The Thief

“Just watch out for spiders,” I tell her.

“Spiders?” Jul squeaks.

“And poison ivy. Other than that it’s fine. Probably.”

Camille shrugs and steps through the open door.

“Is she afraid of anything?” I ask, but no one is listening.

Inside the mill, the rusted remains of the sawing machines still rest in the wide loading bay, the garage-style door wide open to the sun. The small sections of the roof that aren’t totally burnt away are caved in around the metal rafters. Only the parts of the building that are metal or brick have held up in any capacity. The brick walls still hold a black char, and some of the metal railings show warping from the fire. Decades of pine needles and oak leaves carpet the concrete floor. There’s an office recessed from the main mill floor, with what used to be a wide observation window - but it’s cobwebs and shards now. There’s another door further back that interests me.

I move past the corroded saw blades, glancing at the melted chains still hanging from one wall.

Destin is pointing out the poison ivy trailing through one window to Jul, explaining how to spot it by its glossy leaves.

Camille turns around, head raised, nostrils flared. “Do you smell it?”

Jul looks over at her, stepping towards the center of the mill floor, frowning in concentration. “Just pine and rust,” she says.

Destin wanders into the office area, ducking clear of cobwebs. The floorboards creaks.

“What is it?” I ask her.

Frustration crosses her face. “Shimetta. Tsumetai. Water.”

“Water doesn’t have a smell,” I say.

“Yes it does,” Jul backs her up. “You know how things kind of smell different when they’re damp?”

Camille points at Jul. “That. Yes, thank you.”

“What, like there’s some leaky pipes around here or something?” I say. “There shouldn’t even be pipes. What would that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Camille snaps.

“I think Mac’s just jealous he doesn’t have a superpower,” Jul tells her.

“I’d pick something other than super smell, that’s all,” I grumble.

“Yeah, I picked this,” Camille returns.

“Guys, cut it out,” Jul entreats us.

“How about,” I say, trying to employ diplomacy, “you go track down the mystery of the old leaky pipes, and me and Jul will go check out the storeroom.”

Camille gives me a look that all but says, Try anything funny and I’ll throw you into next week. She wanders over to the machinery and the open bay, looking out at the forest beyond.

As if I’m ever not a total gentleman. Who does she take me for? Kei?

Jul follows me to the windowed metal door - though this glass, like all the others, is broken too. “You could have a little more faith in her abilities,” she says. “She’s here to help too. She notices things no one else does.”

“Hence letting her do her thing without me getting in the way making jokes about it,” I say, opening the door.

This room still has most of its ceiling intact, with the exception of one gaping hole. There’s a moldy old mattress in one corner, and some boxes and old furniture piled up against one wall. Empty liquor bottles line a shelf, but they’re covered in a thick layer of dust so they’re probably leftovers from Halloween parties. The floor here is wood, not concrete like the rest of the place. Still no signs of the imp - but then again, I’m not entirely sure what to look for. A nest made out of my stolen comics?

I step inside. Glass crunches under my feet.

“The glass is all on this side,” I muse. “You think something from the floor was thrown through it? If it had popped from heat it would have been on both sides.”

The floor creaks as Jul crosses the room gingerly. “That is not something that would have occurred to me,” she says, sounding impressed. There’s a pressed wood desk to one side that catches her interest and she works at tugging one of the drawers open.

“Physics, my dear Watson,” I say, grinning. “Although I don’t know how useful that tidbit is.” I look up at the molding wallpaper. There’s some pictures and things hung up in this room that survived the fire, it seems. A tall, plain glass mirror, surface clouded with age. A company photo under cracked glass shows a couple dozen people lined up in front of the factory. The focus is too far out to pick out anyone’s face, but it’s interesting to see what the lumbermill looked like at its prime, without the forest looking like it’s trying to eat it alive.

There’s a crash as the drawer suddenly comes unstuck and Jul loses her balance. She falls in a tangle of limbs, bits of notepads and paperclips raining down on her. She jumps up just as fast, brushing herself off frantically. “Oh my god are there spiders on me? Do you see any spiders?” she asks, voice pitched way too high. “Are they in my hair?”

“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” I tell her. “Here, lean down, I’ll check.”

“I keep forgetting I’m way taller than you,” she laughs nervously.

Her hair is softer than it looks. This shouldn’t be as big a deal as my heartbeat seems to think it is. I run my fingers lightly over the ebony strands, briefly wondering if there’s a legitimate way I could extend the inspection, but I can’t think of it fast enough.

“Mac?” she prompts.

“You’re clear,” I say, backing up and hoping I’m not blushing.

“Oh good,” she sighs, standing straight and giving the web in the rafters a wary look. “This place just creeps me out. I don’t think I’ve ever been around this many crawly things in my life.”

“New York doesn’t have bugs?”

“Mac, this place is like a setting for a horror movie. All that’s missing is the saw blades coming to life. We’ve already fallen victim to the first major horror mistake.”

“Not having a strongly defined villain?” I offer, kneeling to sift through the fallen notepads.

“Never go off alone,” she states ominously.

“We’re not alone,” I point out.

“Or split up! You know what I mean!”

“I do. Sorry,” I grin. “I didn’t realize you were that into horror movies.”

“I’m not, I’m interested in never being in one!”

My fingers close around something solid under the flakes of paper. “Too late, Daphne, Fred’s found a clue,” I say, standing with a box in hand.

“I thought I was Velma?”

The box is made of faded blue velvet, shallow and rectangular. About the size that would hold a fancy necklace or a tiara, I’d guess. I take off the lid, but there’s nothing inside. The cushion is shaped to fit the form of an old-style hand mirror.

“I was hoping for something a little more dramatic,” I admit.

“Look, there’s a note,” Jul says, plucking out a piece of paper folded between the cushion and the rim. She unfolds it, and we read the cramped, meandering handwriting.

Beatrix,

I have fixed it, you see. You said I could, and I did. I gift you this creation, my debt to you repaid. The design has been improved. Not just for conversation, this mirror now offers protection, and possesses the singular ability of being able to locate anyone, anywhere.

After all you have seen, you may not wish to see me.

But if you do...

~ Soren