by S. A. Hunt
Robin blinked. “You did?”
“Oh, yes. They wouldn’t let me see you, though. The shrinks told me you weren’t stable enough for visitors, especially none so close to you and your mother.” Cutty punctured asparagus with her fork and slipped it into her mouth. “They said it could possibly sabotage your progress.”
“Maybe,” said Robin. She pushed food around on her plate. “I knew it was you. Back then.” Her words were grim but gentle. “Your name was the last word on my mother’s lips as she died in my arms.”
Leon and Wayne sat there with their forks and knives on their plates frozen mid-cut, watching this dinner theater in anxious anticipation.
“I wanted to bring you home with me, littlebird,” Cutty said dismissively. “I would have raised you as my own. There would have been no … whatever this is.” She made an inclusive gesture at Robin with her fork, as if pointing out her bad taste in shirts. “Blood feud, vengeance, vigilantism, I don’t know.”
“How?” Something burned deep in Robin’s chest—not quite rage, but it was headed that way. But it didn’t stop her from imagining what life would have been like if the coven had raised her. Would they have tried to make her take the oath and give her heart to Ereshkigal? “My mother never would have let it happen.”
“Your mother is dead, love.”
“Because of you.”
Karen Weaver cleared her throat, butting in. “Your mother murdered my husband. I couldn’t stand there and—and—take that lying down,” the witch said indignantly. “Edgar may have been a shit, but I loved him, you know.”
“So, you turned my mother into a tree?”
“Eye for an eye.”
Cutty interjected, “Besides, we had to replace the nag shi Annie burned down.” She shrugged and took a sip of her iced tea. “She brought it on herself, Robin. Annie thought she could punish her own coven and renounce her vows. Out of … disgust, I guess, she called it sins, transgressions against nature and decency, as if we had any choice. She thought of herself as a sort of whistleblower, thought she was better than us, better than her vows.
“In retrospect, she discovered she wasn’t prepared to make the moral sacrifices required to live this life. It was darker, uglier than Annie expected. But that’s not the way it works. Once you promise your heart to the Goddess, it’s Hers forever, for good or for ill. It’s like the Mafia, like Hotel California, once you’re in, you don’t get to leave. And you do what you can to stay alive. When you make the choice to become immortal, there are certain parts of your soul you do not get to keep.”
“Killing innocent people?” Robin screwed up her face.
“You think rabbits are evil creatures? Flies? Mice? Where is your righteousness when the owl plucks the mouse from the fields? When the bear catches the fish in the river?” Cutty pointed with her fork again. “Subsistence. That’s what it is. All it’s ever been. You don’t understand.”
“You’re predators, but you’re not eagles. That’s too noble. You’re unnatural. You’re rotten inside. You’ve been alive too long.”
“Who are you to tell me when I should die? Where is your cloak, Death? Where is your scythe and hourglass?” Cutty bit her lips and stared unflinchingly at Robin. “These are laws you haven’t bothered to know anything about. I’m sure you think you’re knowledgeable because you’ve been reading Hammer’s old books, but there is an old way, sacred traditions you ignore in your crusade to avenge your mother, who was not blameless. You know as well as I how she used her Gift to hide the truth from you, knocked holes in your brain every time you got close, almost turned you into a drooling idiot. She was every bit as evil as any witch Hollywood can gin up to scare mortals like these. But you haven’t given any consideration to that, you murder and you murder and you think it’s okay because of what you think we are. And you videotape our anguish and put it on the internet, like it’s some kind of goddamned circus!”
“Forty-six people,” said Weaver. “You fucking hypocrite.”
Robin and Cutty faced her. “What?”
“That’s how many people you’ve killed.” Weaver jammed her steak knife into the table with a thunk! “The commune in Oregon, the coven in Utah, the subway church in New York, the Sand Oracle’s coven.…”
Leon licked his lips. “I thought you said you only killed witches.”
“I have,” said Robin, feeling defensive. “Like nineteen. About that many—witches!” Again, Weaver was trying to turn the Parkins against her. Cutty was trying to talk her over to the dark side, so to speak, with her pet names and pouty, wistful, woe-is-Granny faces. A pronged attack.
Weaver’s head shook slowly. “People. Witches and familiars. You little heathern, I’ve watched your videos.”
“You think I’m a fool?” Cutty asked, her voice wry, her face disbelieving, one eye scrunched. Leon had surreptitiously turned his knife around in his fist like he was getting ready to stab somebody. “I already told you I knew you were in Medina Psychiatric. What kind of a fool would I be if I didn’t keep tabs on you in some way? If I’d known Hammer was coming to fetch you from Medina, I would have killed him and took you myself. But you two were driving across the state line into Alabama by the time I got there.”
Back then, she had been nothing but a confused, angry girl pumped full of meds, fried on electroshock therapy, psychoanalyzed half to death, and more than ready for the wide-open skies of Texas after spending so much time in the stark, sterilized hallways of the psych ward. All this time, she’d considered Cutty’s coven passive, oblivious, sitting here in Blackfield unknowingly waiting to be killed … but it was now evident she was still that angry, ignorant girl. She hadn’t been the cat; she’d been the mouse the whole time. Running the maze, looking for the cheese, completely in the dark.
“You were so focused on building the gallows, you didn’t realize it was your own neck in the noose,” Cutty said with a soft finality, her eyes sinking from Robin’s face and onto her own plate. She went back to eating quietly.
“Dinner truce, y’all,” said Leon. “Don’t forget about that.”
Robin’s eyes were pinned to Cutty’s face. “Why didn’t you kill me? You had so many chances.”
“I thought of you as my granddaughter, littlebird. That tiny girl that spent so much time lying on my floor coloring with her stinky markers … how could I stand to hurt you, especially after your own mother had taken so much from you? I may be heartless, but not that way.”
Theresa made a droll face. “You got more willpower than me. I’d ’a done the kid in the looney bin. She’s dangerous.”
“Yes, well, hyenas have more willpower than you do, dear Reese.”
Theresa huffed and dug into her food with renewed enthusiasm, as if in spite.
“At any rate, I didn’t consider the daughter responsible for the mother,” continued Cutty. “I still don’t. Annie did what she did to us, and to you, and you had nothing to do with it. You were a guiltless bystander. I saw no reason to go after you.” Her lips pursed, the corners drawn into a frown, and her next words were made hoarse by emotion. “I loved you, littlebird.”
Pouring it on thick now, thought Robin. “That’s why you let me go? You let me train to kill your kind, and you let me rampage across the countryside doing it, because you loved me?”
“Even my powers have limits.”
Silence fell as the garden party ate and processed the conversation. After a while, Wayne told Theresa, “This orange stuff with the nuts is really good, ma’am.”
“Thank you, mon garçon.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Sweet-potato casserole.” She smirked, wiping her saucy hands on her napkin. Her face was smeared with Heinz 57. “I’ll give you a piece of advice: never trust a skinny cook.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You got such good manners. I like you. Y’all all right for colored folk.”
Leon choked, pounded on his chest, took a drink of tea.
* * *
“A demon,” answered Robin.
“A demon.” The witch spoke with a disbelieving curiosity.
“A cacodemon named Andras. A Discordian and an incubus. He eats witches.”
None of the witches laughed, to her surprise.
“I expect Heinrich provided her the necessary texts. A meddler, that one. Probably using her to get to us, since he’s a man, and men have no power over the likes of us. I’ll bet he got the ritual’s material from the little … group he used to be a part of.”
“Group?” Robin’s head bobbed back in bewilderment.
“He never told you? He was expelled from a secret society of magicians called the Dogs of Odysseus. They’re conceptual descendants of the Thelemic Society founded by Aleister Crowley.”
“He told me he was in a cult, and he escaped. They expelled him?”
“Cult?” Cutty chuckled. “Oh, no, honey, they’re much more than a cult. They make the Freemasons look like the board of directors for Burger King.”
Leaning over her empty plate, Karen Weaver growled, “So, that’s why that pothead punk killed my husband? Sacrificed him to summon a ‘demon’?” Her fists were clenched but did not shake. All the witches moved like teenagers, which never failed to unsettle Robin. “No one’s ever brought a Discordian into the real world. This reality was sanctified against them when the Christ’s blood was spilled—that was the whole point of his sacrifice.” The raggedy witch sought validation in Cutty’s stoic face. “Wasn’t it? Or am I thinking of some show I watched on HBO again?”
“You are right, for a change,” said Cutty. “In the Old Testament days, demons walked this world with impunity. The only way to seal them outside of the material plane was with a carefully ritualized self-sacrifice.”
I have to admit, that makes sense, Robin considered. You didn’t see much mention (if any at all) of fully materialized demons on Earth in the Bible after Jesus was crucified.
“I want to know more about these Dogs of Odysseus, Marilyn.”
Something soft wrapped itself around Robin’s leg. She glanced underneath the tablecloth and found a spotty gray cat rubbing himself against her ankle. She resisted the reflex to kick it in horror.
“Ask your friend Hammer about the Dogs when you see him again.” Cutty smiled. “I’m sure he’d be glad to tell you all about it. Besides, I’m afraid I don’t know a lot about them myself, other than they hunt witches and collect artifacts of thaumaturgy. They’re quite elusive.” Robin shooed the cat away and it popped up on the other side, climbing up onto the table next to Cutty. “I’m sure they’re where he stole the Osdathregar you’ve been killing witches with. All of his reference books as well, I suppose. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been looking for him. He’s quite the outlaw.”
Hidden behind shreds of denim clouds, the sunset threw a warmth on the heavens like a great bonfire at the edge of the world. Kenway was probably worried about her, Robin decided, and she didn’t want to be there any later at night than she could manage. Not that daylight made the witches any less dangerous, but she preferred it to the darkness.
“Before I go,” she said, finishing her drink, “I want to see my mother. I think I deserve it.”
“I’m impressed,” said Cutty.
“At what?”
“At how civil you’re being.” Marilyn Cutty narrowed her eyes. “I’ve watched some of your videos. There is a determination to you … this past couple of years has made you ferocious. Damn near feral. Is it the memories holding you back right now, littlebird?”
What she said was “No,” but honestly, Robin wasn’t sure. That hate was still back there somewhere, but in the intervening time between Then and Now, it had grown cold and smooth and dark, like polished obsidian.
“You’re such a bad liar,” said Karen Weaver. “It’s a good thing you got into killin’ witches and not professional poker. You ain’t killing us because you don’t have the Godsdagger, and pissin’ me off would be suicide. And as entertaining as suicide can be for the likes of us, it ain’t a barrel of laughs for you.”
“Well, come on. Who am I to begrudge a daughter a visit with her mother?” Cutty rose from her chair, unfolding herself. The cat leapt down and followed her as she walked toward the darkness at the edge of the torchlight, pulling up one of the torches as she went.
The last of the sun was enough to paint the vineyard in a muted haze of red and purple shadows. Robin followed the silhouette through the trellis rows and the citronella torch in her hand. Were it not for the sickly-sweet aroma of rotting grapes, the soft darkness would have made it hard to tell the vineyard wasn’t some labyrinth of The Shining hedges.
Footsteps in the grass behind her. Theresa LaQuices and the Parkins had joined them. The bayou witch walked like a man, hunched over, her cannonball fists driving back and forth with each stride.
“You ain’t leavin’ us alone.” Leon was behind her.
This entire experience must have been a shock for the man and his son, even after the past couple of days. They’d showed up for a peaceful steak dinner and ended up in the middle of a slow-motion battle of will. Robin hated to see them embroiled in it, but it had been inevitable from the moment Parkin had signed the lease on the house, regardless of how careful she could have been to exclude them.
His jaw was set in stone, his eyes a combination of fear and strength.
“I won’t,” she muttered to him. “Stick close, okay?”
8
Joel didn’t feel like he would ever get the smell of that filthy garage out of his skin, the penny-smell of blood and the mungy stink of old engine grease. He took another shower, standing in the hot water for the better part of an hour, sipping Thunderbird out of the bottle and scrubbing until his skin was raw.
Like he’d promised Robin he would do, he had indeed slept all the rest of the morning, straight through lunch and into the afternoon. As soon as he woke up, he ate every bit of junk food in the kitchen cabinet (half a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, three Zebra Cakes, and a strawberry Pop-Tart) and got in the shower.
Grrrrruhuhuhuhuh.
He’d taken off Kenway’s combat bandage to clean his scratches, and the body wash stung as it ran down his chest. Joel winced, squeezing lather all over himself and gingerly patting his wounds with a washcloth.
(there’s a demon in the room there’s a demon THERE’S A DEMON)
Blood pooled around his feet, streaks of pink. He sang Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” over and over, the words reedy and hesitant. Every time he stopped singing, he saw the upside-down dead man with the cut throat again, that severed larynx glistening in the workbench light.
Reaching out of the spray, Joel turned off the water, squeak squeak squeak, listening intently.
“Hello?” He strained to hear over dripping water.
Coulda sworn he’d heard something outside the bathroom. The clock on the bathroom wall counted down the seconds. He pulled a clean towel off of the curtain rod and draped it around his neck.
Mama’s shotgun was propped up between the toilet and the vanity, a pump-action Weatherby Upland with a walnut stock. A fresh pair of underwear and pajama bottoms lay across the toilet seat. Joel whipped aside the curtain (relieved to find no one standing on the other side) and traded the wine for the shotgun. Stepping out of the bathtub, he shrugged into the briefs and pants and racked the action loudly, CH-CHUK!, ejecting a good shotgun shell into the toilet.
“Shit.” He briefly entertained the idea of fishing the shell out, but decided against sticking his hand into toilet water.
A plastic Dr Pepper bottle full of rocks had been balanced upside-down on the doorknob. He took it down and left it on the sink. Snatching the door open, he leveled the shotgun at the hallway, his
finger tensing on the trigger.
Nobody out there.
He relaxed, but only a bit.
Someone banged on the front door, making him jump. Joel padded down the hallway to the front door, looking through the peephole. A man in a black uniform stood out on the porch. Lieutenant Bowker saluted as if touching the brim of an invisible cowboy hat.
“Hambone better found my Velvet,” Joel muttered under his breath, standing the shotgun behind the sofa. He opened the door.
The autumn breeze that wafted in around the officer’s considerable bulk made Joel’s skin crawl. “Hi there,” said Bowker, saluting again. “Thought I’d stop by on the way home and check up on you. You doin’ all right, buddy?”
Joel shivered uncontrollably. “Y-yeah, I’m aight.”
“The hell happened to your chest?”
He glanced down as if he’d forgotten about the scratches.
“I fell.”
“Christ Chex Mix, what’d you fall on, a freakin’ mountain lion?” The officer watched Joel shiver and shudder. “Mind if I come in? Looks like this draft is cuttin’ you in half.”
“Oh, Lord, y-yeah. Come on in.”
He stepped into the foyer and Joel closed the door behind him. When he turned around again, Bowker had pulled out what looked like a price-checker from a grocery store and was pointing it at him. After Joel’s brain eventually settled on what it was an awkward three seconds later (a Taser), he recoiled, showing the man his palms.
“What you ’bout to taze me for?”
“I’m sorry,” Bowker said, stepping forward, pressing Joel backward into the living room. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. And I really hate to do this to ya. It’s probably the first time we’ve ever really had a problem like this. Normally, he’s tidy enough we can keep our hands clean.”
“What you mean? Who’s tidy? Man,” Joel groused, “I should have stayed my ass at the Victorian. At least Granny Magic ain’t gonna gun me down in my own house.”