Woman of His Dreams - Part XI
Welcome to Part 11 of "Woman of his Dreams"! If you're new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own...
~AC
"Woman of His Dreams"
Part 11
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010
A stab of anxiety lanced through Anthony as the door closed behind Cynthia, but the feeling almost immediately gave way to exhausted relief. The townhouse seemed empty with the book gone, and Anthony realized with a shiver that it seemed as though a legion of other souls had departed with Cynthia.He showered, scrubbing at himself to wash away as much as he could of the sweat and sex of the past two days, hoping the memory and the reality of it all would somehow disappear down the drain. Then he touched the wound on his side and knew that dismissal of whatever he and Cynthia had fallen into would not be so easy.
He probed the wound, sickened to find no pain and apparently no end to its depth, at least as far as he was willing to test. The open flesh almost seemed to grip his finger. Shower certainly over, he toweled off and bandaged the gash, which had closed again to a puckered scar.
If it wasn’t healed in a day or two, he would have to visit a clinic. But what the fuck would he tell them? And what would they say? “Don’t feed the animals,” came immediately to mind.
He picked up his phone and punched Charlie Bankston’s direct number. The phone rang a dozen times before Charlie answered, sounding like a man stuffed with wet cotton.
“’Lo, Charlie,” Anthony said. “We need to talk.”
“Better be important,” Charlie grumbled. “It’s not yet eight.”
Where are you now? Hawaii? Anthony thought, but he didn’t waste time with the question. “Need to know about the shop you hired me to appraise. The one on 57th Street.”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“MacIllan knows. They paid you to hire me to go through the place, right?”
Charlie Bankston was a buyer for MacIllan’s in London, one of the largest rare book dealers in the world. Charlie traveled constantly and worked a string of pickers and appraisers, among them Anthony, off the ledger, trading books for quick spade work in places like the little shop on 57th. “Listen, Charlie. It’s really fucking important. I need everything you can tell me about the shop.”
He heard Charlie across the Pacific shuffling over a carpeted floor, the sound of a boyish voice behind him asking, “Who is it?”
“Business, darling,” Charlie told his friend, then, “Hang on,” to Anthony while he presumably booted up his netbook. “You remember the name of the…oh, here it is. Carcossia’s. On 57th Street. Find something good?”
“Maybe,” Anthony dodged. “How long’s it been shut down? Who owned it?”
Tap tap. “Out of business in 2005, estate in litigation till last year when Uncle Mac bought it. Owner was called Whitaker Jenkin. Modern firsts, classics, general stock...”
“Nothing there about occult books?”
“Ooh! You did find something. Shall I stop over on my way back to London?”
“Not necessary. Can you send me all your notes on the place, docs, catalogues, anything?
“All that’s in London.”
“Have it sent then. Overnight if they can. Listen, Charlie. Have I ever been wrong before? This could be something enormous. Historical.” Anthony’s fingers strayed to the bandage, feeling a need to itch that haunted the edges of the tape.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Anthony thought he heard sounds of muffled intimacy, then Charlie said, “All right. I’ll have it sent, but I’ll likely stop over too. Expect me in two…ouch…three days, all right? Can you put me up?”
“Course I can. Thanks, Charlie. See you then.”
Cunt, Anthony thought as he hung up.
He took a bus to the corner of 57th Street and walked a block to the narrow storefront with shuttered windows and a padlocked door. This time he noticed the sign above the door.
Carcossia. Not the owner’s name. Then who or what?
He took a deep breath and unlocked the door, first the padlock, then the deadbolt, and finally the lock below the knob, turning and pressing, stepping into the musty darkness.
It seemed an age ago that he had been here but only two days had passed – two wild, unbelievable days.
He had become a different person since then.
He inhaled the dusty darkness of the store and brushed the reality that the world was a place of infinite possibility, where truly anything might happen, wonderful or terrible.
So the young woman awaiting him in the store, pale-skinned, dark-haired, dressed in Goth punk fashion, a tattered mockery of Victorian finery didn't surprise him in the least.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked. “And what are you doing in my store?”
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Posted by Angela Caperton at 7/31/2010 4:10 PM 
Categories: Lovecraft, Dark Erotica, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Lovecraft Dark Erotica Angela Caperton Woman of His Dreams
Categories: Lovecraft, Dark Erotica, Angela Caperton, Woman of His Dreams
Tags: Lovecraft Dark Erotica Angela Caperton Woman of His Dreams
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