Meet Milo...

     By Pattie Lawler  

 

           

            “Look out!”

            A hand shoved Albany to the floor behind the display case. Carpet burn was instantly forgotten as a body dropped across her middle.

            “What—”

            “Stay down!” He palmed her rising head and pushed, despite her screaming protest. “Sorry about all this,” he continued, his voice a whisper near her ear, “but I want to save your life. I’m sure you’ll thank me when this is over.”

            “Thank you?” she demanded, her mind racing.

            “Oh. You’re welcome. A pleasure, I’m sure.”

            “Who are you?”

            He gasped, pressing down. A strange whistling noise raced by. He eased back a fraction. “Name’s Milo Beacon St. Clare Scarlet. Milo to my friends, Scarlet to the world at large. No Gone with the Wind jokes, please. I’ve heard them all. And you are?”

            “Confused.”

            “Odd name.”

            “Get off me!”

            “Eventually, but not yet. You see,” he pressed down again, “there’s an antique Japanese katana, a long samurai sword, doubtless you’ve seen one, whizzing above our heads—” Glass shattered, and he paused, ducking. “As I was saying, an ancient sword is destroying this charmingly twee antique shop in its manic search for us. Well, not us. You. And until I capture it, it’s going to want to kill you.”

            “Kill me? Are you insane?”

            “No. A collector.”

            “Collector?”

            “Yes. Of the beautiful, bizarre and extra ordinary.” He pushed down as the whistle sped past. “This particular sword has a curse on it, and I want it.”

            “A cursed sword?”

            “What? No, not the sword. The curse.”

            Albany ground her teeth. “Get. Off. ME!”

            “Shh!” He didn’t breathe. “Do you hear that?”

            All was silence.

            “Damn! I think it’s found us.”

            “What—” She felt him shift, turning over.

            “Um, yes…it has. I’m sorry.”

            She gathered air to scream when the shop door burst open with a deep, booming: “MILO!”

            “Saved!” Milo cried, and his weight evaporated with the ringing command, “Don’t move!”

            Her hair was lifted and pulled taut: there was a rush of air, and then her hair fell.

            “Works every time. Come on, I’ll help you up.”

            Getting the muscles of her face to relax took a second. She looked up as a white-leather, gloved hand reached for her. The hand was attached to a body completely hidden in a greatcoat of scarlet leather. Following the arm up, she met the smiling countenance of the self-proclaimed collector.

            He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with laughing black eyes just visible behind small, round sunglasses. His sharp but handsome features were framed by black hair, pulled off his face as if gathered in a pony tail.

            “Come on,” he urged. “It’s all right. Simon’s got the sword.” He nodded toward his left shoulder.

            Following this gesture revealed Simon; a massive black man, all in brown. She instantly concluded it was Simon who had bellowed his entrance into the shop.

            The door opened again and the pale shopkeeper hurried in. Simon moved to intercept him.

            “I never got your name,” Milo went on, catching her unresponsive hand.

            “Albany. Albany Wendel.” She let him pull her upright and stood swaying, examining the sword before returning her gaze to Milo. Nothing seemed real. Her gaze fell to his hand, holding hers. He certainly felt real and seemed disinclined to release her.  She leaned toward him. “What just happened?”

            His smile grew. “There’s a café downstairs which I guarantee poses no threat. Please allow me to buy you a coffee and explain.”

<0> 

            Milo stabbed a finger down on the check, dragging it into view, while reaching for his wallet. “I recently acquired the wakizashi,” he explained, “the shorter blade that partners with this sword. Both swords had been undisturbed for so long that your family wasn’t in danger.” He threw a bill on the counter. “But in handling the wakizashi, I awakened its curse—through sheer ignorance, I assure you—and immediately removed it. The longer sword, likewise cursed, reacted before I could prevent it. I’m sorry I wasn’t faster.”

            Albany struggled to fit this into his earlier assertions. “But who would curse me…or my family?”

            Milo toyed with his mug, his gaze on the cooling liquid. “Your ancestry is Dutch. The man who originally owned these swords lost a son to Dutch traders in the 17^th century. How, I don’t know, but the loss was acute enough that he cursed your family. When the curse became active, it simply went for you, being the closest blood relation.”

            “Yes, but—”

            Grinning, he met her gaze. “But ancient Japanese swords don’t attack people?” She nodded, and Milo followed suit. “They do, actually. It just doesn’t make the evening news.”       

            “And why should I believe you? Simon could have been smashing pottery while you fed me a story of flying, cursed swords.”

            “He certainly could have, and who’s to say I’m not a white slave trader? Perhaps I’m an agent for a pasha with a taste for Dutch women.”

            She laughed, and he seemed to take this as encouragement.

            “You, of course, were hoping for a raja, having a desire for curry on a nightly basis, but are willing to submit to söbiyet.”

            “Which is?”

            “Me showing off?”

            Her head dropped in exasperation.       

            Pushing back, Milo rose. “Would you like to see the curse? Or would you like to see me gone?”

            The temptation he presented was just too potent and curiosity overrode caution. Albany drained her cup before rising. “Curse, please.”

 <0>

            Simon drove through weather unsure if it wanted to be flurries or snow and stopped before a hotel Albany had glimpsed in magazines, but never entered. Milo chatted during the entire ride, pointing out what he declared to be New York's finer buildings.

            “Do you live in town?” he asked, holding the car door for her.

            “No. Jersey City,” Albany replied as they followed Simon across the lobby and into the elevator. The silent valet carried the wrapped sword.

            The trip to the penthouse took mere seconds. When the doors opened on a foyer that would have swallowed her apartment, Albany hesitated.

            Milo twisted, smiling at her over his shoulder. “This way to the library.” He swept his arm to the right.

 

            The chocolate brown paneling of the library complimented the burgundy leather of the desktop where Simon placed the sword. He was peeling back the cloth wrapping when Milo and Albany joined him. Milo, busy with the gold buttons of his coat, locked his gaze on the emerging sword.

            “While you were still on the ground,” he explained, laying aside his coat to reveal a dark gray suit, white shirt and scarlet tie, “I allowed the sword to cut through a length of your hair.”

            Albany frowned, her hand racing to assess the damage, only to find it minimal at best.

            “Having encountered these kinds of curses before,” Milo continued, offering to take her coat, “I knew we could put it off for a time by allowing it to think it had accomplished its task. It had cut you, the curse was fulfilled. That the cut was harmless wasn’t an issue.” He looked up and pointed toward her. “Would you please hand me the wakizashi on the table behind you?”

            Turning, Albany found a double-tiered display stand; the lower tines supported a sheathed sword. Lifting it, she stretched across the desk to hand him the smooth curve of wood and metal. “Where did it come from?”

            “This one I acquired from a widow in Canton.” He drew the blade out and laid it beside its partner. “Sadly, the mountings are modern, but I have a source for replacing them with more period-appropriate fittings.”

            “You said you wanted the curse.”

            “And I do, but collecting involves dispersal as often as gathering. A sword-collecting friend will profit from my castoffs and never know his loss.”

            “You place a higher value on an intangible?”

            His eyes sparkled as he looked at her. “My dear Miss Wendel; ancient Japanese swords are thick upon the ground when compared to ancient Japanese curses.”

            She conceded the point.

            “Miss Fanny is returning,” Simon murmured from his position beside the open door.

            His deep voice perfectly matched his dignified appearance and Albany looked at him, surprised that she had forgotten his presence. A second later, the elevator chimed.

            “My niece,” Milo said with obvious delight. He raised his voice. “We’re in the library, Fanny.”

            In a moment, Albany gazed with open-mouthed wonder at a child who might have stepped out of a Victorian picture book. She appeared no more than twelve and wore a dress of black velvet trimmed with lace and scarlet satin ribbons. Her charcoal-gray hair tumbled about her shoulders in massive waves and curls and her black eyes swept the room to alight on Milo. With a cry of pleasure, she raced into his waiting arms. Milo hugged her, allowing her to place half a dozen kisses on his face before he drew back.

            “We have company, Fanny.”

            The girl paused and turned, smiling at Albany. “How do you do? My name is Francis Xavier Bellamy.”

            Albany fought the urge to curtsey. “Hello, Francis. My name is Albany Wendel. I’m pleased to meet you.”

            “Miss Wendel is the object of the curse I discovered,” Milo explained as he returned to the desk, Fanny in tow. “I was about to begin the ritual to remove the second curse. Would you like to help?”

            Albany doubted there was a question Milo could ask that Fanny would deny.

For a time Albany was left to ponder, What am I doing here? as the three moved about the room, closing curtains, placing candles, tissue paper, several books and a roll of clear packing tape. Through it all, her gaze never strayed from Milo.

            “Would you like to see the original curse?” Milo asked as he leafed through a book.

            Recalled from the perplexing and fruitless mental examination of her motives, Albany blinked and accepted, grateful for the distraction. Milo smiled as he set aside the volume and left the room.

             Fanny crossed her arms on the desk and dropped her plump cheek down with an attention demanding sigh.

            To fill the ensuing silence, Albany crouched to meet the girl’s eyes. “How was school today?”

            Fanny looked surprised as she raised her head. “I don’t go to school. Uncle Milo teaches me. I was out shopping with Joe.”

            “Joe?”

            “My secretary,” Milo said, returning with a long, wooden box which he placed on the desk.

            “Joe said she had some things for Lawrence,” Fanny went on, smiling up at her uncle. “She said she would be back in the morning.”

            “Lawrence is my research assistant.”

            Albany crossed her arms as she stood. “Are there more of you, or just the five?”

            “Six,” Fanny corrected.

            “Six?”

            Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Me, Uncle Milo, Simon, Joe, Lawrence and you.”

            Albany gaped, her own interpretation of this reckoning making her cheeks burn as Milo’s voice cut through her confusion.

“Your progression is incorrect, Fanny.”

            He continued to explain where her fault lay as he unlocked the box and lifted the lid. Albany shook her head, desperate to dispel manic images of herself and the collector as she moved to join him.

            “Not surprisingly,” he said, addressing Albany as she drew near, “it’s extremely delicate. I would ask that you look in rather than I remove it. And don’t worry. It can’t hurt you.”

            Seemingly attached to a length of clear packing tape, a glowing ribbon of characters met her wondering gaze.

            Albany felt a wave of terror. Its loathing of her was like tin in her mouth. The warm, dark room froze to a sepulcher’s embrace and her numb fingers clutched the desk’s edge. Her presence in the suite suddenly took on horrific implications, and she stumbled back a step.

            “Albany?” Fanny’s voice reached her across the chilled air.

            “No,” she pleaded, her eyes locked on the slowly rising sword.

            “Simon!” Milo shoved Albany aside. As she fell, she saw the sword leap forward; saw Milo punch the blade’s broadside as it sped toward her; saw a curtain of charcoal gray as Fanny tackled her.

            Milo shouted in what sounded like Japanese. A red light pierced the room, blinding her. The shouting grew in volume until she was sure it would never end.

            And then it did.

            “A thousand pardons, Miss Wendel,” Milo said as he lifted Fanny off her. His still gloved hand reached for her, and she weakly placed her hand in his. “The combined presence of both curses and you was more potent than I expected. Truly, it was a powerful spell.” He helped her into a sitting position and knelt before her, his concerned gaze scouring her face.

            The uncompromising trust his demeanor had engendered faltered, and Albany devolved into resentment as fear left her drained and limp. “One you’re happy to possess, Mr. Scarlet?”

            As their eyes met, the smile left his. “Simon, please take Fanny to the kitchen.”

            Nothing was said until the door closed on the couple.

            “Please, Miss Wendel,” Milo bowed over her hand, “accept my most sincere apologies. I’ve been an abominable host—”

            “I might have died.”

            “No,” he whispered, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “I would never allow that.”

            “And I should just believe that you’re more powerful than an ancient curse? Powerful enough to stop it even though you couldn’t anticipate it?”

            One side of his mouth curled, and the light returned to his black eyes. “Miss Wendel—”

            “Albany.”

            His head dipped. “Albany. I am sincerely sorry. You are, of course, correct and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to return to your good graces. Command me. How may I make amends?”

            She considered, torn between fascination and fear.

            And then the internal battle was over.

            “You may take Fanny and me to dinner.”

 

 

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