Witches of The Wood

by Skylar Finn

  “Because of a man.” I put the lip gloss away. “And his girlfriend. Both of whom are there, both of whom I now work with, apparently.”

  “That’s gruesome.” She watched me blot my lips on a paper towel. “How’d you get stuck in that hole?”

  “I once failed to take the advice of an older, wiser person. It’s haunted me for the last year or so.”

  “That’s dark.” Tamsin hopped off the sink. “What if we brought Peter to the house with us? Fought fire with fire, so to speak.”

  “Peter?” I stared at her. It had honestly never occurred to me to do the same thing to Les that he did to me. That wasn’t how my mind worked. “Peter’s working.”

  “Peter’s dad owns the bar. Or at least he did, anyway. Until he retired. Peter can close whenever he wants to. I mean, there’s nobody here.”

  “What’s his incentive? I mean, why should I say we’re inviting him?”

  Tamsin gave me a withering look. “What’s his incentive? Seriously? You, obviously. I mean, I guess you can tell him there’s a party. If you actually believe he’s not into you enough to go regardless.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to go?”

  “Ask him if he’ll do some press for Margo,” she said. “As a favor to you. Peter just loves to play the knight in shining armor. He thinks he’s Clark Kent. Like a newspaperman, but with super powers? Trust me.”

  It would, at least, make me feel better about how distracted I’d been from my work since arriving in Mount Hazel. I pulled out my phone and texted Bridget. Instead of a picture of her, I had an image of Malibu Barbie attached to her contact info.

  Can you have Margo ready for an interview by seven?

  Her response was immediate. It was also embellished liberally with hearts, stars, and unicorn head emojis. Sure thing, babe!!! Bridget was a woman of many exclamation points.

  We went back to the bar.

  “How was the convention?” asked Peter.

  “Productive,” said Tamsin. She nudged me in the ribs. Peter watched her nudging me, then looked at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Peter,” I said in my butler voice. “Would you by any chance consider interviewing Margo Metal? As a favor to me.”

  “I don’t really cover pop culture,” said Peter. “I mean, not at the same time I’m writing about murder. It could really devalue my story if it appears next to a human interest piece about a pop star emerging from retirement.”

  “Peter,” said Tamsin sweetly. “Didn’t you tell me you write seventy-five percent of the content for the Mount Hazel Gazette? Sometimes under different names, so no one will know they basically have one writer due to budget cutbacks?”

  Peter shot Tamsin a murderous look. “I may have mentioned something to that effect, yeah.”

  “Well, in that case. You can help out Sam, right? She’s family.”

  Peter sighed. “I guess I could consider it. When?”

  “Right now, actually. Assuming you’re not busy.” Tamsin glanced around the empty bar. “Can you bring more wine? I’ve never partied with musicians before.”

  Peter pulled down a bottle of scotch and two bottles of wine from the shelf. He reached under the bar, pulled out a twelve-pack of beer, and plunked it on the bar. “How’s that?”

  I glanced at his inventory. Between Bridget and Les, there might even be a beer left over for each of us.

  “That seems fine,” I said.

  Peter jingled his keys.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

  The first thing I noticed when I walked through the door was the smell of Chinese food. I almost collided with Les, who was leaving the ballroom as we filed into the hall.

  “What happened to the vegan marshmallow…thing?” I asked.

  “It got burnt. We got take-out.” He glanced at Peter. “Who’s this?”

  Les, who was normally even-tempered to the point of apparent sedation, had an edge in his voice I’d never heard before. Tamsin’s expression was gleeful.

  “Les, this is Peter,” I said. “He’s going to interview Margo for the Mount Hazel Gazette. And this is my cousin, Tamsin.”

  Tamsin waved. Peter offered Les his hand to shake, which he ignored.

  “Hello.” He barely glanced at Tamsin. “The Mount Hazel Gazette, huh? What’s their circulation? Like thirty-three?”

  “Actually, the Gazette is one of the oldest-running newspapers in the state of Pennsylvania,” said Peter pleasantly. “I wouldn’t undermine the value of our coverage. Or Sam’s ability to get it.”

  “I wasn’t.” Les looked indignant. He started running a hand through his hair, double-time. “I was merely implying that…” He paused.

  “Yes?” inquired Peter politely.

  “Never mind!” Les whirled around and marched down the hallway. “The food’s on the counter in the kitchen,” he added over his shoulder, without turning around or ceasing his march. At the end of the hall, the kitchen doors swung open and closed behind him.

  “InstaHate!” Tamsin’s smile was broad and wicked. “It’s just as I predicted.”

  Peter followed me closely down the hallway, leaning over to whisper in my ear.

  “Did you really want me to interview your musician? Or did you just want me to make your boyfriend jealous?”

  His breath was hot on my neck and I struggled to sound composed.

  “I figured it was more of an added bonus,” I said, pushing open the kitchen door.

  14

  The Dinner Party

  The sight that greeted me in the kitchen was cause for concern, and that was before we started drinking.

  Bridget was slow dancing with herself to Ferrari Xmas. Margo and Cameron were tearing apart a roast duck with the savagery of twin wolves. And Les was furiously pouring scotch into a tumbler.

  Peter put the bottle of scotch down next to Les, favoring him with a patronizing smile, which Les steadfastly ignored. I went over to the table with Cameron and Margo. Tamsin followed me.

  “Hey, Margo. I brought a journalist with me from the local paper. He’s just going to ask you a few questions about your new work. His name’s Peter. And this is my cousin, Tamsin.”

  “I’m your number one fan,” said Tamsin, smiling sweetly.

  Margo looked at her, eyes glowing. Tamsin looked taken aback.

  “Well, buckle up, Number One, because my new stuff? It’s gonna blow your mind.” She returned to the duck with renewed vigor. I was revolted to see fragments of bone fly out of her mouth and hit the table. I glanced over at Cameron, who was eating with equal fervor.

  “So, are you guys just, like, really…hungry?” ventured Tamsin.

  “We fast for several days at a time in order to keep our heads clear,” said Margo, mouth full. “It’s a creative endeavor. We break our fast on the eve of the third day.”

  Peter opened a beer and sat down across from Margo.

  “So would you say that was a creative choice specific to you?” he asked, sounding only a little dry.

  “People have been fasting for a variety of reasons as long as there have been people, Steven,” said Margo, glowering at him. “I’ve hardly invented the idea of fasting.”

  “It’s Peter, actually,” he said.

  “Who cares? Are we ever going to see each other again? Besides, you look like a Steven to me.” Margo hacked off one of the duck’s legs with a serrated knife. I flinched.

  “Okay then,” said Peter. He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and made a few notes. “So, what can you tell us about the new album, Margo?”

  “Yes,” echoed Les, suddenly appearing at the table. “What can you tell us, Margo?” He sat next to her and staunchly avoided looking at Peter. Next to me, Tamsin shook with silent laughter.

  “It will be the greatest thing I’ve ever done.” Margo laid her knife across the plate. Her mouth was still brimming with duck, but she’d ceased devouring it for the moment. “It might be the greatest thing anyone has ever done.”
>
  “My,” said Peter. “That’s quite a tall order.”

  “What do you know about it?” demanded Les, looking up suddenly. “Can I ask what your qualifications are, by the way?”

  “I did my undergrad at Temple, where I double majored in criminal justice and journalism, graduating magna cum lade, and I got my MA in investigative journalism from Penn,” Peter said smoothly. “How is it that you plan to accomplish this thing that’s never been done?”

  “That’s an excellent question, Steven. How does one do the thing that hasn’t been done?” Margo took a swallow of whatever she was drinking, a clear viscous fluid that looked like jellyfish blood. “It’s a question pop stars have been asking themselves throughout the ages. And I think I may have found the answer.”

  Bridget wandered over to the table and sat down next to Les. Tamsin watched Margo, seemingly riveted. Cameron dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and set it down as he studied Peter thoughtfully through narrowed eyes.

  An eighth guest joined our table, unremarked by anyone, since I was the only one who could see her. Martha Hope floated through the patio doors and hovered at the end of the table behind Margo, watching us. Her eyes met mine. I reached for the bottle of wine.

  “What’s the answer?” asked Peter, his dark eyes fixed on Margo.

  “Reinvention,” said Margo, raising a slim and manicured finger on her tiny hand. “Reanimation. Resurrection.” As she named each item, she ticked them off with a finger until she held up three, then rested her hand on the table. Tamsin’s eyes followed her hand as if watching a magician perform.

  Martha floated around the table and came to a rest next to Bridget, who shivered. Les noticed and put an arm around her. Peter noticed this, and his gaze shifted briefly to Bridget.

  “I like your sweater,” he said. “Is it cashmere?”

  Bridget adjusted the blanket from my bed, which she was still wearing around her shoulders like a cape. “Thanks! It’s Sam’s. Isn’t it to die for? Although I feel like it’s really more of a pashmina, to be honest with you.”

  “It’s lovely.” Peter’s eyes crinkled at the edges. Bridget’s eyes sparkled like the Barbie sea. Les grew redder in the face, even more so than his scotch intake would have ordinarily dictated.

  “Ooooh.” Seated on my other side, Cameron murmured so softly that only I heard him. “Steven’s playing dirty.”

  Peter turned back to Margo. “Would you say this album represents your resurrection?”

  “Yes, Steven. I would.” She took a sip of her jellyfish blood and rested the glass on the table. “I’m thinking of calling the album The Resurrection of Margo Metal, now that you mention it.”

  Tamsin stared at Margo in a way that indicated if they’d both been comic book versions of themselves, Tamsin’s hair would have been standing on end. She took a deep breath and looked down at the table before Margo noticed.

  What’s with you? I thought at her. I didn’t think she’d actually hear me, but I was a little buzzed and did it as a joke.

  She jumped in her seat and looked at me, appalled. Don’t do that! she thought.

  Who is that? asked the ghost of Martha Hope. Tamsin looked wildly around for the source of the sound.

  Cameron was now studying Tamsin curiously, as if concerned for her health. Les’s hand was clamped firmly on Bridget’s shoulder as if glued. She remained oblivious to it through the thick layer of cashmere, delving happily back into her bottle of wine like a hummingbird sipping a flower.

  Margo drained her jellyfish glass. She tapped on it with her knife. It rang out in a sharp report so loud and clear that most of the assembled dinner guests gave a little jump, with the exception of Peter, who remained stock still, gazing at Margo.

  “As a matter of fact, I have a little announcement for those of us gathered here tonight,” said Margo. “This is perfect timing, Steven. Your being here. I just recorded my second single, the closing track on my album, and this seems like a good time to debut it.”

  “Perfect timing,” Peter agreed. “Would you mind if I recorded this?”

  “Please do.” Margo stood up. She was scarcely any taller than she was sitting down. “My newest song will be called Down Below (Where the Darkness in Me Grows). The part after ‘below’ is in parenthesis, Steven. Make sure you get that.”

  Peter made a note in his phone.

  Les shifted uncomfortably. “Are you sure you want to preview this for the press, Margs? I mean, Margo? We only just started working on it this afternoon.”

  “So now I’m the press?” asked Peter, raising an eyebrow. “Thanks, Les. Here I was thinking I was just an untalented hack from the sticks with a circulation of thirty-three.”

  “Are you going to fight?” Cameron asked eagerly.

  “No, they are not,” said Margo. “This moment is not about your masculine egos. It is about us coming together, as women, to evolve with great force. That means you, too.” She glowered down at Bridget, who looked up, startled, and put down her bottle of wine.

  Cameron tapped out a strange rhythm on the edge of his plate. Tamsin’s eyes slid over to him and her body tensed. The rest of the table began to unconsciously sway. Except for Peter, who narrowed his eyes at Margo, never taking them off her face. Even I was swaying and made a conscious effort to stop.

  “Down below, the darkness in me grows,” chanted Margo. Cameron’s spoon scraped across the plate. Scrape, tap, tap. Scrape, tap. Everyone’s eyes fell shut, even Peter’s, with the exception of only myself and Tamsin. She met my gaze, wide-eyed, with what looked like fear.

  “One, two, three. Darkness in you, darkness in me. One, two, three.” She tapped her fingers against the table: one, two, three. “Darkness in you. Darkness in—”

  STOP! I could hear Tamsin’s frantic thought thunder through my brain. She knocked over a bottle of wine.

  There was a resounding crash as the chandelier fell from the ceiling. The red blend spread across the white tablecloth like a bloodstain beneath the broken glass.

  Everyone opened their eyes and regarded the smashed crystal mess on the table, puzzled, as if awakened from a trance. Margo’s eyes fixed on Tamsin.

  Peter glanced up at the ceiling, nonplussed. “Seems like your bolts are a little bit loose there,” he said.

  “I can fix this,” said Les defensively, getting up from the table and disappearing down the hallway.

  “My wine,” sighed Bridget. “What a total drag.”

  “Wow,” said Tamsin in a strangled voice. “That was amazing, Margo. I’m so sorry I messed it up, I just got so excited.”

  Margo gave a little shrug, refilling her glass from the unlabeled crystal decanter in front of her, untouched by the chandelier. “Don’t worry, little one. It’s not your fault. Assuming you can’t make objects fall without touching them.” She smiled at Tamsin over her glass, her eyes half shut. There was something menacing about her smile.

  “I think I got everything I needed,” said Peter.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I said. “Would you mind giving Tamsin a ride home?” I placed a protective hand on her shoulder.

  “Sure thing,” said Peter, getting to his feet. “Thank you for the lovely dinner. Falling chandeliers aside.”

  “Bye, Steven!” said Bridget with a cheery wave.

  “Farewell, Steven.” Cameron rested back in his seat with his eyes closed. His glass was empty and he looked mildly sedated.

  “Thank you ever so much for coming, Steven,” said Margo. She raised her glass to Peter. “It’s so good to know I’m being heard.”

  Outside, I opened the door of Peter’s Rambler for Tamsin, who locked eyes with me.

  Can you hear me? We need to talk, she thought.

  Can it wait? I asked, thinking of the mess of broken glass, drunken clients, angry exes, and curious ghosts who awaited me inside.

  NO, she thought, and I sighed. Based on whatever weirdness had been happening at dinner, I should have known better. There was probably some
thing magical involved. Magically annoying.

  Fine, I thought.

  “I probably shouldn’t have brought all that booze,” Peter was saying. “It’s a sure recipe for disaster. Not exactly professional.”

  “I lose more and more of my professionalism every day,” I said. “I don’t think I can work with a pop star again.”

  “Seems inadvisable,” he agreed.

  “Actually, Peter, do you mind if I ride along?” I said. “I’d like to stop somewhere and get some aspirin for my future self, and I had a little bit too much to drink to drive. If you don’t mind dropping me off back here after, that is.”

  Peter gave a little shrug. “Sure. It’s not like I have anywhere to be tomorrow. Besides my three jobs.”

  “Thanks!” I pretended no sarcasm whatsoever had been contained in his response and opened the back door of the truck. Tamsin immediately pushed past me and sat in the backseat, leaving the front seat vacant.

  “You can ride shotgun,” she said innocently, buckling herself in.

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to realize she was playing Cupid.

  Peter pulled out of the driveway and I tried to come up with something to say. Tamsin beat me to it.

  “Can I see the video you took of Margo, Peter?” she asked.

  “For your fan site?” he said sarcastically.

  “Something like that,” she said, reaching for his phone.

  He shrugged and handed it to her. “Knock yourself out. It’s not as comedic as I would have thought.”

  “Why did you automatically assume it would be?” I asked. “Or are you one of those guys who thinks that pop music is irrevocably shallow, and that you with your superior taste for 70s jam bands are vastly above it?”

  “I think commercialism and Auto Tune destroyed the music industry, along with illegal downloading,” he said. “If a woman wants to have a successful singing career and reinvent herself over the course of it, I support that endeavor wholeheartedly.”