by Chris Cooper
“Go! Floor it!” Anna shouted.
“I can’t just mow him over.” He had flashbacks to the Witch bouncing off his window in the Christchurch field.
Fred refused to move out of the way, instead placing his hand on the car and tapping the hood to get their attention.
“I have to go out there, or else he’s not going to move,” Oliver said.
“Are you crazy? He’ll kill you.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I? He’s an old man, and I think I can outrun him.” Oliver cracked open the door and squeezed into the alley, keeping the heavy metal between him and Fred. “What do you want?”
Fred’s response was incoherent over the sound of the engine.
“Speak up.”
Fred held out the metal object he’d been holding at his side. “Dropped this.”
“Bring it.” Oliver reached his hand out over the open car door.
“Oliver, don’t,” Anna said from inside the car.
“Just wait a minute,” he replied out of the corner of his mouth.
Fred squeezed between the brick wall and hood of the station wagon and handed Oliver the broken piece of side mirror he’d snapped off in the alley.
Oliver turned the object over in his hands. “Why did you try to attack Asher the other night?”
Fred tapped the tips of his fingers together as he mulled over the question. “‘Devil’s Song,’” he replied.
“What about it?”
“Got stuck in my head.” He pressed an index finger into his temple and twisted. “Beautiful, though,” he added.
Oliver climbed back in the car and shut the door. Fred stood to the side, providing enough room to pull the station wagon through without hitting the old man.
“What did he want?” Anna asked.
He tossed the broken mirror into her lap. “Just wanted to give this back.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not at all. I asked him why he tried to attack Asher, and he said something about a song stuck in his head.”
“Maybe he’s just a dangerous loon,” Anna replied.
“Ruby said it herself—he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s not dangerous. Someone made him do it.”
Oliver looked in the rearview mirror, and just before he turned the corner toward the edge of town, Fred stepped out from the alley and looked down the road toward them.
“He’s standing back there in front of the alley,” Oliver said.
“We can’t just leave Ruby there. If she leaves, he’ll be waiting for her.”
“She said not to come back,” Oliver replied. “I told you what she did to the poor guy during the show. I think she can handle herself.”
Oliver kept an eye on the rearview mirror to ensure no one was following, although he still felt somewhat paranoid for doing so. One assailant was dead, and they’d left the other in the dust in the Amberley alley. Still, without a clear idea of who or what had caused Fred and Caleb to attack, the danger seemed to be all around them.
When they reached Izzy’s house, after having dropped Anna off at her cottage, his mom was sitting in the living room, cradling a glass of wine and buried in a book. Nekko was lying next to her, hogging most of the couch.
“I was beginning to worry,” she said, looking up from her novel. “And who do we have here?”
Asher stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“Just a friend,” Oliver replied. “This is Asher.”
She scanned Asher with a critical eye.
“You were supposed to call,” Izzy said as she climbed down the staircase. She didn’t wait for an apology before turning to Asher. “Are you all right?” She pressed her palm against his cheek. “What happened?”
“Think we’ve done enough storytelling for the evening,” Oliver replied. “Can we wait until tomorrow?” He nodded in his mom’s direction, trying to remind Izzy not to reveal any of the details of their adventure.
“I set up a sleeping bag in your room and laid some fresh blankets and towels out too,” Izzy said.
As she turned, Asher cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry to darken your doorstep this evening.”
Once they reached the third floor, Oliver grabbed a pair of sweatpants and an old college sweatshirt from his closet. “Here’s something to change into that might be more comfortable.”
Asher sat on the sleeping bag next to Oliver’s bed.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I could use a minute, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Oliver replied. “I don’t blame you. It must have been a hell of a day.”
“If you only knew,” Asher replied.
As Oliver descended the stairs, he heard Asher sobbing and debated whether to go back. He asked for privacy.
Izzy was sitting on the couch with Pan snuggled against her, and both were deeply entranced in a nature documentary.
“A little old for a sleepover, aren’t you?” his mom asked.
Oliver ignored the question but took a seat on the couch next to Izzy.
By the time Oliver climbed the stairs to go to bed, Asher was fast asleep in the sleeping bag Izzy had laid out for him, with Nekko pressed tightly against his torso. Oliver carefully tiptoed around the two and into bed.
He couldn’t comprehend how it must have felt for Asher—someone who’d found his place outside the claustrophobic walls of Simon’s secret chamber—to have everything stripped away again in a single evening.
“And what do you do for a living?” Bev asked Asher, who was in midchew of a blueberry muffin.
“Not sure exactly,” he replied. “Ruby always called it ‘performance art.’”
“Performance art?” Bev wrinkled her nose. “How does that pay the bills?”
“Pays them quite well, actually. We typically have a full house on the weekends. Between the absinthe tastings, psychic readings, and reanimated animal exhibits, we do all right.”
Bev’s mouth hung open as she struggled to come up with a response.
“Don’t grill him, please.” Oliver stood at the kitchen counter, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee.
Oliver wasn’t prepared to explain the mechanics of Asher’s abilities to his mother and still didn’t quite understand them himself. He had coached Asher to leave out the more colorful details about his life so far, although Asher slipped now and then.
“I think I have a right to know who’s spending time with my son,” she shot back defensively.
“Maybe when I was ten,” Oliver replied.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. Shall I tell her how I reanimate the dead?” Asher smiled.
Oliver shook his head.
“You will not make a fool of me,” Bev said, rising from the table. “I’ll be in my room.” She stormed off and thumped up the stairs.
“That went well, don’t you think?” Asher asked, returning to his muffin.
“Maybe fewer details next time,” Oliver replied.
“Are you going to tell her?” he asked.
“‘Yeah, Mom, Asher here can reanimate dead animals, and his blood has magical powers. We’re hiding him here because some evil force is trying to kidnap him. Another splash of coffee?’ Remember, Ruby and Caleb are different. Most people wouldn’t be able to handle the whole Unnatural thing.”
“Fair point. I’m sorry. I’m just so worried about Ruby.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m worried too. I wish there was more we could do to help her.”
Izzy walked into the kitchen and pulled a mug from the cabinet. “Already making friends, are you?” she asked Asher. “Whatever you said to Bev seems to have put her in a mood.”
“Just telling the truth,” he replied.
Oliver was eager to change the subject. “I was thinking of showing Asher the hives today. Thought it would be good if we both got some fresh air.”
Asher clammed up. “Do you think it’s safe for me to go outside? Ruby said not to.”
“I’ll grab t
he beekeeper mask from the garage, just in case. No one comes out this way. Izzy’s house isn’t exactly a popular town destination. A stroll through the hives might help get our minds off of last night.”
Asher looked worried at the prospect of leaving the house.
“It will be fine,” Oliver added. “Just trust me.”
The air was crisp, and the cold weather had calmed the bees. Still, Oliver pulled two masks from the garage and two sets of white gloves, just in case.
Asher refused to step through the back door until the beekeeping gear was on and Oliver had verified the coast was clear.
As they walked toward the hives, Asher swatted at the few bees that buzzed by his mask.
“They can’t hurt you,” Oliver said. “Just let them be, and they’ll leave you alone. Keep swatting at them, and you’ll regret it.”
“Easier said than done. I’ve read about killer bees.”
“These are honeybees. Not exactly the same thing. They’re much less aggressive. Plus, it’s worth risking death for a taste of fresh honey.” He grinned.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had it.”
“What? You’ve never had honey before?”
Asher shook his head.
“Oh. Well, what better time than now?” Oliver pulled the lid off one of the taller hives.
Asher backed away. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to taste a little honey.”
“You can just take it like that, can you?”
“They don’t mind. The bees are docile.”
Oliver grabbed the corner of one of the hive frames and pulled it out, careful not to squish any bees.
A year ago, the hives had terrified him. His mind worked in worst-case scenarios, and he envisioned himself bursting through the back door covered in bees. Now he knew this was an improbable fear, and a year of Izzy’s hand-holding around the hives—sometimes literally—had slowly but surely built his confidence.
Oliver lightly brushed a few bees away from the comb and pulled a small pocketknife from his pants pocket. He flipped the small blade out and poked it through one of the honey cells before gingerly replacing the frame in the box.
“Here,” he said, handing the knife to Asher.
Asher looked at the amber goo with suspicion.
“Taste it,” Oliver said.
Asher stuck the knife under his mask and brought it to his lips.
“Not bad for something that comes from bee spit, is it?”
Asher quickly pulled the knife from his mouth.
“I thought you were an avid reader. Read nothing about bees?”
“No, not honeybees, but you’re right—it’s not bad.”
Oliver replaced the cap to the hive.
“Will the bees survive the winter?” Asher asked.
“We’ll wrap the hives to keep them warm. This winter is supposed to be brutal, but they’ll be fine if the hives are prepared correctly.”
Oliver noticed Asher looking out at the forest in the distance. “What do you see?” he asked.
Asher rubbed the gold chain around his neck as he looked toward Briarwood in the distance. “Smoke,” he replied.
Chapter Nine
The night of The Horseman’s music fundraiser arrived. Izzy and Oliver helped with setup earlier in the day, assembling and decorating a large makeshift stage next to the bar.
Anna stopped by after closing the bakery for the evening. She had shed her floured clothing, let her hair down from its tight ponytail, and even dabbed blush on her cheeks. “I’m going down to the pub to have a drink before the music starts. Anybody want to join?”
Izzy popped her head out from the kitchen doorway. “Who are you, and what have you done with Anna?” she asked once she noticed Anna’s unusually primped appearance.
“Thought it would be nice to dress up for a change.”
“I think she looks lovely,” Bev chimed in from behind her paperback.
“Thanks, Bev,” Anna replied. “So what do you say? Who’s in?”
“I’ll be in the studio, my dear.” Izzy carried a cardboard box toward the staircase. “Have to strike while the inspirational iron is hot.”
“You mean you’re not going at all?”
“I paid my dues this morning. Now, it’s time to paint!”
“Oliver, what about you?” She had a look of desperation in her eyes.
“Sounds great,” he replied. Just like Asher, Oliver was nervously awaiting word from Ruby, and he was eager for a temporary reprieve from the stress of the agonizing unknown. The Briarwood smoke added another element of worry. Although Oliver couldn’t see it, Asher had described a billowing plume that swirled above the hidden town.
“You should take Asher with you,” Bev added. She must have thought he was some kind of hermit since he never left the house.
Oliver hated the thought of leaving Asher locked away in the house for another evening, but he never seemed to mind being left alone with a stack of books. He couldn’t risk Asher meeting the townsfolk.
“What about you, Mom?” Oliver asked.
Bev seemed surprised. “Oh no, I couldn’t. I’m not really a pub person, and I’m just getting to the good part of my novel.”
“I have a feeling your novel will be here when you get back. Live a little.”
Bev hesitated for a moment. “Okay.”
Oliver was surprised by her answer. “Really?”
“I could use some fresh air. Been cooped up in this house for too long.”
Anna turned toward him, her back facing Bev. “Wow,” she mouthed.
Bev set her book down on the table.
While she went upstairs to change, Anna sat on the couch next to Oliver. “Things seem to be going well. Can’t believe she’s coming with us.”
“She’s lightened up,” he replied. “We’ve got enough on our hands, with Asher’s situation as it is, so I’m glad we’ve been able to make up.”
“Speaking of, have you heard anything from Ruby?”
“Not a word. I’m sure she’s all right—or at least I hope—but I’d sleep better if we heard from her.” He looked down at his lap.
“You don’t suppose we could try to find your mom a nice Christchurch beau, do you?” Anna did her best to lighten the mood.
“You might even find someone for yourself,” he replied.
“Not exactly surrounded by eligible bachelors around here,” she said.
“What about Tim McDonald? He seems nice.”
“Tim McDonald used to lick the back of the bus seats in elementary school.”
“So he’s probably in need of a girlfriend, then,” Oliver replied.
“Where is Asher?” she asked.
“Upstairs reading, I think. He can always help Izzy with her toe paintings if he gets bored.”
Anna giggled.
“I’m serious. She’s made a whole series.”
Since he arrived, Asher had been making his way through Izzy’s library, reading anything and everything he could get his hands on. He was already three quarters of the way through 1984, which he’d started that morning.
Bev returned from her bedroom, purse tucked under her arm and ready to go. “Shall we?”
Oliver changed out of his pajamas as he mentally prepared himself for the night out at the pub with his mom. Fortunately, they’d be surrounded by a bar full of other people and loud pub music.
After he changed clothes, Oliver met Anna and Bev downstairs, and they took the dirt road to The Horseman. The owners of the pub had fully decked it out in Halloween decorations, including cobwebs strewn over the windows and a large scarecrow posted in the center of the courtyard.
Although the show wasn’t to start for another hour, the place was packed by the time they arrived. They squeezed by a large group of smokers who’d congregated around the entryway, trying to absorb the radiant heat from inside while they puffed.
Large carved jack-o'-lanterns sat on either end of the large wooden bar,
and mummy wrappings hung from the top liquor shelf.
“Oliver, be a dear and order a glass of sauvignon blanc or something dry if they don’t have it. No way I’ll be able to squeeze through to the bar without being trampled. I’ll find us a table.” Bev strode off toward a vacant high-top table in the back corner of the room.
Oliver gave Anna a side-eye. “Are you too dainty to order your own drink too? Happy to bring you something.”
Anna laughed. “Be nice to her. I’m very capable of ordering my own drink, thank you.” She shoved her way through the crowd of minglers and up to the bar, leaving Oliver to follow in her wake.
“A stout, a lager, sauvignon blanc, and three shots, please,” she said to the bartender, pointing at a bottle of local whiskey on the shelf.
“Planning on being carried out?” Oliver asked.
“A shot for me, you, and Bev,” she said over her shoulder.
“No way we’re getting Mom to do a shot.” Oliver pulled out his wallet, but Anna resisted.
“This one’s on me,” she replied.
Anna handed Oliver a shot, and they clinked glasses and downed them before returning to their table.
“Your face is red,” Bev said to Oliver. “You feeling all right?”
Anna giggled. “It’s just a little warm in here,” she lied.
Oliver put the shot glass and the glass of wine on the table and slid them over to his mom.
“Are you nuts?” she asked.
“Remember, we’re living a little tonight, right?”
Bev lifted the shot glass and sniffed, snarling at the nose-burning odor.
“Do it,” Oliver said.
Bev took a sip from the glass and choked the whiskey down.
The shot made small talk with his mother significantly easier. He even found it slightly pleasant. Whenever they’d wander onto an awkward topic, Anna would jump in to course correct.
The mayor served as the MC for the evening and had even borrowed a sequined suit for the occasion.
A hat was passed around the bar as the first group took the stage. Martin had coaxed Harry, whose wife was the first casualty of the last year’s attacks, into playing guitar while Martin sang a few traditional Irish tunes. Although Martin was typically conservative in looks and demeanor, he came alive onstage. He strolled across the room and serenaded Madeline, whose cheeks were so red with embarrassment they nearly matched her cabernet.