Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Walking out of the building, I squinted up at the clock tower visible throughout the campus. It was eleven a.m. If I was going to break into Woolworth’s office, I’d need to wait until everyone had gone home for the day.
I might as well get some work done on the other case that had fallen into my lap. Plus, getting into Acacia’s apartment would let me brush up on my breaking and entering before I had to do it later tonight.
Pulling out the photo, I searched for her address and found it on the border between the Quarter and San Amaro. I started to call another car, but decided to grab food first. Using magic always made me hungry, and I’d be using a lot today.
While I was eating two slices of pizza from one of the off-campus pizza parlors, I thought back to the picture of Nick.
The men in the picture had been severe. For that matter, Nick had looked so serious in the picture he didn’t resemble the warm, snarky guy I’d slept with last night. Still, it was unmistakably him.
I’d always taken him to be some do-gooder from a nice middle-class family: mother a teacher, father middle management.
He’d always given me the impression he'd become a cop because he had one of those moral compasses that didn’t break, no matter how much money you threw at it or how much terrible stuff he saw.
I’d never asked. I’d just assumed. More fool me, I thought.
What I couldn’t get over was I’d seen him, an alchemist with the last name King, and just never connected the dots.
Because the Kings... well, they were a family even I had heard about.
They had the money and connections that came from generations of being in politics, business, and anywhere else power flowed.
While I couldn’t name any of them on sight, maybe I hadn’t wanted to ask why a San Amaro cop could afford expensive suits and cars. I finished off the crust of my pizza and sighed. I felt vaguely betrayed; the one decent thing in my life had just been snatched away from me.
The fact that Nick was alchemy royalty was another reason I should keep him at arm’s length. What would he say if he ever found out I wasn’t as human as I looked?
I couldn’t help but want to hear his explanation, though. Why hadn’t he ever said anything?
Tossing the greasy paper plate into the trash, I looked at Acacia’s address on my phone again and judged it to be reasonable walking distance. The exercise would do me good, I decided. Even if it was hot enough to cook an egg on the sidewalk.
Halfway to Acacia’s apartment, I regretted my decision.
By the time I arrived, I was a sopping mess, sweat dripping from every part of my body.
Blotting at my face with my shirt, I saw her building had a phone plate and, unlike every other apartment building in the Quarter, no one had left the door propped open with a brick.
Squinting at the round silver buttons, I began at the top, pressing every single one.
In a college town, someone had probably ordered food and didn’t care about safety enough to bother to check who was ringing the intercom.
My assumption was rewarded with a reverberating buzz as someone let me in.
Apartment 3B should take building security more seriously.
I took out my keys as I walked, hoping I had one that would fit into the lock.
If not, things were more complicated. At Acacia’s door, I glanced around, but no one was in the hallway, so I began going through all the keys on my ring, starting with some I kept just for this purpose.
The lock looked like a deadbolt, one of those built in with the handle, a long rectangle of metal connecting the two, so if you turned the handle from inside, it would unlock the door.
One of the keys slid home, the right brand, even though the teeth were all wrong. This was where it got tricky.
Metal is nearly impossible to talk to, because most metal is an alloy of several elements. Brass, steel, trying to talk to a hunk of them is impossible. There are a few exceptions, though.
If the metal has enough of a purpose and it’s been used regularly or intensely, it might start to have an essence not as its elements, but as its product.
For example, a fork someone uses every day begins to think of itself as a fork first, steel second.
Every day, someone touches it and that person thinks “fork” and their belief becomes the fork’s belief.
After enough time, the fork thinks, “Oh, yeah, I am a fork.”
It doesn’t work with everything, but things people use often enough—doors, flatware, clocks—start to have that essence. The problem is they’re hard to wake, you have to pump a lot of magic in to make them notice you, and also they get really stubborn.
Sure, you could talk to a spoon and try to convince it to bend, but the spoon would just get confused. Bend? But my purpose is to hold things, and I can’t do that if I’m bent.
All that was to say, a lock’s job is to open and shut. It’s keeping things safe. That’s the energy people put into locks. That feeling of terror when you turn your key and realize you forgot to lock your door? Locks remember that. They know what their job is.
With the keys hanging in the door, I pulled out my phone and propped it on my shoulder, so it looked like I was talking.
“Hey lock,” I said. “You’re super good at your job, aren’t you? I mean, I bet a lot of people have tried to pick you, but you’re just so strong.”
I felt the lock wake. It was older, like the rest of the building. I wasn’t sure how long since they’d installed the lock, but it had been long enough there was a purr of energy when I pushed magic into it.
“I know so many other locks you can pick with a credit card. But you, you’re great. And I bet you and the handle both are in sync. I mean, if I just turn the handle, you unlock.” With confidence, I reached for the handle and tried it.
The lock hesitated. It really wanted to show me how in sync it was. It wanted to show me what a great lock it was.
“Wow, I mean, you’re even trying to keep me out!” I praised. “And you know I’m supposed to be inside! I mean, that’s awesome! You should be proud of yourself.”
The lock settled, smug leaking through. I twisted the keys and pretended to be surprised. “Oh, man, lock! I think there’s a mistake! These keys work, but you’re not turning.”
I frowned and hummed as though confused. “Maybe I should bring some oil for you? I mean, that would get sticky and drippy inside of you. Man, it’s too bad you’re stuck on these keys.”
Gently, I twisted again and the lock slowly, slowly clicked open. Pulling out the keys and twisting the handle to open the door, I let the magic fade from our connection while still praising.
“My mistake! You’re such a good lock. I don’t think I’ve met a better one!” I felt the smugness return even as the lock faded back into neutrality as I cut off the magic and let my phone drop back into my hand.
“Hey!” someone said behind me, brightly.
Turning, I saw a short girl with a pixie haircut on the staircase between floors. The building was narrow: only three apartments on each floor, a winding staircase took up the area where an apartment might have gone across from Acacia’s door. I smiled, friendly.
“Hey.” The trick to being where you’re not supposed to be is not acting like you’re doing anything wrong.
“Are you Acacia’s friend?" the girl asked. She’d streaked her hair with rainbow hues that shimmered when she cocked her head.
“Yeah,” I said. I held up my keyring. “She said I could stop by to pick up some stuff.”
No one ever asks to see the right key, even if they are pretty sure that’s not the keyring they remember their friend having. She squinted at me, and then looked to the keyring, her face relaxing.
“So you’ve seen her.” Her shoulders fell.
Wetting my lips, I smiled. “No, actually. I talked to her by text and she dropped off the keys in my mail slot. Why?”
Over the years, I’ve discovered the last thing you want a witness to remember is you claimed to see a missing person.
If they turn up dead, then you’re the last person to have seen them alive, or, more commonly, the suspect the cops want to pin the whole case on.
If the missing person doesn’t turn up dead, then their friend asks them about the weirdo who said he saw them.
Marco always said you want to be as honest as possible when working the job, but he was also better at it than I was. Granted, he never had to deal with missing bastard fae princesses.
“So you haven’t seen her either?" the girl asked, arms crossing.
“No.” I shook my head. “What’s up? Is something going on?”
I frowned, like I was very concerned. This girl had to know something. Anyone who talked to Acacia enough to be worried about her, had some insight into her disappearance, even if they didn’t know it.
“She hasn’t been home in two weeks,” the girl said. “I’m getting kind of worried. Sorry. I’m Skylar.”
Extending my hand, I shook hers. “Parker.”
Glancing at the open door, I said, “That’s so weird.
Yeah. I just talked to her via text. She borrowed some books of mine and I need them back for class.
I figured she’d just bring them, but she said I could get them myself.
I was going to just leave the key in her mailbox, but maybe I should keep it? ”
Skylar bit her lip and looked past me into the apartment. “Maybe if you see anything suspicious, you should call the police.”
“You could call the cops.” I held up my hands like I didn’t want to. “If you’re so worried.”
Huffing, Skylar said, “I tried. They said I need to stop calling them so often and she was probably just staying at her boyfriend’s for a few nights. But I’ve met her boyfriend. She said he doesn’t live in town. He always comes to stay with her.”
“Really? Who’s her boyfriend again?”
“Tall guy? Looks like an actor.” She rolled her eyes to me as though that was of some significance. “I think she said his name was Thomas?”