Crushed (City of Eldrich Book 2)

by Laura Kirwan

  The older woman, somewhere in her forties, trim, with carefully highlighted, chin-length brown hair, shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. She wore a sleeveless white polo shirt and pastel plaid capris and looked like she’d just stepped off a golf course. “We’re waiting for you. I’m Susan. I’ve been helping Lynette with the Fahrayans.”

  Meaghan nodded. Country club Susan. She remembered her now.

  Susan had moved to Eldrich after her wealthy husband’s death. She had Junior League connections throughout the Northeast, some of whom practiced witchcraft or were otherwise clued in. She’d proved instrumental in gathering supplies to help clothe, feed, and house the Fahrayan refugees now living in Eldrich.

  “And you are . . .” Meaghan prompted the other two. Much younger than Susan, they had both adopted what they believed to be appropriate attire for witches. Lots of black velvet and silver jewelry and too much eye shadow.

  Real witches, Meaghan had learned, didn’t dress any particular way, didn’t require mystical accessories, and could improvise spell ingredients from whatever was handy. Meaghan had asked a group of witches once if they were Wiccans. Lynette, an older grandmotherly woman, had sniffed with disapproval and said, “I don’t know about the others, but I’m a Presbyterian.”

  The more flamboyant of the two apprentices, the girl who had seemed the most upset by Jhoro and Marnie kissing, tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and said, “I’m Circe.” She pointed at her companion, a round-faced girl with blonde hair, freckles, and far less eye makeup. “This is Cassandra.”

  Oh, brother, Meaghan thought. Their real names are probably Debbie and Lisa.

  Susan rolled her eyes discreetly and winked at Meaghan. “Circe and Cassandra are my apprentices for now, but Circe is about to move on to Gretchen. We’re waiting for her here.”

  Meagan suppressed a laugh. Gretchen, the city’s human resources coordinator, looked like a kind, grandmotherly woman, similar to Lynette, until she started talking. Profane, sarcastic, and wickedly funny, Gretchen reveled in screwing with uppity apprentices. She’d knock the Stevie Nicks right out of Circe. If the girl had enough sense to lose her pretensions, Gretchen would hone her into a gifted practitioner.

  Susan would keep Cassandra, who had all the earmarks of a follower. Her efforts to dress in the witchy style favored by Circe were half-hearted—jeans, a black velour T-shirt, and a few silver rings—and without Circe bossing her around, she’d have a chance to come into her own.

  “So, ladies,” Meaghan said. “What’s up?”

  Before they could answer, Marnie started giggling. Jhoro threw her over his shoulder and, with a final dazzling smile, carried her out of the room. They heard him stomp up the stairs and slam his bedroom door shut.

  Susan frowned up at the ceiling. “How long has this been going on?”

  Meaghan shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I thought he was gay.”

  “Every woman in town is jealous of you,” Susan said with a sigh.

  Meaghan snorted. “He calls me Mama. I had to teach him how to use the big boy potty when he kept trying to go in the backyard.”

  Hearing a moan, Meaghan stared up at the ceiling with a frown. The bed springs began rhythmically squeaking. So much for foreplay. She grabbed the broom from the pantry and walked into the hallway. Banging on the ceiling with the broom handle, Meaghan shouted, “Hey, keep it down!”

  The squeaking stopped. Meaghan walked back into the kitchen, met Susan’s eye, and they both burst out laughing. Cassandra smiled shyly until Circe gave her a sour look.

  “God, he is a magnificent beast,” Susan said.

  It was Meaghan’s turn to roll her eyes. “You got the beast part right. It’s like living with a giant horny toddler.”

  Susan smiled, not fooled a bit by Meaghan’s complaints. “You like him too. Only in a mommy way.”

  Meaghan flushed, then smiled. “Oh, hell. Is it that obvious?”

  Susan merely smiled, then her face grew serious. “As much as I’ve enjoyed the show, Jhoro’s not who we need to talk about.”

  “You’re here about Jamie.” Meaghan felt her stomach clench. Susan was one of several witches who had spent time at the Smith’s house, babysitting the kids and keeping an eye on Jamie while Patrice was at work.

  Susan nodded. “Are you familiar with the concept of the poltergeist?”

  Meaghan relaxed a little. “Got a crash course this morning. What’s been going on?”

  Susan sighed with relief. “Oh, thank God. Did Natalie finally tell you? She’s . . . well, her devotion to Jamie is not helping right now. She refuses to see what’s going on.”

  “I only heard it from her because I witnessed it firsthand and Annie reported that the ghosts were in a tizzy.” Meaghan didn’t want to disclose details until she knew what other people had observed. Enough gossiping about Jamie was going on. No need to add to it.

  Confirming Meaghan’s caution, Circe leaned forward with an eager gleam in her eye. “What did you see?”

  Like I’d tell you, Stevie Nicks. “Some office supplies turning up in odd places. A levitating file folder or two.”

  Not exactly a lie.

  Circe looked disappointed, then rallied. “I was nearly decapitated by a flying plate at his house and there are slamming doors and weird smells.”

  Cassandra snorted. Circe glared at her, but this time Cassandra refused to be silenced. “It was a plastic Little Mermaid plate and it was moving so slow you caught it like a Frisbee. And the weird smell is that patchouli you’re wearing.”

  Atta girl. Meaghan smothered a laugh.

  Circe glowered, but had no response.

  “So,” Meaghan said. “I know all about it. Is there anything else?”

  “Let’s chat later, when we have more time,” Susan said. “I’ll give you a call.”

  Meaghan had come to recognize the I-have-something-important-to-say-but-not-in-front-of-the-tourists/clueless/newbies look. Which meant things were worse than Susan was willing to let on in front of the apprentices.

  “I’ll be home all evening,” Meaghan said, a sinking feeling in her gut. “And I should be in the office all day tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After the witches left, Meaghan reheated the small bowl of pasta Jhoro had abandoned in favor of sex, but all it did was sharpen her appetite. If Russ didn’t return soon, Meaghan might be forced to cook. No good could come of that.

  She found a bag of organic, blue-corn tortilla chips in the pantry—Russ would sooner die than buy a bag of Doritos—and poured herself a glass of wine. She wondered whether she should cut back. She wasn’t a big drinker, but Matthew had been an alcoholic.

  And then there was John. After eighteen years of being the town drunk, he was going to AA and by all accounts was doing well. She felt her face flush and warmth spread through her body at the thought of him. They’d both agreed they weren’t ready for a relationship until John’s sobriety was stronger and until the post-Fahraya chaos had calmed down a bit.

  Which she was beginning to think might never happen. Every day it was something else to deal with. It was bad enough trying to feed, clothe, and shelter the Fahrayans, but John also had to protect them from the outside world and from themselves.

  First came the leprechauns—not the whimsical little men at the end of the rainbow guarding their pots of gold. No, these leprechauns were foul-mouthed loan sharks, collecting the vig on usurious loans made to the naïve or desperate. They lent out their pots of gold at crippling interest rates—literally. Miss a payment, lose a finger. Or an arm or eye or leg . . . whatever was handy.

  They proved no match for the Fahrayans once John explained to his people what they were up to. The leprechauns had been expecting eight-inch-tall fairies. What they got were six-foot-tall humans with lightning reflexes and Stone Age sensibilities. Fahraya had been a brutal place and it had bred brutal people. For people accustomed to hunting enormous snakes and giant scorpions for food, leprechauns—no matter h
ow dirty they fought—were no threat.

  But the biggest threat to the Fahrayans were the Fahrayans themselves. They had come from an extremely primitive hunter-gatherer society and had been dumped, without any warning or preparation, into the modern world. They’d lost everything, including their wings and the extra set of vocal cords required to properly speak their language. They hadn’t arrived with even the clothes on their backs because of the size difference.

  Everything about the human world was alien to them, including their own bodies. It helped that John, once again their king, had suffered a similar dislocation and had lived in the human world for so long. But the transition had nearly destroyed him. The same thing was now happening to his people and John was determined to keep them from making the same mistakes he had.

  He turned his property into a refugee camp until permanent housing was found. He helped them quickly learn a pidgin form of their language that allowed them to communicate with human vocal cords. He set up English classes and tried to teach them the basics of life in modern human society.

  And in an attempt to save his people from his biggest mistake, John banned alcohol from the Fahrayan camp. But he had no control over the Fahrayans who had been relocated to private homes, and alcohol found its way in. Complicating matters, John had his own daily battle staying sober. He had a hard enough time keeping himself from drinking let alone five hundred grieving Fahrayans.

  Even with tight controls and cooperation, it would be a daunting struggle, but not all Fahrayans were inclined to comply with John’s directives. Even though everyone called him a king, that wasn’t exactly what he was.

  “It’s not quite a king like humans think,” John had told her once, during one of their evening phone calls. “There is not exactly a word in English. The word in Fahrayan means something like ‘leader of the hunt who says the last word on stuff.’ But that’s only so long as there is no . . . what’s the word? Complainer?”

  “Challenger?” Meaghan asked.

  “Challenger,” John repeated. “Yeah.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “The people decide if they want the challenger to go ahead.”

  “And then?”

  “Fight to the death.”

  Meaghan gasped.

  John chuckled. “Don’t worry. I don’t have to fight. I can just agree. But I can’t quit until a challenge is made by somebody they want.”

  The challenger, John explained, didn’t have to be someone in the same family. Or a man. Women had been kings in the past. John’s father could have easily looked outside his family to choose his heir. “If he had done that,” John told her, “he would have saved us all this trouble.”

  The tendency to hereditary succession had developed out of inertia more than anything else. A good leader tended to pass those characteristics on to his or her children.

  “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Meaghan said.

  “Something is broken? Are we still talking about kings?” John had been speaking English for nearly two decades, but sometimes he could be annoyingly literal.

  Fights to the death notwithstanding, being a Fahrayan king was more like at-will employment than a divine mandate to rule. V’hren had attempted to rule like a human king and the Fahrayans wanted no more of that. Heredity was not in John’s favor on this. After all, he was V’hren’s younger brother. If one brother went bad, so could the other.

  It was only a matter of time until a new leader rose. Or several. John was seeing the growth of several factions and it worried him. But whoever ended up as the new king, it wouldn’t be Jhoro. Heredity wasn’t helping him either. He had originally seemed like the logical choice to succeed his father, but the very fact that he was V’hren’s son now made the Fahrayans mistrust him.

  It was so bad that Jhoro had almost no contact with his people, including those who had fought with him in the hills and who had been so loyal to him in Fahraya. Meaghan had initially thought he wanted to live with her and Russ to protect her, and that was part of it, but basically he had nowhere else to go.

  Another stray. Another lost boy. Which probably played no small part in spurring Meaghan’s mommy crush.

  For now, a fragile peace existed and nobody had been killed or hurt. Yet. But John could only protect them for so long. The modern world beckoned, terrifying but enticing.

  Meaghan’s stomach growled loudly. Where the hell was Russ? It was almost seven. She eyed the phone book. A pizza maybe? She liked a little place downtown that Russ eschewed because they used dough conditioners in the crust and didn’t use hand-crafted mozzarella.

  Sometimes she wanted to hit him with a Happy Meal, he was such a food snob. She opened the refrigerator to see if she could find any salsa for the chips. She’d give Russ ten more minutes and then she was calling for that pizza.

  Meaghan found the salsa and poured herself another glass of wine, took a sip, then set it down on the counter. She knew that John’s sobriety didn’t require her to abstain too, but she didn’t want to rub his nose in it. She liked wine, but she liked John a lot more. Even if the thought of being with him scared her to death.

  They’d both been celibate for many long years, too wounded in their respective ways to let anyone near them. Even the scant emotional intimacy they had already shared had required serious effort. If it hadn’t been for their ordeal in Fahraya, they’d both still be blushing and stammering, unable to make eye contact. John would be too timid to approach her and Meaghan would be too shut down to let him in.

  They had agreed that neither was ready to start a physical relationship, but they talked on the phone daily. It may have kept them from physical temptation, but if John’s dreams were anything like Meaghan’s . . . when she wasn’t dreaming about giant scorpions attacking her, she was dreaming about attacking John. In all sorts of creative ways. Dream Meaghan and Dream John were getting busy all over town.

  Everyone, including Meaghan and John, assumed they’d hook up eventually. Unless . . . Meaghan hated how her feelings for John reduced her emotional age sometimes to about sixteen. What if he’d met somebody else? He was surrounded by Fahrayan women every day. John had been celibate since his exile from Fahraya eighteen years earlier. He’d only ever been with Fahrayan women. Tall, fierce, beautiful. And—at least until they’d become human—without body hair.

  Which launched her into a whole new anxiety cycle. She was fifty years old. Fifty! She knew she was a young, vibrant fifty, but still. The last time she’d had sex, only women waxed away their body hair, and only on their legs and bikini lines. Now everybody waxed everything, sexual attractiveness apparently requiring skin as smooth and hairless as a baby’s bottom. And this would be what John considered normal, since the only hair Fahrayans used to have was on their scalps.

  The thought of waxing her nether regions gave Meaghan the heebie-jeebies.

  She snorted in disgust and picked up her wine glass. With everything else going on in her life—poltergeists and evil wizards and murky nefarious plots fueled by black magic—she was worried about pubic hair.

  Sex. As if the paranormal wasn’t bad enough, now she might have to deal with sex again, too. Life in Phoenix had been simpler. Stultifying, lonely, and despair-inducing, but simpler.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Meaghan heard Marnie and Jhoro roll out of bed again, then the sound of the shower in the hall bath, along with boisterous laughing. Apparently the language barrier wasn’t a problem, but then, Meaghan supposed, based on what she’d seen and heard since she got home from work, they weren’t spending a lot of time talking.

  As she picked up the phone to order a pizza, she heard a car horn blare in the driveway. A few short blasts and then a long honk. Russ was finally home.

  “About goddamn time,” she muttered. She walked out to the driveway and saw an old, rusted delivery truck, one of the big square ones. She waited until he climbed out. “So, you’re really gonna do it.”

  “I sure am,” Russ said. “Isn’
t she beautiful?”

  “She’s a piece of shit,” Meaghan said. “Where’s my dinner?”

  Russ waved his hand dismissively. “You have no imagination. Dinner’s on the way. Natalie’s bringing it.”

  “Natalie? Since when does Natalie do our cooking?”

  Russ walked around the truck, smiling and gently patting it. “Come here. Let me show you what I’m gonna do.” Meaghan’s question finally registered. “I pit-cooked some pigs out at John’s house for the Fahrayans. Natalie grabbed some ribs and a shoulder for us.”

  She felt a quiver down her spine when she heard John’s name, followed quickly by a flutter in her gut. “So . . . how’s he doing?”

  “Why do you want know?” Russ asked, smirking and waggling his eyebrows.

  Her face turned red. “Shut up.”

  Russ rolled his eyes, then gave her a wicked grin. “Meaghan’s got a crush on John,” he said in a sing-song tone. “John and Meaghan sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

  Meaghan stared at her toes. Blushing furiously, she said, “Just answer the question. How is he?”

  “You talk to him all the time,” Russ said, eyes roaming lovingly over the rusted truck.

  “On the phone. I mean, how does he look?”

  “Ooh,” Russ said in falsetto. “He’s so dreamy.”

  “Russ, I’m right on the edge here. I haven’t had any dinner yet, remember?”

  Russ laughed. “He looks good. Healthy. His face isn’t as puffy as it used to be. He smiles more. A lot more, actually. I’ve never seen him this happy.” He tore his gaze away from the truck. “Feel better?”

  “What about the drinking? Is he sober?”

  Russ sighed heavily. “He appears to be. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Do you know anything about his sponsor?”

  “No. It’s Alcoholics Anonymous. I don’t even know who his sponsor is.”

  “But you suspect, don’t you?” Meaghan asked.

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter because it’s none of our business. The sponsor gets to be anonymous too, you know.”