by J. Kowallis
The bastard sits back in his seat, slouching. His eyes bore into mine.
In the brief moment I get to analyze him, I realize just how good he is at this. After three thousand years of pretending to be his own descendants, he knows his audience. His white t-shirt is slightly rumpled and worn—made to look like he hasn’t changed out of it for at least a couple days. His army-green jacket sleeves are pushed half-way up his forearms, and his hair is haphazardly combed back with his fingers and maybe a little styling wax. The clean-shaven face that was once well-groomed and trimmed grew out to a ragged stubble. All in all, he exudes all the features of a broken, love-sick boy. And it’s all bull shit.
“Will yeh have a seat?” he asks, his voice harsh but sickeningly timid.
I drill my glare into him. That’s it. Nothing more than a furious scowl. Partly because he wouldn’t expect any less of me, and equally because I don’t want to speak to him. All I can think about is Coll, the actual Coll dying off inside his own body.
“Look, yeh came here to talk. Right?”
I don’t answer, so he continues.
“So, what if I move over and yeh can sit on the other side of the table there?” Ruhmactír slides to the far end of the booth bench and for the first time, I allow myself to move. I sink into the booth, sitting directly opposite him. His jaw shifts and his eyes focus on me, watching. Like a wolf.
“Hello to you both,” a voice says over my shoulder in the clear accent of a Londoner. I jump a bit and turn to look. The waiter is a skinny kid, possibly late teens or early twenties, with hormonal acne blanketing his face. “Can I get you both a drink to start off?”
I turn around and look at the table, allowing myself to speak first. I spent hours formulating this conversation in my head. Giving him just the right amount of shit, while also keeping him firmly planted in his seat.
I can do this.
“I’ll take a water. I don’t plan on being here long.”
Across from me, Coll’s eyes narrow. “In that case, I’ll stick with the water as well.”
Shit. A drink would have been the easiest thing for Sera to lace, but I refuse to let my guard down around this psychopath. This means I’ll need to order food in order to get him to ingest the potion.
“So,” I clear my throat, “you had something you wanted to say.”
Ruhmactír continues to stare me down, never taking his eyes off my face. “I wanted to see if I could get yeh to listen to me. Textin’ back and forth didn’t seem to be goin’ anywhere.”
“It wasn’t going anywhere because you’re an ass and I’m not forgiving you for what you did. Not because we were texting.”
“In that case,” he runs his tongue over his teeth, “maybe we ought to just go back to our respective homes and forget this ever happened.”
I lift my eyebrows lazily, even though my heart starts pounding. I can’t let him leave. “Wow. Thank you so much for dragging me all the way here so you could tell me that. I thought you actually had something new to say.”
A set of footsteps approaches from behind, cutting off whatever Ruhmactír was about to retort with and the waiter sets a glass of water in front of me. “So, do we know what we’re ordering?” he asks.
“Tell Sera I’ll have whatever vegetarian special she has on the menu,” I turn to him with a smile. “He’ll have something raw. Preferably with salmonella.”
The waiter stutters and hesitates.
“So, you’ll stay long enough to eat?” Ruhmactír baits me.
“It’s lunch time. I’m starving. I’m at a restaurant. I might as well eat, even if it’s with you.” I turn on Ruhmactír, tilting my head.
Again, without taking his eyes off me he says, “Waiter, I’ll have what she’s havin’.”
I hold his gaze, refusing to look inferior. Keeping that steady look in my eye, my inner confidence falters. Only slightly. He just ordered my exact meal. He knows. Or, at least, something is very, very wrong. If anything happens in the kitchen . . . if the meals get switched up . . . I’ll be the one passed out on the table instead.
Ruhmactír reaches forward and takes another sip of his water, his eyes only leaving mine for a moment. “So, this is what you’re goin’ to do? Stare at me until yeh get your food, eat, and leave? Or are yeh goin’ to listen to me at all?”
“I’m here. You might as well talk. I can’t guarantee that my opinion of you will change.”
He inhales deeply, his nostrils contracting and then expanding as he exhales. “You’re really that hungry?”
My heart thumps once. Loudly.
I don’t say a word.
So, he clears his throat and leans back. “I’m sorry. Taran.” He adds my name almost as an afterthought. I hate hearing him say it.
“You’ve said that,” I bite.
“I know.”
Silence.
“You know,” I break the tension, “the last time we got remotely physical, I told you to stop. And you backed away from me like I was toxic stinging nettle. Why not this time? Why,” I let my voice ring with a tone of fury, “didn’t you listen?”
His eyes narrow, examining me, letting the question marinate. Then, his jaw shifts, and he fingers the rim of his water glass. “Nothin’ I say will give yeh the answer yeh want.”
“Then just give me any answer.”
Flashes of that night race behind my eyes. The feeling of Ruhmactír’s hands, Coll’s manipulated hands, running up my legs, his mouth on my skin, the black infection in his veins. The furious, animalistic look in his eyes. It’s not much different than the glare he has now. Though they’re Coll’s eyes, I have no feeling. No connection except a deep loathing that bubbles in my stomach.
“I let go of myself. I forgot who I was. And all I knew what that I wanted yeh. I wanted—”
“Hello, yeh two,” a perky voice interrupts him, and I turn to look over my shoulder. Sera stands there with two plates in her hands. Immediately, I feel a wave of relief. If she’s delivering them and not the waiter, that means she didn’t want to leave anything to chance any more than I did.
I play my role well, dropping my head after giving her a fleeting smile. “Hello, Sera.”
“Sister,” Ruhmactír glances at her, possibly darker than he glared at me.
Sera drops her stare and smiles at me—the joy never reaching her eyes. “Well, yeh could cut the tension here with a knife and slather it on a slice of bread.” She sets a plate of food in front of me, and the second plate in front of Coll. “I’ve made yeh both my special miso glazed tofu. It’s topped with an edamame purée, julienne vinegar cucumbers, toasted nori, and pickled beets, nestled on a bed of seasoned quinoa. Hopefully yeh can make it to the end of the meal wi’dout killin’ each other.”
I offer Sera another forced smile and pick up my utensils. “Thanks. I’ll try my best.”
This time when she leaves, instead of winking, she looks down at the food and back up at me, her hands twisting together nervously. She’s a damned open book, and if Ruhmactír paid attention to her at all, I’m screwed. But at least she did it, I suppose.
I start to poke around at the corner of the tofu, cutting off a piece and piling on some of the purée and quinoa. After I put a couple bites in my mouth, inwardly swooning over the delectability of Sera’s masterpiece, I look up at Ruhmactír. He slowly pulls out his own utensils from within the rolled napkin and places the cloth on his lap.
“How is it?” he asks.
“Delicious. I’d enjoy it a lot more if you’d take a bite of your own . . . and then choke on it.” I stick another bite in my mouth.
“It’s tofu. I’m sure I will.”
I glare at him, my chewing slowing down to a speed that I hope matches the deadly strength of my frown. “Then why in the hell did you order it? Asshole.”
His face drops, darkening under the shadows of the dim café. But he doesn’t answer. Ruhmactír cuts into his meal and takes the first bite. For a few seconds, we eat in silence. I try my
best not to study each and every bite he puts in his mouth, watching for signs of warning. Anything to alert me to his real thoughts, intentions. He notices. Quickly, I drop my eyes, watching my plate with culpable intensity.
When Ruhmactír’s utensils clatter to his plate, I look up. He’s staring at me with blind fury. “How long have yeh known?”
“Known what?” My words clip.
He snaps his fingers and my wrist twists on its own. I yelp, and pull my arm under the table, concealing the misshapen part of my body and clenching my teeth. One of the couples closest to our table look over at us with concern, but I ignore them. I bite down on my tongue in an effort to curb the pain. It twists so far out of its normal position; I swear it’s about to break.
Somehow, I actually manage to keep from screaming as my wrist finally snaps.
Ruhmactír leans forward, whispering sharply. “I know what yeh did to me, yeh bitch. The spell. The shpell . . .” his words slur as he faceplants into his food, his spell releasing my arm. I cradle my arm to my body, my breath shaking. The few couples and patrons nearest our table cuss and squeal, reacting to his flaccid fall onto the table.
Not exactly acting, I gasp and scramble back, reaching into my purse for my phone after whispering a short healing spell to reshape my broken wrist. When I find it, I jump out of the booth, my legs shaking.
Ruhmactír knew. He knew. I’m damn lucky to be standing here. Alive.
“Is he all right?” a man asks, standing from his table. I hold out a hand to keep him back and my eyes flash with panic.
“He’s fine. He’s fine. I just need . . .” I think a really quick spell in my head and reach into my purse for an epi-pen that I just conjured, “his epi-pen. Damn . . . gluten,” I spit out. I hold the pen up and wiggle it around. Quickly, I jab it into his arm, and inject him with a dose that won’t do a damn thing for him.
“Do you need someone to call 999?” he asks.
“Nope!” I breathe hard, now showing him my phone. “I’ve got it.”
“Can yeh all back up please?” I hear Sera’s voice over the small group of people that have gathered. “He’s my brother! He’s allergic to—”
“Gluten,” I finish for her.
Sera frowns at me, confused. “Yeah, gluten. We’ve dealt with this before, but how did he get any? The dish was . . .” she gives me a questioning look, “gluten free.” She turns to Ruhmactír and lifts him back, setting him up right. Bits of tofu, sauce, and quinoa are plastered to his face. If I weren’t so shaken, and also acting my ass off to feign worry about him, I’d actually laugh.
“Yeh’ve got the call?” Sera asks, wiping him down.
“Yep.” I quickly dial my dad’s number and look at the front door of the café.
He answers after the first ring.
“He out?” Dad asks.
“As Dickens’ says, like a doornail,” I say under my breath, turning my back to the people who are watching. “Remember, we’ll need you in a paramedic uniform in an ambulance.”
“I’m already on it,” he says. “Be right there.”
Dad hangs up the phone and I keep it held to my ear. “Yes, yes? Hello? Yeah, I’ve got a man here that has a gluten allergy. He’s passed out over his food. He’s had this problem before, but we need an ambulance.”
I pause, pretending I’m having an actual conversation.
“Café Marguerite.”
I pause again.
“Five minutes? Perfect. Thank you!”
This time I fake the hang up and stuff my phone back in my pocket.
“Gluten?” a woman with a Scottish accent asks from behind. “You say this is gluten?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sera answers, wiping the last of the sauce off Coll’s face. “Bad, bad. Celiac.”
“I don’t think gluten does that . . .” the woman starts.
“Excuse me!” Dad shouts over the top of their heads with a really bad British accent. Something I think he picked up from watching Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins one too many times. He wheels in a gurney and stops in between tables. “Can you please all move aside?”
Dad and Sera both work to get Ruhmactír laying prostrate on the gurney, and not gracefully. Ruhmactír’s long leg flops off the side of the gurney and the moment his head hits the pillow, his tongue falls to the back of his mouth and he snorts.
I lean over to get my bag, still feeling a bit rattled from the commotion. “That was a little too fast, Dad.”
“Shut up,” he grumbles. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Agreed.”
Sera does her best to placate the restaurant guests even though I can tell she’s fragile. She gives me a worried look and I give her the only thing I can: a weak smile. Hopefully it communicates the apology I wish I could give her.
I follow Dad, Ruhmactír, and the gurney out of the café. On the street is an ambulance, its lights flashing and swirling.
“Where did you get the . . . krankenwagen?” I ask him, using the German vernacular. I don’t know why. The English word got lost somewhere in the back of my mind.
“It’s someone’s Mercedes compact from around the corner. I’m using a pretty intense cloaking spell to transfigure it.”
I manage a small smile and help him lift the gurney into the back of the ambulance. When Ruhmactír’s in securely, I hop up with him and once dad closes the doors behind me, I whisper a simple binding and lashing spell. The straps on the gurney lengthen, tighten, and wrap around Coll’s body. After unbuttoning my top collar button and relieving the feeling that I’m choking to death under my own anxiety, I reach into my purse and pull out potion number two.
The ambulance lurches forward and I grip around for something to hold on to, so I don’t fall onto Ruhmactír’s unconscious body. Steadied, I look at the vial in my hand.
It’s a magic binding potion. Just as strong, just as intense as the one Coll dosed both of his sisters with. I hope. It’s the first one I’ve ever made. At least according to my memory, but Angie seems to have all sorts of theories she’s never told me about.
I unscrew the lid and let it clatter to the ground. The ambulance sways back and forth slightly with the couple corners Dad makes. I have to lower myself to my knees and prop open Coll’s mouth. Tilting his head back, I slowly pour the contents of the second potion bottle into his trap a bit at a time. When about half of it is pooled at the back of his throat, I close his mouth and wait for his esophagus to realize he needs to swallow. His muscles involuntarily do their thing, and the liquid enters his stomach. I do the same thing with the last half of the bottle, and once it’s gone, I set it on the gurney next to Ruhmactír.
It isn’t long until the ambulance stops, and I hear my dad exit the cab. When the back doors open, he looks at me with lifted eyebrows. “Did you do it?”
“Yep.” I hop out of the makeshift ambulance. “Few minutes and he won’t have access to his magic at all.”
“Good.” Dad takes my place in the ambulance and lifts up Coll’s upper body. “Can you get his feet?”
I nod. It takes a little while, but once Coll’s out of the vehicle, Dad releases his control on the transfiguration of the vehicle and it returns to looking like a small, blue, Mercedes hatchback. Since I can’t really help travel Coll back to Angie’s, Dad takes all of the additional weight, lacing Coll’s arm around his own neck.
“See you at the cottage?” I ask.
“If I don’t throw him off a cliff first for trying to assault my daughter,” Dad grunts.
I hold up a warning finger and then smirk as I connect to the glowing energy inside my body and tiaseal to the cottage near the lake, knowing I have a very long twenty-four hours ahead of me.
Nineteen
I think back to the time I was once chained. Not me specifically, but my ancestor, Natty. I remember experiencing things through her eyes, feeling what she felt. The harsh burning sting of iron on raw skin, huddled in the cold dungeon of Lancaster Castle, clothing saturated with her own piss and
vomit. Chained next to her—or me—were other accused witches. Some still alive, others dead. All of these images replay in my mind as I look at Coll, and Dad chaining him down.
No, not Coll, I have to remind myself again. Ruhmactír.
His hair is a disaster. The first time I’ve ever seen him like that. It’s weird and disengaging. In a way, my brain struggles to make sense of it.
The second potion I gave him made his skin paler than usual. Angie assures me the skin re-pigments when they wake up. When Ruhmactír wakes up. Something about how the body goes into an automatic weakened state when an energy as powerful as the craft is bound. I didn’t quite understand what she was talking about, but I accepted it.
Sweat beads around his hairline, and the pooling sweat across his chest has started to soak into his shirt. Before Dad began lashing him to the bed in my room, I took the army green jacket off he wore to the restaurant. Easier to get the chains and bonds tight enough, Dad explained.
“Can you help me with this, bug?”
I nod and reach under the bed for the length of chain Dad’s holding out for me, then pull it around the edge of the bed. My dad hands me the lock and I grip the length of chain, pulling it tight across Ruhmactír’s chest.
“I think you’ve got that a little too tight,” Dad cautions, moving to help me loosen it before I hook the padlock in.
“No,” say firmly, “it’s not tight enough.”
“I understand that we need him secure. But this is Coll’s body. Would you like him to be able to breathe, or should we just suffocate him now?” Dad points to Ruhmactír’s face. A ragged, strained breath manages to find its way out of his throat.
I roll my eyes and sigh, loosening the chain by a link or two.
“I know why I’m nervous,” Dad sniffs, “but you . . . what’s got you so on edge?”
“Nothing.” I brush my hair out of my face.