GLASS SOUP Jonathan Carroll (good romance books to read TXT) 📖

of the people who come into his store are lonely old ones like him who only want to chat, music fanatics with his kind of taste, or just interesting people who look in his window, get intrigued by what they see and can’t resist going in.”

Ettrich rubbed his forehead because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. “And he has customers?”

“Oh yes, almost every time I go in there he’s talking to someone. A lot of the time the people look lonely or ragged, or like they just stepped out of a UFO, but he’s okay with that.

“You know that dancing Elvis on the dashboard of my car? One of his customers gave it to me—an Elvis fanatic. I was in the store the day Petras sold the guy a very rare live recording of Elvis in Las Vegas singing ‘Ave Maria.’” Although Vincent and Isabelle both happened to be looking at their hands on the table when she said this, they cackled at almost the same time at the image of the King singing that most holy of songs. In Vegas.

When he spoke again his voice was as excited as a child’s. “You’ve got to introduce me to this Petras. I’ve got to meet him.”

Isabelle nodded. “We can go there tomorrow if you like.”

“Do you promise?”

It was such a funny thing for him to say, but somehow it made her very happy. “Vincent, I promise.”

Petras

“What are you thinking about?”

Vincent spoke as he rubbed his eyes slowly with the heels of his hands: “That we should go talk to Petras about this.”

They were again sitting in the car in the Wienerwald. Hietzl rested its head on Ettrich’s shoulder. The windows were rolled down. Isabelle crossed her arms and, turning away from him, listened to the world outside. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

Reaching forward, he poked dancing Elvis on the dashboard. “I was thinking about the night we met and where you told me you got him.” He gestured toward the small figure.

When she spoke her voice was wholly different. It came out high pitched, fast and querulous, like an angry child’s. “I don’t want to do that, Vincent. I really, really don’t want to go to Petras for this.”

“I understand. I’d feel the same way if I was you. But I think we have to unless you can come up with something else.”

She knew he was right but that didn’t make it any easier. Isabelle had known half an hour ago that it was her only course of action. The moment she’d learned what the cicada sound out there really was, the first thing that had come to mind was “Petras.” And she hated that.

Now she looked again at Vincent, her eyes pleading.

He saw that desperation and took her hand. “Sweetheart, do whatever you think is best. You know I’ll support you. If you don’t want to deal with him, then don’t. I just have no other idea of what to do.”

“You haven’t said yet what you think is happening to me, Vincent. You haven’t said a word about it; except that I bring back the dead whenever I return from there.”

She was being ingenuous. Sometimes she did that when she was trying to hide from the truth of a situation. It was an unattractive, weak ploy. But now he wasn’t having it because this development was too big and dangerous. Isabelle had to face the truth and deal with it immediately.

His voice came out hard—harder than he would have liked. “What can I say that you don’t already know, Fizz? You brought me back from the dead. To do that, you had to learn how to go there and Petras taught you. But remember, he told you back then what the consequences of doing it could be.

“You know the way into death but now someone is using it against you. They’re pulling you back through that door whenever they want to, whether you like it or not. For some reason they’ve been taking you to Haden’s death. I don’t know why.”

“I think they want our baby because Anjo’s a danger to them. We’ve known that a long time.”

“And why do you think I should see Petras?”

Irritated, Ettrich made a slow fist and lowered his chin to his chest. “Do you really need me to answer that question?”

Her mouth tightened. “Don’t talk like that, Vincent. Not now. I want you to help, not scold me. And yes, say why you think I should go see him.”

Vincent’s first impulse was to blurt out an emotional response. But he held himself back and instead reached over his shoulder and scratched the dog on the top of the head a while before speaking. “After I died, you went to Petras and he showed you how to enter death and bring me back here. And he was right—it worked. I honestly think we need to talk to him now about all of this and hear what he has to say about it. There’s no one else we can turn to, Isabelle. If anyone can give us advice on what to do with all this, it’s him.”

Vienna’s Zentralfriedhof is one of the largest cemeteries in Europe. It is a gigantic, mostly beautiful, anti-Semitic place. Enter through the heroic main gates and one gets the impression that you are walking into a grand Elysian Fields—like resting place of the great and famous. You would not be surprised to see a grazing white unicorn there, or the contented ghost of Franz Schubert walk by, hands behind his back, deep in thought about his next work of genius. Mozart’s grave is near the entrance and so is Beethoven’s. Walk a little farther on and there are the final homes of more of the great and near-great: eminent writers, generals who fought and fell in celebrated battles, politicians, doctors, architects, and social reformers who made a real difference in their lifetimes. Farther along are the family plots—the huge Jugendstil or baroque whipped cream