43

In the town library, he found only two books that might help. One was an encyclopedia of deities worshipped past and present in Easterly, going all the way back to when the land was known as Hagtchapeak and occupied by a race of people who, one day for a reason still unknown, just got into their boats and left. The second was a historical book relating to art, specifically sculptures.

Sitting at a little table next to a window that looked down onto the sundrenched Coiner’s Way, Mick started working through the book. He’d never been a good student, never enjoyed it the way some people did. These books were a lot more picture based than others, which was a boon, but it was still slow going. He began to wish he’d earned some kind of speed reading ability.

As the day wore on, Chester the head librarian and his assistant, Spenny Hold, began tidying up. As they edged closer and closer to Mick’s table, he sensed his day of studying was coming to a close. In fact, the library was already shut to the public, but they had made an unspoken decision to let him stay while they did their post-hours chores.

The deity book was a waste of time; nobody worshipped imps, it seemed. He began working through the art book faster, turning page after page and giving the diagrams only a quick glance.

“Afraid it’s time to leave, Mick,” said Chester. “I booked in for a haircut with Soloman. He’s staying open an hour later just for me.”

He turned one page. Another.

Chester loomed over the table. “You can come back tomorrow, you know.”

Mick froze in his seat, staring down at the book. That was it – the imp! He was looking right at it, albeit in pencil form printed on a page. The same as the two statues left in Coiner’s Way.

The diagram was of a statue just like the ones Mick had seen. Well-crafted and displaying excellent workmanship, certainly. But they were hideous things, like the kinds of monsters that children imagined lived under the bed. When it came to monsters, though, looks could be deceiving.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Tri Imps of Tarnmouth, Blessers of Fortunes.

It was said that long ago, when the land was called Hagtchapeak and the plants and trees whispered secrets to those willing to listen, there lived three imp brothers, each born with a third of an enchanted luckleaf embroidered in their souls. After years of exploitation of their charms, the brothers retreated to a life of solitude, scarcely using their fortuitous talents ever again.

Upon their death, their ashes were inherited by their cousin twice removed, who infused their remains into three statues. If the statues enjoy unbroken stares, the point where their gazes meet will enjoy great luck.

“Well, how about that,” Mick said aloud, breaking the library’s golden rule.

Not a great example to set, as town guard, but he didn’t much mind at that moment. He was halfway, or more accurately two thirds of the way, toward knowing what was going on.

“Mick…”

He stood up. “Don’t worry, I’m going. Got somewhere to be, as it happens.”

Earlier that day, before Mick had left the house, Ma had been insistent that he get home at seven o’clock for dinner. This was unusual, because she didn’t much care about that sort of thing normally. Theirs was a free and easy kind of arrangement when it came to evening meals. If they ate together, great, if not, then one of them would cook and leave leftovers for the other.

“Don’t be late, Micky,” Ma had told him as he put on his coat.

“I’ll try.”

“No, none of this, ‘I’ll try’ business. I don’t ask you for much. Just get back here for five to seven at the latest.”

Just before heading back home, he stopped by his office to check on it. Maybe it didn’t need checking up on, but he still hadn’t shaken off the pride he felt about having his own little place, and he felt duty bound to call in.

Opening the door, he stepped on an envelope that had been posted through the letterbox. The handwriting on the back merely said ‘Mick’, but there was a hurriedness to that one word. A sloppy way of writing, as though in a rush.

Tearing it open, he discovered that it was a note from Seelka Syrne, Connor Perry’s assistant at the post office.

Mick, I came by and you weren’t here, came by again and you still weren’t here, so I stayed outside for an hour. Please, please come to the post office.

Checking his pocket watch, he had enough time to go to the post office and then get home, but it was cutting it fine. He could spend five, ten minutes there at the most. It’d be better leaving it until the morning, but this must have been urgent for Seelka to come to his office looking for him twice, and then stay for a whole hour waiting for him to get back.

I’ll make a quick stop, find out what’s going on, and then get home for dinner, he promised himself.