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“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
The ghosts tittered with excitement. “I would like that very much,” the young man said.
I rubbed my hands together. “Okay. Who’s in favor of crossing over? Raise your hand.”
All the ghosts raised their hands, except one who seemed to be missing his and raised a stump instead. I wondered why it hadn’t been restored in his apparitional form. The afterlife worked in mysterious ways.
“It’s easier if you stay huddled together,” I told them. “Nobody wander off.”
It didn’t take long to vacate the premises. A gust of wind blew through the tiny cemetery and took the spirits with it. Then the air settled. I was grateful that it was dark by now. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
I left the cemetery and continued to my destination. Dogs barked and growled as they walked past me on their leashes. There was enough noise pollution that no one seemed to notice I was the target of their ire. For all the people knew, it was a cat in a windowsill.
The Collector’s building was located on a leafy street lined with brownstones. There wasn’t a business in sight. I double-checked the address. Yep. This was the place. I trotted up the steps and rang the doorbell at eight o’clock on the dot.
A minute passed before a bald man opened the door. He was average height with a slender build and a thick white beard that made him appear slightly top heavy.
“Hi, I’m looking for the Collector.”
He stuck out a hand. “You must be Lorelei Clay. My real name is Skip Frederick, Jr. You can call me Skip. It’s nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand. Skip was in dire need of moisturizer. His skin felt dry and cracked, likely the result of washing them several times a day, a hazard of the job.
“I thought I had to call you the Collector.”
“Only if you haven’t met me yet. I like the mystique that comes with a cool moniker.”
He ushered me inside, and I took a moment to admire the original parquet floor. I never tired of seeing historic buildings. That was part of what drew me to the Castle. I could see the house had original features that were desperate to be restored to their former glory. Although I didn’t plan to recreate the interior exactly as it was during the Gilded Age, I did intend to preserve the more timeless elements.
“Prewar building,” Skip said, noticing my focus on the floor. “I bought the place for a song in 1987.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He smiled. “Thank you. Camryn tells me you’re in need of a remedy for a stubborn ward.”
“That about sums it up.”
Skip guided me to a spiral staircase that rose to the next floor. “Are you a member of the same guild?”
“No.” I didn’t expand on my answer, nor did Skip press for more. I felt confident that discretion was a crucial part of his business.
The top of the staircase emptied into a loft-style room. At first glance, the walls seemed to be covered in a shiny paper with an intricate design. Upon closer inspection, I realized it wasn’t paper at all. These were small decorative boxes, each one with its own private cubby built into the wall.
“And this is why you’re called the Collector.”
“Indeed.” He motioned to the wall behind him. “I collect remedies, ointments, poisons, as well as the pyxis in which to store them. The rarer, the better. These boxes are from all over this world, and even a few other realms.”
My gaze traveled around the room, taking in the variety of colors and textures. Amazing. “And you know what each pyxis contains without labeling them?”
“I do, but I’m the only one. There’s no sheet of paper in a vault or map on my phone.”
“If you die, the information dies with you.”
“Makes me far more valuable alive than dead.” He smiled. “When you work with as many assassins as I do, you can understand why that might be a necessary measure.”
“Or you could choose not to work with assassins at all. Just a thought.”
“A moral code, I see.” He gave me an appraising look. “Not too moral to fraternize with the likes of Camryn Sable though.”
