Broadbent blinked to reorient himself in the present. “It would have been, had the innocent’s head not been in the way. Your mission as a Guardian, Petry, is to kill demons and save humans. Humans don’t do well without the top half of their heads. Had this been real, the demon would still be alive. Try it again with more concentration on your wrist action.”

  Broadbent turned to another trainee, who was leaning over a series of maps and building diagrams spread out over two tables tucked into the corner of the gym. His assignment was to formulate a plan of attack on one of the buildings that would draw the least attention. While witnesses could always be thumped, a term Broadbent found offensive since it was also a crude Paenitentia term for sex, there was always the chance one might slip away. You couldn’t count on having someone as powerful as Canaan who could erase the memory of a crowd without ever touching a forehead with his thumb. Even that wasn’t foolproof as they’d learned when ‘The Vampire’ serial killer was on the loose. Fortunately, the human public never learned that the vampire in question was real.

  Seeing Broadbent’s observation, the young Paenitentia frowned. “It would be a lot easier if we could just kick the doors in.”

  Canaan had banned mental lock picking as well. Once again, you couldn’t count on having a comrade with the talent which usually developed slowly and became stronger over time.

  “Breaking down doors makes too much noise,” Petry commented while he yanked his stars from the target. “Did you check for alarm systems?”

  “Oh shit, no!” The recruit, whose family name was ad Dolfinmeyer, but had been dubbed Flipper by the twins, went back to perusing the schematics.

  “He’s to do it alone,” Broadbent admonished Petry, but the young men’s comments turned his thoughts back to the little shop.

  The idea of someone breaking into Good Fortune bothered him more than it should. The door to her little apartment was a flimsy interior door with an extra lock. It would take little strength or effort for a human to break it down. As Guardians, it was part of their job to protect humans from demon activity, not each other. They weren’t policemen. His interference the other night wasn’t wrong, exactly, but any follow through would be inappropriate.

  Human crime was only addressed when it affected their lives, which was why Otto, along with several Paenitentia neighbors, patrolled the area around the House. It was important that their women, both Paenitentia and Daughters of Man, be able to stroll along the streets safely without fear of molestation.

  Patience fit neither category. Owning a shop filled with supposedly magic trinkets and brightly colored vials of ‘potions’ and dressing like a storybook gypsy did not qualify the woman as a Daughter of Man. Nor did the sign in the window proclaiming “Fortunes Found Within”.

  According to Manon, charlatans abounded and witchery was more accepted now than it had ever been in years past. The pretenders only made it easier for the real Daughters of Man to openly exist.

  Still, the security of her shop would provide a good excuse to return. This time, he would do what should have been done the night of the storm, but had forgotten in his enjoyment of the evening. He only hoped he wasn’t too late to erase her memory of him entirely.

  The smile left his face as he went back to the business at hand.

  Chapter 5

  Pinkie held the unopened stack of sorted mail in her hand. Three days had gone by and her mysterious stranger hadn’t returned. She wasn’t surprised. She’d had lots of first dates, very few seconds, and could count the third dates on one hand. Two of those lasted months, but the painful conclusion was obvious after the first few weeks. A consultation with her crystal ball showed her the future results in painful detail. She never saw herself in the ball, only her lover, but the results were clear. Every relationship she thought might hold promise ended the same way.

  “It’s me, not you,” was the standard parting shot, both of them knowing the opposite was true. It was just as well. A long term relationship would require something she couldn’t afford to give.

  She thought she’d gotten past staring at the phone, waiting for someone on the other end to say they enjoyed their time with her and would she like to go out again. Not that the other night was a date per se, but he seemed to enjoy it.

  He didn’t seem to mind when she forgot rule number one and snapped at him for cleaning up the mess in her kitchen, or maybe he did and was too polite to show it. He was very hard to read and she could understand why some people might find him odd. She smiled at the misunderstanding.

  His name wasn’t Broadbent Odd Sebastian, but ad Sebastian and he said it was similar to the van in van Dyck.

  “Oh, like Dick,” she’d laughed

  “Anthony actually,” he’d corrected.

  “No, it’s Dick. You know, the actor, the comedian.”

  “Ah, I was referring to the Flemish painter who died in the 1600s. Do you know him?”

  “Not personally, no. I’m only thirty-four.”

  She was sorry she said it the moment the words left her mouth. Her humor wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but Broadbent wasn’t everyone. He’d looked at her strangely for a moment and then his eyes lit up like he’d made some great discovery.

  “That was a joke,” he said, “And a very good one.”

  And then he smiled at her in a quiet way that was better than the very best chocolate, particularly since he didn’t seem to be the smiley type.

  “I’m glad you liked it.” When she shrugged, his eyes were drawn to her breasts, but only for a moment before returning to her face. She liked that, too. “Once, I took a ride downtown and went to the art museum. It opens at ten and I open at one, so I didn’t get to see the whole thing. I only got to look at the paintings in one room, but I liked them. Have you been there?”

  He suddenly looked stiff and formal again. “No. It closes at seven. Would you care for more tea?”

  Pinkie blinked as the memory of the late night supper faded and she was confronted by her empty shop. Those bills he’d stacked so neatly on her kitchen counter, the ones she swore she would open, were going straight into the trash along with the junk mail. There was no sense opening what couldn’t be paid.

  “No, I don’t want more tea,” she said aloud to the strollers who passed by her shop without a second look. “The way things are, I need something a lot stronger than that.”

  “Perhaps I can help?”

  Pinkie screeched. Her hands flew up and the envelopes in her hand went sailing across the shop. The stool beneath her teetered precariously on two legs until a strong hand at her back righted both her and the stool.

  “Good heavens. Did I startle you?”

  Pinkie glared at the stupid question. “Of course you didn’t startle me,” she snapped. “I always fall off my stool when I say hello.”

  He blinked and nodded in understanding. “Ah, sarcasm as a reflexive response to disconcertion. I’m quite familiar with that. A very wise man once said that sarcasm is...”

  “If you say the last refuge of a weak mind,” she warned, “I will climb up on this stool and punch you in the nose!”

  His lips twitched in amusement and then he shrugged “Well then, to avoid bloodshed, I wasn’t thinking Dostoyevsky so much as Oscar Wilde.”

  Pinkie stood on the lower rung of the stool, which brought her nose almost to the chin of the big man. He didn’t move.

  “I don’t know anything about Oscar Wilde or Dostoy-what’s-his-name. I only know the saying and I know what it means.” She raised her fist for emphasis. It was hard to look menacing while standing on tip-toe on the rung of a stool, particularly since she had to place her hand on his chest for balance. Those soulful brown eyes of his didn’t help.

  “Ah, well, Dostoyevsky was a boring old sod anyway,” he deadpanned. “It was Oscar Wilde who said sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” He winked at her narrowing eyes. “But the highest form of intelligence.” Taking her fist in his hand, he moved her thumb from the top of her clenched fingers and curled it down below her knuckles. “There. Now you won’t break your thumb when you punch me in the nose.”

  “I would not break my thumb on your nose,” she said indignantly.

  His eyes slid to her hand. “It’s a very small thumb and a very large nose. Why take the chance?”

  Pinkie leaned back to get a better perspective. She leaned to the left and then leaned to the right. He waited patiently while she inspected the prominent proboscis. Having come to her conclusion, she nodded.

  “It’s big all right. It’s a Gary Cooper nose.”

  “You sound as if that’s a good thing. Since I have no knowledge of this Gary Cooper person, I have no way to judge.”

  “You don’t know who Gary Cooper is?”

  “No more than you know who Dostoyevsky is.” He peered into her face. “Should I know him?”

  “He was a famous movie star,” she said, “an iconic American hero. You remind me of him. His nose was rounder at the end and yours has that little hooky thing, but yeah, it’s definitely a Gary Cooper nose. Your ears are like his, too, except his were close to the head and yours stick out a little. And oh, yeah, he had girly lips and yours aren’t.”

  “So, except for my hooked nose, big ears, and lack of girlie lips, I look like this Gary Cooper.”

  She rolled her eyes as if he was the one being obtuse and Broadbent found it adorable. The pint-sized Patience was a plump little morsel of delight and even after knowing her for so short a time, he was going to miss her. He was going to have to say good-bye. And the sooner he took care of it, the better off they both would be. He should thump her and be done with it.

  He blinked at his use of the vulgar term. He’d never thought about ‘thumping’ anyone! The proper term was erase. He needed to erase her memory as he had the Indian woman’s. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against his finger, bracing himself to do what must be done.

  She was seated again and staring up at him with those soft grey eyes.

  “Are you an angel?” she asked.

  The question startled him and removed all thoughts of thumping from his mind.

  “Good Lord!” He leaned in closer to see if he’d missed some humor in those eyes. He hadn’t. Her question was a serious one. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  She shrugged. “I know you’re not human and you always come swooping in out of nowhere. What else would you be?”

  “What else, indeed,” he said of her foolishness. “There are several more practical appellations you might have applied. How about a mugger come to bash you in the head, or a thief come to burgle that antiquated safe you have back there. How about an abuser of women?” he scolded. “I did not swoop. I walked. Right through your back entrance, which was not locked, I might add.” He put his hands on his hips and gave her his sternest look. “And while we’re on the subject. Why did you invite me, a perfect stranger, into your home the other night? Did you even think of the possible consequences?” He pointed his finger at that cute button nose and shook it to the beat of his lecture.

  “You leave money in your register to appease the thief, but you do nothing to keep him out. You cage your front windows and doors, but have the flimsiest of locks at the rear and then you don’t use it! You have no alarms, no security at all. You are a living, breathing, advertisement for criminals. Why not replace that sign out front with one that reads, ‘Easy mark lives here’?”

  Broadbent heaved a mighty sigh when she only smiled at his chastisement. He meant to go on with another round of admonishments, but she grabbed his wagging finger in her little hand and kissed the tip. The gesture was playful, nothing more, but at the touch of her lips, he felt a powerful excitement course through his body unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It startled him. He drew back in astonishment and she let his finger go.

  “I think there’s a bit of James Stewart in you, too. You’re sweet, in a bumbling sort of way,” she said before she put him in his place. “Not everyone is born with a silver spoon in their mouth. We all don’t wear hand tailored clothes.”

  She put her finger to his lips when he would have spoken. Broadbent had the urge to kiss that delicate pad, to touch it with his tongue. He blinked away the urge in an attempt to refocus on her words since she apparently wasn’t finished.

  “I would love to have a high tech security system with a fancy key pad on the wall,” she went on, her words rat-a-tat-tatting in rapid fire. “A system like that would probably cost more than I paid for this building which was four thousand, three hundred and seventy-six dollars and thirty-two cents. Every penny I got from selling off my grandmother’s things when she died, and every little bit I’d saved from the crappy jobs I worked, I sank into this place, just to make one little stinking dream come true. Where I come from, one stinking little dream is all you get.

  “I’m behind on my loans and I’m on a first name basis with the girls at the electric company because I call so regularly to beg them not to turn my lights out. I don’t lock that back door because I can’t afford to replace it if someone kicks it in.

  “That old safe? I wouldn’t have one at all if that one wasn’t too heavy for a thief to carry away. It came with the place and there’s hardly any money in it. Ever. I lock up my crystals and jewelry in it and I pray every night that whoever breaks in will take the easy money from the register and leave the safe alone. Every shelf, every table, every piece of furniture in this place came out of someone else’s trash bin. I’m the Queen of Spray Paint.”

  “I didn’t mean... I didn’t think...” Broadbent didn’t know what to say and no clever quote would come to him.

  “Yes you did and it was the nicest thing anyone’s thought about me in a long, long time. You were worried about me and that was Jimmy Stewart sweet. I didn’t tell you all that because I was angry,” she said and then she cringed at the lie. “Okay, I was, a little bit, but I didn’t tell you all that for you to feel bad and I don’t want your pity. I told you because I don’t want you to think I’m stupid. I’m not. I’m just broke.”

  “I never thought you were stupid,” he objected and now that he’d heard her story, he thought she might be one of the cleverest women he’d ever met.

  The women of the House were all clever in their own way, of course, but to risk everything you had on a dream, to build something from nothing...Well! He was quite sure his mother wouldn’t know what to do with a can of spray paint or even that such things existed.

  He searched for a quote to express his appreciation of her, but nothing came to mind. She was staring at him, waiting for him to go on and he was at a loss for words. He felt like the biggest dunce. Even the twins would know what to say. Thinking of them gave him an idea.

  “Do you like pizza?” he asked.

  “I’m pretty sure I do,” she laughed. “It’s been a long time since I tasted it. Take-out isn’t in my budget.” She slid off the stool and began to gather the mail from the floor. “You get the pizza while I close up. I’ll meet you out back by my unlocked door.”

  Pinkie did a little happy dance as she picked up the last of the mail. He was coming back. He was bringing pizza. Maybe they could watch a movie while they ate. Something light, something fun, something with Gary Cooper or James Stewart. Nothing too romantic. Chick flicks weren’t big with guys. Broadbent was smart. He was serious. Maybe The Fountainhead would hold his interest or at least hold his interest in her. And there was interest. She was sure she saw it in his eyes. Why else would he be so concerned about her safety? Why would he buy pizza in the middle of the night?

  “Slow down, Pinkie,” she warned herself as she ran up the stairs.

  “You’re jumping the gun,” she added as she spread her one and only pretty nightie across the end of her bed.

  “You don’t want to scare him off,” she cautioned as she stripped off her clothes and replaced her undies with something from the special occasion side of the drawer.

  “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” she answered herself as she ran down the stairs, grabbed her supplies and went to feed her cats.

  They were just finishing up when Broadbent came striding down the alley carrying two large pizzas. The cats scattered at his approach.

  “Wine!” Pinkie cried when she saw the bottle tucked under his arm. “Where on earth did you get wine at this hour?”

  “The boot of my car.”

  “Boot?”

  “Trunk.”

  His eyebrows rose as he took in the number of bowls and basins spread at her feet. They were still raised when he looked up at her.

  “My cats,” she said, though he had to have seen them all leap and scurry away.

  “Just how many cats do you own?” he asked cautiously.

  “Oh, I don’t own them. I just feed them. They don’t live with me,” she added in assurance. She wouldn’t want him to think she was one of those cat ladies. “Only one lives in the house and that’s only because she invited herself in and won’t leave.” She began gathering up her supplies. “Running low,” she said more to herself than to Broadbent when she hefted the almost empty bag of kibble. Time to count out the change she saved in a jar and hope there was enough for another bag. “What?” she asked, looking up at his disapproving face.

  Broadbent shook his head. “It’s none of my business.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t say that the other night when Mrs. Prashad was getting her money stolen,” Pinkie laughed. “Speak your piece and if I don’t like it, I’ll tell you so.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. Why are you spending your money on stray cats when you admitted to me not an hour ago that you have no money to spare? It’s illogical. Impractical.”

  She’d told herself that very thing a dozen times and always came to the same conclusion. “It would be a very dull life if everything in it was logical.”

 

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