I did my
best to stay calm, but my skin crawled with the energy of the day. I clutched
at my pendant to Tyche through my shirt, and stayed firmly under the covers of
my bed. The bed was as safe as anywhere else in the house, maybe safer.
Maybe.
“Mr.
Iverson, this Joel Guthrie. I came to your office to discuss my case, but saw
the sign that you were closed. I understand you investigate odd things like the
supernatural, but aren’t you being a little superstitious about closing up on
Friday the 13th? Anyway, I’d still like to talk about my case. I’ll
come to the office tomorrow, too, if I don’t hear from you.”
Superstitious? He doesn’t get it. None of
them understand. I’m a nexus point for luck. If it’s simply possible it will
happen, then around me it becomes probable. The last 13th I went out
on I nearly got hit by a car, got mugged, food poisoning, the fridge
exploded—who knew a fridge could literally explode?—sprained my ankle, ATM ate
my card, slammed my fingers in a door, and a hundred little things that annoyed
even if they didn’t threaten me.
A sudden
pounding on my front door made me sit up in bed. I wished for it to go away,
but it didn’t. It was an irregular rhythm, but persistent. I wanted to ignore
it, but someone that insistent could really be important.
For all I know it could be someone wanting
to tow my car or my landlord wanting to evict me.
I got up
cautiously, taking each step deliberately, and made it to the front door
without incident. The peephole revealed a man’s torso. The rest of him was
stretched up, doing something over my door.
I opened
the door with at “What the—”
Matt Allen
lowered his chin to look at me. He had a big, metal thermos in one hand, poised
over my doorframe. “Don, hey. Your horseshoe fell down, so I thought I’d put it
back up for you. I know how crazy this day can be.”
“Thanks.
What’s in the thermos?”
“Irish
whiskey. I don’t think the luck will transfer, but it should calm the nerves. I
figured it’d be best not to have a breakable bottle, too.”
I was wrong. There’s one other person in the
city that understands, at least a little.
“A drink
sounds good.”