Halfway Bitten

by Terry Maggert

  Alex responded with another minimal shrug. He clearly hadn’t gotten the chatterbox gene that infected Anna, and I found myself adding that quality to his already considerable list of Reasons Alex is Better than Anna, as I’d coined it. We began to descend the path that intersected with Main Street, preparing to pass by a large, over-decorated public restroom that squatted beside the trail head like a refugee from a movie set. The Adirondack theme was a touch heavy handed. I mean, do you really need a silhouette of a lady moose to indicate which bathroom to use? It was gaudy, and oddly lonely given the position. Town people never used it; we left the austere interior to the tourists who got caught short before starting their modest hike into the more well-worn section of the looping trail.

  I pride myself on being decisive. When we saw the girl standing next to the faux log exterior of the restrooms, I immediately took in her appearance, the tears, and the aura of exhaustion that hung around her like a record of the past ten minutes. She was young, just in her teens, skinny, and still possessed of that innocent hue that kids inexplicably seem to lose overnight. Clear braces gleamed on her teeth and the blotches across her face told the tale of a long, ugly cry that was only beginning to subside. She rubbed her bony shoulder absently with one pale arm. There was a hint of sunburn on her skin, and she wore shorts and beat up Chucks that made it look like she knew her way around a field or two.

  “Alex, meet me at The Pines in ten,” I said, cutting my eyes at the girl.

  He raised his brows, took in the scene, and surmised that I was going to do girl stuff, thus excusing him from whatever was happening in the next few minutes. With an extrovert like Anna as his sister, his reaction came as no surprise. He’d probably had a life filled with extravagant public scenes, and the quiet young man before me would have hated that. I could tell.

  “Ok.” One word, one glance, and he walked off like a wraith, carefully avoiding any eye contact with the girl who now looked up in moderate alarm.

  With a snap decision based on instinct, I called out to Alex. “I’ll track you down later. Cancel the beer for now.” He turned back to me and I willed him towards understanding with my pleading eyes. He nodded softly and finished his slinking departure.

  She was much more than just a girl, she was a unicorn. No, not that kind. In my family, we have terms that apply to certain events or people who fall outside the grind of ordinary daily life. A unicorn is that hint, or person, or thing that delivers a magical being into your lap without lifting one finger. A unicorn is a mistake, an oopsie, or in some cases, the way to answer questions that might have lain dormant for centuries. Gran and I love unicorns. They make protecting our lands that much easier. I drew my conclusion about the girl based on some quick assessment; also, the simple truth that the bulk of the crime in Halfway is magical in origin. Believe me, it keeps our sheriff bored while I’m busy. Usually.

  I looked her over once more, squared my shoulders, and began to approach her, but not before smiling. Smiles are good. Frowns are bad. What if your face stayed that way for a few centuries? I’ve seen such a thing. Eww. Not the way to spend your time in the Everafter. With a slow walk, I stepped down the path to the girl, and hopefully some answers.

  Chapter Twelve: Unicorn Justice

  “Hi, I’m Carlie . . . are you okay?” I asked, hanging back a step or two just to let the girl warm up to me. She went rigid like a deer preparing to bolt, then looked me over in detail with wide brown eyes. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail; everything about her said she was on the cusp of going into the truly awkward years of her life. For now, she just seemed a bit tall, innocent, and scared.

  With a near comical sniffle, she drew her head up, thought better of it, and fought back another wave of tears. “I’m . . . I’m not okay.” The admission was painfully honest.

  I took another step closer, hands up, with my palms spread. “What’s your name, honey? I live here. Are you visiting?” I knew she was, but wanted to draw her out. She’d clearly been schooled by a parent or two about the presence of strangers. The internal fight over whether she should speak to me won out in my favor.

  “Amy. My name is Amy.” She looked down, her bottom lip in a death grip between her teeth. When her eyes rose, tears welled anew. “My parents are over where we’re staying. Will you walk me there?” She tossed a look of unalloyed fear over my shoulder.

  Into the woods.

  I looked behind in response; her fear was palpable and fogged the clean air around us. My breath caught slightly at the sight of innocuous green trees; from her look I’d expected nothing short of a dragon behind me. That wasn’t entirely out of the question, but I found the prospect highly unlikely.

  “Amy, what are you scared of?” I put my hand on her arm with my lightest touch. After an initial flinch, she sagged into me and I realized she was taller and lighter than me. I’m not far removed from that kind of childhood myself, but she seemed small, and horribly scared. Her ribs shook with a deep quiver that told me she was on the verge of losing it, and this time she might not be standing when the crying was over. I know fear, and it was worming its way through her body like a toxin.

  I looked into her eyes and smiled in what I hoped was my most maternal gaze. I know it might have been a touch forced—not even Gus believes I’ve a maternal bone in my body—but it seemed to create a bridge between us, even if it was tenuous at best.

  “A man. He was here. He was on the roof when I came out, and he jumped down. Like a shadow.” She looked upward again, but I pulled her chin down and reinforced my sense of capability and caring.

  “Tell me about him.” If he’d been on the roof, I immediately knew it was no man. Neither had been the creature who killed Edward.

  “He was short, and he stank, like he was sick or something. He was all sweaty, and his hands were, like, all long. He looked like he was homeless. He . . . ” She trailed off, hiccupping into a cry that felt painful to me, and I was only holding her.

  “Did he hurt you?” I began to look at her exposed skin as discreetly as possible. There didn’t seem to be any blood, or anything obviously wrong.

  She shook her head. “He grabbed me, but it was just like he was made out of stone or something. Held me, and then he—he kissed my cheek, and told me something. His tongue was in my ear, and I don’t know why.” With an effort, she gathered herself. Amy was tough, I decided.

  “Go on, honey. This is all helpful.” I smiled again. It was no lie. She was helping me with every fact she could deliver. “Where are you staying?”

  She hesitated as her instinctive fear kicked in gear again, then looked at me and rendered her judgement. “My family rented one of the Limberlost cabins for the week. Mom and dad are there. And my sister,” she added with that perfect disgust that only a sibling can vocalize.

  “Older sister?” I asked, smiling.

  “Three years. She likes boys, and her phone, and she totally doesn’t talk to me. Unless I’m in the bathroom for more than ten seconds.” Her eyes rolled as she told me that last tidbit, and I found myself laughing despite her state of upset. That won me some points, because Amy calmed visibly and wiped at her swollen nose.

  “Would you like me to walk you there, and we can talk about what happened? I live here in Halfway, and I promise you, no one will bother us.” I held out my hand, and after a gravid second, she took it. Kids really are tougher than anyone thinks.

  The Limberlost Cabins are where city folks come to pretend they’re roughing it in the mountains. There are two rows of twelve adorably Adirondack looking bungalows that are too nice to be cabins and too small to be actual homes. For added authenticity, there are community showers and bathrooms at the end of snow-white gravel paths. The cabins are to the north end of town, just past the city building and a small theater that does a booming business in the winter and stays admirably afloat during the summer. People tend to seize the day, so to speak, and summer is not likely to be ignored by being inside. Not when there’s so muc
h to do and see right outside your own door.

  During the fifteen minute walk, Amy filled me in on the details of her attack. I stopped her now and then, asking for clarification, but for the most part I simply let her speak into the comfortable space between us. She was a sweet kid, sort of funny, and on the cusp of discovering that there was more to the world than her own room and her cat. I hoped that this day wouldn’t stay with her any longer than was necessary, so I decided to play the badass in order to set her mind at ease. The man who grabbed her was an Indian of some sort; that much was obvious from her description. He was also not a man. Amy described a necklace he wore in such detail that I felt I could locate it in the dark. A leather string held a gleaming white shark tooth around his neck, upon which was inscribed an infinity symbol. Initially, her description of a “figure eight on its side” had left me wondering if it was a number, but further questions clarified what it was and I moved on to his actual words.

  In point of fact, he mostly scared her, saying precious little. Her fear colored the memory, but I knew that Amy was marked as a victim of some sort, and with vampires not entirely unknown to our area it made sense that he might be back to pay her a visit. That’s where I come into the picture, because any immortal creature on my family land—or Wulfric’s, for that matter—stands there at our pleasure, and not their own. Don’t even get me started about what Gran might do. She’s the velvet hammer in our family; she’s totally willing to do anything to keep Halfway safe, but with perfect manners and a smile.

  After extracting a promise of silence, I told Amy in my most serious voice that I would watch over her all night and into the morning. Her eyes had gone round at that, and she hugged me like kids do, with that flailing motion that means they’re not concerned with how they look, but only how they feel. I love that kind of honesty, and there were tears in my eyes when she went to her cabin (number 3, left side) and stepped inside the garish wooden door.

  I pulled my phone out and told Gran the details, waiting to hear her advice on the matter. When she stayed silent, I asked, “Gran? What do you think?”

  Again, the silence lagged, but then she cleared her throat and I could feel her anger. “My temptation is to do something inadvisable. I’d best leave this matter to you, dear. If the vampires have abrogated our treaty, then we shall look at . . . options.” The way she said options made me think that it would be decidedly unhealthy to be a vampire in the Adirondacks if she decided to reintroduce certain aspects of a long-standing treaty.

  These are our lands. My family controls the magical nature of what occurs here in Halfway and the lake area. For a creature like a vampire to violate that trust is something akin to a message. It’s also incredibly stupid, given that my grandmother hasn’t flexed her magical muscles in years. She’s frightening when her spells come out to play.

  “Ok, Gran. I love you. I’m going to watch her tonight and get some answers from this Indian. He’s not Huron, or Mohawk. I can tell from the girl’s description. And if he isn’t local, then he’s here without our permission.” I let air rush from my lips as I considered what to do next. Gran took care of that indecision with a simple command.

  “That’s easy, dear. If he is an outsider, and he is harming children, kill him.” Her words were stone-covered iron, and I twitched at their power. I knew she was right. Her certainty was a physical law, and I found myself nodding at the phone.

  “Consider it done, Gran. And if I can, I’ll get some answers,” I said.

  “Do that, Carlie. Oh, and one more thing—I’ll feed your cat. Be safe, dear. Call me at dawn. It’ll be over then.” She clicked off, and I was left smiling at the phone, now more convinced that someone immortal was about to have a miserable evening.

  Chapter Thirteen: Still Waters

  There’s a knack to waiting. It’s simple biology that humans detest waiting, except for the British, for whom standing in line is a kind of national pastime. Excuse me, they enjoy queueing up, as our cousins over the pond are fond of saying. Regardless of my nationality, I have a particular tactic that stems from my training as a witch. I looked around at the general layout of the cabins and selected my hiding place, marked it in my mind, and did the only logical thing.

  I went to get snacks.

  The convenience mart is one block up across the street, so I sauntered my way in a pace that was guaranteed to let me be consumed by the rush of tourists on their way north or south in the main pathway that ran along the lake. I selected from the critical food groups, those being jerky, salty chips, and chocolate, then added bottled water and a giant energy drink. I can cast a spell of wakefulness on myself, but doing so will degrade my power base. I didn’t want to waste the magic on something that an energy drink could achieve, albeit with a lot more twitching. Girding my loins for battle yet again, I slid discreetly behind the cabins to a row of spruce just as the sun was beginning to set in a wash of gray and rust. There were feathered clouds to the east and I smelled the hints of a fireplace from nearby; all of the cabins had them and people tended to feel that unless they had a fire going, they weren’t really roughing it. Never mind that it was seventy degrees outside or there was a restaurant less than a stone’s throw from their door; these were city folks on an adventure, and I wouldn’t disabuse them of their illusions. I know the power of perception, and I respect it.

  I let the night close around me, finished my second candy bar (no judging, now) and crossed my legs, palms up, in preparation for spellcasting. The magic I was going to assemble would create a permeable barrier between me and the night, and I began to quiet my mind in gentle steps that drew me softly from the bustle of the day.

  Eyes closed, I reached out with my mind and let my power come to rest lightly on my tongue. After a whisper, I began to weave a dark fabric of sullen lines that connected, ducked under each other, and knotted at the end of each waving row. It was a garment of silence that settled around me without impact or light. I felt the surface of the earth beneath me, and keyed to the gentle waves of energy that spoke of life and death and the things that hovered between. The rocking motion began to still, and in a moment I knew that I was invisible to the world. With a soundless flutter, my creation of woven energy stilled the waters of my mind, and I faded from view. A ghost, but one with a bite.

  I was undetectable, but I could see. My eyes snapped open and I began to watch with an intensity that only witches and predators can muster. The moon rose, stars began to flicker, and during the small hours, the world descended into the moments of my kind. The witching hour. It’s neither late nor early, but on the cusp of a time when animal or human brains cannot ascertain what they should be doing, so they become inert. Weak. Vulnerable. I knew that was when he would appear, and I was right. Predators share methods if not reasons, so it was easy for me to track the shadow that moved without sound across the chilled grass of the manicured lawn before me.

  It looked like a man. I took in certain peculiar traits from his silhouette alone; there was a roll to his gait, he had had powerful, columnar legs, and he wasn’t tall. A broad chest and burly shoulders molded him as a person of immense strength. The moon cast shadows on the planes of his face, and his eyes lurked as mere glimmers in shadowed nooks beneath a strong brow. His silence was total; his motion, predatory. I knew then he was no man, but I reached that critical decision to let my spell speak first in order to subdue him. If I could.

  I waved a negligent hand at him and let my spell smash into his feet, flipping him up and over in a wrenching arc. Before he could move, I stood, holding one hand outward, charms tinkling together in the light of the moon. “If you wish to live, you will stay still.” My voice was cold. My anger was not.

  To my utter surprise, he obeyed, even going so far as raising one shoulder in a tiny shrug, which was a feat given his bulging muscles. I could see that he was deeply tanned, and his teeth leapt out at me like mirthful beacons. He was smiling.

  “I choose to obey.” His voice was light, nearly moc
king, and completely without accent, save a sing-song quality to his speech that told me he knew other languages. They were old tongues, if I made my mark.

  “That’s good. Stay seated, but get comfortable. If you even twitch, I’ll set you ablaze. If you make a move, there won’t be anything left to burn. Got it?” I asked.

  He folded his legs neatly as an answer, and waited. After I cocked my head to examine him thoroughly, I asked him, “Who are you?”

  The shark tooth necklace was tight around his neck. It moved up and down slightly with his breathing. In the dim light, I could see it well enough to know this was certainly the man Amy described to me earlier.

  “You could not pronounce my name,” he said, brimming with confidence. Names are powerful things. His sidestep of my acquiring some power over him was deft, but not unnoticed. I took his glib assumption of my inability to speak complex words as a sign of overconfidence. Fine by me, I decided. If he chose to regard me as weak, I’d exploit that supposition at every turn. Witches are sneaky that way; we use every little advantage and then some.

  “What shall I call you, then?” I persisted.

  “Philip. That will do. And you are?” He raised his brows at me over a smile. He was rather cocksure for a man staring at a ring of charms loaded with enough magic to burn down the forest.

  I waited to respond, just to let it be known I was in charge. Interrogation is in the details. “Why did you scare the girl today, Philip?” I was going to ask one question at a time, just to judge his answers.

  He flicked long fingers dismissively. “Boredom.”

  When it became obvious he wasn’t going to say anything else, I shook my head in a rueful twist, my lips pulled sardonically to the side. His eyes narrowed as he began to process what I was doing.