Something Wicked

by Robin Moray

  Kevin shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "Yeah, yeah, I'm freaking Glinda the Good Witch of the South. So, what? I'm murder-bait, is what you're saying?"

  "Just be careful," she told him, seriously. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you have to actually take care of yourself." And then she ruined everything by ruffling his hair.

  Chapter 4

  Peter flung himself into the driver's seat of the four-wheel-drive and slammed the door in frustration. Again! She had got away again. This was no good. He couldn't keep chasing her, not now she'd left the city. There were too many places of power out here, too many potential sources of magic, and too many escape routes. She had abandoned her lair so he couldn't even track her back there, and he could hardly trap her, not without bait. And he had nothing she wanted.

  Though, perhaps, he could find bait. Obviously she was stalking someone, obviously she had tracked them to that ring of trees in the woods, obviously she had tried and failed to catch them. Whoever they were, if Peter could find them he could lure her out.

  But how cruel would that be? Heartless, even, to use another person as bait. Though, the person in this case was also a witch, hardly a person at all, just another monster stalked by a monster. Did that not make it all right? It was for the greater good. She had to be stopped, before she killed again. And her victim, too, stopped before they could harm an innocent, which inevitably all witches did. Every one of them a monster.

  There had been something, he thought, in the woods. Something familiar but unplaceable. Maybe nothing, though his instincts suggested otherwise and, well, if he'd learned anything it was that ignoring his instincts was a grave error. Ignoring his instincts had got him where he was now, after all. He should know better.

  I'm not ignoring them, he told himself firmly on the drive back into town. I'm simply waiting to act on them until I have more information. And for more information, he would need young Mr Mallory.

  Messers. Mallory New and Used Books was shut, the sign turned to 'closed', but when Peter pushed the door it opened to let him in.

  Again, the shop struck him as instantly calming. It was fitted out with warm, polished wood, the shop-floor sectioned into alcoves by tall bookshelves, softly lit for reading. There were some low stools under the light of the front window surrounding a low table layered with books. Peter did not quite understand the organization of them but it was welcoming, warm, quiet, the scent of something fragrant and floral but in no way cloying hanging in the air. A sanctuary, really, the sort of nest a bookish person might make for himself, to keep the world at bay.

  Kevin was behind the counter, doing something with his phone that took enough of his concentration that he startled at the sound of the shop bell, nearly dropping the thing on the floor. He recovered quickly, though, grinning nervously and tucking his phone away.

  "Hey! Hey. I mean, hi."

  Good gracious, he really was nervous. "Good evening. Ah, am I early?"

  "No, no. Um. Did you want to go?"

  Peter nodded. "I have a car, if you'd like me to drive. Or, if you prefer to?"

  Inexplicably, this made Kevin duck his head, leaning both hands on the counter and shrugging as if trying to hide his face. "No, you can. If you want."

  It wasn't immediately obvious what that was about, so Peter decided not to question it. "All right, then. Shall we?"

  Peter got his first decent look at Kevin when Kevin followed him out into the street, blinking into the autumn sunlight. He was young, carelessly handsome, with short dark hair that sprung up in tight curls from his scalp and green eyes shockingly light against the warm brown of his skin. He had good broad shoulders, and wide hands with heavy knuckles, the muscles of his forearms standing out thick and strong below the rolled-up sleeves of a madras-check shirt. Fit, for someone who worked all day in a bookshop, healthy and vital.

  He caught Peter looking, and his hesitant grin kicked up in the corner, kicking up Peter's pulse with it because when he smiled Peter could taste him, the essence of him, as fragrant and delicious as fine incense, or a rich pastry. Peter could feel it, the pulse of it under his skin, bubbling up in him like water from deep underground, and Peter felt suddenly parched by comparison.

  "This your truck?" Kevin tilted his head toward it. Peter cleared his throat, nodding.

  "Yes. Please, allow me," and he opened the passenger door.

  In the confines of the car, the heady proximity of Kevin's essence was stronger. Pleasant. Very pleasant. Peter permitted himself to enjoy it. No harm in that, surely.

  It was something common to everyone, this basic themselves-ness that lingered inside them, spilling out in moments of excitement. It was this essence that was in witches corrupted, fouled by the foulness of magic, tainted and rotten. The first witch Peter had ever met … he had not been able to sense it then, not until the witch had hurt him, had torn from him his own essence, left him weak and hungry. Then, with some assistance, Peter had learned to sense it, could barely help himself now, sensitive to it in ways no mortal should be, and in witches it always stank, sick and sickening.

  But Kevin … he was bright and healthy, brighter than anyone Peter had ever tasted before, and he tried very hard not to pull on it, not to devour it, as much as he wanted to.

  Once he'd given the first set of directions to head out to a place he called 'The Quarry', Kevin turned, expression endearingly open. "Do you drive a lot?" he asked, curious but well-meant.

  "That would depend on what you measure it against." It was a non-answer, he knew, but really it was a non-question.

  Kevin nodded, chewing his lip. "You like books, then? Since you're a writer, I mean," Kevin said, leaning his head back against the seat and tilting his chin to watch Peter with those light, curious eyes. "You like fiction?"

  Peter did, but—"I don't have as much time as I'd like to read. Since I do, in fact, drive 'a lot'."

  "You can get audio books, though. You can download them. Does this thing play data formats?" Kevin asked, reaching for the stereo.

  Immediately Peter put out a hand to stop him, fingers closing on Kevin's wrist because Miranda had always—

  He was immediately distracted from the thought by the shock of skin against his palm. It was electric, sharp but not unpleasant, and he felt the rush of Kevin's essence bleed into him where he was thirsty for it.

  Aloud, though—"Oh! Excuse me." Peter let him go, fixing the offending hand firmly to the wheel. "I'm sorry. I don't … forgive me. A reflex." He did not explain. He did not need to, but really he did not want to. How could he say, 'Miranda never liked anyone playing with the settings?' without explaining Miranda and this whole mess?

  He saw Kevin surreptitiously rub his wrist where Peter had touched him, and Peter felt guilt rise in his chest. He should not have done that, should know better than to touch anyone, better than to draw from them so deliberately. It was an invasion, when they had not agreed to it, and how could they agree when normal people did not know?

  Kevin was quiet after that, but he gave his directions easily, fingertips tapping some complicated rhythm on the door handle. He was restless, shifting in his seat and glancing up at Peter every few minutes before his eyes darted away again to watch the trees flash by.

  "Um, turn here," he said, at last, and they followed the road down into the valley.

  The Quarry was cut into the side and base of a hill, a great three-quarter sphere like a dug-out scoop of ice-cream about two hundred yards across. The white rock looked naked where it had been cut in, the trees growing up to the lip of the thing, but the stark ugliness of it was ameliorated by the fact that the bowl of the quarry was full of water, pouring in from a fall that ran down the side of the hill.

  It was fenced in by some ineffectual barbed-wire that Kevin held down for Peter to step over. He balanced himself with a hand on Kevin's shoulder; this time the contact was dulled by the layer of cloth but still, the way his essence kissed up to Peter's palm was enough to make him take a moment to co
mpose himself after, walking up to the edge of the pool and filling his lungs with fresh water-rich air.

  "They dug out stone here," Kevin said, quiet and serious. "The conditions were pretty bad. the guy who owned it was sort of famous for being, well, rich, and employing everyone, but then—if you see in town there's a sort of memorial? Used to have a statue of this guy, but after the quarry shut down they just knocked it right off the plinth. Pretty much everyone in Haversham knew someone who died. No-one wanted to look at his face anymore."

  Peter glanced back to see him standing there, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans, watching Peter with an unreadable expression. "Was it a flood?"

  "Yeah. Story goes that they were logging illegally up in the hills, and dumping the offcuts wherever. When the rains were bad the waterways got clogged up with stuff, like a dam. So no-one got any warning, and then, when the dam broke," and Kevin gestured to the great hole in the ground. "A lot of people died. And more people died trying to save them, and salvage tools, and all that." He held his hands up, waggling his fingers mock spookily, a cheeky sort of grin creasing his face. "The bodies are still down there. Sometimes you can hear their ghosts, still mining."

  It was a typical enough story. Ghost stories always went a certain way; there was a tragedy and then the locals found a way to make a shrine of the place, a means of dealing with their lingering grief and shock. Peter had seen it before, was used to the mix of doubt and belief in their voices when they told the story. Sometimes, he supposed, there really were ghosts. He had never seen one himself but Who was he to doubt? when he knew that other more unbelievable things were quite true.

  Kevin, though, didn't exactly sound like that, neither doubtful nor a fervent believer. He said it simply as though it were a fact, though an amusing one, and that too was unusual. Normally, the tellers of ghost stories had at least the edge of skepticism in their voices or a reluctant sort of admission, as though trying to hide how much they did believe it.

  When Peter did not immediately react, Kevin cocked his head on one side and said, "You don't believe me? Well, here, turn around."

  Peter arched an eyebrow but turned anyway, humouring him. Kevin reached for his hands, lip caught between his teeth, lifting and turning them until they were chest-height, palms up. Peter let him, despite the shock of contact bringing Kevin's essence once more up against his hands. He waited for Kevin to release him and stand back, trying not to show anything in his face that might give away how he relished the feel of Kevin's skin.

  "Hold it there. Okay. Now close your eyes."

  "Really?" He couldn't help his amusement. "Must I?"

  "Course you do. How else can you 'commune with the spirit world'?" Kevin made air quotes with his fingers, smirking as though it were a wonderful joke. "It's mandatory."

  Peter sighed, closing his eyes. "As you say."

  Kevin was quiet a moment, and then Peter heard the rustle of grass as he, presumably, stepped away. "Okay. So. Just. Listen."

  Peter took a deep breath, pushing his shoulders back and stretching his spine. Well, now was as good a time as any. He let his self diffuse, let the threads spool out, looking for traces of magic, traces of her. They licked up against the welcome sweetness that was Kevin, feeling him out, tasting him, but then Peter reluctantly turned his attention to the quarry. The water was there, the trees with their green goodness running slow in their veins, the stone solid to the touch. He could feel … something, an energy to the place. Yes, many, many people had come here, had worshipped at the lip of the pool, crying and wailing for their dead. It was a place of power, and that power ran clean and fresh, poignant and beautiful. But, no trace of her, no whiff of rot, no soul-ruin, and he sighed, drew himself in again, coiling himself tight.

  He tilted his head, lifted his chin, kept his eyes closed. Kevin was so quiet in the stillness of the woods. "Is something supposed to happen?" he asked, saying it light as he could.

  "Give it a minute," Kevin protested, his voice low against the sussuration of the wind in the trees. There was another pause, while the quiet sound of water filled up the silence and it became obvious that there were no birds, no other sounds, just water endlessly pattering down. It really was eerie, the kind of place teenagers would come, on a date or a dare.

  Just as Peter opened his mouth again there came a rattle against the rock-face behind him, echoing in the stillness like pickaxes deep underwater.

  Peter jerked, eyes flying open, twisting to follow the sound. For a second his senses flared, but then quieted, because—

  He turned back, his smile wry. "Ghosts?"

  Kevin shrugged, looking sheepish with one hand in a pocket but the other out, clearly having thrown something against the stone at Peter's back, and also clearly struggling to keep a straight face. "Made you jump."

  When Kevin smiled it was shy, almost secretive. He seemed the type to smile easily, and he did so now, grinning down at his feet with a hand scrubbing up his hair at the back. Peter hadn't been smiled at that way for a long time, and he felt a rush of appreciation for it, though he really … he should not.

  They didn't stay long after that, and this time Peter held the fence down for him, and Kevin took the opportunity to brace a hand on Peter's shoulder and, oh, how Peter felt himself shift, steering himself toward the warmth and wonder of this young man's hand.

  They parted; Kevin walked away, hands clutching at his thighs like crabs, and Peter …

  Kevin was, as he glanced back over his shoulder, beautiful. Not classically so, not a Grecian icon, but beautiful all the same, with those thick-lashed eyes and the tilt of his smile.

  There was no room for this. Peter knew better. Or, he ought to.

  "Well," he said, endeavouring to conceal the turn of his thoughts. "Where to next?"

  Kevin's grin made his pulse run, and Peter thought, Oh no. But also, This. Please, if I may.

  * * *

  "Where to next?" Peter asked, back beside the car. He looked better now, more relaxed, like the smile hovering around the corner of his mouth was having trouble staying hidden.

  "There's the Point," Kevin offered, face heating when he thought about what Bella had said, and the usual reason people went up to the Point. "If you like?"

  "I would like that very much."

  Peter held the door for him again, polite as a prince, and Kevin … man, it was nice. Not that it means anything, he told himself, trying to keep some kind of grip on things.

  He got in, fastened his seatbelt, tried not to jitter too much though every nerve he had was jittering. He'd seen it, again, when Peter felt out the Quarry the same way he'd felt out the Grove earlier. He'd felt the gentle touch of Peter's aura, had let it run over him, had liked it, and now? Now he didn't really know what to do.

  "Tell me about the Point," Peter said, turning the car down the road.

  Kevin cleared his throat. "Okay. Um. Well, it's proper haunted. They say, anyway," he added, because while, yes, it really was haunted, Peter wasn't supposed to know he knew that. "So, maybe, a hundred years ago? There was a guy and a girl and they were in love and, you know. But his father said she was no good for him, so they couldn't get married. So, instead of running away like, you know, sensible people, they decided to throw themselves off the Point. Because that's romantic, and not stupid. Um, and if you go up there at twilight, you might see them. Lots of people say they've seen them, anyway."

  Peter made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "I take it you haven't seen them?"

  Kevin had, though he'd never really known what to say to the ghosts of people you thought had died too young to realise they had done something incredibly foolish. "If I'd seen a ghost, would I go back up there?" he said instead, avoiding the lie. "Anyway, that's not all. There was another girl, who caught her boyfriend cheating on her. So she came up to the Point and threw herself off. And when he heard, he got the guilts so hard he threw himself off too." Their ghosts were still hanging around too, melancholy and depressing.


  "And you don't think much of that, either," Peter said, sounding amused. "Do you?"

  "It's not … look. There's no point in killing yourself over something like that. It doesn't achieve anything."

  "Maybe," Peter said evenly, "you have never been that much in love."

  "Yeah, no. Have you?" Immediately he wished he hadn't said it. "I mean—"

  But Peter, thank God, simply shook his head. "If I had, wouldn't I be dead by now?"

  Which made sense. Kevin backtracked to a safer part of the conversation. "It's not being in love, anyway, it's being heartbroken. That's different. I've been … well, I've never wanted to throw myself off a cliff."

  "You're very fortunate," Peter said, and Kevin didn't ask if Peter ever had because he said it in such a dull grey way that Kevin thought he might already know.

  When they reached the Point, Peter commented that for a place that was said to be haunted there were certainly a lot of tyre tracks in the grass.

  "Ah, yeah." Kevin tried to hide his awkwardness by fussing with the cuffs of his shirt. "That's 'cos everyone thinks it's romantic to come up here and, you know. It's like horror movies, a good excuse to snuggle up."

  Peter was silent for a moment and then he laughed, an actual, decent laugh, one hand coming up over his mouth to cover it. "Lovers Lane, then?"

  "Make-out Point, we called it." Kevin didn't add that he lost his virginity up here back in the day, but maybe some of it showed in his face because Peter cleared his throat and looked away.

  "Well. Show me where the ghosts appear."

  The Point was laid out in a rough triangle, trees all up to one side and then rocks and scrubby grass cut with tyre-tracks out from there into the Point itself, a sudden drop-off angle overlooking the woods and hills below. It faced south-west, the sun going down on their right painting the sky in purple and orange, and it was a bit chillier than Kevin had expected, so he tried not to feel it. There was a bench near the drop-off, a bit of natural stone someone had bolted planks of wood into, and Kevin sat on that while Peter examined the grass, the trees, the standing stone set up on the left side of the clearing.