“And what is this purpose?” He wanted to stop again. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have watching the road instead of her face.
“What did your father know of Voices?”
“Enough to believe they were in league with the devil and needed to be put to death. It isn’t something I’m particularly proud of, but my father and my brother were both rather medieval in their ideology.” He gripped the steering wheel again, not in fear of the road but in anger at what his family had been responsible for.
“I think even in the Middle Ages they would have been wrong. We were something like professional mourners or maybe reapers. I’ve been up on the mountain naming the dead. The door to the Next opens for them, but I can never see it. I think we do this until we are called to join the dead ourselves.” She leaned back into the seat and wrapped her arms around her chest again as if she were freezing. The car was smotheringly warm.
“What dead?”
“Soldiers mostly. World War I and II. Some others. Henry said they are the unmourned.”
“Who’s Henry?” So much for her being alone up on that mountain.
“A shade I met. I promised I’d come back to finish when this situation with Dušan is resolved.”
There was more. He could imagine a story she wasn’t sharing spinning out from the few words she had said. She didn’t respond to prying, so the rest would have to come on her time.
“I’m glad.”
“Glad of what?” She turned to look at him for the first time since they’d gotten back into the car.
“Glad you see there is a purpose and this isn’t just a burden God set upon you.”
She laughed. “I haven’t blamed your god. I’ve mostly blamed my mother and aunt. Perhaps I should unburden them of my grievances and have a bitchfest with Jesus instead.”
“He’s probably better equipped to deal with your anger.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that.” She turned to the window again. It started to snow.
“I’m not sure what the future holds for me, but I do believe there is something bigger than us.” Bigger, yes. Did he still believe it was better?
“You were wrong, you know. About shades who take too long to cross.”
“What?” She wasn’t very good at changing the subject either.
“They don’t fade into nothingness. They go to some in-between place where they are separated …” Her voice trailed off.
“Separated from what?”
“Sunlight. Hope. Everything.”
He pulled over into the slush at the side of the road and put the hazard lights on. “How do you know this?”
“Dušan showed me.” She was angry now. At him?
“Faron’s father? I don’t understand.”
“Dušan Črnigad, world-famous photographer, Faron’s father, is the dark god of your Slavic myths.” Her eyes bored into him.
“That’s impossible.” Of course it wasn’t. He knew better.
She laughed, but it was a sarcastic, harsh laugh. “And apparently that was my other purpose. To bear the son of the lord of the fucking underworld.”
“And Faron?”
“He has inherited a mixture of my gift and Dušan’s power. Your family probably would have stoked the fire for him, too.” She was angry at him, at least by proxy.
“That isn’t going to happen, Jo. You know I would never let that happen to you, or to Faron.”
“It doesn’t matter. There are bigger problems.” He watched the weight of whatever those problems were settle back onto her shoulders.
——
Avgusta wheeled into the center of the room. Veronika poured a circle of salt around her as she chanted in Latin. Slovenian seemed like a perfectly good language to do magic in, but Avgusta had assured her that was not how it was done. Veronika made sure to stay on the outside of the line as she poured; she wasn’t going to get to stay for this.
When she met the beginning of the line she felt the air wobble, like the air inside the circle bounced against the air outside the circle. At least she’d gotten that right.
Avgusta nodded at her. She rolled the top down on the muslin bag filled with salt from the Piran saltworks and placed it back on the work table in the corner by the door. The slogan on the bag always made her wish she lived at the seaside, “Salt is the sea that could not return to the sky.” She put her hand on the knob to go back out to do the dishes and other light cleaning Avgusta paid her to do, but the woman stopped her.
“Stay for a moment. I want you to see that this magic works, then you can tend to the dishes.” Avgusta turned back to the altar in the center of the circle and sprinkled a handful of dried herbs into the wide black basin filled with water in front of her.
Veronika stepped closer.
“Stay outside the circle.” It was more a hiss than a stream of words.
Veronika stepped back.
Avgusta chanted again in Latin, but Veronika understood the name Helena. Wisps of pale blue and white smoke spun up from the basin and wove themselves into a shape above the bowl.
A woman’s face, the eyes smudged and sunken under a severe line of dark bangs, peered through the smoke. They flashed with surprise, then narrowed in anger.
“Mother.” It was an insult not a greeting.
“Veronika, leave. Finish your tasks and collect the book. Contact me immediately if you have any questions.”
She backed up to the door and opened it, slinking out without taking her eyes off the shifting face. It locked eyes with her before she closed the door. A cold, dark shard of hate twisted in Veronika’s gut.
The air in the flat was cooler and less cloying than the workroom but still overly warm. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and walked to the table to collect the dinner dishes. Everything had to be done a certain way. She washed the dishes in boiling-hot water perfumed with lemon and some sickeningly sweet flower she hadn’t been able to name yet. The dishes had to air dry and then be put back into the cabinet and drawers lined up exactly like in a magazine.
She finished her other work: wiping the counters, sweeping, laying out Avgusta’s nightclothes and toiletries on the table in the bedroom. She let herself out of the apartment, locking the door behind her. The transition to the cold night air shocked her into alertness after the torpor-inducing warmth and smells she had been wrapped in all evening.
What did it mean that some of the dead could be called back to speak with and some could not? Avgusta had to know she wanted to speak with her parents. It would be like her to hold something precious out of reach to keep Veronika working and doing whatever she asked her to do. But there was the book.
Veronika skimmed over its pages before shoving it into her backpack. These were darker workings than she’d seen in the books she’d picked up here and there. Avgusta had marked a slim chapter on vengeance. Veronika knew exactly where to start.
Chapter 14
Vesna heard the footsteps on the wooden stairs echo up and bounce around in the funnel of sound the courtyard produced. She pulled a sweater on over the pajamas she’d changed into immediately upon getting home; she’d left Ivanka to close the shop. Vesna opened the door to peek out onto the walkway connecting all the first-floor flats.
Jo was scraping her key into the lock, and Leo stood to the side, hands deep in the pockets of his cassock. His aura swirled out around him, red and orange tendrils weaving in and out of the purple halo of her friend’s aura. Jo was in love with him, too. It surprised her. The two of them had formed a bond even someone as walled off as Jo couldn’t ignore, but whether Jo would act on it was another thing entirely.
Vesna stepped out onto the cold flags and spoke a quiet hello.
Jo turned to her and smiled ruefully. Vesna tried to restrain herself from rushing in and hugging her friend like she had expected to never see he
r again. She failed.
She let go of Jo and looked up into her uncle’s face. His eyes were less haunted. Vesna suspected he’d said his piece, and that it hadn’t been a disaster since Jo had agreed to come back to town with him. “Have you all eaten?”
“I’m not hungry, but I could use a warm drink.” Jo looked up at the sky visible between the terra cotta rooflines. It had started to snow earlier, but it had gotten much more serious about it in the last hour. “You might need to feed Leo though. He’s not eaten since breakfast.”
“Put your stuff away, and I’ll go put some water on.” Vesna looked up into Leo’s face. “Will you stay? I’ve got stuff for sandwiches. You can sleep on the couch.”
He nodded, and she walked back to the apartment, the cold from the stone flags seeping through her slippers.
——
Jo got the door open and flicked on the light inside her apartment. It smelled stale from being closed up — even for what had been a shorter trip than she’d expected. She put her bag on the futon and knelt into the cushion to crank the window open a crack to let in a stream of cold, fresh air.
When she pushed herself up off the futon, Leo was still standing in the doorway. He looked a little lost, or sad. Maybe both.
“I’ve never seen your flat before.” She had made a point of that.
Jo flung her hand out. “You have now seen everything except the bedroom.” Awkward pause. That was probably not the thing to say. “It’s just that small.”
“You and Faron lived here together? How?”
“I slept on the futon, and he slept in the bedroom so I could put him to bed at night and have the rest of the shoebox to myself.”
He nodded. “It’s very … white.”
It was a little stark, but she liked it that way. Order on the outside helped her keep a sense of order inside her head. “Vesna calls it monastic.”
“She would.” His gaze rested on the framed photograph of Rok and Faron at the top of Triglav. Their dark heads were tilted toward each other, both their faces a little sunburned and chapped.
Rok’s half-smile made Jo miss him, and it stung. One of the tethers she had in this world had abandoned her when she’d needed him most. The only thing she’d heard from him was a request he’d sent to Gregor asking if he would arrange to have his flat packed up and his things put into storage. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d sent a package for her at the New Year, a kimono-style robe made of blue sari cloth. She wasn’t sure if that meant he’d left Nepal and was now in Japan or back in India. There hadn’t been a note.
“Jo.” Leo’s voice brought her back to the moment. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere good.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Let’s get you some food.”
He didn’t move. He had something to say but looked to be struggling to get it out.
She tried to help. “I didn’t mean to hurt you earlier. At the car …” She hadn’t meant to but was somehow certain she had. How had they gotten to this place? And where the hell did they go from here?
“You didn’t. You did make me see there’s more than one decision to be made, and not only by me.” He started to bury his hands back into his pockets.
She stopped him and took both of his hands in hers. “You don’t need my permission. You don’t need a place to land. Whatever decisions you make have to be for you. I’m not going anywhere.” She hadn’t realized until the words were out of her mouth how much she meant them, and that had been the other decision that needed to be made. She felt more than she’d let herself accept. She didn’t need to protect him from her gift. He wasn’t in any more danger than he would have been with or without her presence. No. She felt the need to protect him from her.
Sorting it out would have to wait. Nothing could happen now. Not until he had officially left the church, and not until Faron was safe.
He nodded. “Let’s go drink Vesna’s tea. I think we need to debrief all the way around.” He dropped her hands and turned, a wall of black cloth with the briefest hint of red and orange smoke turning with it.
——
Ivanka tucked her hand inside Faron’s. Snow was landing on her hair. A few flakes melted, leaving tiny droplets of water to reflect the street lamps. She was achingly beautiful sometimes. She was always Ivanka, with blotchy skin or messy hair or reeking of restaurant, but there were moments when she was more alive, less distracted and distorted by all that had happened, and Faron’s heart stopped when he looked at her.
That tonight held one of those moments was incredibly unfair. He had intended to tell her to spend the night at Olga’s with her sisters. He needed time or space to figure this stuff out with his father. Instead he could only think of getting to the room they shared and getting her out of her work clothes as quickly as possible.
She squeezed his hand and bent her head down to avoid a snowflake to the eye. They gathered on her lashes instead, like glitter. He really was hopeless, and his hopelessness probably kept her in danger.
“Marko asked if we wanted to go get beers and listen to this Croatian jazz band.” Distraction.
“Go on and meet him. I’m exhausted.” She punctuated her sentence with a yawn. “I’ll see you guys back at the flat.”
“Are you sure?” She’d walk home on the street if she went on without him. She only took the shortcut through the park if he was with her, so he didn’t need to worry about that. What he needed was a distraction from her, long enough to sort out what to do next. He didn’t want to be an ass about it, though.
“I’m sure.” She walked away from him, waving as she went.
Faron unlocked the heavy metal door to their building. He’d ditched out of the bar early, unable to stop thinking about Ivanka and her sleepy yawn. The stairwell was dark, and the light switch didn’t work. He tapped the flashlight app on his phone and walked up to the second-floor apartment his Uncle Rok had left for him and Ivanka to use. They’d needed a roommate to cover expenses, and Marko had needed a place to live in town.
When he put his key in the lock to the door of their flat, the door opened with his effort. Weird. Ivanka usually kept the door locked when she was home alone. The entryway always smelled of incense and curry. He figured molecules of turmeric and nag champa must have fused with the yellow linoleum over the time Rok lived there. The apartment smelled like something else, though. The scent was thick on the air and made his mouth taste like metal.
Faron walked down the short hall and tapped the kitchen light switch to his right. It worked. Too well.
Ivanka was crumpled on the floor next to the fridge. A large, bloody organ, a heart maybe, lay in the center of the floor, a circle of still-shiny blood drawn around it. Faron ran to Ivanka to see if she was breathing. She was warm and alive but unresponsive. It was probably the wrong thing to move her, but he wanted to get her away from that thing as quickly as possible. He pulled her into the hallway.
He quickly checked to see if the other rooms were disturbed, then tried to wake Ivanka. There had been a moment when he’d thought it was her heart bleeding on the kitchen floor, and his had gone cold in his chest. She finally came to, groggy and staring. He helped her stand and pulled her out of the apartment and onto the landing.
Faron closed the door and thumbed through his phone for Vesna’s number. Ivanka’s face was white, and she hadn’t spoken a word.
——
Of course Jo’s first night back in town wouldn’t be quiet. They’d filled Vesna in and listened to her description of the hex she and Goran had pulled from her doorway. Leo kept looking at her like he was waiting for her to reveal what she’d done under the influence of the spell, but that wasn’t information he needed.
Vesna’s mobile rang and threw them all into action. They collected a sleepy Goran from upstairs and trekked through the snow shower to Šiška. Jo hadn’t been back to Rok’s apartm
ent since the night he left.
The familiar smells of curry and incense greeted her, but she immediately recognized the other coppery smell and the taste of blood in the air. She stood rooted in the hallway; the memory of gore dripping down the cabinets in a showroom kitchen was too easily recalled. The tang of old pennies in her mouth pulled it up like a highlight reel. In a bid to save her sanity, her gallows humor bubbled to the surface, and she could almost hear Marlin Perkins narrating the next few moments like a segment of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.
She took a breath and looked into the kitchen. A heart, too big to be human — maybe from a cow? — lay in a small puddle of blood inside a smeared circle of blood. There weren’t distinct fingerprints, but it definitely had the look of fingerpainting. Bile rose in the back of her throat, but not because she needed to puke. It was anger. White-hot, pissed-off, how-dare-you-fuck-with-my-kid anger.
Goran tried to talk to Ivanka, but she insisted she was fine and waved him away. Jo recognized the frustration on her son’s face. She felt the same when he’d brushed off her assistance on many occasions. Goran stepped by the three of them into the kitchen and knelt close to the outside strokes of the circle. He sniffed the air and touched the blood pooling under the heart. He stood up and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief he’d pulled from his front pocket.
“It’s human work, not demonic. Also very fresh, within the last hour. The blood around it isn’t even tacky in the middle.” He looked up at her and waited for her to say something.
“It isn’t human though, right? I’m pretty sure that’s a cow heart.” She looked past him to the mess on the floor. Standing closer to it, there was a hint of an old-fashioned floral scent.
“I don’t think it’s human. I’m sure the police will check, though.”
“That’s something.” She ran her hand through her hair, her fingers caught in the tangles. “What does it mean, though? And why does it smell like tea roses in here?”
“It’s the work of a witch, the scent of tea roses. I don’t know exactly, but it looks like a warning.” Goran folded the handkerchief and put it back into his pocket. “I think it is the same person who left the sparrow. Or at least one of the same people.”
Our Lady of the Various Sorrows (Voices of the Dead Book 2) Page 11