Love Charms

by Multiple

  *

  Dread rolled in my stomach, heavy as a bowling ball, the closer I got to Mark’s parents’ house. It wouldn’t be so bad if his mother wasn’t a Dryad. They were temperamental creatures given to fits of childish rage and they took their grudges to extremes. The large, twisted oak outside their house never missed an opportunity to hit me with acorns, twigs, and whatever else it could lay its gnarled branches on. To my face, Celia was polite with a side of frigid, but her oak never held back. Visiting Mark’s parents was kind of like running a passive-aggressive, codependent gauntlet.

  Trying not to dwell on the ordeal ahead of me, I cranked up the radio, blaring some cheerful pop music by a group called the Diaphanous Sidhe, whatever that meant. The music, full of soaring flutes and heavy bass, swirled through me and I willed my mind to go blank. Things were easier the less I thought. Blanking out had been the key to survival the first few months after the accident. That and a big bottle of narcotic painkillers.

  God, I missed those pills. They had been the only upside to my cracked ribs.

  I took a deep breath as recommended by the court appointed social worker who had been assigned to me during the trial. Pills were not the answer. Or so she had said. She’d probably never tried any.

  To distract myself, I attempted to sing along to whatever the Diaphanous Sidhe were wailing about. Something about fairies and oral sex with multiple partners. A bit too explicit for my tastes. I switched stations and found one featuring artists from the fifties, back before the Sidhe and everything else came out of the closet. Back when all we had were humans. Plain old humans. The good old days some would say. Some people would’ve rather not helped the Sidhe combat the human virus that almost wiped them out and forced them to reveal themselves.

  At the same time, some of the Sidhe weren’t happy about going public, even if it saved their lives. Me, personally, I liked the diversity, but, on the other hand, having an irate oak tree spit acorns at me was an unanticipated negative.

  Mark had kept his mother a secret for a long time, which I understood. Dryads had a reputation of having unsavory appetites for humans. There were so many prejudices and half-truths about the non-humans, you had to be careful who you shared your secrets with.

  Fifty years since the Great Coming Out and we still didn’t have a good handle on who was or wasn’t dangerous. Dryads didn’t eat humans, but they were bitchier than a pmsing cheerleading squad. But most humans didn’t know that and believed the myths, which fed a strong anti-Sidhe movement complete with protests and riots. That was the problem with so much diversity, it made room for a lot of friction.

  I turned into the meandering driveway leading to the historical white colonial Mark’s parent’s lived in, and eyed the oak on the front lawn, sizing up my opponent. Over the past few months I had tried every parking spot I could think of, hoping to somehow be out of range. Damned if the thing didn’t get me every time. Today, I took the direct approach and parked right under it.

  Bring it on, bitch.

  The second I turned off the engine, the tree deluged my car with leaves, twigs, and the ever present acorns. Some of the acorns hit the windshield so hard, it sounded like gun shots ricocheting off the glass. I rested my head on the steering wheel and waited for it to stop. Once things seemed to quiet down, I opened my door, but knew better than to get out. Sure enough, another tempest of debris rained down on my car. Again, I waited for things to calm down.

  Hoping I had out-waited it, I got out of the car, shut the door, and trotted to the porch steps. Behind me, the branches of the oak tree rattled, I think in annoyance, as all it could muster to throw at me were some mildewed leaves, which fell short of their mark. For once, it would appear I had outsmarted the tree. I couldn’t keep from grinning at the thought.

  Mark’s mother opened the door before I could knock, an insincere smile on her petite, china doll face. With her raven hair and smooth skin, she looked about twelve-years-old. In reality, she was probably more like two hundred. Oak trees lived for a long time. “Hello, dear. So lovely to see you.”

  “Celia.” I inclined my head in greeting and said nothing more. I refused to exchange pleasantries and act as if we liked each other when we both knew that, if she didn’t need me to contact her son’s ghost, her oak would do more than throw organic missiles at me. Dryads with a grudge could be dangerous. A Dryad once imprisoned her adulterous husband inside her tree alive. They said you could hear him screaming on windless nights…three hundred years later. Add vindictive to the list of Dryad character traits. Magic coupled with a bad temper was never a good combination.

  “Have you taken a second job, dear?” Celia asked as I crossed the threshold into the marble floored foyer.

  I gave her a puzzled look. “No. Why?”

  “Every time you’re here you wear black pants and white shirt, like a waiter. I wondered if money was tight, that’s all.” She shut the door behind me.

  I kept my voice neutral, but already the tension crept up my shoulders to sit heavy on the back of my neck. “No, this outfit is just comfortable.”

  She laughed and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of her black sheath dress. As usual her outfit was impeccable. Probably new and definitely designer. Worse, she had a better figure than I did. There wasn’t an extra ounce of body fat on her tiny frame and, while I didn’t know the exact number, I did know I had more than a few ounces of pudge. “I see. I guess I’m showing my age. In my day, a woman wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the same dress twice at a social function.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t involve a snide remark about her age and decided to let it pass.

  When it became apparent I wouldn’t take to her bait—I never did—Celia sighed and almost seemed disappointed. “Shall we go to the study? Richard is waiting for us.”

  We left the foyer as Celia lead the way down a wood-paneled hallway. With her back to me, I took the opportunity to look for Mark, wondering when he would make his appearance. He didn’t seem to enjoy these familial visits any more than I did, never manifesting until the last minute, and hovering as far away from his parents as possible.

  In the study, Mark’s father rose, with the aid of a cane, from a brass-tacked leather armchair to greet me. “Sofia, good to see you.” He folded me into a quick one-armed hug.

  “How are you, Richard?” I gave him a genuine smile. We had always gotten along, at least when Celia wasn’t mucking things up. He looked worn. Tired. Bags hung under his eyes, and the wrinkles on his flushed face ran deeper than I remembered.

  “Can’t complain.” Richard settled back into his leather easy chair. He picked up a glass and held it up, displaying the liquid amber contents. “Care for some scotch?”

  Celia’s petite form brushed past me, and she took the glass from him. “Richard, it’s too early to drink. What is this, your third bottle in as many days?” She set the glass on the fireplace mantle, out of his reach.

  “I’m an old man. If I want to drink scotch, I’ll drink scotch. If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Now give me my glass back and pour for Sofia.”

  I shook my head and held up a hand. “No thanks, I’m fine. I’m driving, anyway.” I perched on the Queen Anne love seat opposite him, absently running a hand across the blue silk upholstery. “And you know, oddly enough, Mark isn’t here, so I may not be staying long.” I glanced around the room, looking for Mark. Nothing. Just rows of bookcases filled with books. Richard was a book collector and had an extensive collection of first editions. He’d even bought a few from my shop.

  Celia stopped short. “What do you mean, Mark isn’t here?”

  “I meant, he’s not with us,” I said, making each word distinct.

  “And why not?” Celia resumed walking, and set the glass on the end table next to Richard. “Why wouldn’t he be here?” Her chin jutted out and her dark eyes glittered with anger.

  “I don’t know why he’s not here. I haven’t seen him since last night.”
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  “Well, bring him here right now. I want to talk to my son!” Celia scanned the room, her eyes narrow slits, as if it would enable her to see Mark.

  “Is there anything you can do?” Richard asked.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t really have much experience with this. I don’t think even Mark controls when he appears.” I gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry.”

  “I see,” was all he said. He tipped his head back and swallowed the contents of his glass in one gulp. He held up his empty glass to Celia. “More scotch, please.”

  “How can you think about alcohol at a time like this? Our son is not here.” Celia’s voice was shrill. Richard did not respond and continued to hold his glass up until Celia snatched it from him with a dirty look and went to pour him more booze.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. It was ten in the morning, a little early for copious amounts of scotch. Even by my relaxed standards.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Clouded blue eyes dared me to say anything different.

  I remembered the pills and how they made life bearable. Not worth living, nothing made life worth living in the first few weeks after Mark’s death. The pills just made it so that suicide sounded like too much work. They also wiped out active thought, allowing me to exist in a state of suspended animation. Who was I to deny Richard’s right to self-medicate? Especially considering I knew firsthand how much it helped. I had bottles of my own at home. So, I said nothing more and took Richard at his word.

  Celia returned with a full glass and thrust it into her husband’s hand. Turning to me she said, “Is Mark here now?”

  I shook my head.

  “Can’t you call him?” She crossed her arms and all but tapped her toe in annoyance.

  “It doesn’t seem to work that way.”

  “How is it you only know what doesn’t work?” Celia went to sit in the chair next to her husband.

  “It’s trial and error. So far everything I’ve tried hasn’t worked.” Even Mark didn’t understand how and why he manifested. I’d asked once and he had no answer other than it wasn’t always under his direct control whether he made an appearance or not.

  “It figures he wouldn’t show on the day I had something important to say.”

  “What is it, dear?” Richard asked.

  Celia fidgeted in the chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Well, I really wanted Mark to be here, but I guess there’s no point in waiting if Sofia can’t conjure him up.” She uncrossed her legs and straightened in her seat. “I’m pregnant.”

  Both Richard and I openly gaped at her.

  “Who is the father?” Richard pushed himself to his feet, glass still in hand. Scotch sloshed over the rim and down the side to drip on the Persian carpets beneath.

  “You, you nincompoop,” Celia said.

  “Me?” Richard sat down so fast, his knees must have given out on him at the shock.

  “Yes, you.”

  “I th—thought we couldn’t…” He drained his drink in one loud gulp.

  “Of course we can. Dryads are fertile throughout their life span, unlike human women.” Celia shot me a look that let me see her disdain for human fertility. Never mind that her own husband was human. Logic never applied to Celia.

  “But I’m seventy years old. What if I’m not around much longer?”

  “Well, it’s not like I planned this. We’ve certainly learned to expect the unexpected. I never thought my son would pass before me.” Another look of disdain came my way.

  “We’re going to have a baby. A baby.” Richard shook his head, his eyes wide.

  Celia ignored him and addressed me, “So you can see why I would want to talk to Mark today. I wanted to tell him he was going to have a little sister.”

  “A sister,” Richard repeated with a smile.

  “Yes, it’s a girl.” Celia patted her stomach. She couldn’t be too far along, her stomach was still flat.

  “I’m going to be a father. Again.” There was a note of wonder in his voice. Happy wonder.

  I stood and went to kiss Richard on the cheek. “Congratulations.” I offered a hand to Celia, but she didn’t take it.

  “Are you sure Mark isn’t here?” Celia craned her neck and surveyed the room again.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. If I see him I’ll tell him the news.” I dropped my hand, and, feeling superfluous, edged toward the door. “Well, I imagine you have a lot to talk about, I’ll leave you to it. If Mark pops up, I’ll let you know. Perhaps we can do this another time.”

  “Yes, I think it’s best if you leave. Richard and I have plans to make.” Celia reached over and grasped her husband’s hand in hers. He beamed a smile of pure joy at her and brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. “Be a dear and show yourself out. You know the way.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand, too busy smiling at Richard to bother to make eye contact with me.

  I quietly shut the study door behind me and made my way out the front door. The oak tree had rained more debris down on the jeep while I’d been inside, covering the roof in a pile of wet leaves. I walked to my car in a zigzag pattern, breaking into a run when the first acorn hit me squarely on the head. The tree had clearly replenished its store of organic missiles. By the time I unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat, I was out of breath but unscathed and not bleeding for once. A victory. No homicide by oak for me.

  Halfway home, Mark popped into the passenger seat. “Hey, Sofi. How’s it going?”

  I glared at him. “Where the hell were you today? Your parents were expecting you.”

  Mark shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to visit. It doesn’t seem to be helping them cope.”

  “So you decided, by yourself, with no notice to me, that you weren’t going to show up today?” I muttered a swear word under my breath. “You could have saved me a lot of time, not to mention, spared me the delightful presence of your mother.”

  “Sorry about that.” He gave me a contrite smile.

  I continued to glare at him. A smile wasn’t going to cut it. “Your mother really wanted to talk to you today.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh?” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, but he had turned away from me to look out the window.

  “I know she’s pregnant,” he said, his voice flat.

  My eyes widened. “How?”

  “I visit them every so often. I overheard her talking to a friend.”

  “So you know about your sister.” I slowed to a stop at a red light.

  “Half-sister.”

  “What?”

  “She’s my half-sister.”

  “You mean, your father…,” I was so shocked, I failed to notice the light had changed. A car honked behind me and I jumped. With a wave to the driver tailgating my rear bumper, I hit the accelerator.

  “Yep, my mother has been having an affair and my father has been drowning himself in scotch.”

  “He knows?” I merged onto the highway that would take me back home, driving like a smart Bostonian and accelerating to eighty to be sure I could get into my lane.

  “Not about the affair. He knows things aren’t right, but I think he believes it’s because of the accident.”

  “Holy crap. She’s not going to tell him either, is she?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Do you want me to tell him?”

  “I don’t know.” He clenched his hands into fists. “I don’t know what to do. It’s like my death has ruined their relationship. They’re falling apart.”

  “Mark, it’s not your fault.”

  “I know, but I still feel guilty.”

  “So do I,” I said, but Mark didn’t hasten to reassure me like he usually did. That stung. It was his forgiveness that kept me going.

  “I just couldn’t face them today. I didn’t know what to say. I can’t pretend everything is okay.” His ghostly face looked troubled and his aura dimmed.

  “I guess I won’t worry about rescheduling with your
parents then.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. At least until I get my head straight on this.” And with that, he disappeared. Again.

  Chapter Four

  Back at my apartment, I pulled a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels out of the cupboard. Just like Richard, I needed something to dull the edges of my life. Up until today, Mark had always been quick to tell me the accident wasn’t my fault. The loss of that assurance stung and I wondered if his feelings were changing, especially considering what was happening with his parents.

  Mark’s death didn’t stop with the funeral, its impact radiated beyond the wake. There was his friend’s wedding that Mark not only missed, but wasn’t best man at, projects left half-done at work now being clumsily picked up by his associates, I had almost gone to jail, and now his mother was pregnant with another man’s baby. The ripple effect of Mark’s passing had been less of a ripple and more of a tsunami. I knocked back shots of whiskey and reminded myself that it had all been a terrible accident. There wasn’t anything I could’ve done differently. Mark knew that. He’d just been distracted by his mother. I didn’t stop drinking until I believed that.

  When my vision not only doubled, but quadrupled, I stumbled to my bedroom, tugging clothes off my body and letting them fall to the floor. Clad only in panties and a T-shirt, I flopped onto the bed. Sleep claimed me before my head hit the pillow.

  I woke to another painfully cheerful day with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. Invoking one of the few perks of being self-employed, I decided to give myself the day off. At some point during the night, I had thrown my covers off and now goose bumps raced up and down my chilled skin. Frowning, I pulled the covers back over my body and up over my head to shield my eyes from the merciless sun. I was cold. Unnaturally so. A vague memory of a dark shape hovering over me and running fingers cold as icicles over my body flashed in my mind.