Nine Lives: A Paranormal Adventure (Bad Tom Series Book 3)

by Jill Nojack

  Gillian leans in, her elbows splayed out on the table top, and her fingers laced together tight. "It's not strictly true that only the dead can enter the afterlife. There are recorded cases in every culture, including our own, in which a living person entered the land of the dead and later returned to the land of the living."

  "Like Odysseus?" I ask.

  She turns to me and nods. "Exactly like that, sweetheart. If you believe the afterworld is a physical place that beings can inhabit, even if they are only the dead ones, then you have to believe that a living person could visit it under the right circumstances."

  "And you believe the Summerlands is like that," Tom said. It was a statement, not a question. Tom knows how fervently Gillian believes in the Summerlands, hoping that her deceased husband Martin is waiting for her there so that they can reenter the living world together when it's their time.

  "Yes. But…" She looks like she's going to cry.

  "Gilly," Tom prompts. "What's the rest of it?"

  "The Summerlands aren't made for the living. If Anat pulls that many living souls into it at one time, the result would be catastrophic. Not just for Giles but for the Summerlands, and for the rest of the world." She stops and sighs, working toward regaining control.

  "In what way?" Tom says.

  "The Summerlands could cease to exist."

  Tom and I exchange another glance. This time one of confusion.

  "What do you mean?" he asks.

  "Destroyed. That's what I mean. With the scales tipped to unbalance it against the living world, the veil between the worlds could go 'poof'. Gone. Kaput. The veil unveiled. And that will leave nowhere for people to go when they die."

  "What?" I ask, my voice going up the scale a little higher than I'm used to. I sound like some stupid, scared little girl. But really, "What?" High, scared voice again.

  "There would be nowhere for people to go when they die. The world would be burdened down with the dead."

  Tom reaches for my hand and holds it tightly. I don't think he even realizes it.

  "What does that mean?"

  "I'm not sure, Tom. They get back up and walk around and that zomcopalyse Cassie mentioned happens? They continue on as spectres here after their body decays? I don't know. But the arrangement of the living and the dead as we understand it would be disrupted. It would become something other than it is."

  Tom's hand grabs tighter onto mine. "We're going to stop this," he says. "Do either of you even doubt that?"

  I try to rally with a smile, but it kind of fizzles.

  "Et tu, Cass? Come on! All three of us were there when we put Anat in her place before. Think about it—she's stuck in a smelly, leg-humping, cat litter-eating stray. And who did that to her?"

  I guess there's cause to smile. "We did. Well, not me, really. I wasn't myself. But you and Gilly did." I reach my other hand across to Gillian. She perks up a little and takes it. Then she reaches the other out to Tom, who grabs it and squeezes.

  "We're unstoppable," he says. "We're unbreakable." He smiles at me. I beam back. "So, let's eat before our food gets cold. We need to keep our strength up for saving the world tonight."

  ***

  We huddle over the map as Gillian points to the critical parts of the pentacle again. "We've got one spot that's still a mystery, but if we've got it right, we know where Zelda, Deborah—or maybe Dash, but let's hope not—and Robert should be stationed. We also have an idea where Anat will be, assuming she'll want to be at the center of the action. That leaves Nat where Cassie was originally placed, since that's the only place without an initial."

  As she uses the map for a visual aid, she says, "I think she's going to use them like…well, batteries. Magical batteries, if you want to think of it that way. They'll each need to send their power to the correct location across the star, and once that's completed, it will concentrate in the middle."

  Tom puts his hands down flat on the table and drums with his fingertips. "And that's what we need to stop, right?"

  "Yes, we need to break those lines of power. I just…Tom, I understand why you want to go for Anat first, but I think we should free Natalie before you do. Her magic will be critical to Anat's plan. Once we've freed her, she can help us free the other witches. Now, Zelda and Deborah, I doubt they're even being controlled. They'd cooperate if they knew it was Eunice they were working for."

  "Fine. You and Cassie can do that. But I'm going for Anat. I don't know if I can take her out or not, but if I can, wouldn't that stop it all by itself?"

  Gillian's mouth compresses with tension before she says. "I don't know. It's just guesswork, isn't it?"

  And it is, it really is. But it's all we've got.

  The cotton candy I’m picking at is the same color as my lip gloss, but it sure tastes a lot better. I go to give my short, blonde wig a tug and remember just in time about my pink fingers and think better of it. There’s a definite carnival atmosphere in downtown today. Booths packed with touristy treasures or greasy, sugary carnival foods stand like shanties along each side of the street.

  I walked by the “Cinful Readings” booth on my way here, and one of the first things I’m going to do when all of this is over is give Cinnamon a big apology and beg her to do readings in the shop. A third party in my relationship? I should have known it was Anat.

  I used to love the Witching Faire when I was a kid. It’s like a big party with a supernatural theme. I guess a lot of people in town always knew it was a lot more than that. There’s me, always the last one to catch on.

  From a distance, I watch Tom as he ducks in between two of the food stands with one of Gillian’s big, old suitcases, rigged up with some suspicious-looking wires poking out the top, and we’ve even thrown one of those big old alarm clocks inside so that it ticks if you put your ear close to it. Tom’s idea. He still thinks clocks and bombs should tick. Maybe the cops are old skool enough to expect that, too, but I doubt it. Although in Giles, they definitely might buy the idea of a geriatric bomber.

  Tom looks pretty suspicious himself in the tightly pulled-down hoody that hides his who-wouldn’t-melt-when-they-saw-it face in the shadows. His ensemble completes with some baggy old jeans we bought at the thrift shop and a pair of old galoshes. That way, if anyone else sees him drop the suitcase, they can back me up with how the guy who left it looked like someone who was up to no good.

  He walks by and turns his head to me slightly to give me a wink as he goes. After he disappears into the crowd, I go over to the stand to buy a drink and happen to notice an abandoned suitcase at the side. Imagine that.

  “Hey, is this yours?” I ask the kid who waits on me.

  “Is what mine?”

  “The bag at the side of the stand?”

  He lifts up the canvas wall to take a look and says, “Nope.”

  I ask the kid in the next stand. The response is pretty much the same. Except she says, “A guy came walking out from between the stalls a while ago. Maybe it’s his.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “But why would someone leave a bag in there? Seems suspicious to me with all the terrorist activity going on these days. I don’t like it.”

  The kid rolls her eyes and says, “If you’re so worried about it, maybe you should report it to the cops. They look bored.” She jerks her chin toward the end of the row where one of our local officers is enjoying a giant, greasy-looking elephant ear, then she dumps a big plastic bag full of fries into a wire basket and drops it into a fryer. “I’m sure they’ll want to know all about the big terrorist threat at the East Podunk carnival.” The sound of the frozen potato hitting the hot grease almost overwhelms the last part of her sentence. But I catch the sarcasm over the sizzle.

  I give her my snarkiest like-I-care look and say, “I think I will.”

  I head for the cop, not one of the ones I know, which is good, because that means he doesn’t know me, either. Unless they’re all under Anat’s control, he shouldn’t send up an alarm. I hope. I check my wig and dark glasses are s
till in place anyway. Just to make sure.

  “Um, sir?” I begin.

  The cop turns. He doesn’t say anything. His breath smells faintly of rum, and his eyes look a little glazed. They focus on mine after a second. It reminds me of how the cops always looked after drinking Kevin’s control potion. I try not to cringe.

  “There’s an abandoned suitcase between the food stands over there,” I say, pointing, “and the kid at the stand says some suspicious looking guy dropped it off and then walked away. It doesn’t look right to me. Can you take a look?”

  He nods and walks over to the suitcase. I follow. Maybe this will do it. If we can get the police to clear the Faire because of a bomb threat, we can get all kinds of innocent people out of the way.

  The cop’s radio sparks to life. “All units, there’s been a code yellow called in. Code yellow.”

  “What’s a code yellow?” I ask.

  “Not your business.”

  But I know what it is. Tom’s done the second part of his job and called in the bomb threat.

  We get to the food stand, and I say, “See? There. It’s got wires sticking out the top.”

  The cop walks to it. Bends down. Looks at it for a minute, considering the wiring, then nonchalantly unsnaps the latches and opens it up.

  I gasp. I have to make it look real, right?

  “Yeah, I’d say that’s some threat you’ve uncovered.” He dumps the suitcase and the wind-up clock inside it into the trash. “Some kid with a crappy sense of humor,” he says. “Or maybe you wanted to stir up trouble?”

  “What? I was just reporting something that might be dangerous. I mean, if we were at an airport…”

  “Aren’t you the Granby girl? Eunice Granby’s granddaughter?”

  “No.”

  Hells, maybe he does know me.

  “I think you are. Mayor Andrews said to keep an eye out for you.” He grabs for his radio with one hand and his other hand grabs for my arm.

  I don’t wait around for it to make contact. I’m running, threading my way through the throng of people like a rat in a maze. Fortunately, I’m better at mazes than the rat behind me, and I’m faster, too. I duck behind a tent and ditch my wig and glasses in the trash bin behind it. I take a garment out of my backpack by feel and then pull it on over my clothes after putting my backpack on backwards so I can reach it from the front if I need to. I pull the long zipper up from my crotch to my neck to cover me and my bag, and then I feel for and pull down the veil attached to the hood and walk back out into the crowd. I’ve never been invisible before, and I’m not sure I believe it, but I’m careful to dodge the people who can’t see me now that I’m dressed in Tom’s magic coveralls. I don’t need anyone slamming into me.

  Not a single set of eyes flicks toward me as I walk by them. The cop who was chasing me is standing by a food stand, his eyes searching the crowd. They pass right over me as I walk by.

  The coverall legs are too long for me, and I’m afraid they’ll trip me up at just the wrong moment. I stop and hike the suit up around my waist and fold and tuck the extra fabric in, hoping it will keep them snugged against the tips of my shoes so they don’t drag.

  A random thought about how Tom got the suit floats to the surface of my brain, and the thought of Kreepy Kevin causes an involuntary shudder to move through my body. It’s not like Tom will have run the suit through the laundry. Bits of Kevin’s skin and boy fluids are probably still lingering around on this thing.

  No one would blame me for the shudder.

  ***

  I perch on the pedestal of the statue of Giles Corey, a guy from a town or two over who was pressed to death under a big rock during the Salem witch trials, and who our coven renamed the town for after all that craziness died down. He was apparently something of a local hero. He knew the names of the real witches and didn’t give them up.

  When I asked about it once, my granny gave me the history and told me the statue was installed in the early sixties, when no one got bent out of shape much anymore about the idea of witches. Or, at least, there hadn’t been a mass execution for a while.

  Scanning the street from my vantage point, which has a good view straight down the line of stands and attractions when I look to the right, I recognize Zelda at the far end, standing in the spot on the map that was marked with a Z and had the symbol for chaos next to it. She’s Gillian’s and my second target as soon as she meets me here. It’s good to know we got that one right.

  I look down to the other end of the street, where the shops that were converted from the old houses start to be replaced with shops and offices built in the fifties and sixties. That’s where we expect Natalie to be.

  I don’t see her, but I do see Gillian where she was going to wait for me near the Decent Food Mart just past where the street is cordoned off. The crowd isn’t much of a crowd all the way down there—never really is since sweet Mr and Mrs Rao have never caught on to how their lack of a deep understanding of the English language has derailed their business.

  But with the lack of a crowd, that’s probably why no one goes to help a pudgy, elderly lady in a flowing hippie dress who’s backing away from a huge, snarling, black dog with all the speed a senior citizen can muster.

  Giving Cassie the invisibility suit was the right thing to do, but I could sure use it about now. There's no sign of Anat's doggie host out on the street, and I'm not eager to go exploring through the shops. She and her enchanted crew could have anything rigged up inside.

  Cassie fixed me up a packet with a pair of boxers in case I have to call on Cat and then need to shift back so that I'm not stuck outside totally exposed later on. I always have my hidden caches of clothes around town now, too, where I can grab something and throw it on if I need it.

  Cat may not mind letting it all hang out, but things have changed for me since the wallowing-naked-in-the-mud freedoms of Woodstock. My point is, I'd rather be covered unless Cassie's the only other person in my general vicinity. I'd hazard a guess that's what she prefers, too.

  I scan the street from right to left, in front of the stands that line the closed street, then duck in back to go along the sidewalks that lead to the shops. In front of the bakery, a kid dressed in black with a pointy cardboard wizard hat and a face painting of a spider grabs his mother's hand and points up toward the top of Cat's Magical Shoppe.

  My eyes follow where he points.

  It can't be.

  Nat is up there on the roof of the shop, standing on the widow's walk. How did she even manage it? There's no door or hatch onto the roof. The flat widow's walk is purely decorative. I've prowled every inch of that big old Victorian in my time. If there'd been a way up there, I'd have done anything to get closer to the birds that roost on its short, white picket fence.

  I'd say she's got about the best vantage point to take in the entire Witching Faire. And it would also put her smack-dab in the middle of the downtown pentacle. But Anat's not with her. It's just one of the pups standing next to her, his black fur a contrast to the white slats.

  The red purse hung over one arm tells me that Nat's definitely still in there somewhere. Because Nat doesn't go anywhere without that purse. That has to be a positive.

  The glowing ball of magic that dances on the fingertips of the arm she raises in the air tells me that her witchcraft is also doing just fine. Not so positive. Her lips move as she addresses the sky. I swear the damn dog is grinning.

  Let's see…enchanted witch on the roof of a three story building with no way up, and all I have to do is get there before whatever spell she's spinning is done, break the enchantment, and get her to stop the spell.

  No problem.

  Piece of cake.

  I'm on it.

  ***

  My body twists and jerks and contorts through the shift and Cat lets out a long yowl of pain when he finds his voice at the end of it. The transformation takes longer and hurts more when I'm in a hurry. When Cat's just interested in eating the stinkbug crawling up th
e wall of the parlor, it happens easily.

  Well, not easily, but it doesn't feel like I've been run over by a steamroller. More like I've been run over by a steamroller while under mild sedation. Which—trust me on this—is an improvement.

  It won't do to think about it any more, though. Time for this cat to focus.

  Climbing the tree is easy, natural. The kind of thing we do all the time. But this time, we're not going in the second story window. We won't be able to access the roof from there. No, we've got to keep going, higher and higher, where the branches thin and bend beneath Cat's weight, threatening to let go.

  But we've got this.

  The branch flexes sideways and I dig my teeth into it just in time. Cat's back left leg loses its purchase and slips off the branch. Then, the right leg goes as well. The branch bobbles twice but stops its downward motion, and I'm left hanging from a swinging branch by my teeth and front claws, back legs scrabbling inelegantly against the sky.

  Cat has to chill out so I can think. It takes every bit of power I have over him, but his back legs stop running through the air.

  The only thing we can do from here is ease out farther along the branch and hope for a toehold on the gutters at the top of the roof. Just try to convince a terrified Cat of that. And a terrified cat-shifter. With one life left, I can't afford to splat myself all over the ground and leave my friends to get sucked into the the afterlife before their time.

  I hang on with Cat's sharp teeth as I force him to unfurl one set of claws and move it further along the branch toward the shop and grasp the branch firmly again, claws digging into the tender bark and green wood below. Then I remote control him to do it with the other, bringing it close to the side of our mouth. Once I'm sure both claws are dug in as far as they're going to go, I unclench Cat's teeth and let them slide carefully along the branch, ready to clench down again in a second, moving along a fraction of an inch.