On My Way

by Eve Langlais

  A parasite.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. On the one hand, the house provided. Although, previously, it didn’t require me bleeding out. Then again, it had been in very rough shape last night. That plant and the weird seed at its core had done a number on it. Weakened it. Could be my blood acted as a super vitamin that allowed it to recover more quickly. With all it had given, could I really begrudge it a few pints? It wasn’t as if I could suck the blood back into my body.

  Great. My only home freaked me out. Perhaps I’d feel better by the end of the day.

  To see if I could get answers, I brought the three old grimoires, the name as ominous as their appearance. Leather-bound in varying hues and supposedly passed down the generations. Perhaps I shouldn’t ignore them so much. Could be the answers were inside the pages. I just had to find a way to read them.

  Along with the books, I’d also brought the ring I’d found tucked in Grandma’s dresser. She’d hidden it for some reason, and I wanted to know why. Just like I had to wonder at the symbol drawn on a piece of paper stuffed inside the mattress.

  What did it mean? Could be it meant nothing and I had completely lost all of my remaining marbles. If I told people about what I’d seen, how I’d fought, would they sidle slowly away until they could turn tail and run?

  Trish would believe me, but I wasn’t ready to tell her what happened. Not until I better understood.

  My shop had survived the night. Thank goodness, because I probably would have broken down in the street sobbing if another bad thing happened. I’d fought. I’d won. Give me time to recover.

  I hoped to see Brigda installing the other window, but it was Sunday after all, and she’d said Monday. Not to mention the woman deserved some time off. People shouldn’t work seven days a week, and yet look at me. In the shop again. Although, could I really call it working?

  I put the box I’d brought from home on the counter and unpacked it. Laying the three books side by side, I placed the sheet of paper with its odd symbol just above them. The box with the ring I set to the side. The other items were more of the knick-knack variety. Porcelain figurines of strange creatures embracing even odder shapes. The house just kept giving.

  Which thing should I study first? I had to assume the spell book wouldn’t tell me much about demons. Unless it had a spell to repel them?

  A quick flip to the opening page didn’t show a table of contents. I’d have to go through it page by page until I saw something. Time consuming and something I’d do with a coffee later. The next book was the blank one. I never did find a UV light to shine on it. Would Mr. Peterson have any in stock?

  The last tome with its restrictive band had yet to show me a way to open it without damage. My curiosity could wait, as I was loath to break it even as I was dying to know what was inside.

  My gaze flicked to the sheet of paper and the symbol on it. The style was similar to that found etched in the house. Like the symbols on the now missing box.

  How would I explain that to Darryl? So, by the way, some gargoyles stole your box and whatever was inside.

  I’d have to pay him something for its loss. The question being, how much?

  The ring box beckoned, and I opened it, the ring as strange as I recalled. The stone was dull, the metal tarnished, only rubbing it didn’t bring out a shine. I felt nothing as I held it, which surprised me. I’d have expected something hidden so well to give off a definite vibe. Nada.

  It was just an odd piece of jewelry, but on the off chance it meant something, I took pictures of it and uploaded them to the computer. Every single image search came up empty. I found rings that were similar, but none with the same style. Given it didn’t shine like gold or silver, I could only assume it was junk metal. On the off chance someone might want it, I displayed it in the window and placed an “Inquire” tag alongside it.

  I had no idea how to price it. So, why not see if it drew any interest and I could make a decision from there.

  Returning to the counter, I briefly eyed the entrance to the back. My pottery stuff waited. Had it held up? Could I paint it? If I’d failed, I’d need to dig up more mud. But before that, maybe I’d enroll in some classes. Learn from a pro how to actually do it.

  Probably a better use of my time, and a new goal. Get the shop running well enough that I could hire someone and then take pottery-making lessons.

  The mature thing to do. I really should get to it. I should probably dust the shelves, make sure all the items had identification numbers, and update the catalogue online. Look into shipping options.

  What did I do instead? I flipped through the family book. Blank page after blank page. Not as many as you’d think given the thickness of the parchment. I ran my fingers over the smooth texture. Surely someone had written more than the family name in it. Invisible ink. The kind that only appeared under the right circumstances.

  Before I could question my sanity, I pricked my finger and smeared a page with blood, rubbing the red fluid over the cream-colored page. I stared and waited for letters to appear.

  To my disappointment, I’d done nothing but ruin it. I sighed. So much for that wacky idea.

  Setting the tree book aside, I then reached for the book bound in the strap that wouldn’t open. Since I was already nuts, I rubbed my wound on it. Nothing. Blood didn’t act as a key.

  “Abracadabra! Kazam. Open up. I command you.” I got kind of silly with the book. This was stupid.

  I should study the only book that I could actually read. The one filled with recipes. Or, as Trish and my daughter claimed, spells.

  After last night, I couldn’t scoff. However, I did wonder what potions Grandma had concocted from this book. She’d fed me more than a few and told me to lie to my father about them. He called it quackery.

  But now I had to wonder.

  A flip of the pages and I found my attention caught by some of the titles. Easing the pain of the moon cycle. No more snoring. Fertilizer. Which I quickly scanned and wrinkled my nose, as the number one ingredient was poop.

  So many mundane spells, one after another. Wood Floor Long Shine. Luxurious Hair—which I slid a bookmark into for later.

  My fingers flipped faster. Mouse Free House. Anxiety. Forgetfulness. I spent a second looking at the ingredients. Some of them familiar, especially the vanilla pod. I remembered seeing Grandma dropping one into the drink she made me most often.

  I resumed turning pages, faster and faster, the never-ending book. I saw something and stopped. Had to slide the sheets back to the thing I’d seen.

  The diagram of a circle, just like the one at home. The one that had saved my butt.

  Protection and Defense the title claimed. The instructions for creating it were long. As in probably hours of work. Did I care that it would cut into my shop prep time? Nope.

  My heart raced each time I thought of the demon. I remembered those eyes that night I took Grisou to my shop.

  I wanted a circle. I painted it onto the floor, working off the picture in the book, skipping a few of the dumber steps. Walk widdershins thirteen times with your eyes closed. Seriously?

  I just needed to recreate the image, which wasn’t easy to do on planks. The circle itself needed a bit of finagling to get the lines perfect. I ended up planting a nail in the floor and tying a string to it. On the farthest end, I attached a marker and then proceeded to walk counterclockwise, drawing on the floor, creating an oversized orb. Once I’d used the wood burning tool—courtesy once more of Mr. Peterson’s hardware store—and etched the outline of my circle, I worked on the symbols—and no, I did not burn a black candle before each one. I didn’t entirely believe in what I was doing and, yet, felt compelled to recreate it.

  A circle saved my life in the magical house. Would it have the same power outside the cottage? I kind of wished I’d never have to find out.

  Darryl arrived as I put the finishing touches on it. To his credit he didn’t turn around and walk out. He stayed outside of the drawing and cocked his
head. “Interesting choice of floor art.”

  “I thought having a bit of pretend witchiness might intrigue customers. I’m going to add some of the symbols to the window frame and the crown molding.” I’d paint the gibberish squiggles all over if it kept the weirdness at bay.

  “Playing up on your witch heritage? That’s brave. Used to be a time they’d burn you for displaying pagan symbols.”

  “You recognize them?” I asked, more sharply than I meant to.

  “I had an aunt who dabbled in some occult stuff,” he admitted.

  “Maybe she was friends with my grandma.”

  “Better hope your clients aren’t superstitious.”

  “Speaking of clients, I might have sold two of your things online this morning,” I said in the awkward silence that followed. I’d received a few emails overnight.

  Darryl turned a beaming smile on me. “That’s excellent news. Was one of them the box? I noticed it was gone.”

  The box. Shit. How to explain it had gone missing after a plant infected my house and let in a bunch of monsters?

  “It’s actually not here.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m having it appraised.” Would he buy the lie? Perhaps it wasn’t lost but it was currently misplaced. Could the house have moved it somewhere?

  “You think it’s worth something?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.” Did he see through the falseness of my bright grin?

  “So hey, you want to get together maybe for dinner soon?” he asked, almost stammering. It was freaking adorable.

  “I would love that.” I really would.

  “I know you’re probably super busy with Christmas and all, but maybe we can plan to have it before New Year’s.”

  “It’s a date.”

  And I couldn’t wait.

  Not long after Darryl’s visit, I tucked the books under the counter and left the shop, feeling pretty good about my circle of protection. Maybe I’d finally start getting ahead.

  I arrived home to find Wendy baking sugar-free cookies with walnuts in them. Safe, and no sign of anything wrong with the house. Even the scorch mark on the floor had faded.

  My cat sat curled in the window. He barely managed to open an eye and blink at me before he slept some more.

  “Hey, Mom,” she exclaimed. “How was your night?”

  “Fine.” I wasn’t about to explain what really happened. Only I’d forgotten about the message I left her.

  “Only fine? That sucks. Maybe you can teach him to be better at it.”

  “What? No! Oh dear.” I blushed so bright I’d have given a tomato a run for its money.

  “So who did you have over? Because your message never did say.”

  Only one name came to mind. “Darryl.”

  “Oooh,” she crooned. “How was it?”

  “Nothing happened.” My lying only went so far.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up about your body?”

  “N-o-o?” I couldn’t stop the hesitation.

  Winnie wagged a spatula at me. “If it bothers you that much, get the surgery.”

  “I can’t. I’ve a business to run.”

  “The moment it gets moving, hire someone and do it! You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

  “I am only halfway there,” I protested. “In the prime of my life.”

  “Exactly. There will never be a better time to do it.”

  “How about maybe?”

  “I’m going to keep bugging you until you either get the surgery or accept your body as it is and flaunt it in a bikini.”

  “That will never happen,” I muttered. But in more positive news, I realized the cottage didn’t freak me out. It looked absolutely pristine, and the footstool by my chair was a nice addition.

  I slept soundly that night. No monsters at my window. No demons wanting to eat me. I arrived at my shop on Monday morning to find Brigda hard at work, replacing the last window. She finished by lunchtime.

  That afternoon, I got three customers. Three! And one of them spent over five hundred dollars. It was almost enough to send me into the back for a good cry.

  In total, in one day, I’d pulled in over eight hundred dollars in the store and another four hundred online. Some of it I’d owe to Darryl. We’d agreed on a thirty percent commission. But the stuff I sold that came from my house? Pure profit.

  I closed right around six. With a town our size, people weren’t out and about much in the evenings. In the more populated areas, stores stayed open later for those holiday shoppers. Maybe in time, I’d be popular enough for it to be worth my while, too.

  For now, I locked the door, pleased with my first official day, and stood for a moment admiring the windowfront. The glass had been repaired and the frame patched and repainted. Brigda had even fixed my sign, nailing metal versions of the letters on the marquee. It would make it easier to fix if someone vandalized it. If it happened again. After all, I’d carved the symbols from my house onto the store. This morning, as an added layer, I’d pricked my finger to smear my new circle with blood, too. Crazy, I know, and yet I felt compelled.

  Was this how it started for the truly insane? Convincing themselves that magic was real and it required a bodily liquid sacrifice? What was next? Would I start luring strangers to the store and drain them to power my supposed magic?

  Please don’t let me be nuts.

  A heavy breath sighed from me as I stared up at the night sky. I puffed little clouds, the heat of my breath clashing with the cold of the night. A natural kind of freezing.

  My gloves were in my bag, but rather than dig for them, I shoved my hands into my pockets and sauntered down the street to the diner. I could have taken my car. Should have. Now I’d have to walk back, and yet I didn’t truly regret my choice. A light snow fell, soft, delicate, the kind that tickled the skin before slowly melting.

  It didn’t even come out to a drop when I let one melt on my tongue. Yes, I was sticking my tongue out, in public, catching snowflakes. It felt great.

  I’d never realized as I aged just how many rules I put upon myself. Strict rules on how I should behave, what I was allowed to do. A grown woman didn’t eat snow. She wore loose slacks or jeans, hip-length sweaters, sturdy bras, and full bottom, high-waisted panties.

  In my younger days, I used to wear bikini style. When did I go from being a girl who used to blithely sport thongs under my skirt to wearing shorts over my underpants to prevent sweaty thighs and embarrassing flashes of too much ass cheek?

  Once upon a time, I’d sworn I’d never be that mom who turned to track pants, never be that wife who eschewed makeup or got lazy with her hair. I’d been so young and naïve then. Never imagined how having kids would fill up the parts of my day that used to be for myself. I’d slowly let go, and it wasn’t a bad thing, not at first.

  Martin made a few comments, but he was one to talk. He never made any attempt to curb that morning fart that made me want to die. Try getting frisky after that. I usually rushed to the washroom for a pee and a prayer that the smell would be gone when I went back.

  Even had I found the time to keep myself looking put together, over time my body began to betray me. It started with gaining weight. Used to be I could eat anything I wanted. I’d go to the double arches and get a meal with an extra cheeseburger. No big deal.

  The ability to process that food disappeared after my first pregnancy.

  Then it took me over two decades of weight gain before I learned I couldn’t keep eating the way I used to in my youth. I had to relearn what I could stuff into my face that wouldn’t cause me to bloat and crave more. Had to change myself.

  You know what they say about habits being hard to break? Food. Food was one of the most difficult. But I was on my way to being healthier. I finally felt good again. And it wasn’t just about the food and the number on the scale. I was beginning to realize that youth wasn’t the only reason for the energy I used to have; the state of my mind counted for a lot, too.
>
  I am not old.

  Not yet. Not ever.

  I lifted my face to the falling snow. I spun around, arms wide, and for the first time in a long time didn’t care if anyone saw me. Let them watch me dancing in the snow. I didn’t care what they thought. It felt good to me.

  When I stopped twirling, I stood flushed and smiling.

  Which, of course, was when the car driving slowly down the road tried to mount the curb and hit me.

  19

  A deer had nothing on me. I froze rather than dive out of the way.

  I held out my hands, as if to shield myself, even knowing it wouldn’t help. Fragile flesh and bone against a ton of metal?

  Goodbye, world.

  Hands outstretched, I expected to die, only, just before impact, my palms suddenly burned with cold. The bright lights of the car speared me as it got within inches. There was a screech as if it rubbed along an invisible wall before thumping off the sidewalk and racing down the road. I watched the red taillights, which soon disappeared. Trembling. Heart pounding. Clenching my fists, which still tingled.

  What had just happened?

  What did I do?

  “Oh, my gawd!” Marjorie screeched as she raced out of the diner. “Naomi, are you okay?”

  Was I? Good question. Body parts all intact? Check. No blood? Very good. Dry undies? Sweet.

  The mental checklist allowed me to finally recover some of my wits. I blinked before turning to look at Marjorie. Astonishingly enough, my voice didn’t quiver as I replied, “I’m fine. The car didn’t hit me.” By some miracle—magic—I’d been spared.

  The reminder of the burning cold on my hands had me glancing at them. They felt normal. Not even a tingle. But if I stared hard enough, I would swear I saw the thin outline of symbols on my palms. Wait, had someone carved them into me? Wouldn’t I remember that?

  Before I could decide if those lines were real or not, Marjorie wrapped me in a hug that smelled of coconut lotion and deep fried food. My tummy rumbled. A normal reaction to stress for me. I craved a greasy cheeseburger and a fizzy pop something fierce all of a sudden.