“1100 B Harlow Street,” she confirmed, and then together they worked on getting on his broom. It was far smoother than it had been, no bumbling or blushing, like there had been previously. Then they were off, Kit flying at a far faster speed than she was used to. His body was tense underneath hers, and she wondered if the witches he’d taken out had injured him somehow.
She’d check once they were safe at the apartment.
Soon they landed at Harlow Street, the street every bit as downtrodden as she’d expected it to be. The street was full of potholes and there were more cars, which suggested a higher magic-less population. Her father had never been the best at saving.
When Gentry started walking towards the higher numbers, Kit stopped her and pointed down at a manhole cover.
“No,” she said, her heart sinking.
“Yes, your father’s address has a ‘B’ in it. It stands for ‘Below’.” He lifted up the manhole cover and then summoned a witchlight. “Wait here, I’ll let you know if it’s safe.”
Begrudgingly, Gentry obeyed the witch’s instructions, more than a little nervous as she looked up at the zipping Sky Road above her. She felt exposed. But soon she was lowering herself down the ladder into the Underground, the scent of fresh air replaced with sewage and humidity. Thankfully, it looked as though the corridor was permanently lit with fire torches and, as far as she could tell, only Kit and her were on this street. A few of the houses from above appeared to have locked doors, but others didn’t have underground access at all.
They arrived at 1100 B Harlow Street in no time, and it was clear that this apartment building took its presence in the Underground seriously; around it was a deep moat and a bridge that led to its doors. When Gentry peered down the moat, she gasped. There were at least ten stories of apartments below the moat, their windows in various states of repair.
“They likely have an access door at the bottom of there, too,” Kit said, his breath warm on her ear, “there are a few levels of the underground that are strictly restricted to vamps.”
Gentry shuddered, not at all liking that they’d be staying in a building that was explicitly accessible to vampyres. Her first experience with a vamp had been dreadful.
Together, she and Kit entered the apartment building and headed towards the stairwell. “Negative six fifty-one,” Gentry groaned as she read the key her father had given her, “I just thought that was a dash.”
They climbed down the six stories and entered a maze of hallways. Somehow, Kit navigated the place expertly, his grip on her elbow tight as if she were about to try and bolt. It made her feel like a puppy being wrangled. She didn’t complain as they dodged the curious items that were decorating the halls — spiderwebs, old cauldrons, talisman made of cacti. Most of the doors had crosses nailed to them. Gentry kept a wide berth from those that didn’t.
At last, they arrived at the door labeled -651. Without asking, Kit took the key from her and opened it. To her alarm, it made a hissing sound.
“Your old man was okay at wards,” Kit said, “the only people who can enter first are keyed in with blood. You go first.”
Gentry did as he said, a cool wave of air passing over as she stepped forward. Kit followed and sent his witchlight forward, which illuminated the space in blue light.
To her surprise, the apartment resembled all the others she and her father had occupied over the years. The majority of the space was a small, bare room with the sink serving as the kitchenette and bathroom sink, a bed and nightstand, and a small computer monitor that would serve as a TV. The only difference was one of the walls was filled with pictures.
At first, Gentry thought that they were posters, but then she realized they were all pictures of their family. A baby Beckett laughing, her mother smiling. Gentry in pigtails at her spelling bee. Only the pictures changed once she was about twelve to only be of her and her father at all the provinces they’d traveled to.
It made her heart hurt to look at them, but, nonetheless, she walked forward and caressed a picture of all four of them together at a theme park.
I’ll pack all these pictures up,she thought,and show Mom and Beckett that he still cared. We can have a memorial for Dad once the curse is broken.
“I thought you said there’d be clues,” Kit said.
“There are.” She took a picture off the wall and flipped it to reveal her father’s handwriting. That confirmed, she started tearing all the pictures down. To her surprise, Kit didn’t help.
“I need to leave for a bit,” he said, his voice distant, “but you should be safe here. No one followed us and this is an extremely difficult building to find someone in.”
Gentry stopped pulling pictures down and turned around to face him. Kit stood tall, his broom in his hand.
“What’s going on?” she asked, trying not to sound too desperate at the idea of being alone. It was true that she felt the safest she ever had in her father’s apartment, but that didn’t mean she trusted the door to hold back murderous witches or hungry vampyres.
“A family matter — it doesn’t concern you,” Kit said, “but I’ll be back tonight. I’m sure your father has internet for you to research whatever the professor told you?”
“Uh, yeah, he should,” she agreed, thrown off by the mention of the curse and all she’d yet to tell him.
Kit showed her what type of knock he’d use on the door, but then he froze when he looked down at her arm. “Did the professor heal you?” he asked with a frown before touching her forehead, “That’s dangerous, Gentry. You’re still not quite recovered from magical poisoning. You’re burning up. Take some medicine.”
Then he left before she could explain whoreallyhealed her.
thirty-one
Kit
