Free Summoned by Anne M. Pillsworth Page B

hadn’t come, so Sean could have impressed her with his Sherlock Holmes imitation. Another brilliant deduction hit him: To be a frequent flyer at Geldman’s, the Reverend had to live in or near Arkham. Could Sean wheedle his address out of Geldman? Better not try. If Geldman found out Sean didn’t know where the Reverend lived, he might get mad and not give him the powders.
    Speaking of mad. Wouldn’t the Reverend get pissed if Sean charged the powders to his account? Geldman didn’t know Sean’s name. Still, the Reverend wasn’t stupid. He’d figure out who had hit him up for Zeph and Aghar.
    The glass panel over the counter slid back, and Geldman called: “Your order is ready, young man.”
    He’d just have to own up and hope for the best. Oh, and hope he had enough money with him, too. He’d gotten so confused when the account thing had come up he’d forgotten to ask the price.
    Sean marched himself over to the counter. Geldman stood at the antique cash register holding a red-and-white-striped paper bag. Before he could hand the bag over, Sean said, “Look, Mr. Geldman. Reverend Orne didn’t actually send me to get the powders. I mean, he told me to come here, but they’re not for him; they’re for me. So it wouldn’t be right to charge them to his account. I’ll pay for them.”
    Geldman’s heavy eyelids fell to half-mast. “Very well,” he said. “How much money do you have with you?”
    “Twenty-six dollars.”
    “You may give me twenty.”
    That was a funny way to put it. “Um. That’s what they cost?”
    “Cost is relative, young man. Twenty will suffice in this case.”
    Who was Sean to argue? He fished out his cash and gave Geldman the two tens.
    With a pull of the much-creased bills between his fingers, Geldman smoothed them to crisp newness. He depressed a key on the register. Its drawer popped open with a pleasant ka-ching, like in a cartoon, and Geldman deposited the tens within. “Now,” he said, sliding the bag over the counter to Sean. “While these compounds aren’t toxic, they can be irritating. Be careful not to touch your eyes or nose after handling them, and try not to breathe the dust.”
    Sean picked up the bag. Inside, glass tinkled against glass. “Yes, sir. I’ve got it.”
    “Keep the compounds dry and they’ll last many years. Oh, and they’re guaranteed to work. A full refund if you find otherwise.”
    Geldman’s face was solemn, so Sean didn’t crack a smile, either. “Right. Thanks, Mr. Geldman.”
    “You’re welcome, young man.”
    That seemed to be it. Sean headed for the door. He’d opened it, to the ringing of its invisible bell, when Geldman called after him: “Oh, by the way.”
    Sean turned. Maybe since he hadn’t been disappointed about the powders after all, Geldman wanted him to pay for the sarsaparilla.
    However, Geldman only said, “Please tell Reverend Orne that I admire his eye. As always.”
    The Rev’s eye? Sean nodded, though, and escaped. Geldman couldn’t have meant an actual eye . Maybe the Rev’s taste for something, like materia. But what about that guarantee? Should Sean come back after the summoning ritual failed and get the refund? Eddy would so crack up when he told her about this place.
    A check of his cell phone told him it was after four, which meant Dad would be looking for him. Sean took a minute to pull open the stapled bag. Small as it was, its contents were lost in it: two clear glass tubes stoppered with corks and red sealing wax. The one labeled “Zeph” contained fine gray dust; “Aghar,” fine yellow dust. He folded the bag into a compact square that fit inside his T-shirt pocket. Zeph gray, Aghar yellow, he chanted in his head as he ran down Gedney Street through the sticky heat of late afternoon, still sarsaparilla cool himself.

7
    Sean had learned the ritual. He’d gotten the powders. Now Dad was going to blow the whole summoning project out of the water. “You’ve let me stay home by myself