VenCo(26)

“You have a great day,” Jay called after her as she ran down the stairs. He waited until he heard her door slam shut behind her. Then he pulled a pick out of his coat pocket and fiddled with it until the lock popped open.

He took off his shoes just inside the door. After all, he didn’t want to be rude. He was a contemporary man but with very old manners. “Little witch, little witch, let’s see where I might find you.”



After going through Lucky’s social media on her unlocked laptop, Jay Christos stood outside You Ought to Be in the Movies. He’d followed a likes-and-comments spiral to a boy. There was always a boy. And thank god for that. Boys could be moved easily around the board.

Jay opened the door, and the bells hanging from the spring stayed silent. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of mold, the warp of the wood. He preferred new buildings and for all things to have exact angles. Too many years in the melt and creak of old Europe had given him very specific preferences. This entire store was upsetting to him at a cellular level.

There was a wide man in the far corner with his back to him, wearing a puffy set of headphones, humming under his breath while he stocked the magazine rack. Jay inhaled long and thoughtfully. This wasn’t him.

The boy he was looking for was an illustrated man—tattooed across his hands—Jay had gotten that much from his Instagram page. Which was either passionate expression or poor judgement. Either way, Jay would find an angle. He liked exact angles. They made sense.

Then the right boy walked through the backroom door and stood behind the counter. When he passed his hand through his hair, there were letters below his knuckles. Jay inhaled, picking up the distinct scent of frustration, the kind borne of jealousy and selfishness. He smiled. This was going to be fun.

“Good day, sir,” Jay began, bowing a bit from the waist. “I was wondering if I could trouble you for a bit of guidance?”

Malcolm jumped. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. He hadn’t seen anyone when he came out. Even now it was like there was no one else there.

“Shit, sorry, dude.” He put a hand on his chest. “You scared me.”

Jay smiled. “I’m known for my stealth, which isn’t always a good thing.”

“What can I help you with today?” Malcolm was nervous. The kind of nerves he usually got around beauty or authority. This man was something entirely different, or else an uncanny combination of both.

“I’m looking for the work of Kenneth Anger,” Jay said. “Is that something I could find here?” He knew it was.

“Yeah, we have the Magick Lantern Cycle, for sure.”

“Can you show me, please? I’m afraid of getting lost in this maze.” The store was small; you could see the entire width and breadth of it from the counter.

“This way.” Malcolm walked quickly to the front of the store, with the man close behind. He grabbed Magick Lantern Cycle off the shelf like a relay baton, thrusting it between them.

Jay took it, one finger at a time tapping the cover, his pinky overlapping the boy’s thumb. “Ah, yes, perfect. I have an interest in the cross section Anger works in.”

“Esoteric and surreal?” Malcolm asked, hesitating before pulling his hand back.

“Occultism and the homoerotic.”

Malcolm flushed deep red, and Jay went in for the kill. “What time do you get off work?”



At one o’clock in the morning, Malcolm sat on his couch, watching his hands clench and unclench. His hands seemed to know what had happened, even though he himself did not.

They’d gone to Kensington Market, an old neighbourhood tucked in behind Chinatown. The bar they went to was narrow and crowded. He thought maybe he’d been there with Lucky before, or maybe he was just thinking that because that was where their conversation had gone—to Lucky.

He was drinking shots, which he never did, not until he’d had enough beer to make him forget he didn’t drink shots. Wait . . . how had they gotten there? In a car, a black car. He also wasn’t sure how he’d gotten home. Which was odd, because he really wasn’t that drunk.

The man—Jay—talked to everyone in the bar, and they, in response, fawned all over him. And for some reason, Malcolm hadn’t liked that.

They’d stayed for longer than he wanted. But his feet were heavy when he tried to lift them. The opposite was happening with his arms, which lifted easily to carry alcohol to his mouth. He remembered the man’s breath smelled of black licorice.

He put his hands over his face and rubbed his skin vigorously. “Come on, Malcolm. What the fuck happened?” He fished around in his pockets for his phone. It was dead.

He had a sudden urge to text Lucky. But to say what? They hadn’t parted on great terms. In fact, their last interaction had been a short text exchange.

Lucky, I really want to talk. Can we meet up?

Headed to Salem. Might not be back.

Why?

Why not?





He had the feeling that he’d betrayed her tonight, but he couldn’t quite remember.

He stalked off to his bedroom, but he couldn’t lie down. He stripped off his clothes, smelling each piece, searching for the scent of black licorice. What was the man’s name again? He needed a clue to this fear and loathing that was wreaking havoc on his guts. He rubbed his flat stomach. That felt better, soothing, comforting. Nice easy circles with a light touch of skin on skin. The curtains were open, and the streetlight shone into the room.