Unlocked (11 page)

“How did you guys find this place?” I asked. “I've lived here for years, and I've never even heard of it.”

“My aunt got us the art job here after Plug's mom passed away some years ago,” Kyla said. “It's been therapeutic—”

Chelsea and Mark bounded through the main entrance. Her cackle cut straight through the atmosphere and right to my nerves. She spotted us and sauntered over.

“Slumming it, Hannah?” she asked.

“Now you're talking to me?” I asked. “Why are you here?”

“We wanted to see how the lower class lives,” Mark said.

“Let's go,” Plug said and shoved his chair away from the table. We all stood and moved toward the door.

“What would Manny say if he knew you were on a date with Eugene Polaski?” Chelsea shouted after us.

I whipped toward her. “It's not—”

“Ignore her,” Kyla said.

My base instincts urged me to defend myself against Chelsea's accusations, but Kyla was right. It wouldn't do any good. Not here. Not now. The four of us left while Chelsea and Mark lurked inside.

I let out a huge sigh once we were in the sunlight. “Thanks for showing me this place,” I said. “Too bad Chelsea showed up.”

“Which is weird,” Kyla said, “because I've never seen her here before.”

“Huh.” The tinted windows of Clandestine Coffee concealed what she was doing inside, and I was too tired to pursue it.

“Let's call it a day,” I said.

“One more thing to show you,” Plug said.

I checked the time on my phone. Mom would be at work for hours still.

“You'll like it,” Plug said.

I relented. “Okay.”

Nick opened the door of the Mini Cooper.

“We'll see you guys later,” Kyla said.

“Wait,” I said, and Kyla spun around. “You're not coming with us?”

“No.” Nick winked. “We have our own plans.” Kyla whacked him in the gut.

“Don't give her the wrong idea,” she said.

“Homework,” Nick said. “We're doing homework.”

“Better.” She kissed his cheek, and they headed off.

Plug opened the car door for me, and I tried to relax as I sank into the seat. He drove us to downtown Boise and parallel parked—nailed it first try—on the street in front of a chic restaurant. It didn't seem like an area Plug would hang out. He opened my door, and we stood aimlessly on the sidewalk. I shrugged.

“So, where are we going?” I pointed at the jewelry store across the road, the fine chocolate shop to my right, and the bank to my left. Plug grabbed my extended fingers and drew me down the sidewalk, but I pulled away.

“What?” Plug lifted his hands, confused.

I glanced at his car. I'd had enough adventure for one day. I wanted him to take me home.

“Come on, you'll love it,” he said. The sunlight glinted off the rings in his eyebrows, and his gray eyes sparkled. I tucked my hands into my pockets and walked with him.

Up ahead, a vibrant awning popped out from the other monotonous charcoal ones. As we approached it, I studied the colorful collage of Native American images adorning the canopy. The storefront window read:
ECLECTIC TATTOO GALLERY
. Plug swung the door open and motioned for me to enter first. I stepped apprehensively. I had never been in a tattoo parlor before, and I was surprised when it smelled like a fresh mountain river. Soft instrumental music played in the background, and the large windows in front let in natural light. On the left side of the narrow studio, spotlights brightened framed artwork on the white walls. I turned and reread the name on the window:
ECLECTIC TATTOO GALLERY
.

On the right side, three partitioned booths—like you'd find at a salon, but stocked with tattoo paraphernalia—spanned the length of the wall. The floor was unadorned concrete, and the high ceiling gave way to exposed beams, ventilation ducts, and shadows.

“What is this place?” I asked. Before Plug answered, a man in dark slim-cut jeans and a clean white tank answered.

“It's a tattoo art gallery,” the man said and swung his arms wide, revealing masses of black pit hair beneath his bulky arms. Multicolored tattoos covered most of his exposed skin. The patterns disappeared under his white tank, and tendrils of the designs snaked up his neck. He had a patch of black whiskers on his chin, but the rest of his head was clipped short. Spikes pierced his eyebrows, and his gauge piercings were the size of fifty-cent coins. He was the scariest looking man I'd ever seen.

“Hi, Dad,” Plug said and threw his arms around him.

“Dad?” I asked.

“Hannah, this is my dad, Necro.”

“As in necrophilia and morbid obsessions with death?” My words slipped out before I had time to filter. “Sorry,” I muttered and pinched my lips closed.

“She's smart,” Plug said to his dad. “Like AP Statistics smart.”

“Yes, Hannah, as in morbid obsessions with death, but I also like to delve into the optimistic folklore of Native Americans.” Necro smiled, revealing bleached white teeth. “My friends call me Necro, because most of my tattoo art features death in some regard. If you're interested, I have a portfolio of my work. My next client isn't due for another fifteen minutes.”

“Later, Dad,” Plug said. “I want to show her the new stuff.”

“No problem.” He gestured toward the back.

Plug led the way, but a seven-foot canvas with bright red-and-black splashes of paint caught my eye.

“Let's look at these first.” I pointed to the contemporary art on the wall.

“I want you to see what inspired the chalk drawing you liked in class,” Plug said.

“Oh.”

Plug had drawn a picture of the damned, inspired by something in the backroom, and his dad was a necromancer. What was I even doing here?

We moved past the stations with chairs and tattoo accoutrements. Then we went through the back exit of the studio. On the right was a small office with two desks, each stacked high with paperwork, and on the left was a kitchen with counters cluttered with dirty dishes. We passed two closed rooms and moved through another set of doors into a cold and dark space. There were no windows to let sunlight in. My hands began to sweat. Plug flipped a switch and overhead lights lit up the entire warehouse, about twice the size of a home garage.

Plug reached into a box and pulled out white gloves. He offered me a pair. “If you want to touch anything.” I slipped them on.

Wooden crates of various sizes lined the walls, and several individual canvases leaned against each other.

“Why does your dad have so much artwork?” I asked.

“He sells a lot in the studio. New stuff arrives daily from around the country.” Plug guided me to the back of the building near the freight door. He popped the top off a large crate and set the lid to the side. He slipped on his white gloves and reached inside.

“Ready?” he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. He lifted out a large canvas and propped it against a crate in front of me. The air rushed out of my lungs, as if a monster from the depths of Hades had kicked me in the gut. The black-and-white painting took me back in time to the moments after the crash. The smoke. The stench. The shock.

“You okay?” Plug asked.

The room whirled. My lungs burned. I dropped to my knees in front of the canvas. The painting towered over me.

“What's wrong?” he whispered.

I rubbed my hands on my jeans. I took a small breath and then a deeper one. My head began to clear. The brushstrokes of the painting created the illusion of misty smoke around the edges. I traced the swirls to make sure they were inanimate. The middle of the canvas featured a dark vertical cloud, but with closer study, I realized the image had a hooded robe. Featherless wings extended from the backside, and bare-bone arms with claws reached outward. Tentatively, I touched the extended claws and felt a prick. I jerked back, and a red dot spread along the tip of the white glove. I yanked it off and held it against my finger to stop the bleeding.

Plug raised an eyebrow.

“The painting,” I said. “It cut me.”

Without hesitation, he stroked his glove-covered palm across the surface of the canvas.

“Smooth,” he said. He pulled off his gloves and coaxed my fist open. Not a single drop of blood. He flattened out my glove. It was completely white. His touch made my skin tingle as he drew his fingers across my hand and double-checked for any wounds. I pulled away from him, tore off the other white glove, and threw it to the ground.

“This is ridiculous. I need to go home.” I took two steps before Plug gripped my elbow.

“Just because I didn't see blood doesn't mean you didn't,” he said.

His confidence in me caught me by surprise, and I worried that my friendship with Plug was another one of my peculiar delusions. I choked back my fear and threw my hands in the air.

“Crap like this keeps happening to me!”

“Like what?” Plug asked.

“Ever since the accident . . . no . . . ever since the stupid hypnotist show, I've been seeing strange things.”

“Were you seeing things when you bought the fry bread from me at the fair?”

“Ants. They were everywhere, but not just at your food trailer. They also crawled across my hands before I lost control of the car.” I pointed at the painting. “I saw this after the crash. It swirled in and out of the windows. But there were no bones, only mist and smoke.”

Plug tugged at his ear. I thought I'd said too much, but then Plug gently took my hand. His skin was warm against mine, and I didn't pull away this time.

“It's the Angel of Death,” he whispered.

He tightened his grasp, and his rings pressed into my knuckles. He had a quieting effect on me, which I'd yearned for since the accident.

“I don't think the hypnotist did anything to you,” he said. “It was Jordan's time to go. You saw the Angel of Death stalking Jordan.”

“But I've seen other things since the accident, and that painting pricked my finger.”

“I've read a lot about the occult, and there are things in this world beyond our comprehension,” Plug said.

“How did this painting inspire your chalk drawing of the skulls?”

“If this is what the Angel of Death looks like”—he let go of my hand and stroked the edge of the painting—“I wonder what his victims look like.”

“Is everyone a victim when they die?” Was my dad? Was Jordan?

“I hope not,” Plug said, “but you could go crazy thinking about it too much.”

“A psychiatrist at the hospital said the hypnotist may have brought an underlying psychosis of mine to the surface.”

“Psychiatrists are full of crap.” Plug hoisted the canvas back into the crate. “They discount the occult and the Angel of Death.”

“You believe that I'm actually seeing things?”

“You and I exist in bodies, but there are also other spirits on this earth. Disembodied spirits. Evil spirits. Sad spirits. Spirits who seek our help, and spirits who wish us harm.”

“And you think—”

“They could have attached to you during the accident.” He picked up my discarded gloves from the concrete floor.

“How do we get them to detach—”

The room went pitch black, and I shrieked.

“Plug!”

“Right here.”

I fumbled in the darkness for him.

“Stay with me, and I'll guide you out.” I wrapped my hands around his and pressed into his side. The air around us went frigid, and Plug halted. A high-pitched buzz, barely audible, moved past my ears, as if a horsefly circled my head. I dug my fingernails into Plug's skin.

“You have no power here!” Plug yelled. “Be gone!” The volume of the buzzing increased. Plug stomped his foot and yelled. “Be. Gone.”

The lights popped back on, and a bulb above us burst, pelting us with bits of glass. I let go of Plug and shook the shards from my hair and clothes. He did the same. The temperature returned to normal, and even though the room had been cold a second ago, Plug wiped perspiration from his forehead. He scratched at his short black hair and blew out a breath.

“Tell me I did not hallucinate that,” I said.

He rubbed his face and said, “Let's ask my dad if he flipped a breaker or if the electricity went out.” Plug motioned me toward the doors. We crossed into the studio, and Plug stopped in his tracks. He pointed at his dad. Necro leaned over a customer and continued applying a fresh tattoo. The humming of the tattoo machine contrasted with the soft classical music in the background.

“He's in the middle of a tat,” Plug said. “The lights in here must have stayed on the whole time. He couldn't have flipped the breaker and gotten back here so fast, because the box is on the outside of the building.”

“One of his employees—”

“No one else is here today,” Plug said.

“Tell me you experienced the same thing I did in the warehouse.”

He counted on his fingers and spoke. “First, the lights went out. Second, it got really cold. Third, bugs buzzed in my ears. Then the lights came back on, and the bulb popped over our heads.”

“Yes.”

“But, Hannah, a power surge or a blown breaker—”

“What about the buzzing?” I asked.

“The light bulb above us could have made the sound and then burst.”

“And the temperature change?”

“Man. I don't know. I've only read about this stuff. But if a spirit is present, the temperature can, in theory, drop drastically. If something has attached itself to you, we need to get rid of it.”

“How?”

“We can start by smudging you with burned sage—”

“Excuse me?”

“The smoke of sage eliminates negative energies,” he said. “We can smudge, basically spread smoke around, your room and all your clothes. A tiger-eye will help protect you, too.”