The Witch's Eyes

by Iris Kincaid

How could this be? Byron had left the house every day, five days a week, to go to work. And he was gone all day long.

  “His benefits are pretty measly too. Looks to be about $150 a week. Not enough to live on. Hmmph. It sounds as if he was living off you. Okay, it looks like you have a lot of bills here. Chase. Discover. American Express. MasterCard. Bank of America.”

  “What? Those have to be Byron’s, not mine.”

  “They’ve got your name on them,” Abby said quietly.

  Even though she couldn’t see, Gillian had the distinct sensation that the room was spinning. “Open them,” she said shakily.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The inside of those bills detailed a spending spree the likes of which Gillian could never have imagined. Jewelry, clothes, spa visits, hotels, air flights!

  “How could the flight have possibly cost so much? He went to his great aunt’s funeral six months ago.” Gillian remembered very well his absence on that trip. Her blindness wasn’t as bad as it was today, but she still stuck pretty close to home and couldn’t wait for him to get back. “She lived in Ohio. Why does the ticket cost $3000?”

  “Because it’s actually two tickets. And the hotel, from those same dates, is not in Ohio. It’s in Hawaii. And there’s a ton of charges from restaurants and clubs with a Honolulu address. Oh, here are a few from Maui. They must’ve done a little island hopping. Oh, Gillian. This has a $15,000 balance on it. He maxed it out.”

  Six months ago. Six months with Simone! And not working for two years? Gillian was starting to feel a little faint.

  Abby continued reluctantly. “So, there are bills for a Lexus dealership and a Mercedes dealership. Those are both actually in his name—but he sure wasn’t earning enough to pay for these cars. The monthly total on the car payments is about $1200. Do you need some water? You’re looking a little . . . well, exactly the way you should look, I guess. This guy is scum.”

  “Anything else?” Gillian asked weakly.

  “Just . . . your bank statement.”

  “Open it.” Gillian listened for the envelope ripping and the statement papers rustling. “What does it say? What’s my balance? How much is in my account?”

  From Abby’s hesitation, Gillian knew the news was going to be bad.

  “It doesn’t look like this is enough money to cover the next mortgage payment.”

  Gillian shook her head fiercely. “There’s no mortgage payment. My grandmother left me this house. It was paid for long ago. There’s no mortgage. That has to be a mistake.”

  “Okay, let me see. It looks as if the house has been refinanced twice. And there was a cash payout of . . . oh, my God, Gillian. Did he really never tell you anything about this?”

  Trembling, Gillian tried to get to her feet. “I need to . . . I need to . . . Could you . . . Would you . . .?”

  In an instant, Gillian felt Abby’s arm around her, pulling her up into a firm, gentle support. “Of course, I will. We can go right now.”

  For all the dread she felt, Gillian might just as well have been headed to start a sentence in the local prison. Instead, she was headed for her bank—apparently, a house of horrors.

  *****

  It was the bank’s largest branch, filled with bustling sounds, chattering voices, and about half a dozen customer service desks in the main room. Gillian remembered the layout very well. It had been her bank for over ten years. She and Abby waited at the hospitality desk while the bank manager, Albert Dillard, was called to meet with them.

  “Ms. Swann. So good to see you again. It’s been quite some time since your last visit when you and your boyfriend signed those power of attorney papers. And who have we here?”

  “Abigail Clarke. I’m her cousin.”

  “Oh, pleased to meet you. Please, come back to my office.”

  Gillian also remembered being in his office before. Back then, she could at least make out the dark gray shadow of a desk. Today, Abby guided her into her seat.

  “Now then,” Mr. Dillard said, “how can I help you?”

  It was just as bad as Gillian and Abby feared. Byron had used his power of attorney to spend and borrow as much of Gillian’s money as humanly possible. Mr. Dillard was distressed that such shenanigans have taken place under his nose and was worried that he and his establishment would be blamed.

  “Yes, Mr. Curtiss was at liberty to refinance, withdraw any amount from the accounts, and of course, even to open up credit cards in your name. Though I can hardly believe the extent of such exploitive behavior,” Mr. Dillard fussed.

  “You let him take $160,000 out of her home equity?” Abby bellowed. “And saddle her with a 15-year mortgage?”

  Gillian was not as naturally belligerent as her cousin, but she didn’t mind someone else giving voice to her anger.

  “As I said, the power of attorney rights gave him full discretion. Miss Swann did agree to that. I’m so sorry that it has taken this unfortunate turn.”

  “What about the income from the coffeehouse? I know it doesn’t make a lot of money, but there has to be a little something coming in every day,” Gillian asked hopefully.

  “I believe Mr. Curtiss had a separate business account for those monies. But this is the only account that your name is on.”

  “Abby says that there’s only about $1,000 left,” Gillian said woodenly. “Is that true?”

  Mr. Dillard hesitated. “There was actually a rather large withdrawal made a few days ago. Cash withdrawal. The remaining balance is . . . $97.”

  Gillian heard Abby leap out of her seat.

  “What an absolute scumbag. I could wring his neck for doing this to you. I’d like to take that precious Mercedes of his and run him down.”

  Mr. Dillard cleared his throat. “So, you do have your disability check coming in, and it will arrive before the mortgage payment is due. But the bad news is that you’ll still be $300 short of the mortgage payment.”

  Gillian was on the verge of hyperventilating. She wasn’t going to be able to pay a mortgage that she hadn’t even known existed. That shouldn’t exist. Through her daze, she heard Abby’s purse zip open and something being pulled out.

  “Mr. Dillard, I’ll give you a check for $500 right now to put into Gillian’s account so that and her disability will cover it. Any other bills that come out automatically?”

  “No. Mr. Curtiss preferred to handle most of the bills directly.”

  Gillian’s mind was spinning. “Abby, what are you doing?”

  “I was going to work out some rent and board to give you. And we can still talk and decide on the right amount. But this really does need to go into your account right now.”

  Gillian’s assumption that Abby had come into her life as a freeloader flew out the window. But it was the only thing that had made any sense. Byron’s activities were giving her a very clear reminder of how the world operated.

  “That’s very kind of you, Ms. Clarke. I’m sure that Ms. Swann is very appreciative of your assistance. But the mortgage, as a percentage of your income, and then property taxes, maintenance, utilities . . . I’m afraid I don’t see that many options for you. Of course, there’s so little equity left in the house, and the commission might take half of that. Then there’s always FIZZ-BO. But I don’t think that you can underestimate the difficulty of making all arrangements for yourself.”

  “FIZZ-BO?” Gillian repeated, confused. “What’s FIZZ-BO?”

  “F-S-B-O. For Sale by Owner,” Abby explained grimly.

  “I can’t see any way around it,” Mr. Dillard said. “You’re going to have to sell your house.”

  *****

  As Gillian sat stiffly at the dining table, Abby bustled around worriedly in the kitchen. Gillian had hardly spoken two words since they left the bank. Abby had volunteered to cook tonight’s dinner. They stopped at a grocery store on the way home, and Abby had dashed in to get the ingredients for the fastest comfort meal she knew how to cook.

  A delicious plateful of something yummy was put in
front of Gillian.

  “Have you ever had spaetzle? There was a foreign exchange student from Heidelberg in my twelfth-grade class. She taught us all how to cook spaetzle. It’s only four ingredients, so it’s hard to forget. These tiny little spiral dumplings—those are the spaetzle noodles. Then onions, ham, and Swiss cheese. You must be starved. I know I am.”

  “It smells . . . it smells great. I appreciate dinner and your helping me to the bank. But, Abby, this can’t possibly be what you expected. You thought that you would stay with me, and here I am, about to lose the house.”

  “I don’t care about the house. Oh, man. That’s not exactly what I meant. I do care about your losing something so important to you. I just thought that it was a shame, because our parents were mad at each other, that I had never had a chance to meet this side of the family.”

  “Not much of the family left here. Just me.”

  “Well, you’re plenty. I’m really glad I came. I am. I knew that you might have some difficulties because of your eyes. And your family. And I wanted to help, so I came. Don’t worry. We’re going to figure this out. Now, eat that spaetzle while it’s hot.”

  Though Gillian had resolved to no longer take anyone at their word, the thought of moving forward on her own, in darkness and confusion, was too much to bear. Like it or not, she was going to have to lean on Abby.

  *****

  Abby was taking a middle of the night trip to the bathroom when she heard muffled sobs coming from the direction of Gillian’s bedroom. It was kind of heartbreaking. First the blindness, then the lousy boyfriend. Then, losing the only home she had ever known. Abby didn’t know what she could say to make things better, but she had to give it a try.

  Gillian’s sobs stopped momentarily as she was startled by the opening of her door.

  “It’s just me, Abby. I . . . I’m here, if you want to talk.”

  Gillian turned away from her and continued sobbing. Abby eased her way onto the bed and threw her arms around her unhappy cousin. She waited for the tears to subside.

  Gillian sniffled. “You know that my grandmother, the one who left me this house—she wasn’t even my real grandmother. I thought she was my father’s mother, but she was his stepmother. When you’re a child, you’re never aware of those kinds of distinctions. I saw her as my grandmother. But she never saw me as her grandchild. I knew she didn’t love me but I never knew why. Not until I was in my teens.”

  Abby felt her own eyes fill with tears. She knew that Gillian’s parents had both died in a car crash. How could the woman who looked after their baby not have fallen in love with her? How can you raise a child without loving her?

  “She loved to play bridge. She had a group of old ladies over to the house playing all the time. Sometimes, I was involved in some afterschool thing. Usually, art clubs—pottery, painting . . . and if the last school bus had left, she was supposed to come and drive me home. There were so many times I wound up walking home, just to find her in here playing cards with her friends. And it wasn’t like she had forgotten. She always said, ‘I knew you’d manage to get a ride home with someone.’ But I never did. It was about an hour’s walk to get home. I just got used to it.”

  “She sounds awful.”

  “She didn’t even really leave me this house. She died without a will and without any blood relatives. So, the court awarded the house to me.” Somehow, getting the story out was helping Gillian to feel calmer, clearer. “I really shouldn’t be upset about leaving this house. Now, it feels like it’s full of so many bad memories—my grandmother, Byron. And Simone’s breasts. Did I tell you about Simone’s breasts?”

  “No. But this could become my new favorite bedtime story. Tell me everything.”

  *****

  Shopping on Main Street, Abby had her arm linked around Gillian’s. Two handsome young men were approaching them. It was pretty much a nonevent. Until it wasn’t.

  “Hey, Gill,” Byron said. “I’m with Keith. You remember Keith.”

  From the look on Gillian’s face, Abby quickly surmised that this was none other than the infamous jerk boyfriend. “You must be Byron.”

  “That’s me. And you are . . .?”

  “Her cousin, Abby. I was wondering if I was ever going to have the opportunity to meet the lowdown, thieving piece of garbage who stole every last dime from Gillian, buried her in debt, and deserves to be put in front of a firing squad for how he treated her.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. You’ve only heard one side of the story, apparently. There’s been a big misunderstanding. She put me in charge, and I handled the resources as best I could.”

  “Someone should set fire to your house with you in it. Someone should dip you in chum and toss you in a shark tank. That’s a show I would love to watch. If you were to be burned at the stake, you deserve it more than anyone in history who has been burned at the stake.”

  Gillian listened, alternately horrified and entertained at her cousin’s tirade. What a pit bull Abby was. But Byron deserved every word.

  “You need to calm down, both of you. Now, Gill, we really do have to work out some time where I can pick up the rest my things. Preferably sometime when your cousin is not around.”

  The two young men sauntered off.

  “I’m sorry, Gillian. I mean, he deserved all that and worse. But I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

  Gillian reached out for Abby’s arm. “Glad you’re on my side.”

  Burned at the stake. That was a good one.

  *****

  Neither Gillian nor Abby knew the first thing about selling a house. Their first two weeks together were spent trying to figure out what to do. Finding a good appraiser, figuring out how much the house was worth, figuring out how many repairs had to be done before the house could be sold, should Gillian try to find a realtor, or should they attempt the FSBO? It was overwhelming.

  Coming home from the hardware store, lugging a gallon of touch-up paint that Abby had generously volunteered to spruce up the bathrooms with, Abby gave Gillian a warning pat on the shoulder as they went through the front gate.

  “There’s a girl sitting on the front steps.”

  “Really? Another cousin? So soon?”

  They both laughed. It had been a long time since Gillian had heard herself laugh. But who on earth could this visitor be?

  “Hi, Gillian. It’s me, Ruby Townsend, from Dr. Svenson’s office.”

  Dr. Harold Svenson was a transplant specialist. He had taken over Gillian’s care after her eye doctor had said there was nothing further that he could do. Dr. Svenson had put Gillian on the wait list to receive new corneas. But it was a very long wait list, and the doctor had warned Gillian that her name might not come up for many, many years.

  But here was Ruby Townsend sitting on her front porch steps! That could only mean one thing.

  “Ruby. Why are you here?” Gillian asked, trying not to get too excited.

  Ruby loved being the bearer of good news. “I think you know why I’m here. We have eyes for you, Gillian. Dr. Svenson wants to operate first thing in the morning.”

  *****

  Before Gillian went into surgery, Dr. Svenson tried to answer Abby’s and Gillian’s flurry of questions as best he could. Yes, he had performed this particular transplant several times before. There were no guarantees, but he had an eighty percent success rate. If all went well, Gillian should be able to see as soon as her bandages were taken off. When they asked where the eyes had come from, he told them that they had come from a local woman who’d been killed recently in a freak accident. What he chose not to tell them was that this particular organ donor was a witch.

  In life, Lilith Hazelwood had been the most powerful and formidable witch that Oyster Cove had ever seen. Not to mention arrogant, cantankerous, and condescending. In death, she was no longer powerful. She was, however, still arrogant, cantankerous, and condescending.

  But now, she was also furious. She had been killed by a bolt of lightning, which is a r
egrettable occurrence that has happened to thousands of other unfortunate victims. But there was no storm raging on the day that Lilith died to suggest that nature had been behind this violence. This lightning bolt had come out of a clear blue sky. This lightning bolt had been powered by the dark arts of some unknown enemy. Of that, Lilith had no doubt.

  It was perhaps Lilith’s destiny to one day become a restless ghost. But, that day had come far too soon. And she was determined to find out who was responsible and to destroy them. But she couldn’t do it alone. She would need help. She would demand help from those who owed her their very lives. For they now carried her organs inside them, and with them, fragments of her former power.

  Of course, that detestable Dr. Svenson probably thought that he should get the credit for restoring health and infusing those sickly young women with Lilith’s powers. At first, Lilith had nothing but loathing for the man who’d dissected her like a high school biology demonstration and stored her parts in the freezer like packages of frozen steak.

  But she was reconciled to the fact that Dr. Svenson had now become an indispensable component of her plan for vengeance. He would keep her power alive and distribute it through these transplant operations. And then, she must figure out how to use these patients, these stewards of her bodily remains, to uncover her enemies and annihilate them.

  She watched Gillian’s surgery intently. She understood full well the power of her eyes—eyes that could uncover the truth, and with the proper training, eyes that could punish. Was this going to be the human who would bring sweet vengeance to her?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dr. Svenson flipped through a medical journal nervously, barely able to focus on the page. Beside him, Gillian slept peacefully in the small recovery room. There was no telling what would happen. Perhaps her eyes would also be perfectly normal. Perhaps there was no such thing as perfectly normal when it comes to witch’s organs.

  For example, if this were a normal donor and a normal operation, Dr. Svenson would not be waiting for the patient to wake up. The anesthesia and general trauma of the surgery would have knocked her out for twelve to twenty-four hours. But he suspected an extraordinarily rapid recovery. He was right.