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.
“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.”