by Dani Lamia
But where had it gone? Phoebe asked herself as she placed another covered tray of food on the table. She recalled cranking the little elevator cable for so long that she was sure she had sent her doll to China. That’s what the grown-ups had always told her when she was little. You could dig your way to China, they said.
So she had sent her doll down the shaft. Then, becoming confused over the ceaseless descent and wanting her doll back, young Phoebe had cranked the wheel the other way. She’d pulled and pulled, this direction a little harder for her short arms to reach. Until, finally, the dumbwaiter had come up.
Her doll was there, but it was very warm, hot in fact, around the fringes of its little red dress. It was at that moment that Aunt Hester had found her and punished her for her game, locking her in the living room to either do homework or watch cartoons. A week later, she had done it again and gotten the same result. A hot doll and confinement to the locked living room.
Now, with the last dish placed on the table, Phoebe decided to make herself more presentable. She went to the second floor and made her way to the bathroom nearest her corner room and washed up. Her clothes and sundries were still in the car, but she was famished, and the mantle clock in the dining room had said it was nine minutes to 7:00.
When she returned, she could hear the murmuring of conversation. As she entered, it was clear she was horribly underdressed in her t-shirt and sweatpants. She halted at the doorway, nearly overcome with the urge to run.
Great-Aunt Hester was not the first to notice her approach. A woman that she guessed was close to her age, with curly, perfectly drawn-up and piled hair of black cherry had spotted her and looked into her eyes with an expression Phoebe could not define, though it made her nervous. Her skin was a lovely shade of mocha, and her eyes a hypnotizing coppery brown, giving her away as a Latina, possibly something even more exotic. The woman wore an elaborate gold chain around her neck, anchored to her heavy chest by a goat’s-head charm. Her dress’s high collar was lined with emerald green, while the rest of the dress was black.
Once Phoebe could break the redhead’s warm gaze, she noticed that everyone was wearing black. Hester, seated at the head of the table to Phoebe’s left, had remained in the same outfit from earlier.
An older blonde-haired woman sat on the opposite end from Hester. Phoebe guessed from the graying wisps at her temples and the tiny wrinkles that accentuated her features that she was perhaps in her late forties. Her eyes were deep blue and as penetrating as the Latina’s, and her straight, prominent nose and cheekbones made her stunningly attractive.
Ned Onenspek sat next to the redhead and had changed into a black suit with a black ascot upon a deep gray dress shirt. There was no trace of paint on him, and his hair, while still almost comically large, was perfectly arranged. His eyes appeared dazed and sleepy. His eyelids blinked slowly, and he seemed to have barely noticed Phoebe’s arrival.
Alec Holgrave was not present, though there was a place set for him.
Hester gave Phoebe a head-to-toe glance and rolled her eyes. Saying nothing, she gestured to the seat on her right. Phoebe sat with her hands in her lap. The redhead was right across from her and eyeing her so intently, she felt her cheeks redden.
“Phoebe,” Hester began in a regal tone, “this is Dzolali Alameda.” She gestured to the curvaceous redhead with her hand palm up.
Phoebe was obligated to look up and meet the stare. “Hello,” she said and nodded with a smile.
“Hello indeed,” Dzolali answered smoothly. She smiled, revealing brilliantly white teeth. Her canines appeared to be on the large side, hinting at fangs.
Hester continued, shifting her hand to indicate the woman on Phoebe’s far right. “This is Glendarah D’Amitri.”
Phoebe acknowledged D’Amitri in the same manner.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Phoebe,” Glendarah said in a wonderfully husky voice that sent goosebumps sprouting along Phoebe’s spine.
“You met Mr. Onenspek earlier,” Hester said.
“Huh?” muttered Ned. He had been looking into the chandelier above the table. His eyebrows bounced as he concentrated on Phoebe’s face. “Ah.”
“I did, yes,” Phoebe said.
“I suppose Mr. Holgrave is on his way,” Hester said with mild annoyance. “Alva, if you would.”
The cook approached the table and removed the lids to every dish, setting them on a side table. Hester bid Phoebe to serve herself, so she did, following the examples set by the other table guests.
A few moments later, Alva served the wine, a hearty-looking red.
“Pardon my tardiness, everyone,” Holgrave greeted them and took his seat next to Phoebe.
Phoebe brightened when she saw him. Holgrave had changed into a magnificent-looking black suit, featuring a gray hounds tooth vest, a black and silver tie, and a white dress shirt.
Dzolali and Glendarah greeted him brightly as well. Phoebe was relieved to have the attention shifted from her, but slightly unnerved when she noticed Dzolali and Glendarah stared at him with the same intensity. Phoebe shivered when she realized that she felt a mixture of relief and jealousy.
Phoebe ate in silence as the others shared small talk. Hester was silent as well, though Phoebe noticed her give Glendarah many long, knowing gazes, which were returned in kind. Dzolali, too, exchanged such looks with Hester and Glendarah. Phoebe couldn’t help but think that it looked like the three women were communicating without talking.
Don’t be stupid, Phoebe, she thought to herself and smiled.
“So, Phoebe,” Glendarah piped up. Her voice was strong and clear, with commanding enunciation. “Hester mentioned that you were let go from your last place of employment.”
“Um, yes,” Phoebe admitted, blushing.
“And you just . . . left?” Glendarah added, blinking her deep blue eyes.
Phoebe was aware that all eyes were on her and her blush deepened, warming not only her face, but her entire body. “Well, they did have to call security,” she said brightly.
“Then you were okay with it?” Dzolali put in.
“No, of course not. What should I have done?”
“Did you not try to influence your superior to alter the decision?” asked Glendarah. Her tone was of surprise dipped lightly in disgust.
Hester chimed in, cutting off the question Phoebe was formulating. “I’m afraid my grandniece has not embraced her true heritage, my dear Glendarah.”
Dzolali gasped. Ned gazed into Phoebe’s face, blinking as if fighting sleep. Holgrave’s eyes bounced from one person to the other, an eyebrow arched.
“Um, if it helps, I got mad and knocked over her coffee,” said Phoebe.
The admission drew silent, confused stares from all but Holgrave.
“Bravo,” he said, smiling.
Several long, uncomfortable seconds passed before Dzolali posed a question. “Did you at least put a hex on her?”
Phoebe chuckled, a sound cut short by a sudden change in Dzolali’s expression. Her smile left her lips and, while she didn’t exactly frown, the flattening of her brow portrayed a perturbance. Nervously, Phoebe turned to Glendarah and saw the same.
Holy shit. These bitches are serious. She tried to think of something to say to dig herself out of the conversational hole, but her mind went blank.
“Well, then,” piped up Hester. “Mr. Holgrave, I do believe you were telling us something of an archeological site?”
Holgrave blinked and turned to Hester Pyncheon. “Ah, yes. I was considering a drive up to Michilimackinac sometime soon. There are digs going on there quite often and I’m reading a book about what’s been found. Everything from petroglyphs to Native American and early colonial settlement artifacts.”
“How interesting,” said Hester.
Phoebe had turned to look at Holgrave as he spoke, though only for s
omething to concentrate on other than the obviously disappointed Dzolali and Glendarah.
“It’s really quite fascinating,” he added, then noticed Phoebe’s stare. “I could lend you the book when I’m finished.”
“Sure,” she replied automatically.
Ned suddenly jerked and burst into laughter, his strange dark eyes bouncing from one person to the next. His cheeks turned pink and he grinned madly before turning his attention back to the wineglass in his grip. Dzolali brought her hands above the table and put on a grin, looking like a woman that had just gotten away with a prank. Hester and Glendarah appeared not to have noticed.
Did she just . . . grope the weird guy? Phoebe thought and glanced at Holgrave, who met it and arched an eyebrow. Phoebe let a giggle slip, while Holgrave suppressed his own.
A few minutes later, when Alva poured more wine for all, Dzolali addressed Phoebe. “I just adore your hair.”
Phoebe blushed. “Oh! Thank you. Yours is beautiful,” she replied.
“Very kind,” Dzolali said. “What did you do, dear?”
“Well—”
Hester interrupted. “She was a reporter for a newspaper.”
“Fascinating!” Dzolali complimented. “So sorry it ended badly.”
Annoyed at the interruption, Phoebe hid it well. “Thank you. I’m writing a book.”
“Wonderful,” commented Glendarah.
“Just a little fiction series. Maybe it’ll blossom into something else.”
“I’m sure it will,” Dzolali encouraged.
The meal ended shortly after eight, and Phoebe remained with Alva when the others left. She helped clear the dishes, piling them into the dumbwaiter. She couldn’t get the whole dinner scene out of her head. The archaic manner of dress, as beautiful as it was, seemed to have an ulterior purpose.
Alva left for home just before ten that night, leaving Phoebe to finish washing and drying the dishes. Once finished, she dried her hands and stretched. Her feet hurt, her back ached, and her fingers looked like pale raisins.
Leaving the kitchen with the intent of heading to bed, Phoebe heard something from the front of the house and walked toward it. The lights were on, though due to their low wattage the place maintained a dim, dreary aura. When she was near the living room, she realized that the sounds were coming from the old television.
Phoebe looked inside the living room and found Holgrave sitting on the yellow couch. When she filled the doorway, he looked up.
“Oh, hello,” he greeted her, brightening.
“Hi,” she returned and went in. She sat on the recliner and found an episode of Perry Mason was playing.
“How was your dishwashing?” Holgrave asked, not knowing what else to say.
Phoebe shrugged, not looking away from the little screen. “All done,” she said distractedly. “Just how the hell is this thing working?”
Holgrave chuckled. “Damned if I know. Bloody thing’s ancient.”
“I know, but it shouldn’t be getting a signal.”
“It shouldn’t,” he agreed, unconcerned.
“No one broadcasts analog signals anymore,” she added, not sure he was getting her meaning.
“Very true.”
“But yet . . .” she trailed and pointed to the screen. She spread her arms, the upturned palms questioning the seemingly impossible.
“I know,” said Holgrave with a grin.
On the screen was Mason, arguing his case in a court, wrapping up the plot with the inevitable witness confessing guilt and exonerating the accused.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“Of course you don’t you’ve just arrived.”
“I mean the TV.”
“Oh, yes.”
She turned to him, slightly annoyed at his nonchalant attitude. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
“It did,” Holgrave conceded. “Then I learned to stop worrying and enjoy it.” He finished with a crooked grin.
Phoebe put a hand to her forehead and sighed. “Whatever.”
“You must be knackered.”
She had seen enough British television to know that meant ‘tired.’ “Yeah. I’m heading up. Good night.” With that, she stood and turned to leave.
“Just a moment,” Holgrave said. He got to his feet, turned off the lamp and the television, and followed. “It is late. I’m turning in as well.”
Phoebe took a step toward the door but stopped abruptly. “Oh, shit!”
“What is it?” Holgrave asked. He had almost run into her and was quite close.
“I forgot to bring in my stuff from the car,” she said.
“Allow me to assist you,” he said and followed her outside.
Phoebe was pleased to find that the raven was no longer on the porch. The cage had been taken from the hook. Ack, that means it’s inside the house. Ew.
They walked to the Chevy, and she popped the trunk. The car’s trunk light had quit working long before her ownership, so Phoebe reached in, feeling for the plastic bags. She held one out to Holgrave, who took it in hand.
“Is this . . . your luggage?” he asked.
She turned to his figure, silhouetted by the yellow-green glow of the porch lights mixed with red from the ‘Psychic’ neon sign. “I’m not exactly a world traveler, you know. I used what I had.”
“Oh, I didn’t intend to be critical. Just an observation.”
“Uh-huh.” She shut the trunk and stood a moment, taking a deep breath. She frowned and tilted her head to one side.
“What is it?”
“I don’t hear any crickets. No birds either.”
“Yes. I’ve noticed the same,” Holgrave said. “It probably has something to do with the dying trees.”
“Yeah, what’s with that?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Some sort of disease, I suppose.”
She trudged toward the house, wanting nothing more than to get her feet out of her sneakers, to change her clothes, and to slip into bed. “Does she ever turn that off?” she asked him, gesturing with her head toward the neon sign as they walked past.
“Not as long as I’ve been here,” he answered.
She opened the screen door, allowing him ahead. “How long is that?”
“This is my second week.”
“How long have you been in the States?” she asked when they got to the stairs.
“Just a couple of months,” Holgrave answered over his shoulder.
They reached the second floor and the door of her room. She opened it, tossed one bag onto the bed, and took the second from Holgrave. “What do you do?”
Holgrave hesitated for the briefest of moments. “I’m an archaeologist. I’m a researcher, thus the book I mentioned at supper. I’m also an amateur photographer.”
“Ah,” she said. “Do I have to call you, like, doctor or something?”
Holgrave chuckled. “Not at all.”
“Cool. Well, thank you for lending a hand,” Phoebe said and backed into the room. Her hand was on the door. “Good night.”
“Good night, Ms. Pyncheon,” he bid and walked away.
Phoebe closed the door, searched through the bag for a change of clothes, and took them to the bathroom up the hall to clean herself up and put them on.
She returned to the room, dumped her laundry on the floor and turned off the light before collapsing onto the noisy but soft bed.
5
Deeds in the Night
Dzolali stood next to the bed, staring down upon the snoring, slumbering Phoebe Pyncheon. She had tugged the blankets up to her neck, enjoying the conflict of cool air slipping under the partly open windows and her own trapped body heat.
“Goddess Aphrodite, I pray to you. Hear me,” Dzolali uttered in a shaky whisper. From a velvet sack, she removed a small glass via
l and beheld it in the faint moonlight. The liquid within glinted metallically as Dzolali tilted the container back and forth.
Dzolali repeated her pleas to Aphrodite as she uncorked her vial and set its powers free upon the sleeping Pyncheon.
***
In the depths of a dream state, Phoebe felt someone get in bed with her, but she was calm. An arm draped over her midsection, and a warm hand caressed her. Her eyes opened and she saw Dzolali’s face turned to hers. Phoebe’s corner bedroom was gone, replaced by a brilliantly lit room of white. The bed was vast and round, and her nostrils filled with the scent of water lily.
Under the powerful gaze of Dzolali’s bronze eyes, Phoebe succumbed to her kiss.
***
Hester and Glendarah prepared the charm bag, adding the hair and fingernails that their client, Darla Carp, had brought for the concoction.
Hester unrolled the pentagram rug and set it down in the middle of the master bedroom’s floor. With a kick of her bare foot, it unrolled.
It was then Dzolali returned to the room.
“Ah, Dzolali,” Hester conceded. “It’s getting close to the witching hour. Let’s proceed. Glendarah, are you ready?”
“I am, High Priestess,” she replied and stepped to the corner of the room. There was kept a brass statue of Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft. Glendarah moved it to border the round rug, and Dzolali placed candles on either side.
“Cast the spell of silence, Dzolali,” Hester commanded.
Dzolali bowed her head and threw a palmful of powder into the air, forming a cloud. A white flash erupted at the center and expanded with a pop.
Hester widened her arms, inviting her sisters to take their places round the circle. She retrieved the picture of Darla Carp’s son-in-law from her dresser and placed it on the altar of Hecate, then stepped to the glass double doors that led to the balcony. She opened them and the night air washed inside, setting the candles’ flames flickering.