Chapter 7 #3
Rowan seems to know everyone. A barista leaning out of a café window calls his name. An elderly man arranging pumpkins outside a florist shop raises a hand in greeting. Even a little girl in a purple witch costume waves at him as if he’s some kind of local celebrity.
“Good grief,” I say. “Do you know the entire town?”
“What can I say? I’m a man of the people.” He smirks and points to a black-painted storefront across the street with a carved wooden cat hanging above the entrance, its eyes flashing whenever the sign sways in the wind. “That’s The Black Cat Bookshop. Best bookstore in town.”
“Let me guess. It’s haunted.”
“Obviously,” he says, deadpan. “A bookseller died in the upstairs apartment, and his ghost rearranges the shelves after closing. Also hates romance novels. They mysteriously wind up in the dumpster whenever the owner gets new stock.”
“Sounds like my kind of ghost.”
“What?” He pauses, looking almost offended. “Not a romance fan?”
“I’m not into all that sappy stuff.”
“You’re not into love?”
I shrug.
“That’s a shame,” he says. “We’ll have to work on that.”
He steers me toward a bakery next, its windows filled with cider donuts dusted in cinnamon sugar and miniature pumpkin pies. A painted sign above the awning reads GHOUL DONUTS, with one of the O’s replaced by a cartoon skull.
“Best donuts in town,” he says, reaching for the door.
“That name is terrible.”
“The donuts make up for it.”
He disappears inside, bell jingling above the entrance, followed by a rush of warm air scented with apples and sugar. I wait on the sidewalk, pretending not to be charmed by any of this.
He returns moments later carrying a paper bag and two steaming cups and hands me one.
“You didn’t have to buy me anything.”
“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”
I look down at my drink. “What is it?”
“Harvest Cider,” he explains. “It’s basically hot apple cider with enough spices to convince tourists they’ve had a spiritual experience.”
I take a cautious sip. It’s amazing. Sweet and warm, with cinnamon, clove, and something citrusy beneath it.
“Well?” Rowan asks.
“I’m most definitely not having a spiritual experience.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
He passes me a sugary donut next, still warm from the fryer. I break it in half and take a bite even though the skeptical part of me knows that accepting baked goods from a kidnapper is probably how every cautionary tale begins.
“You know,” I say, “if you drugged this and are planning to take advantage of me again, I’m going to be offended by the lack of originality.”
“I wasn’t the one who hurt you,” he says quickly.
I’m surprised by his response. He seems almost eager to tell me, like he’s been waiting for the chance, even though he denied any involvement earlier.
I study him carefully. “Then tell me who did. Was it Van?”
Rowan says nothing.
“Silas?”
Still nothing.
Fine. One of those two assholes. Maybe both.
I’d already figured Van was the one in the leather jacket who cut me with the knife, but I’d never known who delivered the final blow that knocked me unconscious.
Some stupid, irrational part of me hopes it was Van too.
Because the alternative is Silas, and for some inexplicable reason I don’t entirely understand, I don’t want it to be him.
Which is ridiculous. He’s been nothing but an asshole since the first day we spoke.
And yet… he does have that face.
Fuck me. I really am an idiot for tall, dark, and gorgeous men.
“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” I say, taking another bite of Rowan’s delicious donut.
“I’d be disappointed if you did,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because then Silas would be right about you. He says you’re a fool.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Though I think that’s only because you’re not afraid of him. Everyone else around here is.”
We stop at the end of the block at a narrow shop wedged between an occult gift shop called the Wandering Raven and the Crooked Kettle Tea Room. A faded sign hangs above the door: PEMBERTON’S ODDITIES: GAMES, PUZZLES, AND CURIOSITIES.
Rowan escorts me inside. The place smells like dust and sandalwood, every available space crowded with strange objects.
Antique chess sets. Wooden game boards and intricate puzzle boxes.
Professor Pemberton stands behind the counter, polishing the brass face of an old compass.
I recognize him from the faculty page on the university website, though he looks less formal in person, dressed in jeans and a dark vest.
The professor glances up as we approach. “Mr. Ashcroft,” he says with the same surprising deference every authority figure at the university seems to show the Heirs, though without the added fear Silas commands. “And a friend.” He looks at me. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, Professor Pemberton,” I say. “My name is Jack Mercer.”
He freezes, his expression shifting instantly. Without a word, he hurries past me, flips the front sign to CLOSED, and locks the door. He scans the windows as though checking whether anyone followed us, then swiftly pulls the blinds shut.
“Hello, Jackie,” he says. “I’ve been expecting you.”