by Lish McBride
Mom smacked the back of my head lightly and placed a mug in front of me. “Drink.”
Since I was actually pretty thirsty, I did. The tea tasted weird. Sort of a burny, cinnamony, grassy taste. I pushed it away. James pushed it back.
“Either you drink it or I will pour it down your throat. Your choice, of course. I would like to add that I’m pretty sure your mother owns a funnel.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled, but I did what he said. Maybe if I kept drinking it, it would get better. It didn’t. The more I drank, the more an unpleasant aftertaste of dirt surfaced. By the end, I was kind of sleepy. I pushed the mug away and laid my head down on the wood table.
I closed my eyes. Just for a minute.
*
The sun was streaming through the window and right into my face. I turned my head, but it was still bright. It felt like my brain was wounded and trying to bash its way out of my skull, and my mouth was dry and somewhat gamy tasting. All in all, an unpleasant start to the day.
“Good morning, twinkle toes.”
I grunted into the couch cushion. “Morning, Mrs. W.” The energetic, steely-haired Mrs. W used to be my neighbor. She was feisty, and wiry, and loud. She was also a witch and a friend of my mother’s originally sent to spy on me. I didn’t hold it against her, but this morning her chipper tone was certainly grating on my nerves. It seemed like she was conspiring with the sun to make me feel worse.
“Get up. You’ve got more tea to drink.”
Ramon, who was curled up on the other couch, added, “And I’m supposed to remind you that your mother owns a funnel.” He mumbled the words directly into the cushions.
I groaned and tried to burrow deeper into the couch.
Mrs. W yanked on the back of my hoodie and pulled me onto the floor. Then she nudged me with her foot. “I believe I said get up.” Not an ounce of sympathy.
“I believe you did.” I rolled onto my side, feeling my stomach roll at the same time. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the bathroom, barely making it. I heaved for a while, but I didn’t have much in me. I knew better than to leave the bathroom just yet, though. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I’d been hungover before, and it felt a lot like this, only whatever was wrong with me was much, much worse. When my stomach didn’t cramp again, I got up, my legs shaking and my muscles weak, and wobbled into the kitchen.
Mrs. W had a hot, stinking mug of tea ready for me. Generally, I like tea. Just not this stuff. I knew better than to say anything. I sipped at it while Mrs. W and Ramon drank their wonderful, delicious coffee. Those jerks.
“Once you’ve finished that, I’ll take you home.”
“Where is everybody?”
She leaned against the counter facing me. “Work, library, and before he ‘took his leave’ earlier, James mumbled something about having a house to run.” Mrs. W shifted uncomfortably, and I knew there was something she was avoiding.
Before I could ask, Ramon said, “You better just show him—he’s going to want to know.”
I pushed my hand through my hair. “Right, the door. I want to see how bad it was.”
With a nod, Mrs. W walked briskly out of the kitchen, and I—rather slowly and gingerly, like I’d been made out of blown glass—wobbled after her. Our journey ended at Haley’s door. You could tell it was Haley’s because she’d done a sort of collage on it with pictures she’d cut out of magazines. Mohawked rockstars and guys with a lot of eyeliner stared back at me, along with clippings from art mags and a small poster of the Dresden Dolls, which had probably been a full-spread article in its first incarnation. Here and there were blank spots where Haley had painted things—mostly vines, plants, and symbols. It was chaotic and beautiful.
At about eye level, she’d painted her name, but in that spot was now a ragged hole. The collage around it had been cleared, I could tell, the sudden empty spot looking cold and naked. I traced the hole with my finger.
When she’d said the door, I’d assumed the front door. Not her bedroom door. That made a world of difference. That frigid creep of fear was tiptoeing up my spine again. “Why didn’t she tell me it was her door?” I asked. “Someone broke in—was a few fucking feet from my baby sister—why the hell didn’t she tell me?” My blood, which had started to crystallize from the fear, heated up again—a boil of anger. Had I been a cartoon character, I think the resulting effect would have been steam shooting out of my ears.
“What would you have done, Sam?” Mrs. W said kindly. “It’s not like an ordinary burglar broke in—we don’t know how they managed it. We’re not simply talking deadbolts here—this place is warded. But somehow they managed to sneak past all the wards and any mundane security. Without making so much as a peep or scratching a lock. Professional.”
“That explains the chain lock,” I said. A feeling of icy dread settled in my gut. Someone had been in my mother’s house. A stranger had walked right up to my sister’s door like it was nothing. “I would’ve sent some protection at least—maybe had James come over and assess the place. I mean, my house is pretty secure, and he set that up.” I turned away from the door. I had to stop looking at the hole. I kept picturing Haley instead of the door. “What kind of knife was it?”
“A dagger of some sort. You’ll have to ask Haley for details—I’m not sure where they put it.”
Ramon, looking uneasy, said, “I can smell blood.”
Mrs. W grimaced. “Yes, they wrote something on the door—Haley wouldn’t tell me what.” She glanced at me. “They were trying to keep it from you, but, well, I didn’t think more secrets would do us any good.”
“I see.” My family was good with secrets, that was for sure. Mom had kept my necromancy a secret until Douglas had shown up. I wasn’t a big fan of keeping things from my family because that seemed to only cause more problems, but I had no doubt that Mrs. W would have happily kept this from me if she thought it was a good idea.
As I followed Mrs. W back to the kitchen, I tried not to dwell on Haley’s door. But someone had come after my baby sister. I felt the sharp pang of fear again. Later. I’d deal with it later. I didn’t have all the facts anyway, and it would be better to come at the problem when my brain wasn’t trying to wither and die and my stomach had returned to a more sedentary position. But I was sending James over, that was for sure. A chain lock was not enough by a long shot.
My head throbbed, and for a brief second, I thought I might see the return of my tea. “Can I have something for my headache?”
“You can have more tea.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather have the headache.” Resting my forehead against the table, I contemplated the floor for a while.
“I have yoga in an hour, kiddo, and if you think I’m going to miss the instructor’s iron buns as he goes into downward dog, you are sorely mistaken. Let’s pick up the pace.”
Ramon shuddered over his coffee. “That’s so wrong.”
Mrs. W smacked the back of his head with the palm of her hand. “One does not wear spandex while waggling one’s buns in front of a crowd without expecting some amount of ogling. It’s human nature.”
“It’s objectification.”
“No, it’s appreciation. I’m not mentally turning him into a mindless fleshpot. He’s a nice boy with a sweet disposition. It just so happens that I also admire his ass.”
I groaned. “Can we stop talking about asses, please? How can you be a night owl and a morning person, anyway? It’s disgusting and unnatural.”
“I eat right, exercise, and every afternoon I do a shot of whisky before a twenty-minute power nap. Does the body wonders.”
I lifted my head up enough to see if she was being serious. She was. “You must have been unstoppable in your youth.”
“I still am. Now, drink.”
Ignoring the whining and general complaining my body was dishing out, I sat up and drank. Between sips, I managed to not only keep the liquid down but to also ask Mrs. W why my body was acting like I’d beer-bonged a whole case of
cheap beer. Until I talked with Ashley and found out why she’d done the “quiet, you,” gesture, I kept my visitation to myself.
“That is a very good question. We’re not sure. We can guess. You met up with something very powerful last night, that we’re sure of. But whatever the cause, the effect is the same.”
“A hangover?”
Mrs. W looked thoughtful. “Sort of, yes, but I’d liken it more to a spiritual hangover. It’s like the thing you met was so full of magic and energy and all-around mojo that it overwhelmed you.”
“So I was … soul drunk?”
She considered it before nodding. “About as good as any way to put it.”
I downed the rest of my tea, gagging over the dregs. “This happen a lot?”
Mrs. W dumped the last of her coffee into the sink. “In my entire life, I’ve seen it happen once. An older man went into the woods to get in touch with Mother Nature.”
“What happened to him?” Ramon asked, washing their mugs and putting them in the drainer so my mom wouldn’t come home to a mess. Ramon’s been my friend for a long time, and my mom trained him well.
“When he didn’t come back on time, we went looking for him. I found him in the water happily getting hypothermia, half drowned because he thought the glacial river was ‘pretty.’”
“Ah.”
“You ready to go?”
I nodded, then washed my mug in silence, almost dropping it twice. I was still shaking. Mrs. W removed it from my hands and gently placed it in the dish drainer. Then she herded us toward her car.
Whatever benefits I’d gotten from the tea were erased by the drive. I think Mrs. W had a secret ambition to be a stunt driver. Car rides from her always left me a little woozy, and even the mention makes Ramon downright pale. Right now, his eyes were closed and his hand had gone white-knuckled and clawlike from clutching his seat belt.
My house was at the end of a rather bumpy gravel road, and I’d never been so happy to see it. I leaned on my own car briefly to regain a little of myself. Something didn’t feel right, and it took me a minute to figure out why. All my tires had been slashed. Great. And I had no idea who had done it. Oh, I had some idea. I looked at the Roman guys on the pediment, the Minotaur on the lawn, the gnomes suspiciously pointed away from me. Could be any of them. I would deal with it later. That was becoming a mantra of mine.
James was seated at the table reading the paper when I walked in. “I’ve already called a tow service. That thing needs a tune-up anyway. In the meantime, you’ll just have to cope with the injustice of driving one of our other cars. A hardship, I know.”
“Not now, James.” My bed was sounding really, really good.
“Going to your room to mope, while wholly in character, is not the optimal choice at the moment.”
“Yeah, well…” I walked off, leaving the sentence unfinished, a move sure to tick off James. I didn’t care. Everyone else seemed pissed at me, so why not just add him to the list?
I threw myself onto my bed, letting my muscles relax, taking in the quiet. Wait a minute. I rolled to my feet. My bed was wet. Sniffing the comforter, I picked up the all-too-familiar smell of urine. Which was now on my shirt. After last night, I probably needed a wardrobe change anyway, but that wasn’t the point. Fuming, I pulled on fresh shorts and a T-shirt, tossing the offending clothes into the hamper. As I did, I noticed something else. My room had been TP’d, and there was a scratching noise coming from the cabinet. Cautiously, I went to open it. A striped skunk darted by with a tiny—and I think drunken—garden gnome riding on its back and yelling “yippee-ki-yay!” as it went out the door.
I stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to decide what to do. Right.
I pulled the comforter off the bed and walked outside. I wasn’t quiet about it. James, back in kitty form, came trotting after me, asking what was wrong. I ignored him, throwing the piss-stained comforter down on the grass.
The yard was quiet. None of the statues moved, no one looked my way, but that didn’t mean they weren’t listening.
“House meeting, right fucking now!” I crossed my arms and waited. Nothing. “James,” I said quietly.
“Yes, Master?”
“I want a sledgehammer and a Dumpster.”
A curt flick of the tail and then he morphed, pulling out his phone when he was done. And suddenly, but not surprisingly, my lawn came to life. The statues busted free in a cloud of dust, the gnomes slunk over from the flower bed, and the little gladiator guys slid down from their pediment. While I was glaring, Frank pulled up. He didn’t say a word, just parked the car and quietly slipped into the crowd. Ramon rested his skateboard against the half-pipe and jogged over, an interested look on his face. They formed a semicircle around me.
“Sit,” I said, pointing at the ground. They all sat. “I want to make something very clear, so I need you all to listen. This includes the shrubbery.” I swear the bushes dipped a little in embarrassment. “Now, I’ve tried to be good-natured about everything, accepting all the harassment as well-meant hazing.” I started ticking things off on my fingers. “The tires, short-sheeting my bed, taking staged incriminating photos of me in my sleep, and so on. Have to test the new guy, I get it. But I’ve had enough.” I glared at them all, catching every eye until they knew I meant business.
“Like it or not, I own this house now. Like it or not, you guys are my responsibility. I’ve tried to be understanding, but apparently that just isn’t cutting it.” The Minotaur scuffed at the grass with his hoof. The gladiators from the pediment were also looking at their toes. Only the gnomes appeared defiant. “I know you guys had a lot of change this year. You’ve lost…” I wasn’t sure what Douglas was to all of them. A tyrant? A boss? A dear friend? I had a hard time picturing him in positive or glowing terms. Still, as with James, he might have been all they knew. And say what you will about Douglas, he apparently managed to run this household smoothly, something I was certainly having trouble doing.
I felt a grudging respect for Douglas in managing it, and some sympathy for my criminal housemates who had admittedly had their worlds turned upside down as well.
When you don’t have much, you hold on like hell to the things you do have, even if they’re rotten. That goes doubly for family, even if your family is Douglas. “You lost someone important to you. I am sorry for that. But this”—I motioned to the comforter—“has got to stop.”
The group was silent, and I could tell my speech wasn’t working. My anger was dissipating now, and more than anything, I just wanted to get the situation back in hand. I looked down at the gnomes. “You guys.” At my address, they all leapt to their feet, puffed up their chests, and held their pickaxes, shovels, and hoes at the ready. One of them had a tiny lute. I didn’t know they had a minstrel. Weird. I shook my head. “No, I don’t want to fight. You have a leader, yeah?” The gnomes formed a huddle. After a few minutes of whispering and covert glances in my direction, they finally pushed forth a spokesman. He stuck his shovel defiantly in the ground, then took off his little red hat and held it in both hands.
“You have a name?”
“Twinkle.”
“Twinkle,” I said slowly.
“The Destroyer,” he added.
“Your name is Twinkle the Destroyer?”
He nodded.
“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Okay, Twinkle the Destroyer, I take it you guys have been popping my tires? Causing general mayhem?”
He nodded proudly. “Yes, though the Minotaur was conscripted for tire duty. He handled it with the soul of a warrior.” He beamed at the Minotaur, who was managing to not make full eye contact with me. “We even set his pants on fire yesterday.” He pointed at Frank, who shrugged sheepishly.
“You had a lot going on,” he said. “I didn’t want to add.”
I turned my attention back to Twinkle. “You set my friend’s pants on fire?”
“Yes. Death to the infidels!” The rest of the gnomes erupted in
to a cheer, brandishing their assorted lawn equipment with glee.
“Right,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration and praying for patience. “You know that means nonbeliever, right? So what are you accusing me of not believing in?”
Another pointy-hatted huddle. Twinkle came back to the forefront and shouted, “Death to the new guys and their non-jam-delivering policies!” They proceeded to high-five one another.
I leaned over toward James—back as a cat now and sitting on the porch railing—and whispered, “Non-jam-delivering policies?”
James flicked his whiskers in what I think was amusement, most likely aimed at me. “Douglas used to have me give them regular payments of jam, root beer, et cetera, to buy their loyalty.”
“And you didn’t tell me this because…?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Touché. “You practically run the place, why didn’t you do it?”
James sniffed in what I thought was a very haughty manner, his tiny pink nose stuck in the air. “I run the house, not the rabble. Do you expect me to do everything? My schedule is already filled to bursting with all the new people moving in, the extra shopping—”
I cut him off before he could work himself into a tizzy. I had a feeling that, had I been Douglas, he would have been doing all this without question. Maybe he was trying to get out of extra work, maybe I was too soft, but either way, the response was the same. “I guess not.” I rubbed my hand over my face and considered. Essentially, the whole time I’d been here, the security staff hadn’t been paid. I would have been harassing the management too, though I probably would have started with a discussion and not so much jumping straight to peeing on someone’s bed. You have to work up to that sort of thing. Still, I had essentially staged a hostile takeover, which did kind of explain why they’d been going on the offensive. I didn’t have time for this. I scanned the crowd and landed on …
“Frank.” He got up from his seat on the lawn and came over. “I want you to get your clipboard and come back out. Quickly, please.” After Brooke had received her new spectral-style clipboard, she’d insisted I get some for the house. It was easier to comply than argue with her, so I’d had to take her shopping at one of those big warehouses full of office supplies. I’d never seen anyone get so excited over Post-its and packs of highlighters.