Page 8 of Last Resort

This plate looked slightly different. It still had the blue band around the outer edge and the elaborate “CW” monogram in the center. But this had traces of gold outlining both the design in the middle and the rim. Erik wondered if it had been reserved for VIP guests or the executive management.

When he held the plate, Erik felt a tangle of emotions: pride, uneasiness, irritation, and a deep sense of foreboding flooded his senses. He caught fragmentary glimpses of meals and meetings, of dour men in suits, and heated arguments. Few of the people were in focus enough to identify, but the face of the person most connected to the plate burned into Erik’s memory.

I’ve seen him before.He was one of the early owners of the hotel.

He saw the faintly familiar person arguing with another man who looked like a 1920s’ mobster straight out of Hollywood central casting.

Interesting connection. What does it mean, and why was it strong enough to persist?

He waited for a moment to see if a ghost would show up. When none did, Erik considered his options. He could cleanse the piece, and that would probably wipe its resonance free.

If we’re going to get dragged into something involving the Commodore Wilson, we might need to see if there’s more information we could glean from this. I can always cleanse it later.

Erik wrapped the plate in a spelled cloth to dampen its energy and put it back in the warded box.Maybe with the equinox coming, the resonance got a power boost. It’s not dangerous, but I wonder if it’s important.

That left the Fun Factory poker chips.

This time, Erik didn’t shy away from the impressions he received. In the background, a sense of excitement and a glimpse of bright lights along with strains of calliope music. As he held the chips, he picked up tension and wondered if the markers had been part of a high-stakes game.

A shot rang out, making Erik jump before he realized it was a long-ago memory. He saw flashes of frantic movement, smelled fresh blood, and heard a woman scream.

He dropped the chips and tried to calm his thudding heart. The resonance left no question in his mind that something had gone very wrong, like a robbery or a murder at a casino.

When Erik had first seen the chips, he imagined an early version of Coney Island from the name. But something had teased at the back of his mind because he couldn’t quite square poker with carousels. The image he just saw made him doubt that guess, since the impression looked more like something from a casino than an amusement park.

He opted not to cleanse the chips, thinking they might find more clues once he knew what to look for.

Erik wrapped the chips and put them into the box, which he placed in the heavy iron safe, heavily warded and covered with runes. Pieces that were beyond Erik’s ability to neutralize or that were actively malicious were set aside for Sorren, his contact with the Alliance, to pick up and deal with.

Erik dispelled the wardings and swept up the salt, put out the candles, and blessed the ashes of the burned herbs. Then he drank a Coke and took a few minutes to collect himself before he reached for his phone.

“Mr. Pettis?” he said when he heard a voice on the other end. “It’s Erik Mitchell.”

“Erik—good to hear from you. And please, call me Robert.”

“How’s Charleston?” Erik asked. After Pettis sold Trinkets, he moved to Charleston, South Carolina, with his nephew Chuck.

Before owning the shop, Robert Pettis had worked for a secretive and questionable government organization that fought supernatural dangers. The organization, C.H.A.R.O.N., took an aggressive approach that tended to leave collateral damage in its wake and lingering doubts about its methods.

Chuck had also worked for C.H.A.R.O.N., though he and his uncle left disillusioned and regretful. Sorren had used his influence to give them sanctuary in Charleston, a city that the nearly six-hundred-year-old vampire considered to be under his protection.

All of which meant that Robert was even better versed in the occult and its remedies than Erik.

“You lived in Cape May for a long time. Did you ever hear of a place called the Fun Factory?”

“Huh,” Robert grunted. “Let me think. I seem to recall the name, but whatever it was had been gone before I got there. Some sort of entertainment complex maybe, around the turn of the last century. It wasn’t in Cape May proper. I’m thinking Sewell’s Point, although I could be wrong.”

He cleared his throat. “Don’t know if that was any help, but if I think of something else, I can let you know. How did that come up?”

Erik told him about the mysterious poker chips and the reading he had gotten from them.

“Interesting,” Robert mused. “Reminds me of why I retired. I’m too old for that sort of shit.”

Erik chuckled. “Some days, I think I am too.”

“Was that all you needed?” Robert had a gruff way of speaking, but Erik had learned not to take it personally.

“I think so,” Erik replied. “Thanks for your time.”

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