Wish Hunter (The Savannah River Series Book 1)

by Hero Bowen

  Grace fidgeted. She’d never been good at the serious mother-daughter talks. “Maybe if you’d taken that teacher’s wish instead of letting her waste it, we’d be closer to letting that happen.”

  All of Nadia’s good will toward her mom evaporated with that one sentence. Was it always going to be her fault, no matter what she did? Most people would’ve praised that act of kindness, but not her family.

  Nadia burrowed deeper into the neckline of her hoodie, recalling Angela Rhodes, a ninth-grade English teacher who’d saved one of her students from suicide and earned a wish in return.

  She’d come to Nadia to discuss how the near tragedy had made her question everything, including the future of her marriage. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her husband anymore—it was more that her life felt awfully small and short after what she’d prevented. She’d wanted to do more with it: travel, meet new people, make a difference. Like most of Nadia’s clients, Angela hoped to meet the end of her days feeling as though her proverbial cup was overflowing with memories and tales to tell.

  “I don’t regret it,” Nadia said. “If anybody ever deserved a wish, it was that poor woman.”

  How could Nadia regret what she gave to Angela, who had been so sweet and almost apologetic about her wants, and had shown so much compassion for that student? To give the older woman a fighting chance, Nadia had subtly coached Angela into using the wish by asking guiding questions, like “If you could change one thing about your life, what would you wish for on your birthday candles?” Even if that decision had put her further away from her goal of escaping the wish-hunter life with Nick, she’d do it again. Wishes didn’t exist just to be stolen or hoarded; they were meant to be used to better the world.

  “I’m tired.” Nadia didn’t have any strength left for another twelve rounds with her mom. “But sure, maybe you’ve got a point.” She didn’t mean it; she just wanted Grace to leave so she could curl up in a ball and sleep.

  Her mother made an awkward grunt of agreement. “You look tired.”

  “Thanks,” Nadia muttered. She hadn’t been asking for another insecurity.

  “But then, why wouldn’t you—” Grace stopped and stared off toward the small wedding photo that Nadia had half turned on the writing desk by the window so she could see it from her bed. It was the only one Nadia had put out to “redecorate” her childhood bedroom, and the only one she could bear looking at without dissolving into a puddle: her and Nick standing with their backs to the photographer, bathed in the burning sunset that glowed over the winery where they’d said their vows.

  “You should’ve taken the day off work for the anniversary,” Grace said. “We could’ve gone to Leopold’s or something.”

  Nadia would’ve laughed if she had more energy. “I’m not twelve, Mom. And it’s not exactly an ice cream occasion.”

  “No, no, right. Stupid idea.” Grace seemed to be trying, but Nadia wasn’t entirely sure what she was trying to do. Comfort her? Show she hadn’t forgotten? It might’ve been a clunky attempt at motherly concern, but Nadia still appreciated the effort.

  “To be honest, I’ve been thinking of going to the place where he died, for some sort of closure. If closure is even possible.” Nadia wrung her hands inside her hoodie pouch. “But the thought of being there by myself freaks me out.”

  Grace’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t I come with you? We could go now, while it’s still his anniversary. It might be good for you.” She was clearly rolling with it now. “We could just drive by, if you’re not feeling up to getting out, or we can buy some flowers on the way and leave them outside.”

  “Yellow pansies. And daisies.” Nadia smiled sadly.

  She remembered the faded vintage poster in her old kitchen, in the house she’d shared with Nick: “The Language of Flowers.” Yellow pansies meant “I’m thinking of you,” and daisies meant “I love you truly.” Nick used to bring her flowers sometimes and tell her to check the poster, wearing a proud, goofy grin.

  Grace tilted her head. “It’s your bouquet, but I don’t know if the store will have those.”

  “They’re growing in the garden,” Nadia pointed out, then hesitated. “But Babcia will probably tell me I’m plucking out a part of her if we take them. Or she’ll make some other snide comment about us going out to visit a haunted house. Maybe we shouldn’t bother.”

  Grace took hold of Nadia’s hand and pulled her toward the bedroom door. “You get the pansies or whatever, and I’ll distract your babcia. Meet me around the front in . . . how long do you need?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes,” Grace confirmed. “I’ll tell her I ate the last of the makowiec, and that’ll put the heat on me. When she simmers down, I’ll say I’m heading out to get another from the bakery in town. Sound like a plan?”

  A grateful smile tugged at the corners of Nadia’s lips. “It does.”

  She watched her mom leave the room, then picked up the photo from her bedside table, tracing Nick’s back with her thumb. Although Grace predictably hadn’t stood up to Basha downstairs earlier, Nadia appreciated this one small act of rebellion.

  Chapter Four

  As Nadia pulled up to the curb opposite the building that loomed so large in her nightmares, she took her first look at the place she hadn’t dared to visit. Until now.

  Even in the darkening evening light, the blackened walls and gaping, windowless eyes of the house stared back at her through a cage of scaffolding. A billboard on the grass outside revealed a glossy advertisement for a new project coming in the spring of next year.

  Nadia stiffened. If she’d delayed this visit any longer, she might’ve been staring at a pile of rubble instead. Would that have been better? Cathartic somehow? Unlikely. In fact, she had a sudden urge to chain herself to the scaffolding so they couldn’t bring the place tumbling down.

  Beside her, Grace fidgeted. Just then, the gut-wrenching lyrics to “Hope There’s Someone” by Antony and the Johnsons haunted Nadia through the car speakers like some ghostly soundtrack. She changed the station with a sharp twist of the knob.

  “Aww, I like that one,” Grace complained.

  The next radio station managed to find an even more melancholy song. Nadia snapped off the music and gripped the steering wheel. She laughed, but it was hollow and incomplete in the front seat of the car that used to be his.

  Her mother eyed her warily. “Are you okay? Was this a bad idea?”

  Nadia squeezed the steering wheel tighter. “I just need a minute.”

  He should be there beside her, blending his laughter with hers, before rolling his eyes and changing the station until he found a song that would make her smile.

  “Nope, we can’t have that sad stuff,” he’d say. “I recommend a hundred milligrams of tasty riffs and a dose of killer saxophone solo for optimum mood change.” He’d wax lyrical as he twiddled the knobs, knowing just how to land on the right station. “Back in the day, you couldn’t get away from a saxophone, but you don’t hear them anymore. It’s a tragedy, if you ask me.”

  She’d grin at him through her tears. “Did your soul catapult forward from the 1950s or something?”

  “You whippersnappers today with your rock and roll. You don’t know the real stuff!”

  “Did I say the fifties? I should’ve said the twenties.”

  “Must be why your babcia likes me so much,” he’d throw back with a wink.

  Grace cleared her throat, bringing Nadia back to the present. “Take all the time you need. But we shouldn’t stay too long—I have to pick up that poppy seed cake before the bakery closes, or your babcia will smell a rat.”

  Nadia forced herself to take another look at the house. Even with the scaffolding and blackened marks where the fire had started to burn through, she could see the remnants of tangled vines knotting across the parts of the exterior that the firefighters had managed to get to in time. They sprawled out into the front yard like a flood of leafy serpents, twisting up the grayed pillar
of a dried-up birdbath before continuing their journey across the fencing that acted as a boundary line.

  “I thought it would look creepy, but it’s not,” Nadia whispered.

  Grace arched an eyebrow. “Are we looking at the same thing?”

  An old, ruined house that would soon be gone—that’s all it was. There wasn’t anything to fear here. At least, not on the outside. The inside was where it had happened. And Nadia had to decide just how brave she was feeling, with the freshly picked flowers resting on her lap. Would she leave them at the door, or would she break into the place she’d pictured a thousand times in her nightmares?

  “I want to go inside,” Nadia said, feeling a peculiar rush of adrenaline. But what she’d really meant to say was “I want to feel closer to him. I want to be closer to where he was when the lights went out.”

  Maybe there was some part of him left. An essence. A feeling.

  Grace put a hand on Nadia’s knee. “I don’t think that’s smart, honey. This house was condemned for a reason, and I can only imagine how many laws that would be breaking.”

  Nadia unclipped her seatbelt and got out of the car, taking the flowers with her. If Grace really wanted to stop her, she’d have to follow. Now that Nadia was here, there was no way she wouldn’t venture inside.

  She ducked under the bars of scaffolding, clambered over the sagging Do Not Enter tape that had already been torn away in places, and stepped into the building. Even a year after the incident, the smell of cinders and damp wood remained, although the unsavory undernote of urine and beer also permeated the air.

  Anger prickled through her as she noted the empty glass bottles and wrappers scattered across the warped, blackened floorboards, as well as the graffiti that had been sprayed on the walls. Most locals knew that a murder had happened here. Clearly, this spot had drawn a few unwanted visitors who’d come to be voyeurs of her husband’s place of death.

  “Don’t you have any respect?” she hissed to no one at all.

  “Honey?” Grace called from behind as she pushed through the feeble tape.

  Nadia said nothing and headed for the rickety staircase that led up to the second floor. Only a portion of the downstairs had been damaged during the fire. Though she had never been here before, the police reports had described the room where he’d been found.

  “Nadia, stop!” Grace urged.

  The wooden planks creaked and groaned underneath Nadia’s feet, but she kept going until she reached the second-floor landing.

  Ahead stood the empty doorway to the front-facing bedroom. She didn’t know if the police had taken the door away after the murder, or if it had already been gone when Nick had come here to answer a reported fire. He’d just been doing his job on what should’ve been another average day.

  “For Pete’s sake, Nadia!” Grace appeared at the top of the stairs, looking pale and shaky. “These floors are unstable. You’re going to get us both killed.”

  Nadia shook her head. “A few more minutes, then we can go.”

  She proceeded along the groaning floor until she reached the bedroom. There, she paused on the threshold and looked inside. The floorboards weren’t scorched here, and the air smelled faintly chemical for some reason. She searched for some overlooked sign of the crime—a hidden bloodstain or shell casing—but of course the police would’ve already taken those in as evidence.

  Her fingers went to the chain around her neck, where the wedding rings dangled. She closed her hand around them, as if they might open up a channel to her dead husband.

  What really happened that night, Nick?

  She tried to envision the scene and where he would have been standing. Likely with his back to the door. Otherwise, he would’ve heard his coworker and best friend, Chris, sneaking in with the gun raised. According to the fire department, Nick and Chris had arrived on the scene together after the arson call. Maybe Chris had planned the whole thing.

  GSW to the back of the skull—that’s what the autopsy report said. Would it have been instantaneous? Would Nick have felt pain first? Did he say anything?

  More importantly, would that injury change who he was, if she could bring him back?

  The fact that Nick’s body was here in Savannah was another reason she hadn’t upped and left. If she was put on the Wishmaster’s permanent shit list for absconding while indebted, she might not be able to safely return to resurrect him.

  “How would I word it, to make sure you came back right?” she whispered, hoping he could somehow answer her.

  Grace tutted from behind her. “There’s no use thinking about that, honey. I thought we were here for closure, not to give you ideas. But this whole business would be easier if we could wish away our problems, now wouldn’t it?”

  Nadia gripped her rings tighter as a flicker of inspiration came. If she could wish away the debt, she’d have free rein to use a second wish and maybe even a third to bring Nick back.

  “You never know until you try,” Nadia said, deadly serious. “Could I wish the debt away, if I had a wish to use?”

  Grace gasped as if she’d been personally offended. “Honey, I was only messing around. Don’t even think of trying something like that. No matter what wish you make, the Wishing Tree will only twist the outcome. It likes screwing with us. Even when I tried to turn stealing wishes into a game, it wouldn’t let me win. Probably some arbitrary rule about how we’re not allowed to do anything that lets us get more wishes than we’d normally find.”

  “But what if it worked? What if we could end the debt for good with one wish?” The more Nadia thought about the prospect, the more that hope bloomed in her chest.

  “Well, the Wishing Tree might see that as wishing for more wishes too, so I doubt it’d work. It’s not like your babcia and I haven’t thought of it before—it’s just too risky. Someone could die.”

  The unspoken words rang clear: someone could die . . . like the creator of the debt. After all, the Wishing Tree could interpret the debt creator as being Nadia herself, depending on how she worded the wish.

  Grace glanced back over her shoulder, obviously wanting to leave. “Plus, the only way we could pull off something like that is if we got a wish that the Wishmaster doesn’t have tabs on, and that’d be like winning the lottery.”

  Nadia shrugged. “People do win the lottery.”

  Her mind whirred with possibilities and a nice, neat checklist that was much easier to picture than to actually execute: find an unmonitored wish, use it to wish away the debt, find two more wishes, resurrect Nick, run away to some new place to start life afresh with him. Simple, right?

  Grace looked like she was about to say something else when her phone rang in her pocket. She took it out and eyed the screen before swiping to answer, then stepped back out into the hall, leaving Nadia alone with her thoughts. Her mom was always taking calls at all hours so it wasn’t too much of a surprise, but Nadia needed a pillar of moral support right now.

  “Fine. Don’t mind me,” Nadia grumbled, letting her mind wander again.

  Wishing lore was both incomplete and contradictory on the matter of resurrection. Saying “I wish to be a necromancer” or “I wish I could bring people back from the dead” wouldn’t cut it. That was the quickest route to a flat rejection from the Wishing Tree. Not only that, but as her mother had pointed out, it was easy for the Tree to twist a wish’s wording. Nadia wasn’t sure how she’d feel about having a zombie husband with parts peeling off. Then again, as long as he didn’t try to bite her, she could probably get used to it. She wanted to laugh, but it came out between her tears as more of a strangled wheeze.

  The ache in her chest made it hard to breathe. She had her memories of Nick, but what about the memories they’d lost the chance to make? The ones they’d envisioned while walking past playgrounds and poring over the gift lists for other people’s baby showers? The guest room that had been earmarked for a nursery? Hallways that were supposed to be filled with shrieks and laughs and hurried footfalls of little
feet?

  Their story couldn’t end here. Anyway, what if Basha was wrong about the timeline, or lying? It was another futile hope, since the more Nadia thought about, the more she realized it was truly an unfeasible task, but she was trying not to dwell on the hopelessness right now.

  But their debt to the Wishmaster. Maybe she could do something about that and stay well within the rules.

  She turned at the sound of Grace’s raised voice. “It would have to be soon,” her mother said to whomever she was talking with on the phone.

  Nadia stepped out into the hall. She had expected Grace to have finished up her booty call by now, or whatever it was. Instead, her mother was pacing back and forth at the bottom end of the hallway, closest to the stairs, with the phone pressed to her ear and a worried frown denting her forehead.

  “We can’t keep holding off,” Grace continued, visibly agitated. “Right, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Can you get boots on the ground by then? Mm-hmm. I know, but this is our only shot.” She paused. “Fine, but get back to me as soon as you hear from them so I know what to expect. Thank you.”

  Nadia leaned against the doorway. “Who was that?”

  Grace’s head snapped up as though she’d been jolted in the spine with a cattle prod. “Nadia! Don’t you know it’s rude to listen in on other people’s private conversations?”

  “It’s rude to take a call when you’re supposed to be helping your daughter out on the anniversary of the day that made her a widow,” Nadia retorted.

  A ball of sudden dread rolled in her stomach. It took a lot to rattle her mother, and her mother definitely looked rattled.

  Grace walked back up the landing. “What did you hear?”

  “I’m not sure. You’ll have to enlighten me.” Nadia held her mom’s gaze. “But it sure sounded like you were up to no good, and not in your usual way.”

  Grace hissed a breath between clenched teeth. “This is why there’s no point in you thinking about wishing the debt away.” She waved her now-blank phone at Nadia. “I’m taking care of it.”