Page 17 of Secondhand Soul

“Where?”

“Hold on, I gotta text Manny first.”

I CARRY HER UPSTAIRS, above the office that’s built onto the shop, up to the little one-bedroom efficiency that Manny insists could be mine with some TLC. For free, he says. No one else is using it, he says.

He’s got a big heart, and after over a hundred years in business, he oughta have a big wallet to go with it, but he doesn’t. Oh, he does all right for himself, more than just scraping by, but he gives back too much.

Loves with his whole heart and soul—

Soul.

I stop thinking.

I sling Victoria down into the old recliner and dust flies out of it. “Oops.”

“Could I have those extra-strength Migraine-Away pills now?” she whispers, still pale as milk, but with pink lips. The pretzels and soda helped, I think.

“Here.” I plop the grocery bag in front of her and hurry into the kitchen. I know Manny used to sleep here—about forty years ago, before he bought a little townhouse in the eighties. There’s still a bed that takes up all but a narrow path around the very rim of the single bedroom, and since there aren’t any sheets on it, I can see it’s actually two full-size beds pushed together.

In the kitchen, there are a few left-behind dishes and cups, and an ugly mustard-yellow fridge with smiley-face and daisy magnets still hums in the corner.

“For the meds.” I come back with a rinsed-out glass filled with water so Victoria can take her pills. I take the brown paper bag from the floor and put frozen mac and cheese and some other “just add radiation” meals in the creaky old freezer section of the fridge. “When you feel like eating, there are some meals in the fridge. I’ll be back later to check on you, and I’ll bring you a plate from White Pines. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

She nods, a tight, tiny bob, still wincing.

“You have your pretzels?”

“What’s left of the bag.”

“But you don’t have anything else, damn it. You don’t have your clothes, or that little black jacket you were in. I rushed you out of the house. Shit! I left the window open, too,” I groan.

“I don’t think many burglars work on the holidays,” Victoria offers, leaning back in the brown velveteen chair. It tilts and shoots out a spring-loaded footrest.

“Oh, in Pine Ridge? Heck, I’m not worried about burglars. I’m worried about coming home to find a bunch of raccoons in the kitchen.”

“Nice area, huh?”

“The nicest. Of course, I’ve only had the worst to compare it with...”

“Where are you from? In California?” Victoria asks.

That’s a good sign, right? Her head must be getting a little better.

I decide that the yams can wait, especially if I just slice them super small.

“I’m from a little nowhere place, Creek Valley. Ever heard of it?” I hope she hasn’t. It’s a nowhere place because nothing good can last in it for long. The people there get tainted by the devilspawn that runs through (and just plain runs) it, and they start to change, too. Get hard. Get deadly. Or just fade.

There’s a moment of hesitation, a sudden whiff of something that’s so pungent I can smell it.

Fear.

“Yeah. I know of it.”

So, is she afraid because she knows that’s a CrossRealms, and people there are demon-and-vampire chow by the dozen? That the people there are oblivious to the darkness around them, but it still affects them? Or is she afraid because she knows it’s a rough neighborhood with plenty of bad actors, and just the name alone is enough to send up red flags?

I don’t have that much time. “I have to go cook.”

“Do you... Do you want to do it here?” Victoria asks.