“No on the hearing us,” I answered, “and yuck on the eye shadow.”
“So we just sit here and . . . what?” Tori asked. “Go over the cliff with them?”
“Pretty much,” I said.
“You do realize that if we get into trouble in here there’s nobody to pull us out?”
“I didn’t plan this, Tori,” I said. “We just have to wing it. Now, hush so we can hear what they’re talking about.”
If we expected vapid cheerleader/mean girl dialogue to be illuminating in any way, we were wrong. That morning, Seraphina and Ioana had just been two girls calling themselves Sally Beth and Jo Anne to fit in. They were engaged in trading lively gossip and complimenting each other’s hair when the car skidded toward the edge of the road without warning. Seraphina fought to right the vehicle, but over-corrected.
Tori and I went from sitting upright in the backseat to tumbling inside the rolling car as it plunged through the guardrail and into the ravine. Ioana screamed and I saw her reach for Seraphina, who clasped her hand just a second before the vehicle hit the rocks below and bounced drunkenly.
The force of the impact knocked all the breath from my lungs. Tori slammed into me and I caught hold of her, trying to minimize the beating we were both taking. Then, just as quickly as the whole thing began, the car landed for the last time, rocking back and forth a few times before coming to rest.
We sat there in shock, listening to the wreck groan and steam. One of the hub cabs fell off and clattered against the rocks. Fragments of glass mingled with the raindrops beating a steady rhythm above our heads.
Blinking to clear my vision, I gently shook Tori, who was wedged against me. “Hey,” I said, “are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Tori said, “I think so. Just a little dizzy.”
Then she looked in the front seat. I followed her gaze.
The two girls might have been broken dolls, their heads lolling to the side. Seraphina’s face was covered in blood, and Ioana was pinned in her seat by what was left of the passenger side dashboard. But the most heartbreaking thing of all? They were still holding hands.
“It’s hard to see them like this and think of what they are like now,” Tori whispered. “This makes me feel so sorry for them.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Who would let such a horrible thing happen to them?”
“Which horrible thing?” Tori asked, struggling to sit upright. “The wreck or the resurrection.”
“Both,” I said. “We need to get out of . . . ”
Before I could finish the thought, Tori and I were standing outside of the wreckage on a large, flat boulder. Heavy rain pounded around us, but we stayed dry as a bone.
“Whoa,” Tori said, “how did you do that?”
“I have no idea,” I said, looking around at the rocky, rugged terrain and up the face of the cliff. “No wonder the car was so destroyed after bouncing around on these boulders. Between that and the distance, it must have fallen . . .”
When I stopped speaking, Tori looked up as well. “Oh. Crap,” she said. “Who is that?”
Above us, just inside the shattered and splintered railing, a figure in a long, black raincoat stood staring down into the ravine. The brim of a fedora covered his face and his hands were jammed in his pockets.
As we watched, the man turned his head toward us.
“Uh, Jinksy,” Tori said, “he can’t see us, right?”
Before I could answer, the man slowly raised his right hand and tipped the brim of his hat. With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared.
“Tell me that did not just happen,” Tori said.
“It happened,” I answered. “I just don’t know when it happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he there during the original wreck or is he here now in our vision?”
“Or is it both?” Tori said flatly.
There was no good answer to that question.
We stayed in the vision long enough to see everything that happened after that — the trucker who found the scene of the accident and called it in, the firefighters who climbed down to reach the girls, and the arrival of Anton Ionescu.
I don’t know how Anton learned about the wreck or if he just came on it by accident driving down the mountain as if that day was like any other. But no matter what else I thought of the man then, or what I think of him now, my heart broke as I watched him fight to scramble down the cliff.
“Damn you!” he cried, striking at the state trooper restraining him. “Those are my girls down there. I have to get to them. Let me go!”
It took that trooper and two others to hold Anton, until his legs buckled under him and he dropped to his knees. The wail of agony that rose from his throat in that moment echoed through the surrounding hills.
As his head fell into his hands, the scene around us dissolved, and Tori and I found ourselves standing back in the junkyard with our hands resting on the cold metal of the car. Far from answering any of the questions we had about the accident, our vision only raised new and more frightening uncertainties.
“Do you think the man in black caused the accident?” Tori asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but one thing is for certain. Our mothers weren’t responsible.”
24
Sometimes when I tell you about our magical adventures, you may forget that Tori and I run a business. Let me just pause for a capitalist identification moment here. Profit wise, that Monday was fantastic!
Tori and I walked into a store clogged with tourists when we returned from the junkyard. The juxtaposition of what we'd just gone through with the retail madness in front of our eyes seemed even more jarring to me than vicariously plunging over a cliff in a 1975 Corolla.
Mom waved at me from the cash register. We side-stepped our way through the milling crowd to get to her. “When did this start?” I asked.
“Right after you all left,” she said. Then, signaling my Dad to take over for her, she drew us into the storeroom.
“We were running out of SpookCon1 merchandise,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I put Darby to work creating more inventory.”
“No,” I said, “that’s great. What did you have him make?”
“Everything’s there on the table,” Mom said, sticking her head out the door to check the status of the crowd. “I’m sorry, honey, but I have to get back out there. Gemma is swamped in the espresso bar. Have a look at the new stuff, and then if you two could pitch in, that would be great.”
With that, she was gone.
“Did your mother just tell us to get to work right in the middle of a magical crisis involving vampires?” Tori asked.
“She did,” I said, examining the items on the table.
“And did she ignore the fact that we’ve been out psychometrically reading the wreck that completely changed her life?”
“Mom didn’t forget,” I replied, “she’s just not ready to hear about it. Let’s see what she and Darby cooked up.”
As Tori stepped over to the table with me, she said, “The little guy is good with captions. Once Darby understands the theme and you toss him a few suggestions, he can run with it.”
And run with it he did. The Witch’s Brew t-shirt line now included three designs in addition to Tori’s original “Visit if You Dare” concept, starting with the provocative question, “Do you really want to be in Briar Hollow when the lights go out?”
That one showed the courthouse square festooned in spider webs with jagged bolts of lightning shooting across the sky. Tori lifted the shirt up to get a better look at the graphics.
“Oh my God,” she said. “They included the Strigoi Sisters.”
Sure enough, the two figures dressed in black planted dead center in the middle of the scene, fangs extended, were Seraphina and Ioana.
“Well,” I said, “you do have to admit that Elvira thing they’re got going fits the theme.”
“True,” Tori said, “but with our luck, they’l
l demand a cut of the profits.”
“Check this one out,” I said, holding Good Government from the Grave over my chest. The panel featured Howie himself in spectral form hard at work at his desk in the mayor’s office. The caption under the image read, “Confirmed sightings of the late Howard McAlpin, Sunday, October 25, 2015,” along with the festival’s website address.
I didn’t even have to ask Tori to get her phone out and have a look. Linda and her webmaster, a senior at Briar Hollow High, apparently spent their Monday building a new page devoted to Howie filled with pictures taken by tour attendees.
Fortunately, none of the photographers qualified as “steady-handed,” probably because the majority of them were running at the time. You could definitely make out a human-shaped figure, but calling the ID “confirmed” stretched credulity to the breaking point.
“The baseball video was bad luck,” Tori said, “but we dodged a bullet on Howie’s appearance. The people on that tour were just ordinary tourists curious about a haunted courthouse.”
“I know,” I said, “but from what Dad tells us, the paranormal professionals are in town now, which is probably why we’re selling this.” I held up the last t-shirt, which read, Haunted Briar Hollow - Not for Amateurs.
Just then, Dad’s head appeared around the door frame. “Hey,” he said, “we really need some help out here, kids.”
Tori and I had no choice. We went to work. The crowd didn’t thin out until around 5 o’clock. Judging from the conversations I overheard as I wiped down tables and rang up purchases, most of the people were heading out for supper early so they would be able to get to the site of that night’s ghost tour on time.
The scheduled destination? The battlefield where Beau died in 1864.
We went downstairs with the moms, leaving Dad in charge. The four of us collapsed on the sofas in the lair, shell-shocked from the day. Darby appeared instantly with a platter of sandwiches and a huge bowl of chips. We did pause long enough to compliment him on the new Witch’s Brew merchandise before attacking the food like a pack of ravenous she-wolves.
Greer, who was sitting by the fire, closed the book in her hands and regarded us with a mixture of amusement and horror.
“What?” I asked, just as I realized there was a piece of roast beef dangling from the corner of my mouth.
“Oh, nothing,” she said pleasantly. “I was just pondering the irony of the fact that most people think we vampires are the messy eaters.”
Beside me, Tori laughed, choking herself on her pastrami and necessitating a back pounding from Gemma.
“Sorry,” Greer grinned. “Couldn’t resist. Do you suppose you might be able to intersperse chewing with an account of your afternoon’s excursion to the junkyard?”
“Sure,” I said, “but everyone needs to hear this. Let me send Chase and Festus a text message. Where’s Beau?”
Behind me, I heard the now familiar slap of a saber scabbard on boot leather. First I glanced over my shoulder, and then I pivoted completely to behold the resplendent Confederate colonel standing behind me.
Beau wore a new tunic of soft heather broadcloth. Two rows of gold buttons gleamed brightly against the gray fabric, matching the intricate braid sewn on the shoulders and cuffs. The gun belt and scabbard were his own, but polished to a high ebony gloss. He held his white Panama hat in his hand as he would say “in deference to the presence of ladies.”
I put my food down and got up, moving to stand in front of him. “Colonel Longworth,” I said, “I have never seen you looking so handsome.”
Bowing deeply at the waist, Beau said, “Nor you more comely, Miss Jinx.”
For the record, I had on a plain navy sweatshirt and jeans, but his gallantry flattered me all the same.
“Are you planning to appear in ghostly form tonight?” I asked, hoping the answer would be “no.” We needed to tone down the perception of Briar Hollow as the go-to place for on-demand haunts.
“No,” he said, “I am leading the tour of the battlefield. I plan to present myself as the descendant of the Beauregard T. Longworth who died on that ground. I wear the uniform in honor of the men who fell there so bravely under my command.”
I asked Beau once if any of his soldiers were among the spirits that frequent the cemetery since many of the men are buried there. He told me that his cavalry troopers are at peace, implying that he, himself was not. Over time, I’ve come to understand that Beau carries a heavy burden of guilt for the ambush that claimed the lives of his entire unit.
“That’s a beautiful tribute, Beau,” I said. “I know your men would be honored.”
“The honor,” he said, “is mine for having had the privilege to command such splendid soldiers.”
“Come join us,” I said. “Tori and I have a report from the junkyard. We’re just waiting until everyone is here.”
After I sent a text to Chase, I went over to Graceland East and tapped on the door with my forefinger. Glory opened it immediately. “Hi,” she said, “is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I said, “we’re just going to talk about what Tori and I found at the junkyard. I thought you might like to be included.”
Her face lit up to an almost neon green. “Oh, thank you!” she gushed. “Do I need to change?”
She was wearing a little velour warm-up suit and white tennis shoes. I half expected a Ken doll in a white sweater to appear behind her at any second.
“No,” I said, “you look great. May I offer you a lift?”
“Please,” she said, stepping out the door and closing it carefully.
I held my hand out flat, and Glory sat down on the edge of my palm. We crossed back to the sitting area, and I let her down on one of the end tables. “Hi everyone!” she called out happily, waving to the room.
Everyone waved back, while Glory climbed atop a stack of books to get a better view. Tori sent a message to Rodney’s wall-mounted iPod and within seconds the black-and-white rat came bounding down the steps.
“Okay,” I said, “that should take care of everyone. . . ”
For the first time, it occurred to me that the Honorable and Annoying Howard McAlpin was no longer in the basement.
“What happened to Howie?” I asked Beau.
“I am happy to report the Mayor faded back to normal and returned to his usual haunts,” he said. “I must add that his departure came not a moment too soon. Howard can be rather trying.”
Footsteps sounded from the stacks, signaling Chase’s arrival. Then I realized I was hearing two people walking. Was Festus in human form?
I got my answer soon enough. Chase and Lucas Grayson came walking out of the shadows side-by-side with Festus limping along. One look told me the two men had a history — one Chase didn’t like.
After being introduced all around, Lucas sat down on the hearth beside Greer’s chair. I caught myself studying them carefully, trying to figure out if there was any involvement between them other than a working partnership.
As he sat, Lucas said, “Hey, Red.”
Greer smiled at the nickname. “Grayson,” she said, inclining her head in greeting. Then she added, “Is Istanbul contained?”
“Buttoned up hard and tight,” he replied, “but there may have been a leak.”
I had no idea what they were talking about, and was pretty sure neither would tell me if I asked. But given their body language and level of professional cordiality, there didn’t seem to be any romantic involvement there, which pleased me more than I expected.
That’s when I caught Chase studying me from the other side of the room. I telegraphed a silent message with my eyes, “We talked about this.”
To his credit, Chase understood my meaning and answered with a curt nod. He saw my interest in Lucas Grayson and didn’t like it, but was abiding by the rules. Smart man. I wanted to go on working with Chase, but I wasn’t going to tolerate jealous nonsense for one minute.
Festus, who had gone immediately to the fire, took in the whole exchange.
There’s not much that gets past that old yellow scoundrel no matter how much he plays up the boozy bad-boy persona.
“Somebody want to tell me why I had to interrupt my nap?” he asked crossly. “How’s a man supposed to digest his tuna if he can’t get some shut eye?”
“More to the point,” Greer said, wrinkling her nose, “what is a man to do about his breath when he has consumed his tuna?”
“This from a woman who likes her Type O shaken, not stirred,” Festus said.
Vampire humor was going to take some getting used to.
“Mom,” I said, “are you sure Dad wants to be upstairs? Shouldn’t he be here for this?”
“Yes, honey,” she said. “I’m sure. Your father feels better when he’s doing something normal like running the store. I’ll fill him in later. Tell us what happened at the junkyard.”
The group let me get through the whole account, including the sighting of the man in the trench coat. When I finished, Lucas said, “Could you tell what the man’s face looked like?”
I shook my head. “He was standing too far away, and we couldn’t make out details through the rain. All I can tell you is that he was dressed in a black trench coat and wore a black fedora. He didn’t say anything, just tipped his hat at us and walked away.”
“Do you think he caused the accident?” Greer asked.
Tori and I had discussed that topic on our way back from the junkyard. “I don’t know,” I said. “We didn’t see him on the side of the road before we went over the cliff, but honestly, I was paying more attention to what was going on inside the car. It’s certainly possible that he was there.”
“And yet,” Lucas said, “he was both in the past and apparently aware of your presence psychometrically. That’s interesting.”
No, it was creepy as hell. “So what’s the verdict?” I asked. “Was he really at the scene of the wreck all those years ago or was he some kind of stowaway in my vision?”
“I suspect he was both,” Greer said. “As you have learned from your journeys back and forth to Shevington, time is not so static as humans would make it. It sounds as if you were dealing with a wizard who has the capacity to time shift.”
Witch on Second: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 5 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels) Page 19