the butt of her skin-tight leather pants as she made her way with the money pouch through the crowded stacks to the back room. She wasn’t his type, being too brassy and painted-woman extrovertish, so any flirtations returned on his part were mere courtesy and of no consequence.
Since coming to Atlanta, he’d not allowed himself any entanglements, emotional or otherwise, except for his involvement with the Mummers. Instinct, again, had led him there and he did not question the rightness of his being accepted into their little congregation, as he thought of them. Bayard played Pope to his acolytes, who hung on his words and worshipped his brilliance, or so it seemed to Tom. But that assessment of Kit Bayard was for himself and no one else.
Tom went to the front door, pulling the doorknob tight. He was fitting the key to the lock when a tremor went through his hands as if it were coming from the door frame or the floorboards under his feet. His body tensed and muscle memory telegraphed the sensation to his brain—earthquake. Which was ridiculous because as far as he knew, the great state of Georgia was not an earthquake zone. That being said, he’d lived in Greece where quakes large and small occurred too often, and his body remembered. He held the doorknob and felt the tremor
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