by Lee Roland
The cauldron was, of course, the place of life, death and rebirth. I jumped to my feet and drew her into my arms. I fought not to pull her frail body too tight, too close. “Don’t you go anywhere. I’m not ready to be an orphan.” I wanted to hold her, make sure she remained. She was all I had except for Marisol. Guilt edged its way into my fear. I was the one who left, not her.
Gran hugged me back. “Very well, darling. I promise I will remain until you return.”
We talked longer and laughed as she reminded me of some of my more spectacular failures when I practiced magic. I could see her concern for Marisol even as she smiled. My strength finally gave out around ten. My back ached from sitting in a car so long, and my eyes burned from lack of sleep.
I left the kitchen, showered, and crawled into my bed, the one I’d left behind so many years ago. My room remained the same as when I left it. My old pajamas were still in the drawer, so I snuggled in, allowing the familiar scents of home to comfort me. The pillow smelled like the pots of rosemary on the porch, and the sheets slid under my skin like silk and not the well-worn cotton I knew. I didn’t regret leaving Twitch Crossing when I had, but now I regretted not coming home occasionally.
Once, during the night, someone came into the room. Trained as I was, I should have wakened instantly. I remained in that foggy half-sleep area where dreams and reality occasionally meet. Vague voices came from the kitchen, but I fell back to sleep before I could determine whom they belonged to. When I opened my eyes in the morning, the sense of a presence, the presence of a stranger, remained in the air like low fog over the swamp. The fragrance of breakfast coming from the kitchen moved me to put my concern aside for a while. Gran had, magically I’m sure, cleaned my clothes. They were folded and lying across the foot of the bed. I’d been wearing the same ones for many days and they were far from aromatic.
After I ate breakfast, Gran called me into her bedroom, one she rarely occupied. The older a witch gets, the less she sleeps. I’d always loved that bedroom, even if I never wanted one like it. Lace curtains covered the windows, and a pink floral bedspread draped over the white cast-iron bed. Just the smell of it had fascinated me as a child. Gran and everything about her carried the scent of summer roses, even in a dark swamp of rotting vegetation.
I sat beside her on the bed. She handed me the thick, solid bronze band Mama had called the Dragon’s Tears. A bracelet of sorts, it was worn on the upper arm rather than the wrist. I’d seen Mama wear it occasionally, but when she died, Gran had hidden it away. Though Marisol had clamored for it, Mama had promised it would be mine one day. Gran had been pretty firm about that, too, and Marisol finally stopped begging.
The bracelet tingled in my hand when I accepted it from Gran. As she released it, she said, “I’ve kept this thing from you as long as possible. I don’t know exactly what it is. My heart tells me it is a dangerous thing for someone with little training in magic. But it is yours. Your mother called it a birthright, though she never said why.”
I turned the heavy metal in my hand, my fingers tracing the three teardrop-shaped symbols cast into it when it was forged. I could feel them shift slightly under my fingers. The metal warmed, too. Gran shuddered and hunched her shoulders. “Your mother said it belonged to a warrior queen from an ancient time.”
I set the Dragon’s Tears down and wrapped an arm around her.
I’d probably pay attention to her warning of danger. Danger had fascinated me once, until people started shooting at me on my first job. I still loved the adrenaline rush, but I’d learned to be a lot more careful.
“My only regret,” Gran said, “was that we never could find anyone to teach you about your affinity with fire.”
Oh, yes. Fire. I’m really good with calling, manipulating, and throwing fire—except when I’m not. The fire thing gets out of hand occasionally, especially when I throw it. My fire sometimes acts like an out-of-control rubber ball carelessly tossed by a three-year-old.
Chapter 5
Gran insisted that I take her car to Duivel. I’d need the car because no way would any respectable driver allow Herschel on a bus, and I didn’t have enough money to pay for damages to a rental car. Gran’s vehicle had been parked in the barn for many years. It truly surprised me when the mechanical beast actually started—and had a current tag and registration. The shit-colored behemoth of an Oldsmobile she bought in the 1970s roared down the highway, sucking in gasoline at ten miles to the gallon. She told me gas was fifty-five cents a gallon when she bought it.
She offered me money, but I declined. She had a whole trunk full of the stuff. I wasn’t poor, though, and some of her bills, Federal Reserve notes, were so old they would attract attention. And the silver dollars. Marisol and I used to count and stack a fortune in pure silver, minted long before it was cut with copper. The magnificent gold coins made a priceless pile, too.
It was almost noon when I finally kissed her good-bye and drove away. I would have loved to stay another night, but her worry for Marisol probably wouldn’t let her or me sleep. Maybe she would rest if she knew I was on the way. I decided I didn’t need to discuss someone coming in my room. No point in upsetting her. She had wards that would tell her if someone came onto the property and Penrod as a guard. Given that protection, I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t dreamed the intrusions, anyway.
I’d left my cell phone in my car when I ran from the Sisters, so the first thing I did after I left the swamp was buy a new one. I also purchased some jeans, shirts, socks, and underwear. Then I called Single-Eye in San Francisco.
“Where the hell are you?” Karen, my computer genius of an assistant at Single-Eye, screamed into the phone. “Do you know how worried—” She stopped speaking to suck in deep breaths.
“Listen,” I yelled back. “I’m okay.”
Karen sputtered for a while, then settled down as she always did. I liked her from the minute I met her. She’d explode in all directions at the slightest problem, then cool off and begin a complete detailed resolution.
“What’s been happening?” I asked.
“We’ve been trying to reach you. I went to your condo. Your car is in your parking lot. I checked inside. None of your clothes are missing. Harold is scared that he might actually have to do some work with you gone. He says he knows he did wrong. That Mara woman came up to him while he was drunk and begged him. He swears he has it all straightened out with the police. He—we—want you to come home.” She drew another deep breath. “And your plants are dead.”
The only thing that surprised me was the fact that my car was in the condo lot. The Sisters must have arranged for its return. My plants had died months ago.
I gave Karen her instructions. “I’m on vacation. Give all my open cases to MacLellen.” MacLellen was the newest detective we’d hired several months ago. He wasn’t ready for a full load, but he was smart and he’d learn. “Tell Harold to chill. I’ll get back when I can. And throw my plants in the Dumpster.”
My life had taken a number of sharp turns, including the one that drew me out of African and Asian firefights and into a San Francisco office. Now it appeared I was on my way to something new. I promised Karen I’d keep in touch.
I drove west on I-10, north on I-55, and on into eastern Missouri. Gran had given me a crude map of Duivel.
Herschel hung his head out the window most of the way, even at seventy miles an hour. That way, he slimed only the side of the car and the drivers who foolishly drove too close behind me. I’d gotten a late start, so I pulled into a rest stop for the night. The Olds had a monstrous backseat, so I stretched out with the pillow and blanket Gran had provided. I’d slept under far worse conditions.
Herschel, of his own free will, stayed outside at night. I had no idea what he did, but maybe he wouldn’t eat anything inappropriate and puke it up in the car. He was always there when I woke in the morning.
We ate mostly at fast-food restaurants—ten burgers for him and one with fries for me. It was okay except for the
time some woman chewed me out for feeding a dog “people food.” I ignored her, but Herschel thanked her for her concern by sticking his nose up her crotch and sliming her legs.
The first blush of morning had already passed when I entered Duivel. Unlike in the mountains of Northern California, summer had not withheld her blessing here. A substantial city with a few high-rise downtown buildings, surrounded by expansive suburbs, it looked like average Middle America. My directions led me across the deepwater Sullen River. The blue green of the river was far from my black-water swamp.
Drive to the end of River Street, Gran had said. Laudine will be on the right.
I turned onto River Street at midmorning. The day promised to be clear-skied and balmy. I left the main part of the city, crossed the river, and headed south, feeling good about my journey until I punched through a ward, a mighty ward, one that could only have been created by the Earth Mother herself. Wards are a magical barrier designed to keep something out—or in. The magical obstruction slid over me like an ethereal waterfall, causing my muscles to quiver for an instant.
Herschel barked, as if he had the same sensation. Incompetent witch I might be, but I recognized energy of that magnitude. Something that powerful had to mean trouble.
It had been a long time since anything other than minor witchcraft in self-defense had interested me. This ward spoke to major events. What kind of trouble could sweet little Marisol be in? I had skills, though, skills that had nothing to do with witchcraft. Gun, knife, and high explosives might not beat or break a spell, but when used correctly, they could do serious damage to the spell caster. A powerful witch might live a long time, but a single well-placed bullet could change that. While my preferred weapon was magic, I was not averse to shooting at anyone or anything offering my sister or me harm.
River Street beyond the ward looked innocuous enough. It had repair shops, gas stations, a couple of fast-food places, and a grocery store with empty carts scattered through the parking lot.
On my left was a surprising block of new construction in various stages of completion. It appeared so out of place, I had to slow the car and stare. Apartment houses went up three to five stories there, and retail shops faced the street. It was as if the God of Urban Renewal closed his eyes and stabbed a random location on a map. One masterpiece of steel and glass had a sign proclaiming it to be the Archangel. It had a parking lot full of high-end cars that appeared as out of place here as the buildings towering over them. Once I passed construction sites, the architecture went back to being slightly depressed and in need of its neighboring block’s good fortune.
The road split and River Street continued to the left, descending on a gentle slope. The stylish business atmosphere significantly declined into a more neglected state. I passed a couple of boardinghouses, and a place called the Armory. Then everything deteriorated into bars and strip clubs. A few blocks more and most of the buildings were boarded and closed.
River Street ended in a cul-de-sac with a sign that read SULLEN BOG. Sullen Bog appeared to be expansive acreage of wretched mud and lumpy tufts of grass. It looked like plugs of hair on a bald man with an inferior transplant procedure. A bit of deeper water glimmered in the distance, surrounding a few more formidable islands. A pathetic sight for a woman who grew up in the mighty Okefenokee and waded through Asian jungles. It smelled of mud and water, but lacked the musky fragrance of home, probably because it froze in winter.
On my right as I faced the Bog was a stand-alone storefront with a sign painted on the window in brilliant lime green. Laudine. In smaller letters, passion-purple letters, it said Psychic Readings, Spells, and Potions. Most witches preferred anonymity rather than discuss spells, usually because it opened them to ridicule.
“I guess this is the place, Herschel.”
Herschel grunted, then farted, prompting me to park at the curb and quickly exit the car. He followed me. As I closed my car door, a gray sedan drew up behind me. The door opened and a man climbed out. A big man, over six feet, he wore black fatigues, sharply pressed like a soldier’s uniform. From the way he stalked toward me and the snarl on his face, he might as well have had the word bully tattooed on his forehead. I knew the type very well, having worked with them for many years. I also knew not to take any crap from him. I could see another man in black driving the car.
I stood, feet apart, hands loose, ready for action. I drew a little magic from the earth and let it shimmer around me. It brushed my skin like fairy kisses and feathers. I am the Mistress of Small Magic. I am also the Mistress of Massive Magic Disaster when I try anything bigger and stronger. Not that I let that stop me when I needed it.
Black fatigues stopped. He didn’t appear armed.
“Where you going?” he snarled into my face. His voice was one that saw little use, I’d bet, other than to bellow for another drink.
“That’s enough, Ralph.” The driver had exited his car and hurried up to me and Ralph. A smaller man with a pinched, worried face, he stood beside his larger companion, but at a careful distance. He clasped his hands together in front of him. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re trying to discourage people from patronizing that woman.” He nodded at Laudine’s.
A little worm of amusement wiggled in me. “Why? Is it illegal?”
“No ma’am.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and puffed up his chest. “She claims to be a witch, and that’s not the type of establishment we want for the area. I’m Johan Parker. We provide security services down here in the Barrows.”
Oh, this was good. Laws were different state to state, but didn’t they know that kind of intimidation was illegal?
“Tell me, Mr. Parker, how do you discourage people from using the strip bars up the street? Surely they’re a better type of target for moral purification than a mere psychic. You sic Ralph on their patrons?” I choked down my laughter but couldn’t stop a silly grin.
Parker glared at me. “I have my orders. No one is to go in there.”
Ralph puffed his chest up and loomed over me. Oh, oh. Big buffoon on the job.
I didn’t know Laudine, so I didn’t feel compelled to defend her. What I would defend was my right to go where I pleased.
“Well, I appreciate your warning, Mr. Parker, but I will go where I need to go, and right now I need to see Laudine.”
Ralph suddenly grabbed me by the upper arm. He jerked me toward my car. I stared at his hand, my mind forming an image. My most adept image. Fire. The magic responded, correctly this time, and burned his palm where it touched me. Not a deep debilitating burn, but certainly painful. He screamed and released me, staggering backward. Holding his wrist with his other hand, he stood wide-eyed, staring at it. With a howl, Ralph ran for the Bog, probably seeking water.
There are two kinds of fire. Physical fire that can burn the body, and witch fire that can burn other more personal things, like memory and emotion. Both kinds of fire were in my blood and my soul. I used fire in what I considered minor ways, but I did not delve deeply into the heart of a thing I didn’t understand. I feared that, should I give in to it, it would destroy me. It might also cause me to commit a crime that would truly earn a visit from the Sisters.
Parker stood with his mouth gaping open. Using magic on Ralph was overkill, but I really don’t like to get into a fistfight first thing in the morning. It tended to ruin the day, even when I won.
I decided I was done with them.
“Let’s go, Herschel.”
I turned to go into Laudine’s. Herschel walked behind me.
The first thing I noticed when I entered was a small round table in the corner with a crystal ball plopped in the middle. The robust odor of sandalwood brushed my nose.
Hundreds of jars of liquid and powders lined shelves on the wall, all sizes, all shapes, all colors, none labeled. Either they were props for a witch’s shop, or Laudine had a fantastic memory. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and glass cases were filled with an odd assortment of things: mirrors large and small, feather
s, tiny metal boxes, each enameled and etched with colorful designs, and other objects I couldn’t identify.
The witch standing behind the counter, staring at me, stood on guard; she had probably felt a strange witch’s magic on her doorstep. I held out my hands, palms up. It was a universal gesture to imply I offered no aggression. It wasn’t a promise that I wouldn’t strike in the future, but it was an offer to talk first.
“I’m Nyx,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Marisol’s sister. Are you Laudine? You sent my grandmother a letter.”
“I asked your grandmother to come.” I heard the immediate accusation and irritation in her deep voice.
“And she sent me. She’s not well enough to make the journey.” I tried not to frown. She started it, but I wanted to keep this meeting nonconfrontational at least until I was sure Marisol was safe.
Laudine, long and lanky at six feet, wore an ankle-length multihued skirt worthy of a Gypsy fortune-teller. Her hair, obviously dyed jet-black, was secured in a bun at the nape of her neck. She had an angular face, but it was smooth, regal. That face formed an expression of distaste aimed directly at me. The thing I noticed most was her eyes. Dark as her hair, they gave the impression of power. Impression being the key word. I’m not an expert at determining the power of other witches, but years of observation told me she had no more, maybe even less, power than I did. Or she was exceptionally successful at hiding it.
“I don’t approve of what you did out there.” She nodded toward the window. Her mouth pinched into a sour line. “It will cause me more problems.”
“I don’t approve of men grabbing me. Why did he try to stop me from coming in here?”
“Certain people have determined that my business is somehow out of character for the area. Redevelopment! That’s what they call it.” She sneered. “The Barrows is evil. And that evil will win out, whether or not I’m here.”