Crooked Crossroads (Child Lost Series Book 1)

by Trinity Crow

  I got dressed and then slipped out the door, feeling like a burglar in reverse. The moon was on its way down and no more than half full, giving no real light. The dew damp stairs made me move carefully, but the pounding of my heart had nothing to do with the danger of slipping. I hopped on my bike, preparing to ride like a bat out of hell down the oak lined Lichen Lane. But something inside me argued against this approach, the whole "fear feeding fear" idea I had learned from horror movies and books. It was probably stupid to take advice from Hollywood, but it was the only frame of reference I had for what was happening in my life. So I eased down the driveway past the hedge, going slow in the damp sand. The air was still, not the faintest movement disturbing the long, trailing streams of moss. I kept a steady pace, my eyes peeled for any kind of heebie jeebie business, but the whole of the plantation was quiet and still before me.

  When I hit the tarmac of the main drive, something flowed over me. Not fear, more like awareness. The sound of the tires swishing on the pavement was loud. Too loud. I looked back, feeling before seeing the wind in my wake, shaking the branches of the oaks and waving streamers of moss like a child with a toy flag. The wind was not a natural thing. It leaped from tree to tree, across the road and back, a crazed monkey following me through the treetops. It swirled with my passage, marking my presence as surely as a great neon arrow in the sky pointing at me.

  So much for a peaceful haunted apartment, I thought.

  Again I had to fight the urge to speed up and try to out race whatever this was. I wasn't scared exactly, more like completely weirded out, and that fact was what kept me from pedaling madly away. That guy banging on my door had brought chills and sweat and left terror leaking out of my pores. This was more like fireflies. They're freaky cool, but you really hope they just do their thing and don't touch you with their nasty bug parts. The minute I thought that..the wind touched me.

  It was a playful breeze that tugged my hair and then smoothed it back into place. It sped the wheel of my bike down the drive making my legs churn wildly. My thoughts swirled as wild as the wind, and I was beginning to panic over why I wasn't afraid.

  Was something controlling my thoughts?

  This last idea pulled the panic cord and I blew. I added my own power to the bike's speed and raced for the end of the drive. Somewhere ahead must lay safety. The wind responded by gaining in strength. It tugged the ponytail holder from my head and I felt fingers combing though it, teasing it out behind me. The pedals sped up and my feet slipped from the straps. Instead of slowing, I went faster, skimming the drive like a sailboat caught in a gust. My heart was doing it's level best to escape my chest and make it to the end of the drive before the rest of my body and this possessed bike. I couldn't tell if it wanted to hurt me or help me, but I was sure the adrenaline was going to kill me. I reached the edge of the drive and with every bit of strength, I grasped the handle bars and yanked the bike left, towards town. Instantly, the wind died down and the bike slipped, skidding from the loss of speed. I yanked the bike to a halt before I tipped over and kissed the ground, then stopped and stared at what lay behind me. From where I stood, not so much as a blade of grass rustled, but behind me the oaks of the plantation roared and popped like an incoming storm. Leaves and moss fluttered to the ground, only to be caught up and twirled in crazy arcs across the road. I caught my breath in astonishment, staring at the contrast. The line was clearly marked. The winds were confined to the boundaries of Ruelliquen and I had no idea what that meant. A tightness across my head made me lift my hand. My fingers skimmed a pattern of tight braids woven across my skull. I shuddered and raced towards town, not looking back. Dead guys were one thing, but I was not a girly-girl and a makeover from the spirit world was crossing the line.

  ***

  I rode to the bakery in a daze, trying to figure out what the wind could mean, but intelligent thoughts were beyond me. It had swarmed over my hair and skin like it was greeting me, tasting me. I shivered at that one and pedaled hurriedly through LaPierre's sleeping streets, cats be damned, to the warmth and safety of the bakery. The gush of relief I felt when I wheeled into the delivery yard wasn't something I was proud of and I hurried to let myself in the back door, into the normal world. The lights and warmth hit me and I felt better immediately

  With a sigh, I grabbed a cup of coffee, thankful I had skipped brewing my own in that dark, empty apartment and then got busy. Because busy was good. Busy kept my mind off things I couldn't fix right now. I had a social worker call it compartmentalization. I could hear her crappy, little preacher voice telling me it was a good survival tool, but not healthy in the long term. Only, foster kids don't think long term. There is now and there is out of here.

  I went through my list on autopilot, drinking way too much coffee. Mr. D gave me a few worried looks, probably thinking I was upset about the furniture. I managed a brief smile which probably just disturbed him more. Whipping through the breads, I racked them and settled into the familar pace of filling and cutting pastry sheets for our famous danishes. The day Mr. D promoted me to pastry was bittersweet. I was proud that I was doing a good job for them. I wanted to learn more, but I was reluctant to leave my bread station. I was happy just turning out loaf after loaf of beautiful golden bread. Bread was something I understand. It could be hearty or delicate, but it was food. It was basic, it filled you up. Pastry was luxury. It smacked of something I had only peeped in windows at.

  In the beginning, I resented pastry and those who could waste money on such things. I just decided to learn pastry as quick as I could, so I could go back to my bread. Then one Saturday, about a week after I started pastry, Mrs. DiMaggio asked me to go on a delivery with her. We loaded up the back of the small van with boxes of day old stuff, then she drove me to the senior center. That place was like a teen hangout, but for old people. Only instead of video games, there were dominoes and cards, and instead of smelling like pizza and pot, there was Lysol and Ben Gay.

  We unloaded our boxes on a card table near a coffee machine and this old guy getting a cup of coffee asked if there was any peach Danish. I opened a box and fished one out with a napkin. He thanked me with a weird little bow and bit into that Danish like it was the last one on earth.

  Watching his face as he bit into that pastry, it was like I knew him. It was the look of somebody who’s been hungry before, somebody who is grateful every time they have food in their hands because they know what it is like to have empty pockets and an empty belly. The old dude had on crappy clothes, all worn out, but clean as hell and his hands were all knobbed up and spotted. He curled them carefully around the napkin as if they hurt to bend.

  “Delicious!” he said, bowing again to me, “Absolutely delicious.”

  Other old people drifted up, some asking for a loaf of bread to take home. I watched all these old people come up and tell us what a treat this was and to thank us. They could not stop thanking us… for our old pastries and bread. After that, I learned to make pastries with a lot more care, especially the peach.

  ***

  All too soon, I finished my list, and grabbng a clean apron, I hurried up front to help Mrs. D. The shop was busy and busy rocked. It meant customers didn't have time to be picky, they were too worried someone else would snatch up the last of whatever it was they had their heart set on. And busy should have meant I had no time to think, but for some reason, peace of mind was not available at the moment. Maybe it had something to do with dead people and freaky supernatural signs, or maybe I was losing it altogether. I hustled back and forth from display case to register trying for focus on muffins, not murder.

  The bakery door dinged, announcing another customer. It was just Mr. Lesterman wanting “a loaf of pumpernickel, a loaf of rye” in that dry, gravelly voice he had. Mr. Lesterman worked for the city or something and was always in these gray or brown suits with the world's ugliest ties. Today's number had weird little wooden wheels, brown against a mustard background. I secretly always thought of him as Eeyore. But a
s weird as he might be, I liked his predictability. The day he wore jeans and ordered a jalapeno cheddar loaf would be a signal the world was ending. I bagged his loaves of bread and rang them up, waving him past the customers still picking out stuff. One perk of being a regular, you got in and out a lot faster.

  “Congratulations on your new place.” Mr. Lesterman grated out, passing me his money.

  I kept my hands busy, making change, but my head was at full stop. He had never, in two years, made personal comments. I had a moment of freak out at the thought of Mr. Lesterman making a move on me since I was no longer jail-bait. A quick look killed that thought.

  “You should consider renter's insurance,” he said and handed me a card.

  Releived, I nodded, keeping my snort to a mental one. Insurance for books, clothes, and a clearly deceased dog? Who wasn't even technically mine, when you thought about it. Yeah, so sure that was gonna happen.

  I took the card and handed him his change and the bag. He nodded back and plodded out the door.

  The weirdness of that moment was killing me. I looked down at the card. Shermian T. Lesterman. I snorted out loud. Shermian! I was going to be thinking that every time I saw him now. I looked at the card again, wondering why I had thought he worked for the city. Maybe it was the suits. I was too busy to wonder for long, the flow of customers was steady right up until we locked the door at one.

  I biked home after work. Home. It was a new and really great feeling to think of the place I went at night as home, even with the drama. As I pedaled to a stop in my yard, I stared in surprise. Someone had painted the doors and window trim in blue. It looked pretty good against the chalky grey of the stucco walls. The blue was a shade between medium and light, a cool greeny blue. The color had been brushed thinly over the white of the door and it's frame and gave a watercolor effect, and I realized I liked it a lot.

  The metal stairs were burning hot in the sun and I was careful not to touch the rail as I ran upstairs. A quick raid of the fridge produced a cappicola and salami sandwich. Maybe the D's were rubbing off a little too much on me, but Italian food is kind of irresistible. It wasn't like I was adopting them or anything.

  I usually read when I eat, but I had left my book in the bedroom. I tried to ignore the fact that I didn't want to venture down the hall, but it was a no go. This was going to suck, living in a house that was mostly off limits for mental sanity (or was it scaredy cat?) reasons. But something had to give and the hell if it would be me. I ate quickly and then decided to let Corky out for awhile. I was about to take matters in to my own hands and needed the moral support.

  Once downstairs, I unlocked the newly blue door, swung it open wide, and whistled for Corky. There was an answering woof behind me and I spun around in surprise. Corky was sitting in the shadow of the big oak. He woofed again and ran towards me. I stood still, the hairs on my neck rising as he ran up to me. His usually solid body was milky and transparent in the sunlight. I could see a pattern of leaves and twigs laying on the grass just beneath the white washed air of his body. The thud of his weight against my legs erased my shock.

  Well, he hadn't lost any mass.

  “Good God.” I grunted, “Get off me!” I tried to push him back, but he was too excited and his tail lashed painfully across my shins. “Dammit, Corky, get back!”

  He cocked his head and I got the distinct feeling he was listening…but not to me. He stepped back a pace and I walked over to the oak, heading for the deep shade. That see through stuff was kind of creepy.

  The branches of the live oak swept downward making a perfect bowl of shade and seclusion. Several of the limbs rested directly on the ground. Others curved in low arcs, perfect living benches. I picked a branch, made a stab at brushing off the pollen, then gave up and sat down.

  “C'mere, you!” I called, and he bounded over. This time, I was ready for the onslaught. I wrestled him down, our feet scuffing up the dark rich earth beneath the tree. Corky contented himself with only half his body draped across my lap. I rewarded his restraint with a head pat and then rubbed his silky ears. He angled his head until my fingers sank into the spot where his ears met his neck.

  “Right here?” I asked, amused. I ruffled my finger through his fur, scratching the spot, and Corky groaned in pleasure. The noise made me laugh. “What a goof you are!”

  He whined a little and I switched to the other ear and continued scratching. He buried his head in my lap.

  “Hey,” I said softly, “I never did thank you for last night.” I smiled down at the big head. “It's nice to have back up.”

  His ears pricked up and then he lifted his head. My smile faltered as his lips pulled back and he began to snarl. My hand moved slowly away as my thoughts froze and I forgot to breathe. Corky began to bark, loud and deep. I sat as still as I could, hoping not to trigger an attack, but he lunged…then jumped past me, over the branch. He ran to the main trunk of the tree. Rearing up, he planted his feet and barked a string of sharp, angry sounds. From the oak came an answering volley of noise. I craned my neck and caught sight of the demon squirrel dancing furiously on a fern covered limb, his tail bushed out in a flag of defiance. The squirrel flung an acorn at Corky and he went nuts, snarling and clawing at the tree. My breath whooshed out and I laughed at the two of them. The squirrel retaliated with another acorn, this time at me. I gasped as it whacked me on the head.

  “Hey, you little creep!” I stood up on my branch and threw a stick. It fell embarrassingly short. The furry little bastard made a noise that was distinctly rude and ran further up in the tree.

  “Screw you.” I was full of brilliant comebacks today. “C'mere, Corky.”

  He ignored me. He was out for blood and fur. I pulled his ball from my pocket and bounced it against the ground. It hit the leaves and sticks littering the grass and veered off away from my reach. I hopped up to go retrieve it, but Corky beat me to it. Bellowing happily, he bounded after it, squirrel forgotten.

  So I threw and he fetched, and as I waited for him to bring it back, it hit me that the squirrel could see ghosts. I mean, it seemed to have no trouble seeing Cork, unless it was a ghost.

  Okay, just no. I was getting way too involved in this crap. Ghost squirrels? What the hell?

  It was weird, thinking about stuff like ghost squirrels and spirits, but I did have an actual ghost dog, and it was opening my eyes to a whole world that I had purposely stayed blind to, like the Crooked Crossroads shop. If there were people with answers to all this supernatural mumbo jumbo, that's where they would be. On my bike trips around town, I’d passed that house a million times. It was the kind of place I would have laughed at before, a shop for weirdos and flakes. I had heard a few kids at school talking about the witchcraft shop, though it was actually a house, not a store building. I had just ignored it out of sheer, well, ignorance. But to give me credit, most of the rational world was on my side. Now with my life sharing space with all things supernatural, I was thinking it might be time to do a little information gathering. I wasn't too sure what I'd find. It would probably turn out to be a really bad idea, only I was no stranger to those. Sighing, I walked over and tossed the ball into Corky's room. When he followed it in, I shut the door and locked it.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I called, “ but I'll be back later.” I watched through the window as he settled down to chew his ball, before fading away. I resisted a shiver. This crap took some getting used to. I grabbed my bike, already dusted yellow from pollen, and prepared to slog my way back into town.

  Chapter 9

  The Crooked Crossroads Cooperative was this perky buttercup yellow with white trim and looked anything but spooky or witchy. The place was three stories of architectural overkill, Victorian, Georgian, even Colonial, complete with turret and widows walk. The shop sat just past our tiny downtown, but the color and sheer size made it noticeable enough. I didn't know if they were too poor to paint or had no idea about marketing, but the cupcake effect was overwhelmingly perky. To the side of the big fron
t porch, a bow window used for display hung with a permanent backdrop of gauzy purple material shot through with silver swirls and crescents. I had only ever seen arty stuff in the window, not any sort of tarot cards, crystal balls or dried chicken feet, which again, couldn't do much to draw business. The discreet sign swinging from a wooden post advertised readings, occult supplies, and gifts, but what made me brake to a sudden halt was the new window display. A mossy oak branch draped with a vine dangling fat green pea pods filled the space, and at the base of the branch sat a statue of a white dog. He wasn’t a bully like Corky. He was a little dog with a short tail and pointy ears, but the coincidence was unsettling. Unwelcome actually, if I was going to put a name to it.

  I stood there one foot on a pedal, one on the ground and considered this complication in my life. The life I had lived wasn’t full of fairy tales, signs and omens, and all of this was coming just a little too thick and fast to suit me. I had a weird moment of conspiracy theory and then took a deep breath. As a logical person, I would handle this logically.

  Yeah, because a ghost dog is perfectly logical, my mind taunted.

  I chained my bike to the rack in front of the store. Taking a deep breath filled with pre-regret, I turned the brass door handle and stepped in. Bells chimed silver notes above my head as I stopped in surprise. The inside was dim, but neither the over-the-top spook atmosphere or Glinda the Good Witch flowery crap I had expected. Instead, it was kind of cozy, a tad shabby, but nothing screamed hocus pocus or satanic mayhem. There were two walls covered in books, which got my approval right away. One wall was glossy new titles, arranged flat so you could see the covers, and the second was shelved like you would see in a house. These weren’t new books but were somehow more interesting than the shiny ones. The floor was wood, wide boards worn smooth with age and use, a faded carpet runner of red with gold scrolls leading to the back. The rug ended at a glass display case holding necklaces, bracelets, rings and other trinkety stuff. Behind the counter against the wall, long shelves were filled with bottles, carved wooden boxes, and vases of dried stuff. It looked and smelled herbal, not eye of newt or tongue of Girl Scout. The far side had shelves with neat rows of colored candles and what looked like woo woo supplies. There was also a table displaying all kinds of, well, crap. Take it from a thrift store regular, it was crap, toys, knickknacks, some fabrics, teacups, old hats, and way too many mirrors for my comfort. Hate to be in here after dark. Above all, the place wasn't funked out with incense and bristling with goth paraphernalia. Frankly, I wanted to look at the books. As I shut the door behind me, the bells chimed again and I looked up to see them.