The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One

by Val St. Crowe

  * * *

  The weekend passes without incident. I have to get the guys working in the theater district in the city since we can’t seem to sell outside the play anymore. I spend time working with them. It makes me a little nervous, because I’ll be stuck performing while they’re out there, and we won’t be close like we have been. By this time, however, my guys are seasoned charm sellers. They seem to take to it easily.

  Brice helps me by making more charms, but we don’t talk much. The scratches on his face have mostly healed up. My face is another story, of course. I have to drown myself in stage makeup to make myself look presentable as Hecate. He said something to me before I left his house about not being able to handle my world. I’m glad, because I don’t want Brice to be in danger. But I can’t help but feeling a little pang when he doesn’t seek me out backstage. I tell myself to ignore it. I do my best.

  Nonna doesn’t say anything about the charms or the chants. I don’t ask. It’s as if the whole thing never happened. I come home on time every night. I try to be a good granddaughter.

  Vincent stays clear of me for the most part. He is still not bringing in as much money as I am, but he brought in a lot more last week than he had before. I can tell he resents my success, but he doesn’t meet my eyes when we are in the same room. I’d like to believe that the whole thing is over, but I can’t imagine Vincent giving up so easily. If he’d beaten me with his take last week, it might be one thing. The fact I’m still kicking his ass has to irk him, though. I’m sure of it.

  Monday rolls around, and I’m glad to have a couple nights off from the play. I catch up on television and help Nonna with the dinner dishes. Everything feels like it’s returned to normal, even though I’m sure everything’s more screwed up than it’s ever been before.

  When the phone rings around 11:00 Monday night, I answer it feeling like something bad has to have happened. But it’s only Brice. He’s drunk.

  “Olivia, I’m at a party. I need a ride home,” he slurs.

  “Get someone at the party to drive you,” I say. Why is he calling me?

  “Everyone else is drunk.”

  I sigh. “Where are you?”

  He tells me.

  I can’t believe it. “Do you realize what time it’s going to be by the time I drive out there and pick you up?”

  “That’s why I need a ride. It’s getting late.”

  The irresponsibility of the boy is appalling. Doesn’t he know what will happen to all of the people at the party if he changes into a berserker? “How could you do this?”

  He’s sarcastic. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that my life is completely shitty right now makes me want to be wasted drunk. Maybe I just don’t care.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I mutter. I slam down the phone.

  Nonna sees me gathering up my keys to leave. “It’s that boy, isn’t it?” she asks.

  I don’t even answer. I could kill him. “I’ve got to take care of something,” I tell Nonna.

  It takes me nearly half an hour to drive out to this party that Brice is at. I pull into a house in a suburban neighborhood. There are people smoking cigarettes on the lawn. I can hear the music floating out of the house. It’s loud and obnoxious. I don’t see Brice anywhere. I have to park the car and go into the house. Inside, the dimly lit rooms are packed with bodies. Every available surface is crowded with beer bottles and empty glasses. I weave my way into the house, yelling for Brice. Eventually, I find him in the kitchen. He is slumped over the counter, his hand still clutching a beer. I shake him until he wakes up.

  He is so drunk that he can barely focus his eyes on me, but when he realizes who I am, he seems glad to see me. “Olivia. Thank you so much. I didn’t have anyone else to call. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Funny. Didn’t I just say the same thing to him the other day? “Can you walk?” I ask him.

  He can, sort of. We manage to make it back to my car with Brice leaning against me the entire way. I throw him into the passenger side and get in. As I start the car, I say, “If you’re going to throw up, tell me, so I can pull over.”

  Brice hiccups. “I never throw up anymore. I’m not an amateur.”

  Wonderful. I drive. I don’t speak to him. I’m extremely pissed off at him. Why would he do something so absolutely stupid?

  Brice slouches in the other seat, resting his head against the window. “You’re like the most amazing girl in the universe, do you know that?”

  “Picking up your drunk ass does not make me amazing. I’m only here because I don’t want you to change and hurt all those people.”

  “That’s not why I think you’re amazing,” he says. “Although, I do appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

  I keep my eyes on the road. We’re running out of time. I need to get Brice back to his house as soon as I can.

  “You think all these girls were noticing me in school,” Brice says. His voice is loose the way the drunk people often sound. “But you don’t realize that people were noticing you too. That I was noticing you. We were in Grease together junior year. And you were one of the pink ladies, and I used to—”

  “Yeah, and you were Danny Zuko and Megan was Sandra Dee. You were the lead in all our shows. I’ve always been in the teeny tiny role in the background.”

  “It doesn’t mean I didn’t notice you,” he says. “And I was just lucky in high school getting those roles. Small pond and all that. Guys have less competition in school. All the girls want to be in the play, but none of the guys do.”

  I guess he’s right. I mean, it’s true that every guy who tried out for Grease got cast, but at least ten or twelve girls didn’t make the cut. I was lucky to have a speaking role. “Do you have a point here, Brice?”

  “Just that I noticed you. That I thought you were pretty. That the thing in the dugout wasn’t like what you thought.”

  I grip the steering wheel tighter. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

  “I think about it a lot,” he says. “I think about you a lot. The way it felt to touch you. The way you sighed when I—”

  “Stop it, Brice. You’re making me uncomfortable. I was drunk then, and you are drunk now. Let’s try to learn from our mistakes and not do or say things we regret.”

  “You regret it?” He sounds crushed.

  “I—”

  “No, of course you do. It must have been horrible, me transforming like that. You must find me disgusting and terrifying.”

  “I don’t think that,” I say. And I don’t, even though maybe I should. But Brice is just...Brice. He’s a friend, now. A really good friend. I do care about him, or I wouldn’t be out here picking him up.

  “Now that I’m what I am, you could never love me. And I love you, Olivia. I think you are beautiful and strong. And it’s hopeless, because I’m a monster now. I’m tainted and worthless.”

  I glance at Brice. “You don’t love me.” Then I look back at the road.

  “I do,” he says. “It’s stupid, I know. I can’t be with you, anyway. Even if I weren’t a berserker, you’re a freaking gangster. I couldn’t ever date a gangster.”

  “I’m not a gangster.”

  “You’re jettatori, then. Better term? And besides, I think that one time, you admitted to me that you kill people. Which is insane. So I shouldn’t love you. It’s stupid and pointless. But I do. Oh my God, I do.”

  I’m not sure what to do about this, exactly. I think most girls are supposed to like it when boys say they love them. Especially when the boy who’s saying it is as gorgeous as Brice is, when he gets that sparkly look in his eyes when he gets excited about something, and when his kisses make me feel all tingly inside. But Brice is just drunk. And I’m...

  “If things were different,” he says. “If you weren’t trying to take over the Calabrese family, and I wasn’t a berserker, do you think you might have...we might have...?”

  I chew on my lip. “Yes,” I say before I can think about it.
>
  The word just hangs in the air there, neither of us saying anything else. I can hear it echo in my head over and over. It seems so huge. I wish I hadn’t said it. It makes everything seem different, and boys are something I’ve never really thought about before. I don’t have time for them. What’s the point in thinking about what it would be like if things were different? They aren’t different.

  “Olivia,” Brice starts to say, but he breaks off with a howl of pain.

  Crap. I check the clock in the car. It says 11:58. I’m still ten minutes from Brice’s house. We aren’t going to make it in time. I glance sideways at Brice, who is writhing in the seat next to me. I push the gas pedal down. I’ve got to go faster.

  “I’m sorry,” Brice manages. “This is my fault.”

  He’s damned right it’s his fault, but it hardly matters now. I’m in a speeding car with a man who’s shifting into a berserker in the passenger seat. What am I going to do?

  I can’t get Brice home, so where can I take him that’s closer? We’re only a few minutes from the deli, and there’s a storage closet in the back room. It’s got a big bolt lock on it, because sometimes we store money in there before we count it and put it in the safe.

  Next to me, Brice screams.

  I’m going too fast to take my eyes off the road and look at him. I’ve got to make it two blocks before I can turn onto the street the deli’s on. I’m going way over the speed limit. Ahead of me, a stop light turns red.

  I slam on the brakes, screeching to a halt.

  I turn to look at Brice. His head is thrown back against the seat. His eyes have rolled up in his head. His entire body is wracked with spasms. There is a horrid shrieking noise coming out of his mouth.

  I look back at the light. Still red.

  Brice’s limbs flail out striking the dashboard of the car and the window. He makes a gurgling sound in his throat. Then he vaults upright. He turns his face towards me slowly, an expression of gleeful rage all over him.

  Screw the light. I switch my foot to the gas pedal and the car lurches forward.

  Brice’s arm swings around, and he grasps me by the throat.

  I turn onto the street the deli’s on.

  Brice’s fingers squeeze around my neck. I can’t breathe.

  I pull into the deli parking lot, one hand scrabbling at Brice’s fingers, trying to yank them away. I park the car—it’s not straight in the parking space—and tear the keys out of the ignition.

  My lungs are screaming for air.

  I make a fist with my keys jutting out between my fingers, like I did last time. But this time, I punch Brice in the face as hard as I can. The keys bite into the flesh of his cheek. Blood wells up.

  Brice whimpers and lets me go.

  I throw open the door the car and tumble outside. I take two steps to steady myself, and then I’m running again.

  I hear Brice crawling out of the car behind me. He is roaring again, the way berserkers do. He sounds like a wild animal. I don’t like it.

  As I run, I sort through the keys in one hand, feeling for the key to the deli.

  Brice is right behind me.

  I slam into the back door, fitting the key into the lock. I’m turning the key and opening the door when Brice tackles me, sending us both through the open door.

  We struggle on the ground, me on my back, Brice on top of me. He pins me with his legs. He wrenches my arms above my head. He snarls, his face so twisted, he hardly looks like himself. And then he lowers his teeth to my neck.

  God no. “Most glorious Prince of the Celestial Host, Saint Michael the Archangel—”

  Brice’s teeth break the skin of my throat. I scream.

  “—defend us in the conflict which we have to sustain against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places,” I continue, my voice shrill.

  It’s not working. Brice is still at my neck. His teeth scrape against my collarbone.

  I fight to free one of my arms. I can’t. I scream another benedetta spell at him. “In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God, of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul, and all the Saints, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil!”

  Brice pauses for a second, lifting his head. Why didn’t I think to bring my grandmother’s handcuffs with me?

  “Cursed dragon,” I spit in his face, “we adjure you by the living God and by the true God and by the holy God.”

  Brice’s grip on my arms loosens. He gives me a slack jawed look, as if he is mesmerized by my words.

  “Retreat Satan!” I yank my arms out of his grasp and slide my body away from him. “Cede the place to Christ in whom you have found none of your works.”

  I scramble to my feet. Brice looks up at me, his mouth open. He looks like a dog that’s just been punished. I run to the storage closet and open the door. “Get in the closet, Brice beast,” I say.

  He crawls forward.

  “That’s it. Come to the closet.”

  Suddenly he springs at me, hurtling through the air for me with his arms outstretched.

  I drop flat against the ground, and he sails over me into the closet.

  I slam the door after him, fastening the bolt. Then I sit against the door and catch my breath. My neck is bleeding. I touch it. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I think it over and over again until it’s less a swear and more a prayer. Thank God I’m okay. Brice could have killed me. Brice almost ripped my throat out. Oh God. Oh God.

  I rest my head against the door, my breath still coming in gasps. And then...I lose time. I think I pass out.