by P. R. Frost
So we did talk. With a lumberjack omelet, hash browns, toast with a fruit cup, and more OJ for Scrap, I filled up on fat and carbohydrates and coffee. MoonFeather settled for a vegetarian omelet and herb tea. By the time we finished eating, we had the restaurant pretty much to ourselves. This was a working class neighborhood. Most of the patrons had departed to their jobs.
“What do you need to talk to me about?” I asked, savoring the thick coffee that was strong enough to etch a spoon.
"WindScribe.”
“We’ll check on her on the way home.”
“You need to know some things first.”
“Like what really happened on Midsummer’s night nearly thirty years ago?”
“Yes.” My aunt gathered herself and then speared me with her gaze. “To understand what went wrong that night, and I can only give you speculation since I was not there, you have to look at who WindScribe is.”
“She’s more than a drug addict teenager with great passion and little focus? Isn’t that enough against her?”
“Every human is much more complex than that.” She breathed deeply and launched into her narrative before she lost her courage. "WindScribe did not run to Wicca so much as run away from her mother. The woman was vicious, alcoholic, with no sense of right and wrong, knowing only that what pleased her must be right.”
“That explains a lot of her daughter’s values. She said something about being locked in the closet beneath the stairs and being afraid of the dark.”
MoonFeather glared at me, a warning not to interrupt her. “I found love and companionship and a sense of connection to the entire universe in Wicca. I found joy in my femininity as the core of my being rather than a limitation because I was not male. WindScribe rejected that and looked only for power—a power that would allow her to wreak revenge on her mother and the world at large for the pain she suffered at her mother’s hands.”
I’d run into a few similar cases in the science fiction convention community. Usually the kids outgrew that phase and took responsibility for themselves and their actions. Some even went back to the families and religions they sought to flee.
My morning in the church made me think of something else. “Did she have problems with her mother’s religion? ”
MoonFeather gasped and speared me with a glare that could have stripped paint.
“Well, did she?”
“Do you really need to rehash the church scandals that dominate the news of late?”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
I gulped and made a guess. “She was sexually abused by the local priest, probably because she asked too many questions and wouldn’t take ‘Because I said so,’ as an answer.”
“I did not say so.”
“You don’t have to. Is there more? Like her mother blaming her for deserving the abuse because she was disobedient. Then she got more punishment at home.”
“Her mother and the local priest performed an exorcism. More like torture, if you ask me.”
“No wonder she stole drugs and jewelry and ran away to Faery. She was desperate to escape this world of horror.”
“Only now, after years of reflection and meeting a woman who was my contemporary at the time and is now young enough to be my daughter, can I recognize how warped WindScribe had become,” MoonFeather continued.
She took a long drink of her tea and stared at her empty cup, lost in her memories. Just before I thought I should break the silence, she looked up at me again.
“At the time, we of the coven were all rebellious and gloried in just how outrageous we could appear to the staid society at large. We experimented with sex and nudity. We experimented with pot and LSD and then rejected them. They do not open the mind to psychic vision. Drugs cloud true vision. We did not see WindScribe as any different from ourselves.”
I’d discovered the same thing in my own brief experiment with pot in college.
“So what happened that night?” I asked.
“The coven as a whole planned a ritual that we hoped would allow us to meet beings from otherworlds, hopefully from Faery. We wanted to invite them here to us, to help make our world better, happier, more colorful . . . different. But I had a fight with my father, and he locked me in my room. By the time I managed to climb out the window and walk to the meeting place, it was too late.”
“Something went horribly wrong then,” I mused. “This isn’t just a numbers thing. Going from thirteen to twelve participants wouldn’t change the spell. It might make it fail, or only work partially, but not totally reverse the outcome.” I’d read a lot about ceremonial magic to include in my books. MoonFeather had pointed me toward good texts, even invited me to observe and participate in her rituals.
“You are correct. WindScribe changed the words, reversed the order of the dance. We underestimated her need to run away from reality. We didn’t know she’d stocked up on drugs and stolen jewelry.”
“And she’s still running. She does things that blow up in her face—like trying to free Midori demons—and then refuses to take responsibility for them.” Maybe I should have let the Windago have her.
But she was human. She belonged here on Earth. She’d only begin to learn right from wrong, heal mentally from the abuse, if she stayed here and faced her shortcomings.
“Yes. And now we must decide what to do with her. Like it or not, she is our responsibility,” MoonFeather sighed.
“We’d better check on her.” I paid the bill and hurried my aunt back to the car. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Allie’s cruiser and a second squad car sitting in front of the motel told me precisely which room Donovan had rented.
Mike Gionelli leaned casually on the second cruiser—a pose I associated with Dill—available to help if needed, but not truly involved.
Only Dill wasn’t available to help. He made sarcastic, and now nasty, comments and then disappeared without explanation.
“What’s wrong now?” I asked Allie. We hadn’t spoken since I left the police station yesterday with Josh. Anger at her still burned, but not as badly as my worry for what trouble WindScribe might have gotten into this time.
“Where’s Donovan Estevez?” Allie returned my question with one of her own.
“Um . . . did you tell him not to leave town?”
“I take it he did, then?”
“This morning. He flew to Florida to straighten out some kind of family problem. What do you need him for?” Uh-oh. Did that mean suspicion had fallen on Donovan?
How did I feel about that? As much as I tried to tell myself that I was over Donovan Estevez, I knew that if he’d just come clean about his past I might commit to him.
He’d been a big help last night fighting the Windago. His bloodthirsty glee every time he killed one of them seemed all too human. On the other hand, he had the best motive of anyone to eliminate his adoptive father. How much did he have to gain? I’d really like to look at Darren’s will.
“Any idea when—or if—he’s coming back?” Allie’s eyes drooped, masking her emotions.
I couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling. And I didn’t like it. We’d always been open and honest with each other.
Well, except about Scrap and the Celestial Blade thing. But I had come clean as soon as she needed to know.
“He didn’t say. If it’s a problem, he might have had to leave his return open-ended. He might have given WindScribe some better idea of what’s going on.”
“She won’t talk to us.” Allie hitched her utility belt and shifted her feet uneasily. “Apparently, the FBI called her and tried to interview her over the phone. She hung up on them. They called me to finish their job. Coincides with my need to talk to Mr. Estevez.”
“Did you ask to talk to her nicely?”
“Of course I did,” Allie sneered. “Don’t I always?”
“No. Not always.” I stepped up to the door and knocked briskly.
“Go away!” WindScribe cr
ied. She sounded desperate. Or unhappy. Or both.
"WindScribe, it’s me, Tess. Are you okay? Did you get some breakfast?”
“Are the police still there?” Her voice sounded closer to the door.
“Yes. Allie is still here. She just wants to talk to you about Donovan. Can we come in please?”
“I don’t have to talk to the police. I know my rights.”
“No, you don’t have to talk to Allie. But it would help us find Darren’s murderer if you did.”
“I’m confused. I don’t know what to do.”
"Then let us come in and talk to you,” MoonFeather called with the authority of a high priestess to a new convert. She’d hobbled out of the car on her own, limping but relying on the crutches a lot less. “We can’t help you if you won’t talk to us.”
“I don’t know . . .”
"WindScribe, you must be hungry. How about if MoonFeather and I take you over to the coffee shop across the street. Allie could join us in a few minutes when you feel better.” Food was always my solution to problems. Good thing I didn’t seem capable of gaining weight since I had the imp flu and Scrap joined me.
“No Mike,” I whispered to Allie. “Can’t take a chance he’ll scare her away.”
“Why would he . . .”
“He’s a man.”
“I’ll come with you only if your imp comes, too. I want him to protect me.”
That was a new one. I still hadn’t figured out how she could see Scrap. But she claimed she’d lost the ability to see him after she left Faery. Had her perceptions changed again? No one else around me could see him or my scar. No normal person, that is. Another Warrior of the Celestial Blade could.
Was my supposed help hanging around? Neither Scrap nor I had seen hide nor hair of another Warrior.
“Sure. Scrap needs some more beer and OJ after last night. He’ll be happy to join us.”
You sure about that, babe? He popped into view right in front of me. Allie and MoonFeather didn’t seem to notice the slight air displacement of his arrival.
Maybe WindScribe’s time in Faery had sensitized her nose to Mike’s demon smell. Scrap didn’t turn red around him. He hadn’t reacted to Vern and Myrna Abrams either. I had to presume Mike was one of the good guys.
The door opened a crack, the security chain still on. I could see one of WindScribe’s eyes peering out at us. It didn’t look bloodshot or swollen. If she’d been crying, it was a long time ago.
“Just the three of us,” I soothed her, waving Allie to stand behind MoonFeather and out of sight.
“Okay. I’ll come.” She closed the door enough to release the chain and stepped out.
“For heaven’s sake, child, put some shoes on. I know Donovan bought you some,” MoonFeather admonished. “And get a coat. I’ll not be responsible for you catching pneumonia.
Even after a huge helping of strawberry waffles with whipped cream and three hot chocolates, also with whipped cream, WindScribe told us nothing we didn’t know. Donovan had mentioned that Darren’s family wanted to contest the will.
“What’s in the will?” I asked.
Allie shrugged. “The investigators found one among his papers, but they aren’t telling me anything.”
“Your mother might know something,” MoonFeather suggested.
I refrained from snorting. Mom avoided knowing anything about official stuff like investments and insurance policies. She left it all to me and Dad. We made sure there was enough in her checking account to cover her expenditures—which weren’t much—and that was all she cared about. Dad invested part of her alimony each month so that she’d have a cushion if anything happened to him. She claimed she didn’t understand things like that.
“I’d really like to get a look at that will. It might point us toward Darren’s murderer,” I said.
“Even if it points toward your mother?” Allie asked.
“Mom couldn’t . . .”
MoonFeather cocked an eyebrow at me. “Do you really know that your mother isn’t capable of violence given what we know about Darren Estevez?”
Mom wasn’t the same woman who had left for Florida three weeks ago. This morning’s confrontation proved that. And Saturday morning, right after her wedding night, her relationship with Darren was very strained.
If she knew that Darren threatened me, her daughter, would she resort to violence to defend her “greatest treasure and one success?”
“If we follow the money, Mom stands to lose a lot more by Darren’s death. He didn’t have time to change his will after the marriage. Her alimony from Dad stopped when she remarried,” I defended her.
“Do we know that Darren didn’t change his will?” Allie asked. “They went to Maine to get married. A lawyer can perform marriages there. A savvy lawyer might draw up new wills for both of them at the same time and sock them for double fees.”
Hey, babe, keep an eye on the witchlet. I think she’s going to bolt! Scrap warned me. He’d downed yet another glass each of beer and OJ and had regained much of his color and perkiness.
While we talked money, WindScribe had grown more and more silent. She seemed to fade into the wallpaper.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing hold of her sleeve. My sleeve, actually. She had on another one of my outfits, this one in amethyst.
“It’s all just too confusing. Nothing is where it should be. I’m not where I should be. It’s all so different.” She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, making them red. But no tears leaked out. She just looked as if they had.
“A lot happens in the real world in twenty-eight years.” MoonFeather shrugged.
“But I’ve only been gone like a month! I know because I only bled once while I was gone.”
“Time runs different in Faery. Everyone knows that,” I said.
“I . . . I just want everything to be the way it was the day I left,” WindScribe sobbed.
And I knew in that instant that she lied. I didn’t even have to wear the comb to figure that out.
She’s got secrets upon secrets upon secrets, Scrap said.
She had to know that Scrap would see that. Deep down, she wanted to tell someone the truth about that night twenty-eight years ago—two months before I was born. One month after Allie entered the world.
But did she know the truth or only the bits and pieces of it as she saw reality through her very warped perspective?
“This isn’t getting me any closer to Donovan or to his father’s death,” Allie sighed. “I’ve got to get back to the station. The boss will probably put out an APB and a warrant on him. Fleeing the state moves Estevez up to the top of the suspect list.”
“I don’t think he did it,” I said when she had left.
“What makes you think that?” WindScribe asked. She sounded wary and uncertain again.
“Because Donovan Estevez has deep control over his actions. If he planned it, he’d make it look like suicide or an accident, and he’d cover it up so well no one would need to ask questions. We might never have found the body. If he acted in the heat of anger, it would have been on the spur of the moment—and he has a hot temper. Believe me, I know.” I rubbed the almost completely healed gash on my forearm. “If Donovan allowed the heat of anger to drive him, when he had the fight with Darren, that would have been about three hours before Darren died. Stealing the short sword took planning.”