Page 32 of Vanish Into Light

“Let’s look, then.”

A clicking of many beads announced the proprietor’s arrival, and Rose steered Morgan down the first aisle and out of sight.

“Welcome, welcome,” a croaky voice greeted Lance, and it could have belonged to a man or a woman, Rose couldn’t tell. A rusty chuckle. “And what have I done to earn the patronage of the military this fine morning?”

Rose made a face to herself. They’d put on ballcaps, like Morgan, and dark, unmarked jackets, but the tac pants and the boots, and the unmistakeable bearing of soldiers marked them all out as military, no mistaking.

“It’s nothing like that,” Lance said, and he’d managed to shave the harsh, bitter edge he’d used with Beck from his tone; he wasn’t the best actor, but his good-guy bonhomie was genuine, and seemed to work on most people. “I’m actually doing a little shopping. You sell occult items in here?”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

Morgan walked ahead of Rose, trailing small fingertips along the edge of a shelf, heedless of the dust there, searching. Rose spotted jars filled with things she’d rather not think about, and seemingly endless stoppered bottles with handwritten labels: everything from rosemary to bone dust.

The next shelf held small animal skeletons in plexiglass boxes: rats, rabbits, cats, a few birds. There was cheaply-made pentagram jewelry, and spell books clearly mass-produced but styled to look old and authentic. The skeletons, Rose was willing to bet, were fakes too.

“Morgan,” she prompted.

Morgan had reached the end of the aisle and paused, ends of her hair shivering where they curled from beneath her cap. “Him. The man at the counter. He has it.”

Lance said, “Actually, I was wondering if you had anything that came from the upstairs side of the war.”

Rose could hear the man take a quick breath. All the welcome bled out of his voice. “Excuse me?”

Morgan stepped around the end of the aisle, and Rose followed.

“I’m not interested in all this hell shit,” Lance said, swinging his arm to indicate the whole shop. The proprietor – a tiny, gray-haired man in a black robe, a shining silver pentagram on a cord around his neck – wore a very flat expression, save his darting eyes. “I’m sure it’s all fake anyway,” Lance continued. “But you got anything real back there in the back? Something with some actual juice in it?”

“I…” The man’s mouth worked, his hands flexed on the edge of the counter, and Rose saw him prepare to flee.

She drew her gun in one smooth movement, and trained it on his heart. “Don’t,” she said.

The man gasped, and threw up both small, wrinkled hands, palms toward her. The wavering candlelight caught the shine of sweat on his brow. “You – you can’t do this! I’m just a small business owner! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Save it, pops,” Lance said, moving around the table and taking a grip on the back of his robe. The man flinched as if he feared a strike. “Nobody’s got the right to remain silent anymore. Start talking.”

“I – I don’t – I can’t think what youmean–”

Morgan stepped forward, and the man’s eyes flitted to her – and stayed there; popped impossibly wide.

Morgan said, “Where is the relic?”

“Shit,” the man whispered. “Holy shit, you brought one of those things into my store?”

Rose moved to stand beside Morgan, gun still trained on him. “You can talk to us, or you can talk to a bullet. Your choice.”

He resisted a moment longer, then deflated with a small, sad cry. “Fine.”

His name, he told them, as Lance frog-marched him through the beaded curtain and into the back, was Wallace. His wares, he readily admitted, were all knock-offs, nothing but plastic, plaster, and aluminum. “You’d think, the state of thinks, that no one would buy anything but food and drugs – usually the latter,” he said, his smoker’s voice crackly with nerves. “But everyone’s so scared – so desperate – they come looking to buy charms. Spells. Talismans to ward off conduits.”

“Which don’t work,” Rose said.

He threw up his hands – just before he threw them out to catch himself, as Lance shoved him toward the tattered recliner at the back of the storeroom. He caught himself, clumsily, and turned to sit, small hands gripping the chair arms with white-knuckled force, sweat sliding down his face and frightened gaze pinging between the three of them.

“Working isn’t the point,” he said, panting. “It makes them feel better.”

“Right up until a demon conduit rips their guts out for fun,” Lance sneered.

“That could happen anyway! Look – look.” He patted the air rather helplessly. “What do you want with me? Is the military inspecting shops now? You gonna shut me down?”

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