by E M Lacey
“My procession is nearing the top of the stairs. I smell it then.”
Bridgette’s mouth opened to question her, but she shut it. She watched Alba’s face tell the story. Her nose wrinkled at a scent, but a tiny dot of saliva collected at the edges of her mouth.
“It’s blood!”
Alba’s fingers dig into her jean-clad legs. Her accent shifts. It thickens, matures.
“Why do I smell blood?” Her head twists around, searching, but her gaze is locked on the memory.
“We crest. At the top of the stairs is a dais.” Alba straightens. “We’re at the top of a pyramid.” Her chest rises and falls as she scents the air around her. “The blood is strong.” Her nose wrinkles again. “There’s another smell.” She draws back. “Someone released their bowels! There’s something else underneath.” She cocks her head, taking a few audible sniffs. “Something died here.”
“I move closer. I don’t want to, but I know it has to be done. So, I make my way to the dais.” Alba’s head does a slow rotation. “There are three dead.” Her eyes swell with revelation. The bodies have been disemboweled.” She looks down. “There are large bowls. One has intestines. Another holds the hearts. The third is empty.”
“There are two men, dressed in full robes. One is in black and red, and the other has on a turquoise robe with pictures of jaguars and a black sun. Each has a fancy headdress on. Their faces are painted with red markings.”
“Blood?” Alba shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”
“The man in the jaguar robe picks up the bowl and brings it over to the dais closest to me and my people. I ignore the approaching priest; instead, I focus on the dais. There’s a girl on it. She’s a teenager. She looks Indian. Not Middle Eastern or Native American but Mexican Indian.” Alba runs her hands through her kinky, sandy Afro then presses it flat with both hands. “The girl’s hair is dark like the man in my procession, and it pours off the dais like dark water.”
She lets her hair go and draws up, as if she’s trying to skirt something dangerous. “The girl should be scared, but...” Alba’s lip curls and her brow furrows. “She looks like she’s at peace.” She reaches out her right hand, pressing down. “She wants to be there.” She swings her head back and forth, searching. “She is not bound.”
The memory breaks. Alba fixes an unsettled gaze on her. “Why would she be happy to die?”
Bridgette’s fingers, red around the joints, move the pen rapidly across the pages of Alba’s journal.
Bridgette’s mouth opened and closed several times before she shut it completely. She had no answer. It was a different time. Based on the description Alba gave her, it was during the time when the Aztecs reigned, so she gave her the only truth she had.
“It was an honor.”
Alba’s frown deepened.
“Before science and reason, the gods were everything to the people. Men lived and breathed the will of the gods.” Bridgette set both pen and journal down. Laying her hands on the girl’s shoulders, she continued. “The gods were bloodthirsty, and their worshipers felt blessed to bleed for them.”
Alba gagged. “That’s so gross.”
“It’s gross because you are in present day. How did you feel when you were in the memory?”
Alba shuddered. “I was pleased.”
“Human sacrifice is barbaric.” Bridgette shrugged. “I can’t really say people won’t do it today, but it would happen with little to no fanfare.”
“Why am I remembering sacrifices, dais, and altars? I’m just a kid.”
“Because you may be older than you look.”
Alba spun around, facing the glass; she examined herself. She touched her face and ran her hands across her skin, pausing to press her chest.
“I’m a kid,” she said with a smidgen of confidence. “I don’t have a grown-up’s body.”
Bridgette leaned forward and tapped Alba’s temple. “But your mind is old.”
“Why am I a kid if my brain’s old?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was your body’s way of protecting you from those who hunted you.”
Alba shrugged. “I don’t know if I was hunted. I don’t know anything.”
“I’m certain the vampire isn’t the only creature whose sought you out.”
Alba clearly didn’t want to think about it.
Taking Alba’s cue, Bridgette relented. “Okay, that’s it for today.” She got up and went to her desk.
Alba’s relief was written all over her face, prompting a grin from Bridgette.
Bridgette settled in her chair and began reviewing her desk calendar, her finger sliding across the assortment of squares. She stopped over one and tapped her finger before looking up at Alba.
“I would like Alex to bring you over to my place.”
“Where do you live?”
“Keeper’s Cove.”
“Keeper’s Cove. What’s that?”
“It’s my home.” Bridgette stopped scanning the calendar, found a pen, and scribbled something in one of the squares before looking up.
“Where is it?” Alba looked out the window, scanning the many two-story shops with the second stories doubling as apartments. “Do you live close by?”
Bridgette chuckled. “No. Keeper’s Cove is a bit of a drive, and it’s not on Google Maps or Waze.”
“Is it hidden by magic?”
“Yep.”
“But what’s there that can help?”
“Cora.”
“Is she like Alexa?”
Bridgette laughed. “Cora’s not Google or Amazon.”
“Well, what is she?”
“Wise.” Bridgette wiggled her fingers and made her voice sound a bit suspenseful.
“So, she’s really old?”
Bridgette shrugged. “Let’s say she’s been around for a while and leave it at that.”
“But...”
Bridgette dropped a finger across Alba’s lips and shook her head. “Don’t worry about the details, if anyone can figure out what’s going on with you, she can.”
Alba closed her mouth and Bridgette removed her finger. Alba untangled herself and turned around, so she faced Bridgette. “I’ll talk to my mom.”
Bridgette stepped back. “I know your mom doesn’t trust me.”
“She’s just scared.” Alba looked off into a corner. “So much freaky stuff has happened. She’s on edge.”
“Totally normal reaction to the freaky things.”
Alba patted Bridgette’s arm. “Don’t worry. She wants me to get better. You know, stop the nightmares and stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the trip to Keeper’s Cove will do that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. I’ll get her to bring me.”
“Thank you.” Bridgette pulled Alba into a hug. They both broke apart when Bridgette’s phone vibrated in her skirt pocket. Pulling it out, she checked the caller: Abigail Biggs.
Alba wrinkled her brow.
“Don’t worry,” Bridgette mouthed to her as she turned away and answered the call.
“Abigail. How can I help?”
Bridgette frowned at the near monotone drone of Abigail’s recalling of what she experienced inside the office. Monotone for Abigail meant full-on panic. Composure. Rules. All coping mechanisms that helped her function. As Abigail described the sensation and scent she’d picked up in the hall, Bridgette dashed over to her desk and pulled out the large bottom drawer meant for files, but she kept her bag there. She pulled it out and placed it on the desk. Mentally, she began constructing a list of herbs and possible crystals she would need to cleanse the scene. She paused, recalling a missing component of their conversation.
“Abigail, have you called your uncle and his business partner?”
The young woman sputtered on the other end then answered. “No. I haven’t called them. I figured magic required someone magical.”
“I agree, but whatever is going on at that office also has legal ram
ifications. Your uncle and Mr. Myer will take care of that.”
“Right. Right. Right.”
Bridgette could hear the tapping of her shoes against the floor. “Abigail.” When the tapping and chanting continued, Bridgette tried again, only this time she made her voice a bit firmer. “Abigail Rowena Biggs! Get yourself together and contact your uncle. They will deal with the office and determine if anyone else needs to be contacted.”
“Yes.” The word whooshed from her mouth. “Yes. My uncle and Mr. Myer will know what to do. Right.” The tapping slowed to a stop. “Right!” Abigail was a bit more confident in her response. “I’ll reach out to them, and they will know what to do.” There was a brief pause. “You’re still coming, right?” Abigail whispered into the phone.
Bridgette smiled. “Of course, I am the firm’s witch on retainer.”
Abigail laughed nervously and thanked Bridgette, then hung up.
Bridgette looked up from what she was doing to find Alba standing at the other side of her desk, looking very worried.
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure about that either.”
Alba swallowed, licked her lips then spoke. “Can I help?”
“No, my dear. This is way out of your league.”
“But I helped Alex.”
“And that was instinct. You protected Alex because you love her.” Bridgette set her bag on the desk and walked around it. She stood in front of Alba. “Listen, whatever is going on is probably dangerous.”
Bridgette bent low enough, so they were face to face. “We’re trying to get your mom to agree to let you come with me to Keeper’s Cove.”
“Right.”
“I don’t think she would appreciate me putting you in harm’s way.”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
Bridgette dropped her phone in the bag and did a quick inventory of the contents, before pulling the drawstring tight and tying it into a knot. Tossing the bag on her shoulder, she used her free hand to cup Alba’s chin.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to do what I can to help you figure out the source of your dreams; until then, stay close to your mom. If you have questions about the dreams, I’m just a phone call or chat window away.”
Bridgette released her chin, then walked around her to the door. She grabbed the knob, then looked back, not noticing the shadow underneath move away. “Two things: Don’t forget to ask your mom about the trip.” Her gaze shifted from Alba to her hand-painted backpack, which was tucked in one of the student cubes. It was a vibrant blue bag decorated with suns, hummingbirds, and an abstract reimagining of Alex’s Quetzalcoatl. She jerked her chin toward the bag. “And don’t forget your precious.”
Alba went over and collected her bag. There was an odd protrusion in it, but Bridgette didn’t comment on it. Alba had a habit of collecting things she thought were pretty, with the goal of later adding it to some artistic piece.
Alba thrust her bag in the air, holding it by the straps like a trophy. “See, I have my bag.” Then she shrugged it on. “There,” she grinned, “I won’t forget it.”
Alba trotted toward the door Bridgette held open, but her pace slowed. Her pensive gaze met Bridgette’s. “What if she doesn’t want to come to your house?”
Bridgette chuckled. “Keeper’s Cove isn’t a house. It’s a special place, like a small magical town.”
“Like Oz?”
Bridgette made a rude noise. “Keeper’s Cove isn’t over any rainbows, but it’s full of history and knowledge.” She ran her hand down the seam of the door. “She needs to come, Alba. She has to learn to be okay with magic and all the weirdness that comes with it. Keeper’s Cove is a good place for her to start.”
Alba nodded, then joined Bridgette at the door.
“I have to stop by the urban garden to grab a few herbs, then I’m off.” Bridgette stepped into the empty hall. The scent of well-spiced meat filled the air. She checked her watch. It was only 10:15 a.m. and lunch was already being cooked. Large windows facing the street gave them a great view of the neighborhood. The glass was thick. Bulletproof by design.
“Where’s your mom?”
“She’s teaching a class. She should be out soon.”
“Good, go wait for her.”
Alba raced down the hall in the direction of the art studio, while Bridgette went the opposite direction, toward the garden that was two buildings away on the north end. Neither of them noticed the imposing black-on-black Denali slow down and pull into a spot across from the community center.
Chapter Five
Magic and madness tainted his pallet spoiling the wonderful meal in front of him. Thurgood Biggs pushed the cooling home fries around on his plate; nose scrunched in distaste. Blood and strawberries haunted his sense of smell for the past several days. Even now, in the presence of strong coffee, orange juice and steak and eggs, the scent would not go away.
Thurgood was one to always see the glass half full, but vision changes with experience and time. His view changed. Did a complete 360. A year ago, the idea of practicing a new brand of law excited him. Learning in depth, the laws and customs of otherworldly creatures was fascinating, but the price. As a man of law, he never thought he’d participate in murder on behalf of a client, but he did.
He glanced across the table at Montague. His head was bent over a report. His right hand was wrapped around a fork while he used his left to skim a report on Adiran’s properties. His finger stopped abruptly, he frowned, then his reading continued.
Montague was overweight but it wasn’t debilitating. He took brisk walks and practiced Tai Chi. He was always in good spirits among friends. He cracked jokes, allowed himself to be the butt of a them and he was kind. He was a lawyer for a truly noble reason, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. He was all for the underdog and would fight to the death for the little guy. So, it didn’t surprise Thurgood when he introduced him to the idea of representing humans against the preternatural. His gray eyes bore the rare fire of excitement when they discussed it. That flame hadn’t died since they began their venture into the Otherworld.
A smile crept onto his face, as he considered how the two of them looked to others, a resurrected comedic duo Abbott and Costello. Montague was not as short as Lou Costello, but he was round like him while his own, tall slender self, presented a dashing ginger version of Bud Abbott. In the courtroom, there was nothing funny about the pair. Montague was the mouth piece and Thurgood handled the weapons: evidence, case comparison, and hunted the demons in the lives of their opponent and flushing out those in their client’s. He fancied himself a demon hunter, but since the Reveal, the term wasn’t so appealing.
Thurgood returned his attention to his plate, again, tapping his fork lightly on a bare spot. The tapping ceased. He grabbed his napkin, dabbed at the corners of his mouth then tossed it beside his plate. He was still wearing gauze on his left hand. His doctor gave him two more weeks before the burn healed. He had only put his hand on Alba’s shoulder to calm her, when the vampire’s minions were about to attack. The look on Alba’s face. He was a fool to mistake it for terror. It was rage. What was she? Why was she so important to the vampire? Did the witch know? His eyes darted across to his friend, did he know?
He curled his uninjured hand into a fist. There were few people in the world that Thurgood trusted. Montague was one of them, but this vampire business had warped something inside of him. He saw ghosts in every corner, heard conspiracies in every word spoken by friends. He didn’t like it. Not one bit, but he had no idea how to fix it. He had to fix a lot of things.
He had to fix things with his niece Abigail. She was his to protect. He promised her mother, his sister that he would keep her safe, do his best to give her a good life. He promised himself he would make her happy, but he’d been snapping at her a lot. Her obsession with magic, though she didn’t say it, he knew it had grown. The
witch used her as a conduit to get to the vampire, giving her a taste of it. He hated that craving in her. It was dangerous and she was ignorant of it. Her ignorance was his fault. That pebble of knowledge was firmly planted in his consciousness. It leeched his good spirit and sharpened his tongue.
He folded his hands, resting his chin on the top of his knuckles and sighed. Abigail was already a frail thing, jumpy and shy. She no longer looked him in the eye. Her smiles were gone. She avoided him, keeping to the top floor of their brownstone, which was her domain.
The roll of a coin across the tabletop pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Montague grinning at him, as he caught the penny with a slap. He cursed under his breath. He had used his bandaged hand.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
Thurgood smiled, despite his irritation. His hand hurt. He pursed his lips and lay his bandaged hand flat on the table and waited for the pain to pass.
“Don’t get stubborn with me, Thurgood. I’ve paid you up front.”
Thurgood rolled his eyes at his friend. “I’m not thinking of anything really.”
Montague held his bacon aloft, pinched between his thumb and index finger. He tilted it toward Thurgood, looking quite grave. “Your face tells another story.”
“Things with this case are not right.”
Montague straightened, popping the bacon in his mouth. He made short work of it, then wiped his hands and mouth with his napkin before mimicking Thurgood’s earlier pose, hands fisted and his chin resting on his knuckles. He leaned forward. “There are many things not right with our case, mainly because we are dealing with unnatural beings.”