"She's right here, nagging," Shrinkman said, nodding to the left. That would have put her in my ornamental Japanese shrubbery, but I didn't point that out.
"Honey, are you sure?" I asked. All right, my sympathy and my Southern roots had just reappeared. Go ahead; call me an idiot.
"She's here," Shrinkman insisted.
I turned my head and looked up at Garegar, who gave me a human-influenced shrug. I turned back to Shrinkman. "All right, honey, what's your name? Shane gets upset if I allow strangers into my home."
"Shane's the one who invited me for coffee yesterday?"
"Yes. That was Shane. What's your name?"
"Melford—Melford Mitchell," he said. Well, I was really feeling sorry for him, now. With a name like Melford, he had to be scarred for life. That was half his problem, right there.
"So, uh, Doctor Mitchell, then," I said. I couldn't bring myself to say Melford. He nodded enthusiastically. "Doctor Mitchell, please come in and have some tea." He walked through the door and I was about to close it when the police cruiser drove up. "Oh lord," I muttered to myself when the two officers from yesterday's visit to the emergency room climbed out of the car. Doctor Mitchell was now peering over my shoulder at my newly arrived guests, but it wasn't over, yet. A Cadillac Limo pulled in right behind the cruiser and the Mayor, his driver and his bodyguard got out.
I gazed helplessly at Garegar; he was now the only one in the room with whom I could be honest. My life had gone from calm to complicated in the time it takes rabbits to reproduce. Garegar shrugged again. Sighing heavily and plastering a smile on my face, I turned to greet my new guests.
We ended up at the island in the kitchen; I served glasses of iced tea and cookies that I'd shaken out of boxes and onto plates. Invited guests got homemade. You show up unexpected, you get boxed. That's just the way it works.
"Now," I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. I mean, really, the Mayor was in mourning. What do you do about that? Sam, whom I was hoping had found his way over, had come in with his father and was hovering. I knew that look he wore—guilt. Now that the deed was done and he was seeing how much suffering had actually occurred as a result, well, there you go.
Everybody seemed to be waiting for the Mayor to speak; he was the ranking official in my kitchen right then. He appeared to be having trouble gathering his thoughts. "I heard you talked to Sam," he said, choking up on the words.
Oh, I felt sympathy for him, all right. I couldn't even imagine what place I'd be in if Steve Jr. was dead. He was in special ops in the military, which meant his safety was a constant worry for me. "Yes, I talked to Sam yesterday," I managed to say to the Mayor. "I think he loves you." Sam looked up at my words.
"I do love you, Dad," Sam said. He was trying to put his arms around his father, but it wasn't working out very well. The embrace went right through his father's body. I fought back nausea at the sight.
"He's here, now," I told the Mayor gently. "He says that he does love you." The Mayor broke down, then. What do you do when the Mayor of your city is in tears at your kitchen island? I didn't know. His bodyguard and driver were right there, so I didn't think I could just go over there and give him a hug or anything.
I was thinking that maybe he should have brought along a more demonstrative employee when Shane let himself in the back door. He took one look at the crowd in the kitchen and gave me a lifted eyebrow that said we might be about to have words. Thankfully, Doctor Mitchell went to comfort the Mayor.
"What the hell is going on here?" Shane muttered while nodding to the two police officers, the bodyguard and driver. The Mayor now had his head buried against Melford's shoulder and Melford was awkwardly patting the Mayor's back. Yeah, I know. I called him Melford.
Garegar leaned against the refrigerator, taking in the scene before him with a great deal of interest. I stood next to Shane, who waited impatiently for me to tell him why there were six strangers in my house. I ignored him and his accusatory stare. The Mayor had slackened off so Melford handed him a tissue—the man had a packet of them tucked away somewhere. Hey, maybe he'd been a boy scout. You never know.
The Mayor looked up at me, now, wiped his eyes with the tissue and said "Thank you for the information, Mrs. Francis. What you told the detectives here really helped us out. At least we can get the assistance we need for Kristen. I had no idea Libby's brother would have ever," he let the sentence drop. I nodded my head in understanding. He rose from his seat, shook my hand and thanked me for the tea and cookies. He and his entourage left shortly afterward, which meant that Melford and the two officers were still there.
"Uh, Mrs. Francis," one of the officers began, "We were wondering if you wouldn't mind, oh, every once in a while, coming to visit a crime scene or something to oh, you know, help out a little?" He seemed uncomfortable asking the question. I was uncomfortable that he asked.
Shane and I both stiffened. I didn't want to have anything to do with that. Yeah, I might be able to help, but I already had more than enough to take up my time, and what if those poor souls wanted a message delivered in the middle of all that? They found me often enough as it was, either to escort them across or deliver a message for them.
I was already shaking my head; I wasn't about to volunteer for that. No way. That officer, though, he had sad eyes. Big, sad, bloodhound eyes. I sighed. "All right, but only three times a year. You got that? Three trips to a crime scene, and you'd better not let this out to anybody else, you hear me? Otherwise, the deal's off."
"Yes, Mrs. Francis," both men nodded and did their best to get the hell out of my house before I changed my mind. Shane stared at me as if I'd lost my mind (which in all probability, I had). I followed the officers to the door like a good Southern hostess, waved at them as they climbed into their cruiser and backed out of the driveway. Five down, one to go. I squared my shoulders and hobbled back to the kitchen, where Shane and Melford waited. Garegar was still there, as was Sam.
"Conner Louella," Shane had fists on his hips when I came in, and Melford attempted to make himself smaller; he knew the rant was about to descend. I had no idea why somebody in so much need of therapy himself had chosen a career in psychiatry.
"Shane, just wait a minute," I turned to Melford. "Melford," I said, "If you don't like what you're doing, go do something else. Your mother is long gone, she's not here, darlin'. You get to do what you want from now on."
Melford gaped at me as if I'd lost my mind, and in his profession, that definitely wasn't a compliment. "She's really not here?" He asked after a few minutes.
"Honey, I haven't seen anybody with you since I first laid eyes on you. So, if you think there's somebody there, well, there's not. Maybe you ought to go over to Buford and see somebody there, since you probably don't want anybody in Atlanta knowin'."
"I know somebody in Savannah," he said, thinking hard.
"Good enough," I held my hands out in acceptance. Melford slipped off his barstool and actually smiled at me. Shane, Garegar, Sam and I followed him to the front door and watched him slide onto the driver's seat in his Mercedes. Hey, he might dislike his job, but it apparently paid well. "Now," I said, looking at the small group that was left, "only two more things to do. Come out, mama bear."
I put the command into my voice this time, and Melford's mother didn't have a choice but to appear. Some older ghosts can hide their appearance from me, at least for a while. But once I know they're there, they can't disobey me. It was one of the perks of what I could do.
She had her hair swept up in what I imagined was a heavily hair-sprayed coif, and the severity of it transferred to her face and stance. "What do you want?" She tried to get her bluff in on me, just as she'd done with her son. She had no idea what I could do. None.
"Oh, no you don't," I told her. "You and I are gonna take a little trip. You're gonna leave that boy alone. He's in his forties, for Pete's sake," I said. "He gets to make his mind up from now on without you nagging in his ear."
Shane knew what was
coming, so we ushered Mom Mitchell into the sitting room nearby where I could lie down and go into my trance. Garegar and Sam followed along behind, curious about what I was going to do. Settling on the sofa, I went into my trance (Shane knows to watch over me because my heartbeat and breathing slow down so much I appear dead when I do this), then allowed my spirit to leave my body. Mom Mitchell was quite surprised when my spirit stood next to hers. I took her by the hand, which she now could feel, and together we found that place that whisked us right to the gate.
The gates are never in the same place twice, or if they are, they look different. Sometimes there are fields of flowers when we arrive. Or an ocean with surf piling up on a sandy beach. I've seen forests, mountains, valleys and rivers. Those are the good ones—the nice gates. The not so good ones, well, the best of those are a rocky barren. This one had outcroppings of jagged black rocks, obsidian-like and sharp as knives. The gate was past that, and I glared an accusation at Mom Mitchell. "Somebody was a bad girl," I informed her.
"I don't want to go in there," she said, backing away.
"But you are going in there," I said. "Go. You should have gone when you had the chance before. I have a feeling that staying behind to torture your child made this worse than it was."
She slashed at me, attempting to claw my face, but her hands passed right through me. "Uh-uh," I told her. "Go now or I'll get forceful, and you don't want that to happen."
That's when she really turned on me, or tried to. That wasn't going to happen. Not to someone like me. I picked her up bodily (I know she was a spirit, but this is harder than it sounds, especially if every fiber of their being is resistant), and threw her like a spear through the open portal. She shrieked when she passed through. The gate closed immediately after, the scream cut off and I dusted off my hands in satisfaction. Then, I straightened my ghostly clothing, got myself back in hand and made the return journey to my waiting body.
* * *
"Thank goodness," Shane sighed when I opened my eyes. He always freaks when I do this, although I've never failed to come back. Garegar and Sam were hovering over Shane's shoulder as I blinked up at all of them.
"Yeah," I said. "Nice to see you guys, too." I sat up on the sofa; I always have a terrible headache after these things—apparently those wasted landscapes are a horror unto themselves. The nicer places, though, I don't hurt anywhere when I come back from those.
"Come on, Conner, let's get you something to eat," Shane pulled me off the sofa and helped me hobble toward the kitchen. My foot was throbbing again. I was thinking about asking for ibuprofen when Garegar decided to make his presence known to Shane; he lifted me and carried me the rest of the way to the kitchen. He was kind enough to fix my headache and my foot while Shane gave him wide-eyed glances and made a cheese sandwich for me.
"How long has he been here?" Shane whispered when Garegar stepped away from me for a few moments.
"Since yesterday," I said in my normal voice. "Don't worry, his kind don't mean any harm."
"He's huge," Shane was still whispering. "How the hell do you know he doesn't mean any harm?"
"He drove me home, yesterday," I said. "Even though he doesn't have a license and didn't know how to drive."
"Those are not stellar qualifications, Conner Louella," Shane had his hands on his hips again.
"Maybe not," I agreed, "but he got me home and didn't break the speed limit once. I'm thinkin' he's mighty fine. Maybe I'll adopt him."
Garegar grinned at my statement. I turned to Sam. "Sam, are you ready to go over, or did you want to stay for a while?"
"Is it all right if I stay for a while, to watch over Sis?" he asked. "She might need some help."
"Good help is always smiled upon," I told him. "I'll be here, I reckon, when you're ready to go."
"I'll find you," he promised. "Happy New Year," he added and disappeared.
Garegar came to me next, and leaned down to kiss my cheek. "I must go now, also," he said. "It has been a greater pleasure than I can describe." He smiled and disappeared as well.
"Just who the hell was he?" Shane demanded.
"Garegar," I replied with a shrug. "He said he was Larentii."
* * *
"Child," Graegar the Wise One said to his son, "When we gave you permission to visit your mother, we had no idea you would choose that portion of her life."
"Father, I wanted to see her before she was brought over—before she became what she is, now. When she became the Guardian, things were made easier. This gave me a glimpse into her life when things were difficult. I learned what a strong person my mother is."
"Yes, your mother has always been that," the Wise One agreed.
"Father, do you think she might have recognized me? She said she wanted to adopt me."
"My son, I cannot say what your mother may or may not know. I have a feeling that she will be demanding to see you for herself before long. We will take you. Bear in mind that the Liaisons have had to go back and wipe the memories from both her mind and Shane's. The journal she kept that held the information was also confiscated and is now in the Larentii archives. Yours are the only memories, now, of your visit there."
"That is such a shame, father. It was more entertaining than I can say."
More Glitter
Faith McKay
Sparks fly out my fingers as I think about lighting his phone on fire. I jump away from the wooden cupboards and snap the rubber band on my wrist. I need to get a hold of myself. If I accidentally burn down the kitchen, they'll definitely think I did it on purpose.
My stomach grumbles. I've waited too long between meals again; I'm not supposed to let myself get hungry. But boy, do I miss the ache of hunger. I go back to the cupboard and pull out a plate and serve myself some food, like I'm supposed to. Like a normal girl would.
My fingers burn with magic. Here I am, craving the pain of hunger, and desperate to rid myself of the pain of unused magic. Life is a cruel joke.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I almost drop the plates as I cringe. Another Facebook notification, no doubt. If Preston doesn't stop with this shit I'll light his bedroom on fire. Or his... no. I can't be thinking about magic. I'm usually really good at being normal, I swear, but as it turns out, being dumped brings out all my worst qualities. Vengeful, anorexic, witch. If my parents had any good words for me they'd probably throw a parade.
I lay my plate on the dining room table and set the silverware neatly next to it, perfectly parallel with the fork on the left. I put down a water glass, and one for milk I just don't think I can bring myself to drink today. That would be a big failure, though, and I've got enough of those. I perch in my chair, my back rigid, and pull my sweater as far down over my hands as I can justify to keep my plumping wrists out of sight. Everyone tells me they can't see it. Sometimes, their politeness makes my fingers burn so badly I gasp. That helps me seem like a person who's got it together, I'm sure.
Now all I have to do is use the silverware to put a bite in my mouth. I imagine floating the fork into my potatoes, skewering a bite, and dancing it with a spoon full of applesauce over my plate. My fork springs into the air before I catch what I'm doing, and I grab it on instinct and slam it down on the table. Though I know I'm home alone, I listen for a good minute, waiting for someone to come and take me away. That'd get me a long night in the blue room if I was back at school. It's been six months since I've slipped up and used magic. The small relief from floating the fork releases a tear from my eye, and I feel like an even bigger idiot than I already do.
I will not become a mess because of a boy, especially that boy. I was going to dump his ass after the new year anyway, I was just waiting through the holidays to be polite. Who dumps someone on New Year's Eve? Preston. I can't believe how Facebook ate that up. He's turned into some god damned hero. Fucking poser. Fucking asshole. Fucking-
The dishes rattle, and so does the china cabinet. Oh my god. What is happening to me?
Dinner. Food. I need to eat. My
hands move off the table, and I force them back to the silverware. With potatoes on the fork, I move it toward my mouth, and my head falls forward in agony. Why does this have to be so hard? I waited too long. It's always harder when I wait this long. Fucking Preston. Fucking Facebook.
My phone buzzes again, and against my better judgement, I push away from the table and pull it out. Anything that isn't staring at my plate. Sure enough, there are Facebook notifications. I clear them out with a furious flick of my finger, and almost miss the new text. Did someone decide they needed to send their starving children pictures directly to me? I almost don't check, but I'm a massochist.
To my utter shock, it's Alyssa. Sending tons of short texts in a row. I roll my eyes. Shouldn't that be considered rude?
Hey baby girl!
Where U @?
Wanna come out?
Kenzie says hurry ur skinny ass up!
U coming or what?
U can't have something better to do.
R U OK????
Did your phone fall in the toilet?
Alyssa's my best friend. You'd think she'd be nicer than to invite me out with Kenzie. What in the world is she doing out with Kenzie? I almost text back, Are you fucking high?, but I delete it. I wish I hadn't looked at my phone, then I wouldn't have had to reply. I can't not say anything now, it would be rude. I text her that I'm fine, just staying in tonight and going to bed early. And, because I don't want to sound like I'm blowing her off, I add that my parents wanted to spend some time together before we head back to school next week. That's a good excuse.
I put the phone away and scoot back to the table. I stab a potato and shove it in my mouth before I have a chance to think about it. I cringe as it goes down, and queue another forkful. I keep going until my plate is cleared, and then I swallow my milk like the damned repentant fool I am.
* * *
The Stroke of Midnight: A Supernatural New Year's Anthology Page 14