5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Beau Drewitt
The guy would not shut up.
“This is one of the finest buildings in the district, Mr. Drewitt,” he says, flashing teeth that gleam too white to be real.
“Historic foundation, upgraded plumbing, a brand new invention to cool the air, exposed brick. You can’t find that combination anywhere else right now.
You got yourself a real gem. That cooling system, especially.
You know how expensive it is to have that installed? ”
I nod politely, which I’m hoping will communicate, please stop talking before I drain you dry just for peace and quiet. It doesn’t work.
He follows me across the main floor, still rambling about the amenities. “And for you to pay in full, well, that’s impressive. You know, I could teach you a thing or two about investing in property while the market’s soft. Right now, everything’s undervalued, but—”
“Can you show me the cellar?” I ask, cutting him off.
Although I don’t need him questioning why I have a sudden need for a cellar in the middle of the Prohibition, I cannot stand another second of his agonizing voice.
His mouth hangs open for half a second before snapping shut.
I don’t need to read his mind to know he thinks I’m rude, but I do anyway.
He’s bullshitting me. Who would’ve guessed that? His thoughts are cluttered with the same rehearsed pitch he gives to every gentleman who comes through Darkwater with some cash. He doesn’t know a thing about property values or historic architecture. He’s just desperate for commission.
“Ah, yes, the cellar,” he says quickly. “Right this way, sir.” Adding the sir for some polite flair.
He leads me to the back door of the establishment.
The floors are bare, the walls are chipped, and the air smells faintly of oil.
This place was a restaurant, one of those that probably served overpriced everything.
Now it’s stripped bare all the way to the cement floor, waiting for something new.
Swinging the back door open, he gestures for me to go out into the alley ahead of him.
Turning back towards the building, there’s a set of cellar doors attached to it. He unlatches the heavy door we face that now groans in protest and proceeds to motion me toward the narrow staircase that inevitably leads below.
“Be careful, sir. The stairway is a bit steep. I think it could use some fixing, but as you can see, great bones! Solid concrete foundation. It could be used for storage for now, but in the future you could expand your store down here as well.”
Perfect. That was the first honest thing, or even good idea, he’d said all morning.
I step down the stairs, my hand brushing the wall as we descend.
The cellar smells of musk, but underneath that, I catch a note of iron and age.
The kind of scent that calls to something older inside me and nods to the years I’ve spent roaming this hellscape.
The space at the bottom of the stairway opens up to a wide rectangular room with low ceilings and thick brick walls.
The sun filters through the cellar door behind us, allowing the dim light to cascade across the space.
Dust motes float through the air like tiny ghosts that haunt this murky beneath.
I can already see it! The long bar. The dim lantern lights hanging above.
The quiet hum of voices, music, and laughter.
A place below the world where nobody has to pretend to be human.
We just have to get through this prohibition first. For now, I can move liquor through these parts unnoticed.
The funds from the smuggling can directly support opening up the bookstore too.
“Perfect,” I murmur.
The agent looks pleased with himself, as if my words validate his entire existence. “I’m glad you like it, Mr. Drewitt. Shall I walk you through the paperwork again, or…”
“No,” I interrupt. “Give me a minute. I’d like some privacy.”
He hesitates, confused. His thoughts flit nervously.
Weird guy. Probably one of those reclusive millionaire types.
Instead, aloud he says, “Of course, of course.” The man climbs the steps with a fake smile plastered on his face.
“Take your time. I’ll be right upstairs in the main lobby if you need me. ”
When he’s through the cellar door, silence falls in his absence.
I exhale and slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cool concrete floor.
The cellar hums faintly, like it remembers every sound it’s ever absorbed.
A thousand conversations, a hundred dinners, all turned to echoes. It feels right. This. This feels right.
“How quickly things change,” I say to the empty room.
My voice bounces off the brick and comes back to me softer.
I’ve been alive too long to count the number of places I’ve called home.
Cities, countries, centuries. Always moving, always leaving before anyone notices I haven’t aged a day.
But this time feels different. Matteo and Itanya kept us on the go in my earlier years of transition.
He took me under his wing after I was changed.
For thirty odd years, the trio never parted.
It took Itanya passing for our adventures to end.
Matteo became more paranoid the older he became.
Rightfully so. The growing worry of Itanya’s soon to be death was enough to keep even me on my toes.
This time though, I want to stay. I am making the decision to secure my home base.
Darkwater is the only town in the country that hasn’t reported any unusual supernatural activity in the last twenty years.
Either the undead here are smart enough to stay hidden or they’ve already blended in.
I need to find them. I run my hand along the floor, tracing the cracks in the concrete.
“A home where the creeps, freaks, and supernaturals can be themselves,” I say aloud.
“If I can’t do it for myself, maybe I can do it for others like me.
” The words hang around me, solid and certain.
I knock my knuckles against the wall. Maybe this is somewhere I can build a life.
Something about this just feels right. I push myself up, brushing off my coat, and climb the stairs back to the outside to access the main floor.
The light hits me as I stand outside the cellar door.
The old restaurant was empty except for the dust and the bones of what it used to be. I could already imagine the shelves, the smell of paper and ink, the laughter echoing from below after hours.
Soon, it would become Crimson & Quill. Not just a bookstore, but a refuge for people like me underneath.
I smile to myself. “Let’s give them somewhere to belong.”