Read Secret North: Book 4 of The Wishes Series Online
Authors: G.J. Walker-Smith
Secret North: Book 4 of The Wishes Series
Secret North
by G.J. Walker-Smith
Kindle Edition
© 2014 G.J. Walker-Smith
Cover by Scarlett Rugers
Other Books by G.J. Walker-Smith
Saving Wishes (Book One, The Wishes Series)
Second Hearts (Book Two, The Wishes Series)
Sand Jewels (Book 2.5, The Wishes Series)
Storm Shells (Book Three, The Wishes Series)
Contact the author:
https://www.facebook.com/gjwalkersmith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied or reproduced without the written consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is coincidental.
Secret North
By G.J. Walker-Smith
Dedication
For Paul, my Boy Wonder.
Table Of Contents
Ryan
There was nothing appealing about turning thirty. Putting the brakes on and staying twenty-nine obviously wasn’t an option. I woke up that morning to the horrible realisation that I was now Ryan Décarie, aged thirty.
I was more than content to let the day slip by without mention, but my family had other ideas. I had voicemails waiting from all of them, even Grandma Nellie. I sat at the counter in the kitchen with the phone on speaker, half-eating breakfast while I played them back.
“I bought you a gift but I can’t remember where I put it,” Nellie warbled. “I got you socks. Everyone needs good socks. And gin. Everyone needs good gin.”
I set it down on the counter to listen to my mother’s message. “Happy birthday, my son!” Even from a distance, she was loud. “Don’t forget about dinner tonight, and don’t bring any wretched girls. I’d like it to be a pleasant evening.”
I reached across and tapped the screen, skipping to the next message before she added any more stipulations.
My father’s message was generic and short, but at least he’d called me. Adam’s message was short too, but only because Charli snatched the phone from him mid-sentence. The fairy-themed ramble I was expecting from her didn’t happen. “Happy birthday, Ryan,” she crowed. Bridget commandeered the phone then, and the morning brightened in an instant.
I carried my bowl to the sink, listening to my funny little niece’s birthday message. “Happy, happy day, Ry!” she shouted. “In all the fairest land with the king’s horses.” She was losing me fast, but I was laughing. “Wishes in the pockets for you on Tuesdays with the little trees.”
I rinsed my bowl, picked up the phone and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bridget’s message was showing no sign of ending. I listened to another minute of her mashing together every nursery rhyme she’d ever been told with the odd ‘happy, happy day’ thrown in.
Eventually Adam called time. “He’ll be late for work, baby,” I heard him say. “Say goodbye.”
“Bye, Ry,” chimed my favourite voice in the whole world. “Happy, happy day!”
Bridget Décarie was a four-year-old package of awesome. She seemed to have adjusted to life in the big city better than her parents, even her father who’d spent most of his life here. I put it down to the fact that the kid’s heritage was more complicated than a city roadmap. Bridget had no choice but to be adaptable. She was part French, part American, part Australian, part English and part fairy. Adam had brought his little family back to New York eight months earlier. I wasn’t entirely convinced that they belonged here, but I liked having them around – especially Bridget.
Retaining the title of favourite uncle wasn’t really a coup considering her other uncle was just a few weeks old, but I always gave her my best anyway. In return, I was exposed to a whole new world. Hanging out usually involved afternoons at the park, something I’d never done pre-niece.
Life at Bridget’s tempo was slow and easy, and I enjoyed the change in pace. The blondes I usually hung out with were fast and a different kind of easy. She was also ten times smarter than any of the girls I knew. If not for her, I would never have known that seahorses are the slowest moving fish. I liked to think the education was mutual. I was the one who broke it to her that seahorses don’t eat hay.
Another thing Bridget taught me was to always look up at the sky when you first step outside. Her reason made so much sense that it scared me: “You can see the story of the day,” she explained.
As soon as I stepped out of my building that morning, I looked to the sky.
The story was bleak. It was warm and uncomfortably humid, and I could hear faint rolls of thunder over the busy traffic. It was terrible birthday weather, even for someone as unenthusiastic as me.
The story of the day got better when the entertainment kicked in.
I was still standing on the stoop when a cab violently screeched to a halt outside my building. The back door flew open and a ramped-up brunette tumbled out, loudly demanding that the driver unload her luggage.
I don’t pretend to know a lot about women’s fashion, but a tight black skirt and four inch heels didn’t seem sensible for someone gearing up for a fistfight. And that was exactly what I was expecting to see when the driver got out of the cab and fronted up to her on the sidewalk. It was a brave move on his part, considering he was a foot shorter than her.
“Pay your fare!” he yelled, wagging his finger.
“I lost my wallet!” she spat. “That’s why you’re kicking me out!”
The driver marched to the back of his car, muttering in a language I couldn’t make out.
I understood the rowdy brunette perfectly, and every one of the crude insults she hurled at him. He obviously understood too. He took a cardboard box out of the trunk and dumped it at her feet, sending the contents spilling across the pavement.
Not one person stopped. They just stepped to the side to avoid the carnage and kept walking. I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to. I’d seen street performances before, but nothing like this, and certainly not right outside my building.
“You pay!” he demanded.
She threw her arms out wide. “No money, stupid!”
Fearing that she was about to do him some real damage, I grabbed a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, stepped into the line of fire and thrust it at the driver. Without saying a word, he snatched it and jumped back into his cab.
A quick getaway in Midtown Manhattan was never going to happen. It took a full minute for him to break into the passing traffic and pull away. Angry Girl stood on the sidewalk, hurling insults at him the whole time. Her vocabulary was outstanding. She didn’t repeat herself once.
Once he was gone, she started gathering her belongings off the ground. She didn’t acknowledge me or the fact that I’d just settled her fare. “You owe me twenty bucks,” I told her.
Maintaining her crouched position on the pavement, she looked up at me.
“I didn’t ask you to pay him,” she said, composing herself enough to speak. “I would’ve gladly beaten the crap out of him.”
I crouched beside her, picked up the last of her bits and pieces and dumped them in the box she was gripping.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I stood up, extended my hand and helped her to her feet. Unsure of whether I should pick it up or not, I stared at the box on the ground. I knew exactly what I was looking at. If someone had tipped the contents of the top drawer of my desk into a box, it would’ve looked exactly the same – minus the Garfield pencil case. It was a last-day-on-the-job box, which had undoubtedly added to the day from hell she was having.
“So, what’s your plan from here?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, but it’s a solo plan,” she replied, crouching to pick up her box. “Your work here is done.”
She was such a cranky bitch – and I’d missed her more than I’d realised.
“You haven’t changed one bit, Bente Denison. You’re still mean.”
“I doubt you have either,” she replied, balancing the box on her hip. “I’ll bet you’re still a pretty boy man-whore.”
I grinned. “At least you think I’m still pretty.”
She smiled at me for the first time in five years, and it was still spectacular. “To be honest Ryan, that’s all you’ve ever had going for you.”
“Where are you headed?” I asked, taking no offense.
“Nowhere,” she said glumly. “I’m heading nowhere.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to console her. Bente had psychotic tendencies. One wrong word and she’d probably deck me – though she’d look good doing it. When she was smiling and happy, she was a very pretty girl. When she was angry and threatening bodily harm, she was freaking gorgeous.
“Why don’t you come back to my apartment? I’ll call you a driver.”
Bente squinted at me, weighing up my offer. “Where’s your apartment?” I pointed at the building behind her. “You live here?” she asked, turning to look. “In a city of eight million people, I get thrown out of a cab outside your door?”
“What can I say? It must be your lucky day.”
She laughed, and for a brief second the drama disappeared. “You’re still an egotistical jerk.”
Calling her bluff, I took a backward step toward the door. “Just trying to be nice. Good seeing you, Bente.”
I was almost at the steps when she called out to me. “Ryan, wait.”
I killed my triumphant smile before turning back to face her.