The Seer

Chapter 2

He set his book down. In seconds he had entered the 'Sundries' room, which was lit by a single bare fluorescent tube. The room was filled with creaky rocking chairs, mirrors in ornate frames, and prints of all ages and sizes. He approached the locked glass case that held weird old stuff. The tall urn with paintings of people standing as if they were at a party still centered the shelf. Ugly gold paint curled up and down the sides of the thing. It looked like some crummy painter had just decided to paint fancy cocktail party scenes on it.

Gaudy. That's the word for it.

Several ragged dolls with ceramic heads, their rose-colored cheeks scuffed and faded, filled part of the space. Most of the rest of the shelf held a few cassette tapes, rusted keychains, pewter dishes, china dishes, and one strange-looking knife.

No blank spots surrounded by a thin layer of dust to indicate anything had been stolen.

Wait. A knife?

He leaned closer.

More of a dagger, but with a surprisingly short blade. That thing hadn't been there before. He bent, putting his weight on the glass counter. Strange looking symbols—maybe old writing?—crawled along the dark handle and double-edged blade.

The dagger seemed to shout its age.

Beautiful. Despite being squat and the obvious wear and staining on the handle, something about the dagger called to Jake.

He rounded the glass case and checked the sliding door. Locked.

Scanning the back room, he thought of that guy who had been moving so fast out the door. Had he left this here? Why would somebody leave something instead of stealing? And how would he have unlocked the case—and then locked it again?

He unlocked the door and slid it open, reaching for the dagger with his right hand. The unheard noise from before somehow got louder, but not in his ears. It was more like a vibration that he felt in his bones.

His fingers brushed the dagger's handle. A small electric shock coursed through his fingers and hand, fading somewhere past his elbow. He jerked back.

What the hell?

He rubbed the fingers of his right hand together. As the numbness passed, he felt like he'd dipped his fingers in dirty motor oil. But the unpleasant slipperiness felt like it was under his skin, making his fingertips almost loose.

He shook his hand, trying to get rid of the sensation. After a few moments, it left, his fingers finally feeling normal again.

He went to slide the glass cabinet door closed, but felt his gaze pulled back to the dagger. Where had it come from? What did those symbols mean?

He pushed the door back open. What would it hurt to just pick it up? That shock and the other feeling had to have been his imagination. Probably because of stress at not getting paid enough for keeping this place in business.

Jake brushed the dagger's handle with the very tips of his fingers. No shock. He paused, considering. He looked around again. Nobody was around. Vanessa was still on her lunch break.

Nobody would know.

He slid his fingers around the handle and pulled the knife out of the case. A vibration ran through his hand, then was gone. That oily sensation returned. Jake nearly dropped the knife back on the shelf.

No. This thing was awesome. It would fit in any pocket. Nobody would screw with him if he had this knife with him.

The initially cool handle had already warmed in his hand. He wrapped his fingers tightly around it; the handle—hilt, it's a hilt—seemed to fit perfectly in Jake's grip.

The symbols on the blade drew his attention. They had to be writing of some kind. A sudden need to know what the symbols said struck him.

He held the dagger in front of him, the tip jabbing upward.

That demanding, pompous woman would have treated him differently if he'd had this thing. She'd have shown just how empty she really was. And he could have helped her figure it out.

That thought drew him up. How would I do that? He thumbed across one edge of the dagger; it was razor sharp. This thing. I could use this thing to open her, show her how special she really isn't.

This thing would do it.

He blinked, lowering the dagger. He'd been holding it with the point only inches from his eyes. Something weird about this knife. He leaned to put it back in the case, but at the last moment before he set it on the shelf, the arrogant woman's face returned to him. Then Dad's face, screwed up with self-pity, partially obscured by cell bars.

No. He could fix things with this knife.

People like her were a poison, making the world dank and miserable.

He blinked again. The tarnished blade had shone differently for a moment there, glinting on both edges at the same time.

The dagger felt heavy and solid with age. How much injustice had it stopped? How much ugliness had it taken from the world?

His next blink seemed to last almost forever; his eyelids felt so heavy he had to force them to open.

Betrayal. That's what filled the world. His mom dying when he was four. His dad a criminal, selfishly knocking off jewelry stores to support his drug habit.

That woman, betraying the entire human race by treating people as if they were inferior to her.

Betrayal. This dagger could help him stop it.

All of it.