Off The Grid (Kindred Series-3)

Off The Grid - 7

Off The Grid – 7

information is key

            The bell over the door of the comic shop trills as she crosses the threshold, coming face to face with the guy she’d beaten yesterday at the video game.  They both freeze.  She had not expected to see him here.  Apparently the same family owned the arcade and the comic shop. 

            “You gave me back my money,” he says accusingly.  “I found it in my pockets last night.”

            She merely shrugs.  Easing over to the Marvel comics, thumbing through the X-Men then Spiderman, she sets two on the counter.  “Witchblade?” she asks.

            He grimaces.  “Over to the left, down by the back.  Why did you give me my money back?”

            She follows his directions, not answering him, and finds the three issues she hasn’t read yet.  Her gaze drifts to the back wall of the comic shop and she sees books, honest to goodness book in a comic store, what is the world coming to?  Her eyes scan the titles, finding many are more research based then comic based.  Her fingers run over the spines of the leather bound books, the gold embossed letters rough on her fingertips.  Some of them she knows, some of them she owns.  A heated shiver rifles through her.

            “All comics are based on some sort of,” a pause, “truth.”

            She spins to her left and notices a man, older in years, his silver white hair long and wavy, tickling his collar.  His mouth curls oddly when he talks and she can see he’s been in some type of accident, more than likely in his youth which has changed how his lips wrap around words.  His voice is still young.  He lifts a hand, which is disfigured, but still functional and gestures to the books. 

“Is it?” she asks conversationally. 

            “Absolutely,” he says, taking a rather old looking leather bound book, the last one that she’d been touching.  “Take this one.  Succubae, all fiction, right?”  She eases closer, cocking her head to read the title.  Her violet eyes take in the book, then him.  The scent of freshly sawed wood clings to him, he’s clean shaven and handsome in a nontraditional way. 

            “I would imagine so, a shape shifting, soul sucking demon, right?” she asks.

            “Yes,” he says.  “I am Victor.”  He extends his hand.

            “I’m a germaphobe, I don’t shake hands, sorry,” she says, refusing to give him her name.  She takes an obvious step backwards.

            “Ah.”  He takes his hand away.  “You aren’t from around here.”

            “Neither are you,” she replies.

            He is silent.

            “I’ve got comics to read,” she says.  “A pleasure, Victor.”

            She walks away, making sure to swing her hips just enough to make him look.  She drops the three comics onto the other two. 

            “Dominic, let our customer have the frequent flyer discount.  I have a feeling we will be seeing her again,” says Victor. 

            “I’m good, I can pay.”

            “Oh, I am most certain that you can pay.  I just want your repeat business.  Come again, feel free to…”