"So he was a lover!"
Parrish put a finger to his lips. "If you must know, yes." We reached the shared hallway. The floorboards creaked, so we moved quickly. Parrish glanced over his shoulder at me. "Don't look at me like that. I've tried just about every flavor, you know. You tend to lose your inhibitions after a couple of centuries."
I supposed you would. Of course, it was one thing to think about such things in theory, another to imagine them on a personal level. Had Sebastian been with a man? He'd been around for a thousand years, which made it seem much more likely. How did I feel about it? I couldn't decide. So, I distracted myself with the other question I'd been burning to ask, "So, you have rings? Were you married?"
At the basement stairs, we straightened up, but Parrish didn't switch on any lights. I grasped for his hand and tried not to think about all the bugs that could be crawling around at my feet.
"Yes," he said.
"When?"
Parrish didn't respond, but I could feel the sadness in his silence. I didn't press him further. When we reached his storage area, he let go of my hand. I got the sense he wanted to retrieve the rings privately, so I waited outside the door. Light from the street filtered in from the small window above the washing machine and softly illuminated the dusty strands of cobwebs between the pipes on the ceiling. As difficult as it was for me to imagine Parrish sleeping with a guy, I had much more trouble seeing him going down the aisle.
When he finally stepped out of the room, he had two white-gold rings in his hand.
I couldn't help but go all girly when he offered me one. "Oh, Parrish, it's gorgeous!"
He seemed proud. "Black Hills gold."
Taking my hand in his, Parrish slipped the band on my ring finger. My heart did a strange flip-flop watching the intense solemnity with which he performed the traditional ritual. The ring was a size or so too big, but it glittered enchantingly against my skin. I splayed my fingers to admire it.
He started to put the other band on his own finger, but I closed my hand over his. "Let me do it," I said. At first I didn't think Parrish would let go, so I added. "Please. I want to."
Releasing the ring, he gave it to me. We faced each other, and I took his hand in mine. With trembling fingers I slipped the ring smoothly over his knuckle.
Parrish said nothing. I wasn't even sure he was breathing.
"Do you think, after all this is over… ? I mean, would it be okay if I kept this?" I asked. "I know it's not mine, it's just that it would always remind me of you and if you have to be gone for a long time, I'd really like…" Before I could finish my thought, I felt his hand cup my chin and I was pulled into a soft but heartfelt kiss.
"I have to go, or I never will."
I nodded. There were a thousand things I wanted to say, but the only thing that came out was, "You should wear a coat. It's cold out."
He gave me a fierce, final kiss.
When he released me it was sudden, almost like a push.
In absence of his arms, I held myself. He grabbed his jacket from a hook just inside the door. I watched him shrug into that worn, familiar leather and thought about all the times I had snuggled against it. "When… ? I mean, you're not going to let them shoot you in my front yard, are you?"
"Actually, I'm going out the back," he said with a crooked smile. When I didn't return it, he added, "No, Garnet, my love, there won't be a shoot-out here. I suspect they'll follow me around downtown for a while and then decide to approach me. That's when I plan to get belligerent and run. I'll give chase for a while, draw them away, and make them convinced of my guilt and desperation."
He looked at the stairs, but didn't make a move to leave.
"So, this is it, then," I said.
"So it is."
Pretending it needed adjusting, I reached out to fiddle with the zipper of his coat. "I really wish that I… I'm going to miss you."
Parrish said nothing, just shrugged out of my grip and walked away. Tears filled my eyes as I followed his progress up the steps. The screen door squeaked on rusty hinges, and then snapped shut. Cold October air brushed my cheek.
* * * *
When a spider dropped into my hair, I brushed at the ticklish, silken strands of its web until I was certain it was elsewhere. I blinked in the darkness. I realized I'd been standing in the basement, staring at the door, for over twenty minutes. Wiping at my eyes with my knuckle, I headed back upstairs. I doubted I could sleep. I wanted to go somewhere, do something, but what?
I crept to the front hallway and peeked out the main door. I had to stand on my tiptoes to see out through the narrow leaded glass. I couldn't spot the van anywhere, but I wasn't convinced that didn't mean my apartment wasn't still being watched.
"They're totally gone, man."
I jumped at the sound of the gravely, groggy voice.
Sticking out from the doorway to the first-floor apartment was a mop of stringy, sun-bleached blond hair. A thin, angular face erupted in odd bits of hair—dark sideburns and a scraggly soul patch. I could barely see his eyes, though given the strong herbal scent wafting from the door, I suspected his pupils would be wildly dilated.
"Dude," he said slowly, as if I were the addled one. "I'm telling you the feebs have vacated, vamoosed. It's all clear. Back to business as usual." For some reason, this declaration made him laugh a scratchy sort of evil chuckle.
"Uh. Okay, thanks, neighbor," I said.
He nodded sagely, flashed me the peace sign, and disappeared back into his hole.
Wow. I'd never actually spoken to my neighbor before. Weirdly, our brief, cryptic exchange actually made me more warmly disposed toward the guy. I shook my head and snuck back upstairs.
I thought about turning on the light when I got in, but I couldn't quite bring myself to trust stoner boy. As I headed to the bedroom to get a few more candles, I noticed my answering machine was an insistent red flash in the darkness.
The first call was from my mother—who complained about having to track down this number through a series of my old friends—wanting to let me know that they might have to sell the farm. I rolled my eyes at that, she went through this panic every other year, it seemed. Also, she added, a very nice-looking FBI fellow came to chat a couple of weeks ago, and I shouldn't worry because she and dad had "kept things cool."
Typical of my mother to consider the FBI visit as an afterthought. She wasn't being coy, she'd probably forgotten all about it ten seconds after the door closed on Dominguez. The truth? Let's just say more than the eggs were organic on my parent's farm.
My folks were also stoners.
Most of the time they were pretty high functioning. They successfully ran an egg ranch, after all. Having fried a lot of synapses over the years, interpersonal relationships, however, were not their forte. When everything went down last Halloween, I'd called to let my folks know I was alive but needed to keep it a secret. For my efforts I got a dazed "cool," and a suggestion that if I wanted to keep in touch I should use the P.O. box they'd set up in one of their more paranoid moments.
I didn't really write, except on birthdays. I loved them, but considered myself benignly estranged. Still, if Mom made the effort to call, I should return the favor just to let her know that I was okay—well, I thought, maybe I should wait a bit to make sure that was true.
The next several calls were from Sebastian, at least I assumed they were. It sounded like his angry growl.
I grabbed the phone and hit speed dial. When he picked up, I blurted, "Don't be mad. Parrish is gone. For good."
Sebastian said nothing.
The sound of my own breathing was loud in the receiver, and it made me wonder who could be listening in. "Look, maybe you could come over later?"
"I could come now."
"No," I said. "I know you're going to think I'm shutting you out again, but… I need, oh, Great Goddess," I said, hating myself for having to resort to therapy speak, "I need time to process, okay?"
"Sure," he said, and I wished
I could see his expression as he said it because his voice was either resolved or flat. "I respect that."
"Listen, I want to tell you about this," I said sincerely. "But, not on the phone, you know?"
He laughed softly. "I lived through the sixties. I know."
I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but I liked the smile I could hear in his voice. "How about you come over in a couple of hours?"
"I'll be there."
"Great," I said, and we hung up.
I kicked around the apartment for a few aimless minutes, then decided what I really needed was a walk. Grabbing my long leather coat, I headed down the stairs and out the door. After checking down the block for cars or vans that looked government-issue, I decided I'd try to find some place to eat. It was after ten, so my options were becoming limited. I could always head back toward State Street and do bar food. As a vegetarian, that sometimes meant I got the onion rings and pretended I didn't know they'd been fried in animal fat. Completely ignoring my politics, my stomach growled.
The residential streets were quiet. As I passed two-story Victorians, bright interior lights showed me glimpses of other people's lives—IKEA furniture and abstract prints; flickering bluish light of a television set; warm yellow walls, folksy pottery and handcrafted bookshelves.
I kicked at the leaves that had gathered at the edge of the sidewalk, making them rustle. The wind was crisp, the kind of temperature that snapped your eyes wide open and brought a blush to your cheeks. Dogs barked through cedar fences. A stray cat slunk low under a parked car.
Somewhere in the distance I heard the roar of a motorcycle, and I thought about Parrish. Beneath my shirt, the gold ring felt cold and smooth against my skin. I hoped his crazy plan worked. What if the FBI never thought to call me? I mean, unless he managed to croak out, "For Goddess's sake, call my fiancée, Garnet," why would they think of me? As soon as I got somewhere with a phone, I'd call Dominguez and tell him Parrish had run off and I was worried he'd do something stupid (which he had), and then maybe, just maybe, he'd get word to me if—when Parrish pretended to take a swan dive.
Taped to the porch window of one of the houses I passed was a Dollar Store cardboard version of a vampire, complete with widow's peak and blood dripping from his fangs. He stared at me with dark-rimmed eyes.
I should have laughed at the ridiculousness of the thing, but instead I just felt sad. "Don't get yourself really killed," I told it.
"Ha. Ha."
The figure of a crow perching atop the streetlamp was just barely discernable in the evening gloom.
I stopped walking to stare at it accusingly. "You've been watching me."
It glided down into the soft pool of light and hopped onto a pile of leaves left on the boulevard. Cocking its head, it gave me that inscrutable, impenetrable, beady-eyed stare crows have perfected.
"You creep me out. Deeply," I told it, intending to continue on my way to the bar.
It fluttered ahead of me to the next streetlamp. It waited for me to catch up, then took off to a street I hadn't intended to go down. Sitting where I could see it, it cawed noisily.
Clearly, I was supposed to follow it.
I hesitated. I had no idea whose "side" this crow was on. That it was a tool of the voodoo priest seemed pretty likely, but it hadn't done anything specifically to harm me, yet. I was curious enough that I wanted to know where it would lead me, but sensible enough to think maybe dinner and beer was the better idea.
The crow noticed my indecision and hopped impatiently. I shook my head at it and pointed in the direction of my dinner. Taking a broad jump into the air, it swooped just past my head, making me duck. If I didn't comply, the damned thing was going to herd me like some demented, winged sheepdog.
"All right! All right!" I told it. "I'll go."
We played the streetlight game for several blocks. Then, I thought I lost sight of it when we came to Regent. A gas station's floodlights cast a surreal brightness over the entire corner of the block. I scanned for black feathers between the brightly colored pumps and advertisements for cigarettes and beer. I squinted at the sloped roof, but all I saw was dark sky.
Not knowing what else to do, I kept walking. Just past the driveway and outside of the range of the service station's artificial daylight, the crow cawed, startling me. It perched on a bus-stop sign. I paused, waiting for it to show me where to go next. As I looked up at it, it started to preen its pinfeathers.
I glanced at the bench and then at the bird. "You want me to take the bus?"
The crow bobbed its whole body in an affirmative.
Well, I thought as I sat down, I guess I should be relieved the voodoo sorcerer wasn't my neighbor. The chill of the plastic bench slats penetrated through a rip in the thigh of my jeans. I wondered how long I would give this silly adventure before I took my chances against the crow's beak and talons.
With the squeak and hiss of well-worn brakes, the bus announced its arrival. I fished the appropriate change out of my purse and got on. The bus driver eyed me as though he thought my kind was trouble. Even so, he managed a pleasant enough greeting, which I returned, as I found a seat near the front. The doors sighed shut. Through the window, I watched the crow take wing.
When the bus lurched back into the flow of traffic, I wondered how I was supposed to know where to get off. We sped past darkened strip malls, murky bars, and flickering neon signs on tattoo parlors. I pressed my nose to the window. I thought I spotted the flat expanse of wings soaring through the parking lot of a chain grocery store, but I couldn't be sure.
What was I doing here, anyway? Parrish was off doing Goddess knew what to try to get himself killed. I wanted to be there, not riding around on a dingy bus headed south of the Beltline. What I'd really rather be doing was helping Parrish somehow. I felt so useless, yet so responsible for all his trouble. Though I wasn't much for prayer, I decided to say a quick one to Athena. I'd felt Her presence touch me in the past when I was desperately in need of protection, and Her association with justice seemed appropriate somehow.
"Shield him," I pleaded. "Take him under your aegis."
I let out a breath, hoping to calm myself. Instead, my feet tapped, restless to be doing something, going somewhere. Oh, fuck it, I thought, sitting back against the metal headrest. I'm getting off at the next restaurant I see—even if it's a McDonald's.
There was only one other person on the bus. A woman wearing a gray, hooded sweater sat a few seats in front of me on the opposite side. Her head nodded in rhythm to each bump and jostle, as if she were asleep. On impulse, I squinted at her. In the weird too-bright/not-quite-light-enough glow of the bus, it was difficult to read her aura. One thing was for damn certain, there wasn't enough of it. She was dead. Or nearly so.
Zombie.
Well. That was certainly convenient.
I glanced at the window, searching for the crow again. All I saw was my own reflection against the darkened glass.
Sitting forward in my seat, I rested my forearms against the seats in front of me. I buried my nose in leather sleeves, worrying. I'd originally assumed the crow was a spy. I'd known plenty of Witches, particularly those who practiced shamanism, who could, in a sense, become completely merged with an animal for short periods. Watching and Seeing, however, were two different things. To be able to sense the pattern of the universe, to predict that the zombie would be on this bus and arrange for me to also be there… well, that was the sort of thing I usually chalked up to the Goddess Herself.
You know, coincidence. Destiny. Fate.
I suddenly got that gut rattling sense that I was supposed to be here and that if the crow worked for anyone, it was for Her.
The zombie dinged the stop-request strip. She stood up very deliberately as the bus jerked to a halt. We were in a neighborhood I didn't recognize. The doors opened in front of a concrete-block, industrial apartment complex. As the zombie shuffled out the front, I had plenty of time to slip out the back door.
The bus took of
f with a warm waft of diesel fumes. I loitered beside a scraggly ginkgo. The tree's trunk was only as big around as a soda can, and it wobbled precariously when I leaned against it. I tried to look inconspicuous, but I needn't have bothered. The zombie never even glanced in my direction; she just plodded forward one laborious step at a time. I followed, and quickly realized that by walking my normal speed I'd outpace her in a matter of seconds. When I tried to match her gait, it was patently clear I was trailing her.
I thought about trying to act drunk, but when I tried it, I just felt silly, and then I just looked like some kind of wino detective.
I wasn't even sure it mattered. So far, the zombie paid no attention to me. For all I knew, I could just walk up to her and strike up a conversation as she led me back to the voodoo priest's lair. If that was even where she was going.
Bits of broken glass crunched underfoot as we walked. The sidewalks were concrete and asphalt all the way to the curb. A few holes had been cut for mountain ash saplings that, despite the wrought-iron grate surrounding their trunks, were heavy with clusters of berries. The streetlights had become the kind you find on the highway, with halogen bulbs that gave everything a kind of greenish tint and threw elongated shadows at my feet.
She turned, cutting across an elementary school playground. I hung back by the monkey bars as she continued across the crabgrass-and-sandbur-speckled baseball field. Beyond the chain-link fence, the streetlamps became scarce. I dashed across the hard-packed ground before the darkness swallowed her.
The houses were all postwar Cape Cods packed together in tight rows. Lawn maintenance, however, appeared to be optional. Dandelion was the neighborhood flower of choice, and trash trees like mulberry and buckthorn grew in abundance, crowding walkways and foundations.
Even so, occasionally one of the residences would be decked out for Halloween and be otherwise clearly well loved, featuring neat little gardens and painted concrete gnomes. It was into one of these that the zombie turned. Two pink flamingos guarded a raised flowerbed, and bright plastic orange garbage bags with jack-o'-lantern faces ringed the house.
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