Josh and the Magic Vial (9 page)

“Hi,” he said, listening for any sounds from the back room.

“What brings you back to my humble shop?” she frowned. Then her eyes brightened. “Perhaps you've come to buy something.”

“No, Lil,” he said. “I've come to pick something up.”

She looked puzzled. “But you took all your things the other day. I've nothing here that belongs to you.”

“I think you do,” he insisted.

He showed her the puncture mark on his arm. “I thought I was dreaming at first,” he said. “But then I found this. You took some blood from me.”

“What?” she squawked.

“And some nail clippings,” Josh continued.

“Have you gone mad!” she sputtered.

“And some hair.”

“Get out, you little scalawag. What are you up to? Are you trying to blackmail me by making up some cock-and-bull story? Get out, I say, before I call the police myself . . . and here I thought you were such a nice young man.”

“I didn't expect you to hand them over for nothing,” Josh said. “I'm prepared to pay.”

“Eh?” Endorathlil stopped her railing, and eyed him shrewdly. She would never turn over what he had asked for, but he was sure she would try to bilk him out of what he was prepared to offer in exchange. He'd anticipated this perfectly.

“Pay?” she said.

“Yes, pay. And with something of great value. A family heirloom.”

“Well,” she hemmed, “I don't have what it is you're asking for, but I'm an admirer of heirlooms. There'd be no harm in looking at what you have. Perhaps we can come to some suitable arrangement.”

“You won't steal it from me!” Josh said. “It's of immense value.”

Endorathlil licked her lips and glanced out the front door, as if someone might be watching. “How could you think such wicked things, Josh Dempster?” she complained. “Why, your valuables are as safe with me as the queen's jewels, I can assure you.”

“And if I show you what I've got?” Josh bargained.

“Let me see it dearie, and we'll talk later.”

Josh dug into his pocket and pulled out the ring. He placed it on the edge of the counter, holding it there with his finger.

“Oh, my!” the witch cried. “How lovely.”

She leaned over to have a closer look, squinting eagerly.

“Could you move it nearer to me, my dear?” she asked.

Josh shook his head, refusing.

The witch grumbled, but yielding to her greed, leaned farther over to get a better look. As she bent closer, the tiny vial Josh had seen on his last visit dangled from her neck on its delicate, silver strand. It glowed temptingly, but still within the folds of her robe. Josh could feel her withering breath upon the back of his hand. She was inches from the ring, eyeing it the way a hawk might look into a squirrel's nest. Still she could not judge its value, so, hoisting herself on the rungs of her stool, Endorathlil thrust her head even closer, and at last, the pendant around her neck swung free.

She felt this change, and knew instantly that something was amiss. But before Endorathlil could stuff it back in her robe, Josh grabbed the vial and yanked viciously. The chain snapped and the witch shrieked in shock and pain.

“Yaeeee!” she wailed, louder than a police siren. “Give that back you hooligan!”

Josh skipped back from the counter. “When you give me what is mine,” he shouted.

“Thief! Thief!” she hollered, clambering off her stool.

His heart pounding, Josh flung open the door and fled, slamming it shut behind him so her screams wouldn't follow him out into the street. He ran faster than he'd ever run in his life — as if a ravening lion was on his tail, chasing him down. He had rounded the corner onto Seventh before Endorathlil's screams echoed after him. He dashed up the lane behind her shop and galloped on, gulping down great lungfuls of air. Running, running, running.

15

C
onky held up the plastic canisters and chuckled softly. Endorathlil wanted blood and hair, and that's what she would get. Perhaps not exactly
the
blood and hair she had asked for, but who was to know? Not Endorathlil. Not Ian Lytle.

“Pretty slick,” he boasted.

He'd even gone so far as to taunt Lytle, or “Put the fear of Conky McDougal into him,” as the Conk was fond of saying on such occasions. He'd phoned Ian and asked, “How's your sister?” a made for TV line, which made it authentic in Conky's eyes.

Lytle, of course, didn't have a clue what Conky was talking about. Sooner or later though, Endorathlil would spring the truth on him — or at least what she thought was the truth — and then Ian would remember Conky's little phone call and burn with shame.

Conky exulted.

That the stuff he was going to hand Endorathlil was not Adele's blood, or Adele's hair didn't make a darn bit of difference. It looked like hers; that's all that mattered. In fact the blood he'd swabbed from a dead rat, caught in one of the traps in the basement of his apartment; the hair he'd plucked from a cocker spaniel that lived down the hall.

“Presto!” he grinned. “Blood and hair.”

If Endorathlil didn't like it, too bad. He wasn't about to risk his neck assaulting a little girl. That was work for perverts, not a self-respecting gang-leader with a reputation to maintain. There was no respect in that kind of action, and Conky cursed the old bag for trying to force him. He hated her.

“Chill, man,” he calmed himself.

Her talk about him being an apprentice, and that mumbo-jumbo about the “armour of greatness” , there might be something to that. No sense closing any doors. Besides, he needed Endorathlil more than she needed him. Where else was he going to find someone who had a network like hers to distribute stolen goods? Without that, the Street Level Gang would lose most of its revenue, and Conky would lose all his power. Like it or not, he was stuck with Endorathlil, and that meant playing her weird games.

There was also the little matter of her power. She'd zonked the Dempster kid as if she'd hit him with a stun gun, and all she'd used were words. You didn't want to mess with
that
kind of power. No, you didn't want to get on Endorathlil's bad side.

Conky pushed open the door to Endorathlil's shop and slipped into the musty light.

Strange, he thought. She wasn't at her perch by the front entrance. The tightwad never left the shop unattended. Conky had half a mind to reach into the till and nick a couple of twenties.

“Lil,” he called out.

No answer.

He snooped behind the counter where she kept her magic things. Something crunched underfoot. Stooping, he picked up the silver strand from a necklace, which he recognized immediately.

“Jeez,” Conky sucked in his breath. Had she been robbed? Would he find a corpse in the back room? Was he going to get blamed? “Don't be stupid,” he muttered. Conky tiptoed toward the light spilling out of Endorathlil's stock room. He wanted the element of surprise with him, so he didn't call out.

Peeking through the doorway, he saw no one.

“Lil?” he whispered.

A soft mewling greeted him. Conky thrust his head into the room, cringing, as if someone hidden inside was going to crack him with a baseball bat. Endorathlil laid on her grimy cot, curled up like a baby, her back toward him. She rocked and moaned rhythmically. Conky didn't know what to do. What he wanted to do was get the heck out of there, out of the infectious air and into sunlight. He wanted to burn off the disease that was Endorathlil. Instead, he approached the cot.

“What's wrong?” he asked warily.

She lay still then, except for a slight trembling. “Wrong?” she echoed. “Is something wrong?”

He leaned closer. Nothing appeared to be broken. She wasn't bleeding as far as he could see. The leader of the Street Level Gang was puzzled. He leaned a little closer yet.

Suddenly, like a roused crocodile, Endorathlil whipped round and grasped the front of his shirt.

“Awk!” Conky croaked, trying to back away.

She held him fast in her petrifying grip, pulling his face within inches of her own. “I'll tell you what's wrong,” she loured. “That young fiend, the one you were supposed to have watched, waltzed in here a few minutes ago and stole something worth more to me than a thousand little punks like you. In broad daylight, too.”

“Lytle, you mean?”

“No, idiot, the Dempster boy. He knew about the offering I took from him, too.”

Endorathlil shoved him away, sitting up and brushing clumps of damp, gray hair out of her eyes. “I'll pay him back, though!” she threatened, fixing her lieutenant with a harsh glare. “I'll pay you all back!”

“It's not my fault,” Conky whined.

“Not your fault,” she mimicked. “Aren't you the leader of the Street Level Gang?”

He nodded.

“Aren't you supposed to keep your thugs in line?”

Again he nodded.

“And just how do you think Josh Dempster came to know that I'd collected blood, hair, and nails. There were only three of us there. I didn't tell him. Did you?”

“Ian!” Conky breathed.

“Yes. Ian,” she spat, her face twisted into a caricature of hatred. “Did you get what I asked for?”

Conky patted his pocket and nodded. “Right here,” he said.

“Well, that's one thing,” she grumbled, wiping her cheeks with the sleeves of her robe. “Show me!”

He handed her the canisters. She snapped open one of them, and sniffed at its contents. “Oh, very strong,” Endorathlil enthused, as if she were taking in the bouquet of a vintage wine. “Very strong indeed. Why, I think there's a hint of the witch in that girl. It's a shame to have to send her away.”

“Away?”

Endorathlil smiled dangerously. “Yes,” she said. “Away.” She savoured the scent of blood again. “But not immediately. We must attend the night of the full moon. In the meantime, however, I want you to summon a couple of the bigger thugs from your horde, boys who aren't afraid to twist an arm or bloody a nose. Then get Ian Lytle over here. Tell him we have a meeting. Do this right away, do you understand. Right away. We have a job for Master Lytle . . . ”

“You're not going to tell them about the blood and hair, are you?” Conky stammered.

“Your friends don't have to know about that little secret. I'm aware of your qualms,” she said dismissively. “Now summon them, and him. It is time to put our Mr. Lytle in line, don't you think.”

Conky grinned. Things were turning out even better than he'd planned.

How's your sister, Lytle?”

The question haunted Ian, like words uttered in a dark cell, echoing forever from every direction. He charged up the rickety front steps and into the house. “Adele!” he called. “Sis, where are you?”

No answer.

His father lay stretched out on the sofa. Ian shook him. “Dad!” he shouted. “Dad!”

Mr. Lytle groaned, opened his eyes. “Ow!” he grimaced, shielding them from the stabbing light. “W-what's up?”

“Adele?” Ian cried. “Have you seen her?”

His father nodded vacantly. “Yeah,” he said.

“When?”

“Oh I dun'no,” Richard moped, looking at his watch. “Couple of hours ago, I guess.”

“Jeez,” Ian thought. A couple of hours! Anything could happen in a couple of hours. Anything! The kid was only five. She needed watching.

He blamed himself as much as the old man. He'd been gone all day. He knew Mr. Lytle couldn't take care of Adele. Richard Lytle was an alcoholic. There was no way he could look after a kid.

“Maybe she's up in her room!” Ian thought.

He clattered up the stairs two at a time and burst into Adele's room. Empty. The room was empty. “Where is she?” he groaned. “Where?”

There were so many places she could be: a friend's; Rogers Park (though he'd forbidden her going there); up at the corner store . . . He was still running through the possibilities, when a familiar noise from the back yard made his heart skip a beat.

“Squeak,” the grating sound of metal, rubbing on unoiled metal. “Squeak,” it came again after a pause. “Squeak.”

Hurrying across the room, he looked out the window into the back yard, and there she was, swinging happily on the dilapidated set, which creaked and swayed with every motion, as if it was going to collapse.

“Hi!” she waved, beaming up at him.

“Hi Sis,” he smiled.

Then she kicked her legs forward and leaned back, pumping hard. Higher, higher she flung herself, squealing for the sheer joy of it.

“Can I . . . go over . . . to . . . Jo's house?” she asked.

Adele's best friend, Jo, lived two doors down. Nice kid. Nice family. Smart, too. They never let Jo play at Adele's.

“Yeah,” Ian said.

Adele jumped off the swing and scampered around the side of the house before Ian could change his mind. “Bye” she chirped over her shoulder. Then she was gone. She was a good kid, he thought. She'd probably been waiting for hours to ask that question, while her father snored on the sofa. But she
had
waited.

If Conky even
thought
of laying a finger on Adele, he'd pay, Ian vowed. Endorathlil, too.

The clamour of the phone roused him from these vengeful thoughts. Ian dashed out of the room and down the stairs. He snatched the phone off its cradle on the third ring. “Hello,” he said, breathlessly.

“That you?” Conky snarled.

“What do
you
want?” Ian said irritably.

He'd never liked the brash leader of the Street Level Gang, but lately Ian had come to loathe Conky McDougal. He could barely conceal his disgust whenever he talked to the squat, ugly toad.

“I want your butt down here at Lil's Emporium. We're having a special meeting.”

“What about?”

“Just get your ass down here if you know what's good for you. Now!”