by Coralie Moss
Beryl tried again and succeeded in whacking Alderose on the forehead. “Be serious. We could be—”
“Smart Witches, Sassy Stitches.”
“Stitchy, Witchy, and Bitchy.”
“I give up. You two are acting like adolescents.” Beryl whipped off the covers on her way back to our bed. “Shush up. I need my beauty rest.”
Morning came altogether too early, especially considering I was still on west coast time and my sleep had been filled with strand after strand of hazy memory threads. I rolled over, careful not to hog the covers, and thumbed through my phone. The shifters caring for Sitka had sent a picture of my dog with her adorable black nose pressed to one of the windows in the front room of their compound.
Kostya had sent a group text fifteen minutes earlier, letting us know he was downstairs having breakfast.
We cycled through quick showers and a change of clothes. Alderose hung her leather pants in the closet and opted for a more practical pair of jeans. While waiting for Beryl to finish, I opened the curtains to see the sky was still gray. The rain had stopped, leaving yellow and red maple leaves plastered to the sidewalk. Breakfast was mostly silent. I was hungry, but all I could manage was two pieces of toast loaded with thick-cut orange marmalade.
Kostya offered to carry the satchel with the boxes. We paused on the sidewalk in front of the shop, as we had less than twenty-fours ago, and stared. The power of Rémy’s enhanced rain had washed away a layer of grime from the façade, but the brick building, with its peeling trim and unfolding history, still looked sad and empty.
“Everybody ready?” Alderose asked, pulling the ring of keys from her fanny pack as she looked to me and Beryl for affirmation.
“Go for it,” I said, juggling my purse and the cardboard tray loaded with take-out coffees.
“I’d like to reinforce the cloaking spells you laid out yesterday,” Kostya said. “You three don’t need any more of your mother’s clients showing up and demanding their love matches or their refunds.”
Someone’s phone buzzed. Once inside the shop, Kostya set the satchel on the nearest table and reached into his pocket. “It’s my mother,” he said, scanning the text. “She says she completely understands the unfolding situation.”
“How does she feel about her deposits? And did she explain why it is she wants to see you and Laszlo and Ivan married off?”
Kostya laughed. “You have her condolences, not her financial beneficence. And my mother rarely feels the need to explain herself.”
The demon’s joking lightened the mood for a moment, enough for me to feel the contrast when the reality of what needed to happen in the hours ahead began to close in. “How and where do we start?”
“I want to concentrate on Mom’s matchmaking business,” said Beryl. “Clementine, I think you should focus on the investigation with Kostya. Review the story threads in the workroom and see if you can tease out more clues about what happened. Kostya, would you be willing to stay with Clemmie while she’s doing that?”
“Of course.”
“I already started to go through the papers in Mom’s desk,” my sister continued. “We know she wasn’t one for using computers or cell phones, and even though we have a ledger and a bunch of files, there’s got to be more. She must have kept records beyond the initial meeting.”
“Mom loved to see things to completion,” I said. “You remember that, don’t you? How she’d finish our projects if we couldn’t or didn’t want to?”
Beryl nodded vigorously. “We drove her nuts.”
“And she never yelled at us. Not once.” Alderose wiped at her eyes. “Shit. I miss her.”
I knew that if I let myself cry even a little, especially after what I’d seen upstairs, I’d lose hours from the day ahead, and Rémy’s deadline offered no allowance for grieving. “Alderose, what’re you going to do?”
“I’ll stay down here,” she said, straightening up. “I’m fine working by myself and I know not to let anyone else in. I’ll start at the front of the shop and work my way back. Mom stashed a lot of odd crap behind the counter. Who knows where she kept the business records for Needles and Sins.”
“If neither of us finds anything, Rosey, you and I can switch, look with fresh eyes.”
I added, “At this point I say we open those old boxes of mac and cheese. Maybe she hid her records in the noodles.” That got a laugh out of my sisters. I wrestled the filled paper cups out of the tray and handed them around. “Before you start, go open the doors to the cellar and the third floor.”
“What about Mom and Dad’s apartment?” asked Beryl. “I completely forgot about it.”
“Those rooms were thoroughly searched when I was first assigned to this case,” Kostya said. “Though in light of yesterday’s developments, I think the three of you should go through the second floor even though there’s not much there by way of furnishings. Clementine, you might be able to see something relevant.”
I pulled warmth from the tall paper cup into my palms and fingers. “If I’m going to drag up more of those kinds of story threads, then I hope one of you came armed with chocolate.” The three of them paused, cups in hands. “What? No one stashed a chocolate bar? Then I guess we should get going.”
Kostya hefted the satchel with the boxes and ledgers onto his shoulder. We all waited on the landing while Alderose unlocked the door to the cellar and propped it open. Beryl waved her wand and activated a series of wall sconces to light the gloomy stairwell leading below ground. Cool, dank air nudged the back of my body as we fell into formation and mounted the stairs to the third floor.
“I’ve got my phone on me,” Alderose said once the door to the workroom was opened and we’d ascertained no one had been inside overnight. She jogged back down to the ground floor as Beryl marched toward Mom’s desk.
“Kostya, you’re the official investigator. Shouldn’t you be dusting for fingerprints?” I asked, popping my butt onto a table and running my gaze across the back wall. I sipped at the strong brew and waited for the caffeine to kick in. Soon, I would be weaving an invisible lifeline that would anchor me to a semblance of normalcy before I began to open my sight to the story threads.
“Given the array of clients that have come through here, including my mother,” he said, sidling up beside me, “I think we’re more apt to find clues using magical means.” He sipped at his drink, then asked, “Are you ready?”
“I need a few more minutes.”
“How do you want to do this?”
“Give me space to move. Last night brought up a lot of emotions but I’m more prepared now than if I was going in cold.” I finished my coffee and stood, then asked Kostya to remove the long piece of canvas he’d placed over the broken window. While he saw to that, I went to the hat-making area and found a large piece of netting flecked at regular intervals with tiny tufts of black chenille.
Once Kostya finished his task, I began mine. I took a corner of the weightless material in my hand and swept it over my head, slow and deliberate.
Something wasn’t right.
We’d left the door to the stairwell open in order to listen for Alderose—or for anyone coming up from the cellar—but I needed the wall sealed off. Story threads had a habit of drifting away. Or escaping. In the past, I’d run across threads with their own agenda. I called those the Unravelers, and there was at least one in every bunch.
I again cast the netting, picturing myself as a seiner perched on a flat-bottomed boat. Once, twice, three times I circled my arm overhead before releasing the net. It floated to the floor.
Empty.
The fourth time I tossed the netting the air shimmered and stirred, and the fifth time was the charm.
“They’re here,” I said to Kostya. I dropped into the trance-like state that accompanied a good reading of the threads.
Long tendrils of hair I would curl around my fingers and pretend were precious rings.
Velvet ribbons.
Flax, hemp, and lanolin fro
m carding wool.
Textures and smells I associated with my mother. I could picture the way she held her wavy hair away from her face with stray bits of ribbons and yarns, or twisted it into a bun and held in place with a knitting needle.
I drew in a sharp breath, surprise tingling through my arms and chest. These threads were different. This time, I could see my mother as she stepped into the workroom, her back to the stairwell. She had a drop spindle in her hand and a muslin bag of raw wool hanging off her shoulder. Mom spun yarn and paced when she wanted to think. Or to calm herself.
My mother startled when the door to the workroom didn’t close behind her. A customer followed her up the stairs. The spindle clattered as it hit the floorboards and rolled under the nearest table.
I turned my head and searched the floor, following the short trail of yarn to the spindle wedged between the underside of the shelf and the table leg.
Okay. Next.
My mother and the customer argued. The single intruder became three. I couldn’t see where the other two materialized from, only that suddenly there were three beings, standing side by side, a phalanx exuding evil intent.
Mom began to chant. She grabbed at the scissors hanging from a heavy cord around her neck and cut at her dress, cutting and cutting until she had called forth a huge bird with black feathers glossed with evergreen and midnight blue. A raven. Mom circled the raven’s neck with her arms and the bird rose.
The workroom was too small to accommodate its wingspan. The bottom half of my mother’s dress was in tatters. One-Becomes-Three unleashed hidden blades. They crouched, jumped, attempted to catch the bird. Mom bled from cuts on her legs where One-Becomes-Three lashed out.
Broken glass.
Rain.
Blood.
The raven’s claws had punctured her arms, but she was safe. Injured. Bleeding. Safe.
“Kostya, what’s outside that window?”
I rolled my head at the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. The story threads were so fresh and alive in my mind that I thought the story was real. That my mother was being taken from me in front of my eyes and I had to stop One-Becomes-Three.
I screamed. Beryl landed hard on her knees and slapped at my cheeks.
“Sissy,” she said. “Clementine. Let go of the threads. You have to let go of the threads and come back. Do you hear me? It’s time to come back.”
Glass broke. Kostya swore. Beryl’s eyes went wide. I focused on the black of her pupils and waited for the threads to float to the floor.
“I don’t know who it was,” I said, “but there were three of them. Three from one. And a raven. Mom conjured a giant raven and it picked her up and flew her out the window and I couldn’t see what happened next.”
Beryl grabbed my wrists, hauled me up to standing, and guided me to where Kostya balanced on the top rung of the ladder. “Clementine, get on my shoulders,” the demon said, beckoning. “It’s the only way we’re going to be able to see what’s on the other side of the window. Come on, you can do it.”
I was too shaken by what I’d seen to protest. With Beryl’s help, I made it up the ladder to Kostya’s side. The next thing I knew I was perched on his shoulders, wrinkling my nose at the smell of restaurant trash wafting up from the parking area in the back of the building.
“That stink… I need a face mask.”
“Beryl,” Kostya called down, “open my leather bag. You’ll see a box of masks and a box of gloves. Grab a set for each of us.”
“And Beryl, tear two strips off that piece of canvas and hand them to me.” I was alert enough to know I didn’t want to risk getting cut by glass shards. I adjusted the face mask over my nose and mouth then wound a strip of canvas around each hand, got my knees onto Kostya’s shoulders, and peered out once he had a firm hold of my thighs.
“It’s going to take me a minute to find the threads again,” I said. “Don’t let me go, Kostya.”
He grunted. Beryl seconded my request. I shed my fear of heights and invited the last snippets of whatever happened that day to reveal themselves.
Threads coming up from the ground sped toward me.
Fast.
A rib cracked.
Fear and pain.
The raven—uninjured but frantic—beat at the air with its wings.
Mom lost a shoe. Kept her keys. Swallowed the raven. Unlocked the door to the back of the building and fled down the stairs to the cellar, to the portal, and—
“She made it out of here alive.” I gripped one side of the window frame, leaned forward, and pointed. Neither Kostya nor Beryl could see the last of threads as they turned into shredded black feathers and floated to the ground.
But I could.
“Kostya, bring her down. Please. She’s seen enough.”
Kostya held tight as he lifted me away from the window. He jumped, letting his knees absorb the impact as we landed on the wood floor. I was quickly sandwiched between him and my sister.
“Mom made it to the portal,” I said, pulling off the mask and forcing myself to breathe through the pain in my ribs. “She made it to the portal and she was alive when she left.”
6
Beryl plugged in the ancient electric heater sitting between the exterior wall and the side of Mom’s desk. “Kostya, make sure she warms up,” she said, tucking a long piece of mohair suiting around my shoulders. “I’m going to dash out and get us snacks and supplies for tea.”
“Cocoa. I’d love some cocoa. With marshmallows.”
My clothes and socks were dry yet I was as chilled on the inside as if I’d spent the morning swimming in one of the nearby rivers. I swiveled the chair until my knees faced the heating element. Bits of lint and dust sparkled and died out as the crimped wires began to glow deep red. Kostya moved to check the casings and panes on the four windows facing the street.
“These all look good,” he said. “No cracks, no leaks. This corner of the room should warm up quickly.”
“Thanks for checking.” I pressed into Mom’s high-backed desk chair. I couldn’t take in everything I had just seen all at once. I had to let it seep in sideways. “My mom conjured a raven, Kostya.”
He shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it behind me. “That’s wild, Clementine.”
I hummed in agreement and wiggled my toes. “What time is it?”
“Nine-oh-five.”
“How many hours do we have until Rémy returns?”
“Just under thirty-five.”
I blew out a breath, grabbed a section of the heavy mohair and folded it in half, and half again, smoothing the wrinkles until I had a lap blanket.
“What can I do?” Kostya asked.
“Go see if Rosey needs your help,” I said. “I’m fine here. Really.”
“You have your phone?”
“Four bars and the battery’s fully charged.” I slipped the device out of my back pocket, waggled it in his direction, and placed it faceup on the desk.
“Mind if I take a look at your neck?”
I tilted my head to the side. “Please do.” I’d caught a glimpse of the serpent when I was toweling dry after my shower. It was smaller, warmer, and much less noticeable. Kostya traced a tight coil behind my ear with the tip of his finger.
“Does it hurt at all?” he asked.
“Nope.”
Kostya gave a brotherly kiss to the top of my head before ruffling my hair. “You’re brave, Clementine Brodeur. All of you are. If it was my mother who’d gone through this, I’d be burning shit to the ground.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Kostya. I’m upset and sad all over again. But if we let ourselves wallow, we won’t be effective, and right now we all need to stay sharp.”
The demon gave me a thumbs-up and strode across the room.
I watched the movements of his muscles under his jeans and snug, long-sleeved Henley and reminded myself we had progressed to the platonic stage of our relationship. I shelved my momentary longing for romant
ic companionship alongside the rolls of muslin stacked behind me and returned to pretending I was my mother and this was just another day in the life of a matchmaker.
Leaning to the side, I withdrew the ledger and receipt folder from the satchel and set them on the desk. Next, I drew out the sliding typewriter support and created an L-shaped work surface. Leaning over again, I hefted the oak box with Rémy’s bundle and note and set it to my right.
The lid opened easily on its hinge. I was ready—and again wished my magical abilities included reading objects using touch.
“Now, where did Mom keep her notes?” I opened the ledger to the page that held the entry for the elemental water mage. His basic information included the date, his age, and notations on various physical attributes, including height, weight, eye color, and hair color. On the line below were abbreviations and acronyms, and on the line below that were his magical attributes. I gave a low whistle as I perused the list of Rémy Ruisseau’s skills.
The water mage wasn’t blustering when he implied he could bring on death and destruction. He could turn water into weapons simply by raising or lowering its temperature. He could get stabby by freezing water into deadly icicles. He could create waterspouts and hurricanes and rising tides. He could drain coastal waterways and inland lakes.
He was based on the east coast, which gave him access to all oceanic and inland waterways from the West Indies and the Greater Antilles, through the North Atlantic and into the Labrador Sea.
That amount of range gave me pause. If Rémy had access to the waterways, he might also have allies in the Magical communities inhabiting those waters. Allies, friends, lovers. Possibly offspring. Definitely enemies, given his nature.
The more I read about Rémy Ruisseau, the more frustrated I became that he was the magical being who had exposed our mother’s secret. Why couldn’t it have been a cuddly shifter, one of the big cats, to cross the threshold to Needles and Sins and give us a spacious timeline?
I pulled a legal pad and a ballpoint pen out of the top drawer and went to jot down my initial thoughts. The pen was out of ink. I tossed it in the trash and tried the one given out by the local charity whose donation box was still sitting on the counter downstairs.