Read On the Verge (A Charmed Life Book 1) Online
Authors: Joseph Bonis
She held it there a moment, thrilled at how the water was simply defying gravity … then she pointed at the drain of the sink, and it funneled down into it, following her gesture as if draining through an invisible, spiraling hose. It left behind a gleaming, clean metal pot showing only the worn scrapes and scratches and discolorations from several years' worth of use.
A huge smile spread across Tracy's face at how easily the difficult task had been finished off. “Ah,” she sighed happily, “I think I can learn to live with this.”
The clock wore on, and Tracy paced the apartment, her imagination jumping to all sorts of reasons why Sing might not be there yet. “You're being paranoid,” she told herself. She sat down and took Nameless into her lap, petting lightly over his back, much to his contentment, then leaping up and brushing off her skirts and shirt again, having covered them with cat hair once more. Then she prowled the apartment, starting to tidy up small messes, then stopping before she could get dust on her clothes.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she grumbled to herself, and went in back to her second bedroom.
Unlike her actual bedroom, this bedroom was set up more like an office or a library. Every wall had more than one bookshelf, full-sized, with a broad desk under the room's single window, covered with a thick sheet to protect it from all the jewelry-making equipment she had strewn all over it, not quite put away into the set of drawers next to the desk. A pile of pillows decorated one corner, along with a nearby lamp. Many of the pillows were actually dog pillows, but Tracy didn't care - they were comfortable, once she stuffed them with extra padding, and much cheaper than similarly sized 'deluxe pillows' that you could buy for humans. A number of old, worn stuffed animals were mixed in with the pillows, fond old childhood friends that Tracy could never give up.
The room was musty - the only room she didn't air out on a regular basis - and thick with the much-loved odor of old paper. She browsed along the bookshelves, wondering what to read… and remembering her conversation earlier that day with Jacob, she decided to re-read a fantasy book with elementally based magic. Taking down the small paperback - only read twice so far - Tracy kicked the pillows in the corner closer together and curled up on them, pulling a blanket half-over herself as she settled in to wait for Sing to show up.
At first, it was hard for her to get into the book, her mind awash with everything that had happened to her, and worry about what was going to happen. Slowly, though, the written words worked their narrative spell over her, and she lost track of the real world to comfortably submerge herself completely in the story. The thrill of the chase, the other-worldliness of hostile spirits and magic, the peace of refuge, and the warm feeling of the old-world homestead settled into her, and was even more calming as it confirmed magic's place as 'somewhere else' for the time being.
When the door buzzer rang, shattering the near-silence of her apartment, it made her jump with surprise and look around confusedly - for a couple of seconds, she was still in that other, fictional world, and the normally familiar surroundings were alien and bizarre. Reality asserted itself once more, though, and she remembered that she was waiting for Sing. She stood up quickly and shook her skirts out as she walked to the door. “Yes?” she asked, as she pressed the intercom button.
“It's me,” came Sing's familiar voice, and she pressed the door release, then unlocked the door and the bolt and went off to her room quickly to check her makeup. She felt the door open, the faint, subtle shift of air pressure created by the opening door, and heard his footsteps as he walked into the kitchen. She heard the rustle of plastic bags, the clunk of bottles and boxes hitting the counter, and her curiosity roused itself. What had he brought? Weren't they just going out for dinner?
She heard him open up the fridge, and a faint click as he pulled something out, bumping it against the side. She touched up her slight makeup quickly, but the blanket's static buildup had mussed her hair while she was reading, and it was taking longer to fix that. She heard a crackling noise, and realized he was dumping ice into something, and that it must have been the freezer, not the fridge, that he had opened up, then the water as he refilled the ice cube trays. Curse society's mores! She was sure guys never had to go through this much trouble to get ready, especially not after they had already been prepared half an hour earlier.
Finally, she judged her adjustments acceptable, and brushed her hands down over her blouse, the gesture also a settling one over the butterflies in her stomach. “I've known him for years,” she softly murmured to herself. “We've had hundreds of meals together. There's nothing to be nervous about.” Logic and emotion warred, but emotion won, and the butterflies stayed. Sighing, she stepped out of her room and headed to the kitchen.
Sing had gone home and changed. He was wearing black slacks, now, and black shoes that shone with a 'just-polished' look to it, though slightly scuffed at the sides and heel with the white salt that coated everything as the winter wore on. He wore the same blue silk shirt, but he no longer wore the tie, instead having undone the top two buttons. She had never seen him wear a shirt like that before, and she had to admit that the effect was very sexy - Sing was scrawny, but not in an unhealthy way, and she remembered from summer trips to the beach how his lithely muscled chest looked. The effect of this slightly sloppy peek at his chest, though, made her want to check and see if her memory was accurate. She felt a faint flush rise in her cheeks as these thoughts and others rampaged through her mind for just a moment. She looked past him to see what he had brought.
The pot on the counter had a bottle's neck sticking up out of it, and she happily chirped, “You brought wine!”
She stepped forward, to see what it was, and then his arm was around her waist. “What, no greeting? Not a kiss? Not even a hug?” he asked, a mock-hurt expression on his face as he drew her close. “I see what you're using me for.”
She giggled at him and gave him a soft little kiss, exploring his lips for a moment as one of her hands touched lightly on his chest, her fingertips just brushing the opening in his shirt. His light cologne and his natural spicy scent mixed nicely in her nose - most men never figured out that right level to use, but Sing was subtle in his scents, subtle and exciting. “Yes,” she admitted playfully, “The last eight years of friendship have just been a clever ploy to get you to buy wine for me.”
“You should have said something,” he replied. His warm breath washed over her face, and she smelled wintergreen on it, rather strongly - he must have eaten half a pack of Lifesavers. “I would have done so sooner.” He paused, and she giggled in the space between his sentences. “So,” he asked, “Did anyone get points there?”
Tracy smiled and shook her head. “Either neither of us did, or both of us did,” she laughed. “Either way, it doesn't matter. So what kind of wine is that? And what's the rest of it? I thought we were going out?” She started towards the bags on the counter, and Sing's arm tightened around her waist and pulled her back.
“Oh, no you don't,” he said, amusement evident in his voice. “We are going out, and this is a surprise for when you get back.” She turned back to him and saw his sly, excited grin.
With a light, playful bap at his chest, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, have your little games, then,” she murmured with an amused and very fake grumpiness, and then her stomach made a bit of a noise. Ruefully, she realized she hadn't actually eaten anything more than the toast and raspberry jam much earlier today. “Shall we go?”
Sing nodded, and they paused only long enough for Tracy to leave open a can of cat food for Nameless, leaving him eating contentedly and delicately as they headed out the door. They walked down the hall, and Tracy was more interested in Sing's pleasant scent as she held onto his arm lightly than the varied scents coming from the various doors they passed. His hand closed around hers, and she twined her slender fingers with his. “So,” Sing asked, “Where were you thinking of going?”
Tracy considered the question. Great little restaurants were all around, quaint little places she liked to explore and frequent occasionally. “Well,” she murmured thoughtfully, “It depends on what you feel like having. There's a nice Mongolian place nearby, we can choose Mexican or Italian, and there's a nice little family diner with burgers and pancakes at all hours … or … ” Tracy's eyes glinted mischievously. “Are you feeling adventurous?”
Sing raised one eyebrow suspiciously. “Adventurous?” he asked, curiously. “Now, I can't turn that away without finding out what you mean. What sort of food is 'adventurous'?”
Tracy grinned an amused, excited little grin. “I don't know,” she said, playfully, “I guess we'll have to look inside and find out.”
She led him down the street, enjoying his amused frustration as he tried to get her to tell him where they were going, and what kind of food would be there. “I don't know,” she kept telling him.
“You haven't been there before?” he had tried to understand.
“Oh, no, I love this place. I go there a couple times a month,” she responded, gleefully.
“Then it's just odd? You don't know how to explain it? You can't identify the food?”
“That's not it at all,” she chirped happily. “Just wait and see. You will understand once you see it.”
Sing let out a sigh of amused frustration, again, and looked up towards the sky. “You are impossible!”
“One Point,” she reminded him, and he laughed and shook his head, then continued pressing her for information, to her great amusement.
She slowed her pace as they approached the last corner. She felt a faint pressure in her mind, and it worried her. She knew that pressure - she'd felt it that first night. It was how she'd known Jacob was outside the dojong. It had pressed on her as she had driven into the parking lot of the arena. Someone with charms was nearby, and Tracy was walking towards him or her.
“Well,” she said softly, not letting her nervousness press on her too much. “Ready to find out what sort of food we're going to have?”
Sing laughed. “Of course!” he said.
“Well,” she replied, tingling with excitement as they turned the corner, “Let's collapse the waveform, then.” She lifted her hand, the charm bracelet dangling around it, to point at one of the buildings.
A few buildings down was a small place, with a small window and a door, and nothing more. Inside the window was a series of small moving objects. Some were trinkets and toys of strange shapes, but pleasing to the eye, connected by wires and swirling softly. Sometimes it seemed they almost made a recognizable shape, but then they moved on again. Others were eternal movement toys, spinning globes suspended between magnets, or rows of little metal balls clacking against each other. The centerpiece of the window, though, was a simple shoe box with no markings on it, and nothing resting atop it.
The sign above the store said “Schrödinger's.”
Sing gave Tracy an incredulous look. “There's a geek restaurant in town and you haven't shared it with us yet?!”
Tracy gave him a mischievous grin.
“So what sort of food does it serve?” Sing asked, curious, waiting for a break in traffic so they could cross the street. The wind blew up around them, and Tracy felt Sing shiver next to her.
Tracy giggled. “What, you haven't figured it out yet?” asked Tracy, grinning impishly. Sing rolled his eyes. “You know what Schrödinger's Cat is, right?”
Sing nodded. “Of course. A theoretical cat is put in a box with a death trap of some sort, something to do with a radioactive material triggering a vial of poison or something. At a certain point in time, there is a 50/50 chance that the trap has gone off. At that time, the cat is both alive and dead at the same time, and it does not become one or the other until an observer opens the box and forces the probability wave to collapse.”
With a grin and humor in her voice, Tracy finally explained. “He doesn't have a menu, or anything like that. The only things to eat are the daily specials. And he doesn't have a public phone number. The only way you can resolve what he has to eat… is to open the door and observe it for yourself.”
Sing let out a hearty laugh. “That's brilliant! But I'm surprised that it's popular enough for him to stay in business.”
Tracy shrugged. “I'm not about to question good fortune. He has delicious food. The stories say that he had top marks in his culinary classes, but he got fired from everywhere because he made what he felt like making, not what was ordered. So he opened his own shop.”
As far as she showed Sing, she was eager to show him the restaurant, and she tried to hold to that excitement, but somewhere deep down she was sighing in frustration. The pressure on her mind told her quite clearly that whomever had that other charm was inside the restaurant right now.
The small restaurant was made even smaller by the partitions that kept any table from seeing more than two or three others, half-walls topped by frosted glass cubes squares, which were in turn topped by planters filled with leafy vines that lacked the green scent of living flora. Instead, the entire restaurant was filled with the rich smell of dozens of recipes all mingling together. The partitions helped to dull nearby conversations into an unintelligible background murmur as Tracy and Sing walked from opening to opening, looking for an empty table.
Sing gave Tracy a grin. “It's bigger on the inside than on the outside,” he joked.
Tracy grinned back. It did seem that way, the twisty layout helping to create the impression that there was much more hidden away just beyond sight. At the end of the central walkway was the counter, lined with a dozen stools so that people could enjoy their food right there instead of taking it to their table, or just rest while they waited for it to cook. Behind the counter was a medium-height, blond man, thick across the shoulders and the stomach both. He wore a jeans a dark green t-shirt, and a large white apron spattered with food stains. He looked up as they came close, and his eyes widened.
“Tracy?!” came his incredulous voice. Tracy knew what he was surprised about - she felt it too. The pressure in her skull pointed right at him. He held charms.
Tracy wanted to say something, to ask, but Sing's presence at her elbow gave her pause. She knew Hans. She'd been coming here regularly for the past several years. She almost always sat at the counter to eat, trading recipes and ideas for culinary experiments, and when she was feeling moody, she ate for free. She had no idea how he'd known at the time, but once when she took sick and could barely move around without tiring herself out, he had sent up a half a pot worth of his chicken noodle soup, with the thick home-made noodles that you couldn't get anywhere else, and had refused money for it.
Schrödinger's was a comfortable port to take refuge in whenever life became too choppy - a place of normality and comfort whenever the world seemed too strange or absurd. It was as comfortable as home. How could he be part of this … secret magical community?
Hans asked Tracy a question with his eyes, and Tracy gave a little shake to her head, then turned towards Sing. “Hey,” she said, lightly, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to him, “Could you hang this up for me?”
Sing smiled, looking around at everything eagerly, especially focusing on the row of logic puzzles arrayed along a shelf behind the counter. He hardly seemed to think about it as he took the coat. “What a great place,” he sighed happily.
Tracy turned back to Hans, wanting to ask him a question, but Hans was quicker. “Are you registered?” he asked, low, intently.
Tracy nodded quickly and murmured, “This morning. How long have you been …. ” she stopped, unsure how to put it. “that is, how long have you had … ” she lifted up her wrist and gestured at the charm bracelet.
Hans smiled. “several years. Congratulations, Tracy. Always know you are suited to different life.” Hans spoke with an odd, halting accent. It wasn't German like you'd expect from Hans' name, but Tracy could never figure out just where it was from. From the stilted way he talked, people often thought it was Russian, but that didn't match up with the inflection in his voice.
Tracy rocked back a little bit. Up until now, she'd been threatened, sympathized with, recruited, complimented, insulted, challenged, and appraised, but she'd not been congratulated. With how topsy-turvy her life had been, it seemed almost inappropriate, but she remembered how she had cleaned out the pot, and the brief feeling of pride as she had figured out how to control her abilities. A small, excited grin spread across her face, unbidden. “It is kinda neat,” she admitted. “Scary, but neat.”
“All the childhood stories come to life,” Hans agreed. “But I gotta say, be careful. You gotta weather stone?”
Tracy nodded, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “How'd you know?” she asked.
“Know you years,” Hans said, grinning. “All that time, you bundle up like Eskimo if the weather even think of glancing at freezing. Now is eighteen degrees out, less with wind, and you walking around like springtime. And weather is better than fire for you.”
Tracy blinked, looked towards the front of the restaurant, and looked back at Hans, double-taking. “Eighteen degrees?!” she hissed in surprise, barely remembering to keep her voice down. “No way!”
Hans started to say something, then glanced over at the approaching Sing and shook his head slightly. Instead, he asked, “This is your young man, then?”
Tracy blushed lightly. “You could put it that way,” she murmured quietly, her cheeks tinting pinkly. “But anyway, what's the specials today, Hans?”
Hans smiled. “I make chili, for cold day, and then is also stew. Also there is pot roast.”
Tracy inhaled slowly as he spoke, and picked out each smell in turn from the mixture of new and old smells filling the fragrant restaurant. As usual, the scent of fresh bread added to the aromas - a different type of bread every day. “I'll take the stew, Hans,” she said brightly, “And a loaf of dark bread.” She glanced over at Sing.
“Stew sounds good,” Sing agreed, sitting down at the counter next to Tracy. “And a tall glass of milk if you have it.” Tracy seconded the milk and smiled to Sing, glad that she could safely ignore the faint pressure at her mind. No matter what secrets he might hold, Hans was still Hans, and was safe.
“So,” she said to Sing, “How'd this happen?”
Sing laughed softly. “I really don't know,” he admitted. “Just last week I was arguing that it was nothing like this between us.”
Tracy leaned lightly over to rest her head upon his shoulder. It was a precarious position, each of them perched on their own stool, but it felt comfortable enough, and she wanted to touch against him. His far hand came over to touch lightly over her hair, just a few gentle caresses over her scalp.
“It feels right,” he said – half to her, half to himself. She let out a noise of agreement, and just stayed there contentedly as they waited for their food.
The stew took only a minute - Hans had huge soup pots that were always full, and on days with soup or stew on the menu, the food always came quite quickly. While one was emptying, he was chopping up the ingredients for the next. Tracy curled her hands around her steaming bowl, drinking in the scent of it, while listening to the comforting, repetitive chop-chop-chop of Hans dicing up some chives on his old oaken cutting board. He always had two cutting boards out - one clean white cutting board made of modern materials for meat, swapped out every half hour for a clean one. The other was for vegetables, an old oak one, which he proudly would tell anyone that he got from his mother, an ancient thing that was stained with years and years of food preparation. The edges of the board were carved with worn old markings, some foreign tongue, and Tracy had always wondered what language it was. With a mild surprise, she realized those were his charms, or marks, or whatever he might call them, right out in plain sight as he prepared the meals for his guests.
She was surprised how quickly she'd gotten over the shock. She suspected this was another sort of reaction to overload - so much had happened today that nothing more could surprise her. Earlier she had been jumpy, but she had moved past that to unconcern and soon, she was sure, exhaustion. The place, as always, seemed calm and peaceful. Hans preferred that calm peacefulness. He said he had designed the sitting room, the dividers, the decor, to feel as little like a restaurant as possible. He refused to use the word 'customer', and had an old-world concept of hospitality as he referred to everyone who came through his door as a 'guest'.
The stew came served up in smooth wooden bowls - a thick stew full of meat, potatoes, and other vegetables, with a circular loaf of the fresh-baked bread of the day on a wooden platter. His dark bread was a sort of rye that came with a small dish of herb butter that was mostly roasted garlic, a perfect mix of earthy flavors with it.
Tracy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich scent of the hearty dinner. The stew smelled lightly of garlic, but just a hint, other herbs and vegetables making up most of the scent. When she opened her eyes again, she found Sing watching her with a fond grin.
“An old time meal, of thick stew and broken bread,” Sing said, in that tone of voice he took on when he was being a bit dramatic. “Sating the weary traveler's hunger and warming cold set in by a long winter's chill. For what greater hospitality has one for a fellow man than, in the cold dark days of waning winter, when gray and dreary skies weigh the soul as much as ice and snow weigh the feet, to receive him with a warm hearth, a hearty meal, and a smile of human kindness. For as a poor traveler is amongst the least of God's children, so does the host bring a smile to the face of the Almighty.”
Hans raised one eyebrow in surprise. “A poet?” he asked, “In a day and age of this?”
Sing shook his head. “I wouldn't go that far,” he demurred modestly, “I just enjoy words, and a little drama.”
“What?” Hans asked, his eyes laughing. “And is not this to be a poet? Then what is a poet?”
Sing shrugged. “There's a lot more to it,” he tried to explain. “There's meter, and style, and measure, and history, and rhythm … a lot of stuff I don't really know.”
“Pah!” scoffed Hans. “Numbers do not make poetry! They are for fakes who do not have poetry in heart!” He walked away, muttering to himself in some other language, simultaneously a musical and a guttural language.
Sing and Tracy looked at each other. “Exactly what language and accent is that?” asked Sing, his voice quiet but impressed. “It sounds kind of like Russian, kind of like Italian.”
Tracy shrugged helplessly. “He just says I wouldn't have heard of it. I don't think he wants to talk about where he's from. 'I am of American now' he says.”
After that, they fell to their meals. The stew was very filling, with a comfortable warmth that spread out rapidly from Tracy's belly and a simple but satisfying flavor. Tracy and Sing fell to silence for a short time as they dug in. Tracy knew she'd hardly eaten to day, but the first spoonful of the stew made her realize how voracious she really was. They were halfway through their bowls before Tracy noticed Sing looking at her with an amused glint in his eyes. She paused, straightening up a little, giving him an inquiring look back.
“I've never seen you eat with such gusto before,” he said, grinning.
Tracy shrugged, a little embarrassed. “It's been a hard day,” she confessed. “The snack I had with you earlier is pretty much the only thing I ate all day.”
“It's the weekend!” Sing protested, “The time for you to submit to your baser indulgences, to recover from the stresses of the week's demands, and to free yourself from all those pesky responsibilities which so consume you every other eventime! What so possesses you that you can have a 'hard day' on the weekend?”
Tracy couldn't help but feel a smile come to her face. Once he got into that wordy mood, he didn't come out of it very soon. “It's just a lot of stuff that happened. Some people I ran into. Some things that couldn't wait. Don't worry about it, I'll cope.”
Sing tilted his head to the side, looking at her with an odd expression for just a moment, then his face brightened. “I knew it,” he crowed, “you did go to a different plane of existence!”
Tracy laughed and shook her head. “I told you I'd let you know if that happened.”
“Aliens kidnap you?” he asked, jokingly.
“No, definitely not. I think I'd notice that.”
Sing laughed. “You discovered a secret world of magic hidden in the shadows?”
Tracy hesitated for only a moment, seeing Hans' face turning up towards them, then laughed. “Now you're just getting silly. Why don't you tell me about your day?”
Sing got that odd expression on his face for a moment, again, before he grinned once more and poked her in the side, urging a squeak of protest from her as she wriggled on her stool. “You didn't answer my question,” he teased her.
“Yes, Sing,” she replied, putting a bit of sarcasm in her voice. “I discovered a secret magical shadow-world full of wizard duels. This new bracelet of mine is actually a source of great power,” she drawled with amusement, shaking the charm bracelet at him. She couldn't lie to him, she never could do that, but she could hide the truth behind the truth. “Now tell me about your day or I'll turn you into a mouse!”
Sing laughed and acceded, “By your command, oh dread sorceress.”
He told her about going back to the hospital to see his uncle, who was fine, but annoyed that Sing's aunt had made such a fuss. He related yet another of his uncle's war stories, and then they talked about some of the new movies coming out soon, and which they were looking forward to. Well before they'd run out of conversation, their bowls were emptied and scraped clean, and the loaf of rye bread was nearly gone.
“Ah, Hollywood doesn't have anything left to it, apparently,” Tracy said with a sigh. “How many movies are they going to remake, anyway? Casablanca should be left inviolate, you can't improve on that, no matter how much more technology you have.”
Sing nodded his agreement, slipping off his chair. “I'm going to go get my coat and my wallet. Could you ask for the check?” Tracy nodded and smiled, waving to Hans, who came over right away, with a broad smile.