The Little Lies (The Great Hexpectations Series Book 1)

by Marie F. Crow

  Deon doesn’t acknowledge my answer. She stares into the night sky. The only motion from the whole group is her hand pulling the cigarette to her lips and then back to a neutral position. The rest of their family is standing mutely, watching our exchange with worried expressions.

  “If you don’t want to do this, I can leave,” I offer, growing bored with the standoff.

  Deon drops her still smoldering therapy device to the ground and walks my way. Maybe someone who doesn’t willingly slice her arm open for money would have been intimidated by the glare Deon is projecting. Perhaps someone who doesn’t help run a shop hosting more of the dead than living would tremble with the unknown of what may happen next. Unfortunately for Deon, those people aren’t me.

  My smile never slips when she stops in front of me. Her perfume meets me like a taunt. The sharp scent jeers me with not so subtle hints of warnings over what she could do to me, if she so desired. Her brown eyes are measuring me, looking for a weak spot in my observed demeanor. I sigh, waiting for her to finish trying to dick check me.

  “The items...?” My voice trails the question, no longer hiding my annoyance.

  “My siblings tell me you’re the best at this. I have my doubts. I have plenty of people I could have called for the information we need, but they picked you, not me.” Her brown eyes almost spark with her anger.

  “Cool. So, you don’t like me and I’m not your biggest fan, either. Understood. Shall we begin?” Titling my head I give her my best smile. “Or I could leave, you could wait for one of your people to arrive, but seeing as it is ten thirty at night, my guess would be you would have to reschedule. I do remember being told this was of an urgent, time-sensitive matter. I suppose those words mean different things to different pay scales?”

  “Deon,” one of the brothers calls. It’s a short clip of a warning.

  Deon doesn’t move. Her eyes return to their normal simmer, still threatening to return to their blaze with a mere mood swing. “Fine, but if this goes wrong, it’s on you.”

  With how she’s phrased it, I’m not sure if she’s still trying to loom over me or regain her status in the family with her brother. Another perfect woman, this time brunette, hands me a large beige tote bag. She does her best to not brush the fabric against Deon as I take it. At least one member still fears her.

  I shuffle through the contents, wondering what this person would have considered their favorite items before death. The smell of the cigar box welcomes my exploration. A tie, creased from the constant ironing, is still perfectly folded. The gold watch feels heavy in my hand. It’s cold like the family before me. There are a few other very male items inside, but oddly not a single framed memory exists. These are all just things, possessions the man once boasted over. Starting to understand why the siblings are so vacant of emotions for what I am about to do.

  “Isn’t that what you asked for?” Deon asks.

  My mask of neutral must have slipped some, letting her see my opinion over what they have brought. “I asked for his favorite things. If this is what you brought, then this must be what I asked for.”

  I don’t wait for her verbal volley or her eyes to try to convince me of how scary she may become upon hearing my answer. I’m here to work. Not to play ego games with a rich heiress.

  The even number of items spread easily around the flower-heavy earth. They have started to wilt from their days spent in the summer heat, but despite it all, in denial, they desperately cling to their vivid colors. Some of the smaller items disappear among the many fern branches used as filler. Luckily, retrieving these objects is not part of my contract.

  Deon, having returned to the cluster of siblings, watches every move I make. With a new cigarette in hand, I can tell she’s still silently debating if this is worth the price. Seeing as I’m one of the only people I know who can do this, I should charge more.

  Normally I put on a bit of show. I mutter mashed together Latin, forming new words to match the raised pitch of my voice. Maybe I’ll stand for a few moments, swaying to unheard music with my eyes closed and head hung low. Knowing what is waiting for me later tonight, I prefer to just get it over with and head to yet another bad decision of my life.

  When I started, I used a large machete or some other impressive blade. Upon learning police officers get a little suspicious with town rumors, and blood coated blades sliding across my back seat, I switched to a simple pocketknife. The knife bites into my skin with its sharp point. Walking in a circle, I connect the items with the sprinkling of my blood, tying them to me and to each other. Where I go, the person will go. Where the possessions rest, is where he will stop, unable to leave the circle, keeping me safe and those around us safe from any sudden field trips the person may wish to take.

  Turning to face the rather large, ornate headstone I call out to those waiting behind me, “Who am I calling?”

  Of course, it’s Deon who answers. I’m starting to think the rest of her family has a genetic defect resulting in no tongues.

  “That’s pretty bold font in front of you. I can read it from here.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I asked.” I smile, turning Deon’s earlier words around on her. “I asked who am I calling?”

  The same brother from before answers, aware of where Deon’s temper will take tonight. “Our father. He is our father.” He pauses, quickly adding, “Was our father.”

  If I were facing him, I would offer a look of understanding, but I’m not and Deon has trampled all my ‘customer service’ politeness I had managed to store this week.

  Before GiGi Jo taught me how to channel, I would pour forth words with rhymes and a tempo of commands. Now, I just focus. Like a rarely used muscle, I concentrate my will, mentally picturing the body underneath me waking, forcing life back into the shell from which it escaped. I pull the energy from beyond the veil, commanding it to obey me. With Richard Ripple only being dead a few weeks, his energy is easy to pull. It hasn’t anchored itself to the other side yet. Richard seems to also have questions he wants answered.

  I’m not shocked anymore when the ground bubbles up like a volcano. I don’t gasp when the person frees themselves, being almost ejected from the toppled center, with a gravity defying motion. Those who pay me, they do. I can hear the collective inhale from behind me as the man they knew as their father stands before them in his discolored, dark suit.

  My throat feels dry, overused, when I call out to the man. “Richard Ripple, Father to those who stand behind me, come and drink of life to be of life once more.”

  With his eyes upon me, there is no doubt Deon is one of his children. Even faded from death, his brown eyes hold a rage over trying to be commanded. In life, he was the one barking orders. Now, he’s having to obey them. Everything from his posture to the scowl upon his face proves he is less than thrilled to find himself is this predicament.

  I could make the dead drink from me, forcing them to comply with my demands. I don’t. I leave that choice to those I summon; giving them a chance to choose if they wish to be risen. Some don’t. There’s been a few times the dead have seen why they are brought back, and walk back to the mound of dirt, refusing the magic only to be swallowed by the earth once more, settling it perfectly as if they were never disturbed. Watching him try to talk without the spell completed, I’m wondering if he too is about to defy the spell, to defy his children and to defy me.

  His frustration is mounting. He’s unable to talk and unable to move past the boundary. Richard is close to becoming the raging dead. The dead who have lost control and must be put down before the rage becomes uncontrollable, making them unable to be of any use to those who wish to speak with them.

  “Richard Ripple, Father to those who stand behind me, come and drink of life to be of life once more.” I harden my voice almost shouting my command.

  I don’t wait for his response. Using the same knife from before, I cut across the spider web of blue lines along my arm. When the first ri
ver of red slides down my arm, Richard, with all his determination to not listen to me, lets what’s left of his ego slip away. His hatred for me still flashes in his brown eyes, but he doesn’t deny his cravings.

  He swallows the hot blood like it’s one of his favorite whiskeys. As it coats his face, those hate filled eyes awaken to a deeper shade. His skin sheds some of the pallor of death. When he stands, dropping my arm hastily, he almost appears as if he would have in life.

  “Why am I here?” Richard demands from me.

  “You will reside within your given boundary. Bound by your treasures in life, you cannot step over them in death. You will answer those who have need of you until of the time they don’t. Once released, you will return to rest, freed from this space and its obligations.”

  His eyes scan the items, spinning his body to examine his new confines when hearing my decree. “And if I step over them?” he asks more insulted than curious.

  “The spell which grants you life will be broken. You will be nothing more than a husk left exposed and unburied.” Answering him, I’m already wrapping my arm to stop the bleeding. It never bleeds long. Nor does it scar. When I was younger, I asked about such things, wanting to know the why of it. Now, I just accept it with gratitude that at least something in life is tilted to my favor.

  “Very official.” Richard draws these two words out making the short sentence seem like a paragraph. Looking to his children who have remained mute, he asks me, “Are these whom I am supposed to answer?”

  Only Deon has the courage to not squirm under her dead father’s gaze. “We are. We paid a lot of money for you to be here. I expect answers.”

  I’m not sure if the sound Richard makes is a laugh or shock, but by the way his children look away, I know it’s a sound he made often. “Poor, Deon. Still trying to pretend you have any authority?”

  Holding my hands in the air to place this round of family feud on pause, I walk away from the crazy brewing around me. “You have one hour before the spell wears off.”

  “You’re just leaving?” Casting sideways glances to her father, a smaller female almost rushes towards me.

  “Don’t move the objects until after he returns to the ground,” I explain, still making my exit.

  “Shouldn’t you stay?” she shouts again.

  “Nope. You paid me to raise him. He’s very raised,” I explain with my best southern charm.

  “What if –“ she starts before I cut her off.

  “He won’t.”

  “But what if –“

  “He can’t,” I repeat. I already know where her fears are taking her. “And if he does, Deon knows plenty of people she can call for information. She has it all under control.”

  I can hear Richard’s short laugh following me out of the cemetery. It’s not an amused laugh. It’s a challenging laugh, and despite my better judgment, I turn to where they still stand gathered, unsure of the next step. For such a power-filled family, it’s refreshing to see them floundering.

  I motion to the watch upon my wrist. “Tick tock. He won’t bite,” I add, but the smile Richard flashes fills even me with doubt, “or he might. Either way, stay on the other side of the objects, ask your questions, step back when the earth starts to bubble. Super easy.”

  Deon makes a sign of dismissal with a wave of her hand as she steps up to the invisible circle. “Got it.”

  “I bet,” I whisper under my breath.

  As much as I enjoy leaving this family to their own demons, I know I’m about to wade into a different cesspool of denials. This family eagerly waits for their dead to return to where they belong. I have a feeling Becky’s family is clinging to the lie the dead belong with them.

  My mind swirls with the possibilities of what is ahead; the many lies, the many tears, the defeat of it all. I’m lost in a purgatory of mental chains. So lost, I never saw the shadow following me. I felt it. It tickles along my spine setting the hair of my arms to attention. Only one thing sets my nerves this alert: magic.

  Exhaling, I let my well-built walls crumble again. I can feel it now. The owner follows me leaving a slight space between us. Their magic tastes like candy. It’s sugar sweet with a lingering of tart upon my tongue. This is old magic. The kind of magic which has been passed down through deep roots of a family tree. Someone well versed in the craft is following me, watching me. Inhaling, I pull those thick bricks back into place around me. I seal them tight and keep my pace even.

  From my purse I pull my little mirror pretending to check my makeup from the disaster of a dinner date. I tilt it, gaining a view from over my shoulder. In the small oval I can see her. She flashes me a smile with lips painted purple. Wearing jeans and an oversized tee shirt, she appears harmless. She’s just another person visiting her beloved family.

  Her reflection waves to me before coming to rest on a statue of a weeping angel. Her hair has been dyed a soft lavender. It hangs thick with slight waves framing her face. Nothing about her scream’s danger. Nothing but the taste of her magic still clinging to the walls of my throat, that is. The smirk placed upon her too friendly lips to cause a warning feeling in the depths of my stomach, hints at what I already know. The way my body still vibrates, even behind my walls, I know this wasn’t a chance meeting.

  She doesn’t follow me to my car. Her magic doesn’t stalk me along the cobbled path. With a snap of closure, the mirror falls back into its space in my bag. Whatever she wants, whatever this means, will have to be discovered later. Like the red soaked noodles still fighting my stomach from dinner, my life is already drowned in drama. I have no need to play tag with a bored witch. As it stands, GiGi Jo plays enough games with my life.

  The house wasn’t hard to find. At this hour, most of the houses are blanketed in darkness with its occupants settling down to end the day. This house is the blaring opposite. Every light still burns, keeping the darkness of night safely beyond their property. Like a toddler scared of the monsters in the closet, Becky’s family has all their night lights glowing.

  I should have taken the time to change before coming here. With time being a cruel mistress, I went home only long enough to grab my car before heading to see the Ripples. My dress didn’t bother me then. Standing here now in the middle of upper-class perfection, I look like a bad cosplay of Elvira in my tight black dress, but with red hair and a shorter hem.

  The door opens before I can verbally prepare or force the large gap to shrink upon the displayed cleavage. Exactly how I think I look is displayed upon the face of the woman standing in the doorway. Her tanned features twist between confusion and disgust. Her blue eyes scan me from my half-curled red hair, to my too tight dress and all the way to my thin heeled black shoes. I could explain my appearance and put her creased forehead to rest, but it would require more words than I am feeling equipped with at this moment.

  “Harper Buckland,” I say, holding out my hand in greeting.

  The woman doesn’t hide her examination of my hand. She smiles her best smile of false hospitality, leaving my hand floating between us. “Miranda Torte,” she says with a nod and still no effort to touch me. “She said you might be a little late. I guess we all have our own internal clock, don’t we?”

  Dropping my hand, I match her smile of charm. “I suppose we do.”

  “Well, do come in.” Miranda is an easy read of discomfort. Her hands stay folded together, but they never stay still. Her eyes dart from me to her perfect, magazine interior of her house. Everything has a space, and everything is put in the perfect place. Except for me. She can’t imagine me fitting anywhere in her self-made perfection.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t stay long.”

  She has the decency of well upbringing to blush when I read her inner monologue. “Of course,” she stammers before extending a hand to invite me inside, but we both notice her double checking to be sure none of the neighbors are watching when she closes the door.

  The small entryway
opens to a well-lit floor plan. Waiting to be further escorted, I can see most of the house from where I am standing. The fake scent of their air freshener encases the space. It’s the type of thick fragrance you know will cling to you long after you’ve left the home. With how subtle the rest of the décor sits, it’s a stark contrast to have such a bold choice for the air.

  Miranda slides past me, tucking her body as far to the wall as she can to avoid touching me on passing. “This way.”

  Normally, I would make an off-colored comment about her behavior, but with her obvious effort to avoid me, it allows me to look around with more than just my eyes. I send the whisper of my magic ahead of me. The magic touches the walls, flows around the corners, searching for any hints of what the teen told me. It pulls from the surfaces it touches and returns with nothing but memories of loss.

  In my mind I can hear the sobs and the shouting of misplaced rage over a recent death. I watch the slideshow of this family breaking. Miranda has put a lot of effort into maintaining the illusion of her well put together home as a way to escape from the failing family bonds. Her anxiety isn’t over just me being here. It’s over what cracks I may turn into large fissures from being here.

  Miranda steps to the side to allow me to enter their living room. The muted shades once again make me too vivid. I feel on display when the rest of the family stands upon hearing us enter.

  The girl from earlier is still wearing her work uniform. She waves at me, and when her father clears his throat, she fights to hide her smile.

  “I told them you would come.” Gazing over my shoulder to her mother, her smile returns.

  “That you did,” her father says. “I’m Chad. You’ve met our daughter, Bella. Welcome to our home.”

  Taking that as the only invitation I was going to receive to have a seat, I pick the armchair furthest from the potential fallout. “Hello, Chad. Bella said you are in need of help.”