Legacy

by Cochran, Molly

  “I suppose you’re going to blame little Eric Shaw for that, too!” Mrs. Fowler gloated.

  Low blow. Especially since it was true.

  “She was carrying on a blue streak at the hospital, trying to scare everyone to death. She’d say anything, this one, put the blame on anyone except herself.”

  “That had nothing to do with you, Livia Fowler.” I recognized the voice before I spotted Gram making her way through the gathering crowd. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mrs. Fowler puffed herself up defensively.

  “I was there. You weren’t.” Gram took me by the hand. “As for the building falling, this child saved your miserable neck, you ungrateful . . . usurper.”

  Mrs. Fowler’s face scrunched up like a baby about to have a tantrum. “For your information, your precious Hattie Scott declared herself incompetent to serve as high priestess!” she shouted, turning to address the crowd. “Moreover, she’s been arrested for beating her ward, Peter Shaw, while the other Shaw boy is dying from whatever she’s been doing to him!”

  It was suddenly getting to be too much for me to take. “Take that back, you bitch!” I shouted.

  There was a collective intake of breath.

  “How dare you,” Mrs. Fowler seethed, her ample jowls quivering.

  Becca came at me like a Mack truck. “You’re the bitch!” she snarled, launching herself at me in a flying leap.

  I closed my eyes and braced myself for the attack. One second went by, two . . . Carefully I squinted open one eye. Becca was hanging in midair like a stuffed tiger in a taxidermist’s. Then slowly she drifted toward the ground, her arms still flung out in front of her, their fingers poised to scratch my eyes out.

  I turned toward my great-grandmother. She was standing with her hands on her hips, shaking her head and tsk-ing. She had performed the most powerful binding spell I—and probably anyone else—had ever seen, without even throwing out five fingers.

  “Awesome,” I breathed.

  “Minor, very minor,” she answered.

  The rest of the Fowlers were staring at Becca’s slowly descending body in openmouthed wonder as Gram raised her chin slightly and Becca drifted onto her feet. Released from the binding spell, she examined her hands.

  “We’ll go now,” my great-grandmother said.

  As we walked back toward the car I heard Becca call out, “She told me she’s going to finish the job her mother started!”

  “Keep silent,” Gram whispered to me.

  I obeyed, although I felt as if all the blood in my body had gone into my face.

  Two tourists, a couple, gave me an amused look as I got into the Cadillac. “What the heck was that about?” the man asked his companion.

  “Levitation,” she answered in a Tales From the Crypt voice.

  “Ooh. Scary. And was there something about a high priestess?”

  “I couldn’t hear all of it. I thought someone mentioned a magic wand, though.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “It’s part of the experience. This is ‘witch central’, after all.”

  They walked by, laughing.

  “Those were cowen,” I said quietly. Livia Fowler had allowed total outsiders to watch us.

  Back at the Bean mansion, Miss P and Hattie were waiting for us. Each of them was sitting in a straight-backed chair, looking like kids who’d been summoned to the principal’s office.

  “Oh, dear,” Gram said. “Katy, go make some tea.”

  “I think she should stay,” Miss P said quickly. “And tea won’t be necessary.”

  I looked from one to the other. Miss P looked anxious. Hattie’s face had no expression at all. Gram nodded subtly. I sat down.

  After a long silence, Miss P spoke. “Who besides us knows about the situation with Eric Shaw?” she asked.

  “Peter,” I said.

  “Agnes,” Mrs. Ainsworth said.

  “We’ll have to tell the others before long.” She saw me tense and added, “Once we’re sure.”

  “We have to find another way . . .” I began. All three women turned toward me at the same time, with the same if you say another word I’m going to brain you expression. I drifted into silence.

  “Are you all right, Hattie, dear?” Gram asked.

  Hattie gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “She was held for questioning,” Miss P said. “It was a formality that was necessary because of what appeared to be Peter’s attempted . . .” She looked at me uncertainly.

  “He cut his wrists,” Hattie said irritably. “Katy knows that.”

  I felt my heart clutching.

  “And it was my fault,” Hattie continued. “This is all my fault.”

  “Now, stop that, Hattie,” Gram said. “None of this is anybody’s fault.”

  “No,” Hattie said. “It didn’t just happen. I should have known. Peter suffered for so long without saying a word . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “I did know about what had happened to Eric. Prescott Shaw was full of the Darkness,” she recalled bitterly. “It was so thick on him, you could almost smell it. And when he died and that precious baby fell right on top of him to take in that poor fool’s dying breath . . .”

  With impatient hands she wiped at her eyes. “I knew. But then, when nothing happened . . . of course, why would it? Eric was just an infant. Even the Darkness can’t turn a baby evil. They’re God’s, through and through, till they get smart enough to let things get at them. Least, that’s what I thought.”

  “Hattie . . .”

  “And nothing happened. For a long time. He was just a sweet little baby, that’s all.” She squeezed her eyes shut and waved her hands in front of her, as if she were trying to erase ten years of memories. “Except sometimes he looked so, so scared. I would hold him close and tell him everything was fine, but he knew. Those little eyes . . . And then it started. Thought it must have been my imagination at first, or something with the light, giving a glint to them. Sometimes they’d stop looking scared, and they’d roll back in his head like he was taking a fit, and when he’d open them again . . . Well, I knew it wasn’t him anymore. Eyes like fire. Laughing. . . .” Her voice broke. “Like the devil from Hell . . .”

  “Oh, my dear,” Gram said, putting her arm around Hattie. “All this time you’ve borne this burden alone.”

  Hattie turned away. “I had to, Elizabeth. Sooner or later it would have gotten out, the way it’s going to now, and my little boy—”

  “That’s not going to happen!” I said, a little too loudly. But I didn’t care. “We’re not going to let anyone hurt him. You’re the most powerful witches in Whitfield.”

  “Which is why we have to consider the whole community,” Miss P said softly.

  “The Darkness is winning,” Hattie said. “Over the years I’ve seen it get stronger and stronger inside Eric. Your mama, Katy—she saw it right away. Took one look at him across that store, and she knew. It was like a firefight, the energy those two were sending each other.”

  She shook her head. “When she started walking toward us that day in Wonderland, it was like the air started crackling. I tried to get my boys out of there, away from Agatha, but I couldn’t move fast enough. I begged her, please don’t, please don’t hurt my baby.”

  She put her hand to her throat. “By the time she got close enough for me to see her face clearly, I saw that she was crying. I said again, ‘please, Agatha, I’m your best friend’ . . . tears were streaming down her face and she was shaking all over when she reached out for Eric. She said, ‘who else is going to do it?’ And then she looked me in the eye and said, ‘You know.’”

  Hattie’s eyes looked out, unfocused, remembering. “She tried to take him. Fought me for him. I would have killed her if I could, I’ll tell you that, God have mercy. But I was at a disadvantage, holding the baby. And Agatha had power.”

  Her mouth set into a grim line. “So that was that. She took him out of my arms
and threw him against a pile of lumber, and then, while everybody in the store started screaming, she walked away like nothing had happened.

  “Except everything happened. Eric didn’t die, but Agatha did. Set herself on fire like a damned Buddhist monk. But in the end, she died for nothing.”

  It was hard for me to breathe. My mother had tried to bring the Darkness into herself by killing Eric and seeing to it that she was the closest person to him when he died.

  Gram looked miserable. “How you must hate her,” she said quietly.

  Hattie looked up, her face riven with tears. “Hate her?” she asked. “How could I hate Agatha? I loved her. Loved her, Elizabeth. She was my sister in every way but blood. Who else would have done what she did?”

  We all stared at her, puzzled.

  “I knew. Don’t you see? I was the one who should have killed Eric. I was high priestess. It was my duty to the community to keep everyone safe. But I couldn’t do it. So I kept it to myself. I kept telling myself that I’d find a way, just like this one is saying now.” She motioned toward me with her chin. “But Agatha knew there was no other way.”

  Her lip trembled. She clenched her jaw tight, still fighting the tears that she couldn’t stop. “So Agatha took it on herself to do what had to be done, even though she knew it would cost her her life. She accepted the horror that would have come to Eric sooner or later.”

  “The burning,” Gram whispered.

  “There’s no worse way to die,” Hattie went on, anguished. “She was trying to save Eric from that.”

  “And save the rest of us from the Darkness,” Miss P added.

  “Only things didn’t work out that clean,” Hattie said. “Eric lived, but turned out so brain-damaged that the Darkness couldn’t even get hold of his mind. Isn’t that something?” She smiled crookedly. “I thought the Lord had given me another chance. If Eric couldn’t think, then the Darkness couldn’t use him.” She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head, then opened them again. “That’s the way it’s been for ten years. I thought I’d found what I’ve been praying for since the minute Prescott Shaw died in my house.” She stood up and paced around like a nervous cat. “There was just one thing told me that evil was still inside that little boy.”

  “The drawings,” I whispered.

  “You know it.” She went over to the fireplace and rested both hands on the mantel. “Those pictures—that was Eric, trying to tell me he was still fighting in there, warning me—warning us all . . .”

  “That ability, his genius—”

  “All his,” she said. “Even with his mind so messed up, he can draw like Leonardo. The devil himself can’t touch that gift.” She rested her head on her folded arms. “When we kill him—when I kill him—I’m going to kill that, too.”

  I stood up. “You’re not going to kill him, Hattie,” I said as calmly as I could. “And you’re not going to kill yourself. We’re going to find a way out of this.”

  “How?” She glared at me, her eyes like fire.

  “Peter . . .” I stumbled. “Peter said he had a plan . . .”

  “A plan!” she spat. “What kind of plan does a sixteen-year-old boy come up with?”

  “He at least deserves to be listened to, before you light the bonfire!”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Gram snapped.

  Hattie and I looked at each other, our eyes welling, both our hearts breaking, and then we ran into each other’s arms and held on to each other fiercely. “I’m sorry, Hattie,” I whispered. “I wouldn’t hurt you for anything.”

  “Hush, child,” she said. “I’m half out of my mind just now.”

  “Still, we’ll find a way.”

  She pushed me gently away from her. “I need to get back to Eric. He’s been alone all this time.”

  “Gracious,” Gram said. “The poor thing.”

  “He’s asleep most of the time now,” Hattie said dully. “The thing inside him is building its strength. And my baby is dying.”

  Time seemed to stop for a moment as we all realized how far things had already gone.

  “You shouldn’t be with him—with them—alone,” Miss P said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You?” Gram exclaimed. “A djinn? No, no, Penelope, you’re much too valuable. One whiff of what you are, and the Darkness will do anything to infect you.” She dabbed her face with her handkerchief. “I’ll go. It isn’t going to be interested in an old woman with small talents and a short future.”

  “I will, too,” I said. “It already knows me.”

  “No,” Hattie said. “You’re too young.” Miss P agreed. The two of them were headed toward the door when my great-grandmother spoke.

  “I think she should go,” she said.

  The others turned to face her.

  “Peter will talk to her.”

  “But Peter’s in the—”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Agnes is bringing him to your house.”

  “She is?” Hattie asked, confused. “But we just decided to leave a minute ago.”

  “I know. I only just told Agnes. She’s on her way, and Peter’s with her.” She cast a stern glance at me. “And don’t ask,” she said. “He’s fine.”

  “But . . .” Hattie shook her head. “How was he released? I never told anyone at the hospital to let him go.”

  “Well . . . they don’t exactly know he’s gone yet,” Gram said. She smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. Stay here, Penelope.”

  “But Katy shouldn’t . . .”

  “No, of course she shouldn’t. But she will.” The old lady leveled me with her gaze. “Won’t you.” It was not a question.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered truthfully.

  She took a deep, exasperated breath. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “At least Hattie and I will be with you this time.”

  CHAPTER

  •

  THIRTY-SIX

  ORACLE

  When I’d sneaked up to Hattie’s rented house at night, it hadn’t looked so bad, but up close in the light of day, it was pretty much a wreck. The cement steps were falling apart, the lawn was overgrown, and paint was peeling everywhere. Inside was even worse: Drab, dark, and smelling of stale grease, it looked as if it had been occupied by transients. There was no trace of the vibrant woman who had run Hattie’s Kitchen like a great ship.

  There was no love here, only fear.

  Hattie turned on a wall switch and an overhead light came on, two naked bulbs in a fixture without a shade. It illuminated the pillows of dust gathered at the foot of the stairs.

  “Follow me,” she said lifelessly as she trudged up to the bedrooms.

  I felt myself sweating in the humid, airless hallway. We passed an open door behind which was a room with a dusty computer on a desk with a few books piled beside it. The bed had been hastily covered by a brown blanket. Along the wall were several boxes, never unpacked, and a headboard for the bed, never assembled. It was a room that no one had planned to stay in very long.

  Peter’s room.

  “Eric?” Hattie had stopped at the door at the far end and knocked.

  “Maaaaaa,” came a sleepy voice.

  She walked in. My great-grandmother and I followed her.

  The air was thick here, hard to breathe. In one corner, opposite the window, was the straight-backed chair where I’d seen Peter in so many of my dreams, where he’d sat the night I saw him with the Darkness. This was where it spoke to him, where it had flayed the skin off Peter’s back. This was where all the secrets had originated.

  In the narrow bed occupying the center of the room, with hospital bars enclosing its sides, a ten-year-old boy struggled to sit upright.

  “Ma,” Eric said faintly, rubbing his eyes and smiling.

  “I’ve got your supper,” Hattie said gently, opening up her pocketbook. Inside was a plastic bag with a jar of baby food and a small spoon. “Let’s see, what do we have today?” She squinted to read the label. “Turkey with garden vegetables. Sound good
?”

  She opened the lid with a loud pop that made Eric giggle.

  “Yum yum?”

  “Yum,” he answered, laughing.

  I felt my eyes welling. My mind revolved around a single thought: Not him. Oh God, please, not him.

  How long did the Darkness have to work to get that little broken body out of this bed, I wondered. Two years? Five? Evil was persistent.

  I wiped my face. Well, so was I. It wasn’t going to keep this little boy. Not as long as I was alive.

  Suddenly Eric noticed me. “Kaaay!” he shouted, spraying baby food all over Hattie. What didn’t land on her dribbled down his chin. “Kaaay!” He held out his arms and I ran into them, hugging him.

  “Katy,” Gram said, her voice cautious. “Maybe you oughtn’t . . .”

  But I knew I was all right. I knew that as long as I held on to Eric, that connection wouldn’t—couldn’t—be broken.

  I think it was because I loved him. Yes, that was it. I loved him. And he loved me.

  “Kaaay?” It was a question, sly and playful. It meant, Want to see something cool?

  “Uh-huh!” I answered emphatically, hanging on to one of his hands while he flapped around his bed with the other. Finally he came up with a crumpled piece of paper under his pillow, along with a blue crayon that had marked his sheet in a number of places. He thrust the drawing at me.

  “Great,” I said, taking it with one hand. “Let me see that.”

  The sight sent shivers through me. Because this time it wasn’t birds, or sinkholes, or any of Eric’s usual subjects. It was a drawing unlike any he’d ever made before: With his customary meticulousness, he had drawn an island. It was surrounded by a roiling ocean beneath a lightning-filled sky. On the island was a house engulfed in flames, and beside it lay two charred human bodies, face down and clearly dead. Next to them stood a stick figure with a crude circle for a head and jack-o’-lantern features. It was a child’s version of a monster, so out of keeping with the articulate perfection of the rest of the drawing. And it was all in blue, like a scene from a nightmare.