by O J Barré
Emily emerged from the kitchen, bundled in a thin coat. “I got a text from Mitchell. Time to get home.”
“Yeah, he’s in bossy mode again. Taurus came by to tell me about the meeting. You okay driving in this?” He glanced at the street clogged with traffic. The blowing snow piled around the fountain.
“Piece of cake.” She grinned and pulled her hood over her curls.
“Serious?” He wasn’t sure he believed her.
“Oh yeah. You worry about you, Cupcake.” Emily poked him in the chest. “I’ll be fine.” She dodged the light punch he threw at her shoulder and hightailed it to the door. “But you’d better hurry before the roads get too bad.” With that, the redhead was out the door and slogging through the blustering snow.
Lugh eyeballed his new laminated-glass ceiling, grateful for Trent’s expert repair job. When the last employee clocked out, he reinforced the protection spell around his beloved restaurant and locked the front door. The wind shrieked and pummeled him as he braved the growing blizzard.
Time to Gloat
S halane perched on the edge of the sofa and surfed the channels for news of her latest Elemental. She had forgotten how much fun tampering with the weather could be. It brought misery and madness to all it touched. Being in the God business, she felt it part of her job description to create conditions that brought the masses to Him.
Human beings were tough nuts. They needed a crisis to bring them to their knees. To break them, to get them to admit their way wasn’t working, was no easy thing. To ask for help? Even harder. As long as folks believed they could run their own sorry lives, they would continue trying.
So far, only a few stations mentioned the news. Not a peep on the local Nashville stations. K-Tide in Birmingham and WNN out of Atlanta were covering it live. She clicked back to WNN and laughed out loud. The reporter was bundled like an Eskimo. Nothing showed but her eyes, nose, and mouth. Sixty mile-per-hour winds slammed snow into the woman.
Fool reporters. They’d do anything for a story.
Shalane turned up the volume and popped a frozen pocket pie in the microwave. She grabbed a Dos Equiis from the fridge and took a swallow.
“…meteorologists are calling the phenomenon a weather bomb. These only occur when rapidly dropping pressures meet a moisture-packed jet stream. In this case, a she-devil of a cold front ripping down from Canada is smacking up against rain-pregnant clouds roaring in from the Gulf.
“The last time the United States experienced a storm like this was January 2028, when a low-pressure system moved up from the Gulf and met with two others, one from the Southwest and one from Canada, to create the worst snowstorm the Midwest has seen.”
The microwave pinged and Shalane dove to retrieve the piping-hot pastry.
“Think hurricane-force winds driving snow and voila, you have a Superbomb. With barometric pressures tanking and gusts up to one hundred ten miles an hour, this storm is breaking wind-speed records all over the southland…”
A loud buzzing interrupted the broadcast, signaling a special bulletin. The same scratchy transmission they had used since Shalane was a kid announced in a crackling voice, “The National Weather Service has issued a severe winter storm warning for the Southeastern United States from Eastern Louisiana to South Carolina.”
Shalane ate the pastry in three bites and backed the volume to normal. She flounced on the sofa, sipping beer to chase away the fake pepperoni taste.
“Expect blizzard and white-out conditions, including high drifts. An all-craft alert has been issued for waterways from Eastern Louisiana to South Carolina. All coastal and inland vessels should seek shelter.
“The barometric pressure is nine hundred and sixty-four millibars or twenty-eight point four seven inches of mercury and falling. If you are in the path of the Superstorm, seek shelter immediately. This is the National Weather Service. Please stay tuned for further updates.”
Shalane jumped up to do a shuffle-stepped jig, holding her beer in the air and dancing around it. Cecil walked in and caught her up in his arms.
“Care for a partner?” he spun her with the beer.
“Always.” She laughed and cocked her head to see around him. He danced her away from the television and bent her backwards to plant a wet kiss on her lips.
“Down big boy,” she said in a sultry voice, her head a foot from the floor. “Mama’s nursing a storm.”
Cecil stood Shalane up and sank to the sofa, pulling her down with him. On screen, footage from Montgomery, Alabama showed an eighteen-car pile-up. It had closed a snow-covered overpass.
“…road conditions are treacherous. Please stay inside. Only travel if absolutely necessary. Dress in layers and drink plenty of water. Stay hydrated. On your screen is a list of local shelters with websites and phone numbers.”
An anchor’s voice cut in, “Thank you, Anne. That was Anne Banks, ladies and gentlemen, reporting live from the Georgia Dome where March Madness was due to get underway in a few short hours.
“We have just been informed that Game One between Kentucky and Indiana has been postponed until tomorrow. Stay tuned to WNN for game times and breaking news on the 2042 Super Southern Snowbomb.”
Shalane fished for the remote under a squirming Cecil and ran the channels. WKNR aired footage of a fifteen-foot storm surge powering its way through Bayou La Batre on Mobile Bay in Alabama. On the crest of the surge rode a gaggle of shrimp and fishing boats sweeping inland on the rising water. Families caught unawares clung to rooftops as the water rose.
“You didn’t?” Reproof darkened Cecil’s features.
Shalane had been on the verge of bragging about her handiwork. His horror stopped her. Cecil didn’t understand, and never had when it came this stuff. His heart was too soft.
Like Ebby’s.
“Nooo,” she lied without guilt. Taking his plump hand, Shalane turned it over to kiss the soft palm and changed the subject. “Dinner, my dear?”
“Dinner would be good. In or out?” Cecil asked and nibbled her cheek.
“You choose darling.” She patted her husband’s hand and turned her attention to the news anchor who had just admitted the storm had caught the National Weather Service by surprise.
Shalane suppressed a giggle. In her mind’s eye she saw newsrooms of meteorologists all over the country getting their asses chewed for failing to predict the Super Southern Snowbomb of 2042.
“You look amused, dear. Care to share?”
“Oh, nothing.” Shalane wagged her head. “It’s just hard to believe none of them saw this coming.”
“Yeah. And this might put a hitch in our travel plans. We head to Atlanta tomorrow morning.”
Shalane gulped. Shit. She hadn’t thought about that.
Snowed In
I n spite of what she’d told Lugh, by the time Emily made it to Wren’s Roost in the blowing snow, she was a nervous wreck. She was happy she had taken the Marauder. The all-wheel drive vehicle had maneuvered her past lighter and less stalwart cars abandoned along the short but treacherous route home from Jocko’s Pizza.
That she and the others had made it was a major accomplishment. No one had been prepared for a blizzard in Atlanta, especially not in March. Yet outside the thick snow blew sideways and hadn’t let up for hours.
Like Mitchell Fucking Wainwright. No sooner had Emily burst into the main house covered in snow than the attorney had accused her of conjuring the blizzard. She had just fought her way from the carriage house, clinging to the wall in a forty mile-per-hour wind, and Emily was in no mood for Mitchell’s theatrics. She ignored him and flounced into the other room peeling off her overcoat and handing it to a tut-tutting Mary Cobb.
Once again, Lugh and Morgan pooh-pooh’d his allegations, forcing Mitchell and the others to stand down. For the rest of the interminable afternoon, Wainwright took pot shots at her every chance he could. The dangerous gleam in his icy blue eyes made Emily uncomfortable. The man was trouble. And it was as apparent as ever he had it in fo
r her.
A chill went through Emily that had nothing to do with the storm outside. What if Mitchell was the one who’d caused her father’s death? If so, it made sense that he would be after her next. But why would he want either of them dead?
Pondering this question, she escaped the crowded living room and snuck upstairs to settle into a comfortable chair in her father’s private quarters. To say the day had been enlightening would be an understatement.
She’d found Morgan bossy, Dana insufferable, and Becca alternately delightful and annoying. The only one that hadn’t worn a hole in Emily’s nerves was fourteen-year-old Brian. Go figure.
The afternoon and evening had been full of politics and maneuvering, posturing and bragging. Accusations and thinly-veiled threats were thrown around. Not just by Mitchell, but by several distant family members.
Every one of them had an agenda, each intent on pushing it down the others’ throats. Hamilton Hester remained quiet, disguised as Cu. Only once, when Emily was on the verge of losing her cool, did her Da speak in her head.
To her surprise and slight annoyance, Lugh was popular with the Hester clan. Especially Dana, who followed him around like a puppy dog. Between a touch of jealousy and Mitchell’s condescension, Emily welcomed the seclusion of her Da’s bedroom.
She leaned her head on the chair back and rubbed her aching temples. The rare headache had begun on arrival at Wren’s Roost. She longed to retire to the quiet of her carriage house. But first she had to get through dinner with Mitchell and the other crazies.
**
Scooping the last spoonful of chili from his bowl, Brian shoved it in his mouth. Mrs. Mary’s chili was the best he had ever eaten, topped with a layer of cornbread rather than crackers.
At first, he had turned up his nose, but the combo was totally bonsai. He looked around at his uncle and at Emily Hester’s family. It was his first-time meeting most of them, though he recognized several from Jocko’s.
Brian’s gaze landed on Mitchell Wainwright. There was something about the man he didn’t like. Probably the way he treated folks. Like Mitchell was a king and they were his servants. When the attorney laughed, Brian’s jaw dropped. Instead of a mean ol’ sourpuss, the man looked nice. If he would just lighten up, Mitch might be all right.
Emily shoved away from the table. “It’s been a long, hard day. I, for one, am ready to retire. Need help clearing up, Mrs. Mary?”
The woman bustled over and took Emily’s plate and utensils. “Lordy no, honey. You’d just be in the way.” Mary Cobb glanced at her husband who shuffled in on cue. “Simon will help me, won’t you dear?”
The wiry man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his long nose, nodded and cleared dishes from the table.
Brian stood, intent on saying what he’d rehearsed in his head all during dinner. “Emily, we should stay in the carriage house with you tonight. You can’t go out in the blizzard by yourself. I saw a vid at school where people got blinded and all turned around. They froze to death three feet from their front door.”
A look of horror scrunched Emily’s face. “No one’s getting lost or frozen. Hush your mouth.”
“But we will stay with you, won’t we Uncle Lugh?” he wheedled, bouncing up and down on his toes. From the corner, Cu barked and thumped his tail against the hardwood floor.
A thoughtful Mitchell looked from Brian to Emily, then from the fawning Dana to Lugh, before returning his gaze to Brian. “Excellent idea, young man. Any objections?” he asked Lugh, who hesitated. “I believe there are enough beds for all three of you, in case you were worried.”
Brian watched for his uncle’s reaction. The attorney had been needling him all afternoon.
But Lugh’s face was unreadable as he pushed back his chair to stand. “Now why would I mind spending the night with a beautiful redhead?” Emily made a choking noise. Mitchell’s eyes narrowed and he turned a bit green.
Brian suppressed a snicker.
“You’re right, Brian, it is a good idea.” To Emily, Lugh said, “Brian and I will accompany you to the carriage house. And if it’s okay with you, we’ll bunk there tonight.”
Her face turned red. “I am perfectly fine by myself, thank you.”
Don Foster spoke up. “No one’s questioning that, Emily. But if this storm is an omen of things to come, none of us should be alone tonight. Especially you.”
Morgan and her daughters nodded in agreement. Sirona chirped, “I’ll go, I’ll go. I’ll stay with Emiwy!”
“No sweetie,” Morgan said. “You stay here with me and Poppo.”
“No! Don’t wanna! I wanna go with Emiwy,” the little girl pouted.
Mary Cobb chirped from the doorway, “Anyone want some chocolate cake?” She held it up for all to see.
“Oh, Lord,” Emily groaned, holding her belly. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Me, me! I want some,” Brian cheered, his mouth watering. “I love chocolate cake. It’s my favorite!” When he saw Emily’s face fall, he asked politely, “But could we take it with us?”
“We can do better than that,” Mary beamed. “I left a whole cake in Emily’s kitchen, in a keeper on the counter. If I remember correctly, chocolate is your favorite too, Miss Emily?”
“Yes, it is. Thank you, Mary.”
Brian did a jiggle dance. A whole cake to themselves, just the three of them. Well four, but Cu didn’t count. Dogs don’t eat cake. Or chocolate. Of course, not long ago, he also believed they didn’t talk.
“That settles it,” Lugh said with finality. “Let’s go, you two.”
Brian ducked out of the dining room. Maria had taken a shine to him and he didn’t want her fussing. Nor did he want to answer any more of her stupid questions.
He shucked on his winter gear and waited by the coat closet, daydreaming about chocolate cake. Soon his uncle and Emily joined him. He lifted the curtain and stared out the hall window while they bundled in overcoats and scarves. A solid white wall of blowing snow was all he could see.
“How are we gonna do this?” Brian asked, worried. The adults joined him at the window while Cu barked from the end of the hallway.
“There’s a low wall connecting the houses,” Emily said. “I used it as a guide to get here earlier. The trees provide some shelter.” That cheered Brian up.
Cu barked and tap danced.
Lugh pointed to the wolfhound. “I think Cu wants us to use the underground.”
As if by magic, Mary Cobb appeared with Simon by her side. “Lordy, you are not going out in this weather,” Mary declared. “The wind is gusting seventy miles-an-hour, and it’s at least two hundred yards to the carriage house. Even if you made it, you would catch your death of pneumonia. No sirree. You kids follow Simon.”
Shrugging, Emily turned and trailed Simon and Cu up the grand staircase. Lugh slung his duffel bag over one shoulder and walked behind her. Far enough back to enjoy the view, Brian noticed. He sniggered and grabbed his backpack.
Soon they huddled in the hall around a closed door. “The access is in here, in Mister Hamilton’s closet,” the grizzled Simon said.
“Bonsai brilliant!” Brian interjected.
Giving him the stink eye, Lugh said, “Lead on.”
Mary held the door. Cu barked twice and trotted to the opposite side of the room. Simon crossed and opened another door that Cu wiggled through. A light came on and the old man disappeared after the wolfhound. They all entered a room too big to be a closet, but clothes hung on hangers and shoes and hats occupied one whole wall. In the corner, Cu pawed at a colorful rug.
Simon pulled the rug back to reveal a trapdoor in the floor. He pressed a latch and the door slid away. There, below them, was a lighted stairwell leading under the house. Cu scrambled down the steps, toenails clicking. Simon stood to the side and waited for them to gather around the opening.
“Mister Hamilton will take you the rest of the way,” Mary said.
“You know?” Emily and Lugh asked in unison.
/> The housekeeper smiled in her calm, gentle way. “Simon and I have been with Mister Hamilton his whole life. Of course, we know. Now don’t worry, children. Your secret is safe. And so are you.”
Mary patted Emily’s cheek and motioned them to the stairs. “Go on now. Ham’s eager. He’ll be able to relax in the carriage house, away from prying eyes. Let us know when you’re settled. And call if you need anything at all.”
**
As they descended, the heebie jeebies crawled up Emily’s back and wrapped tiny fingers around her throat. She kept her eyes on Brian’s tousled head bobbing in front of her and tried to remain calm. But the deeper they went, the thicker Emily’s dread grew.
Fighting the urge to knock Lugh out of the way and run back up the stairs, she enumerated silently those things about the situation that could be deemed positive. She was at Wren’s Roost. With Lugh and his very cool nephew. And Da, though he shared the body of a scary dog. And, thank God, it didn’t smell like a basement.
In fact, the closer they got to the bottom, the lighter and airier it became. Recessed lighting lined the ceiling and reflected off mirrored surfaces, giving the illusion of daylight. Emily’s fear gave way to relief and then admiration. She had never seen anything like this. Cu waited at the bottom, his impatient whine mixing with excited yips.
When they joined him on the landing, her Da said, “Okay, follow me.” But they were not in a corridor, as Emily had thought. Instead they were in a room almost identical to the one upstairs, down to the masculine décor.
“What is this place?” she asked with wonder.
Pride laced Hamilton’s voice when he answered, “Our home away from home.”
At Emily’s baffled look, he skittered across the room, talking over his shaggy shoulder. “Beneath Wren’s Roost is an entire house, similar in layout, though not as grand. It was built years ago, along with the other warrens throughout Druid Hills.”
“Warrens?” Brian asked. “I thought rabbits lived in warrens.”
“Very good, Brian. That is where the name originated.”