Page 68 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dusty mutters.

“Not my religion.”

“Not mine either.” Dusty grins. “I worship at the altar of glitter balls and platform heels.”

“Sounds… sparkly.” Harrison’s mouth twitches in amusement.

“Maybe you’re not so stuck up.” Dusty studies him. “So all this magic crap is real, then?”

“Yes, all this magic crap is very real.” He gives her a rare but small smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to concentrate.”

“Sure thing, Sabrina.” Dusty holds her hands up and backs away with an amused smirk. “I’ll just hang out with my boo. You won’t hear a peep out of me.”

Harrison snorts. “I’ll believe that when it happens.” He turns to the worktable and starts laying out several squares of burlap.

“How’s Bruce doing?” I ask Dusty quietly when she settles onto a chair near me.

She frowns. “Not great. He’s sleeping a lot and looks awful. Being so close to the doorway is draining him, but he can’t leave it. I don’t know what to do.”

“We’re doing everything we can right now,” I tell her sympathetically. “Danny will figure out what happened to him, I know he will. Bruce being related to the Crawshanks family partly explains his connection to the bookshop and the portal. We just need to figure out the rest of it. Maybe if we can figure out how the portal was opened, we can figure out how to close it permanently and block it? That way, nothing can come through and Bruce will be free to make his own choices.”

“I hope so.” Dusty blows out a long breath. “I hate seeing him like this.”

I shoot her one last sympathetic smile and turn my attention to the reams of information Harrison has somehow managed to accumulate in a very short amount of time.

As I slowly trawl through the paperwork, I can hear Harrison muttering at the workbench behind me, but it’s not the kind of muttering from someone engaged in a task and talking to himself. It’s slow and soft, and it has a kind of musical rhythm to it. I can’t quite make out the words, but after a time, I become aware that the air is warm and moist like a tropical rainforest. It smells of damp loam and flowers, all pleasant and heady. I close my eyes for a moment, and I can feel myself drifting comfortably as the stress is drained from my body, leaving me feeling languid.

“Tristan.” I open my eyes and turn toward Harrison when I hear him call my name. “Come here, please.”

Without thinking about why I acquiesce so easily, I push out of the chair and cross the room to stand beside him. It feels like I’m seeing him through some kind of strange filter. He’s so vivid. His skin is pale and has a strange glow, his eyes are so intense, and his hair, it’s like a living flame.

While I’m standing there staring at him stupidly, I vaguely register him leaning forward. A sharp tug at my scalp has me hissing immediately, the shock dissipating the dreamy lassitude I’d been ensnared in.

“Ouch.” I rub my scalp with a wince while Harrison holds up several of my hairs which he’d plucked straight from my head. “Stay away from my bikini area,” I mutter sourly, and Dusty lets out a cackle behind me.

“Wow, you really do sound like me.”

“What are you doing?” I scowl at Harrison. “I was feeling all comfy and warm, then you try to detach half my scalp.”

“Sorry.” He chuckles. “I forget being around real magic for the first time has that effect on some people. You’re like a sponge, just soaking it all up.” He studies me with interest.

“What do you need that for?” I lift my chin and indicate the hairs he yanked out.

“This.” He picks up the ends of several silken threads of different colours that he must have pinned to the table and weaves them expertly into a complicated braid. I watch in interest as he entwines my hair with the strands, his hands glowing as he begins to murmur again, only this time I’m prepared and don’t start sinking into sleepy nap time.

When he’s finally finished, he knots each end, and it kind of resembles a friendship bracelet, like the ones we used to make in school.

“This will protect your father as he moves around the home, as long as he keeps it on,” Harrison explains.

“And those?” I nod toward the four burlap squares which have been filled with something and tied with string, making them into little pouches. I find it all fascinating and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him what’s in each one but then I remember him playing with graveyard dirt and I’m not sure I want to know.

“These are hex bags,” Harrison says as he lifts each one carefully and places it inside a worn, brown leather satchel. “Powerful magic. We’ll conceal them in the four corners of your dad’s room and nothing of supernatural or paranormal origin will be able to cross the threshold or manifest within its boundaries.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Harrison gives me a short, decisive nod and hooks the strap diagonally across his body. “Now, let’s go see your dad.”

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