By Sun

by T Thorn Coyle

Picking up the phone, he paused. I’ll put another pot of coffee on here, he texted. But I’ll take a ham and cheese panini with peppers if you don’t mind. I’ll buy for you and Suco, too.

  Sure thing.

  Jack slid his phone into his jeans. Why was Lucy bringing him lunch? Did it mean something?

  Something in the corner of the whiteboard caught his eye. Seemingly outside the pattern, but still connected—because it had to be, right? Like Alejandro said, it was all connected—was a sharp shape. A long, thin triangle with no bottom bar, pointing up.

  He moved closer, breath hitching slightly in his chest. What was it?

  His eyes flicked from the big empty space, the dancing shapes and numbers, and back down to that narrow triangular wedge.

  Jack began to laugh. Of course he knew that shape. It was on the cover of the cheesy books he’d read as a boy. It showed up in every multiplayer online game.

  It was a point. It was the point.

  For some reason, Jack’s subconscious had drawn the symbol of a spear. In the spirit of his cheesy childhood books, and half the role-playing games he’d raced through in his life, he drew another spear. And then a hand around the shaft. A large, muscled arm. Blond hair.

  A man. A man holding a spear, with a bright halo of light around his head. Jack’s drawing was crude, but it was as if another, better, image had superimposed itself over the thick marker lines on the whiteboard. Jack heard the roaring of a crowd. Saw the cloak fastened at the tall man’s neck ripple in the wind.

  The man looked proud, but there were tears in his bright eyes.

  “Who are you?” Jack whispered. The image buzzed and flickered, then was gone, leaving Jack staring at red marked lines and circles of zeros and ones.

  His body hummed as though an electrical wire had been inserted beneath his skin. He shook his head. His hands. Even shook out his feet in their slippers. The humming didn’t stop.

  And it meant something, he was sure of it, just like the image of the man meant something, and the painting, and the spots of paint on Lucy’s cheek.

  And he was no closer to figuring out how to crack the larger code he’d become obsessed with hacking. He still needed to shake something up. Get a different view. And do something with this weird energy that had suddenly taken up residence in his body before he completely freaked the frack out.

  He didn’t want to put it off until tomorrow anymore, but he didn’t trust himself enough to not injure something. Like he would with anything else he needed to learn, he should call an expert.

  He only knew one of those.

  Looking at the computer clock, he grabbed his phone again and pressed a number.

  “Olivia? I never thought I’d be saying this, but do you have time for a run? Or a workout or something?”

  Yeah. Maybe he was losing it. Or maybe all he needed was more help.

  9

  Lucy

  Lucy needed to get a grip. She’d decided that was the message from her tingling hand. Like the old sailor tattoos that read “Hold Fast” across the knuckles when they made a fist. A fist that helped sailors grasp onto ropes when their boat was caught in the middle of a storm.

  Despite the cloudless, blazing-sun-filled sky, and the fact that she was on dry land, Lucy felt like she was being tossed around.

  Always a person with strong emotions, she was used to them flaring and subsiding. But with the maelstrom the country was in lately? Coupled with the residue of nasty magic? Her emotions felt turned up to eleven constantly.

  All of this? It meant she needed more time at her altar. Hair still damp from the shower, clad only in a fresh white T-shirt and her painter’s pants, Lucy padded barefoot into the living room. The wood floors felt smooth beneath her feet, freshly swept and mopped by the cleaning service she’d finally broken down and hired to come once a month after admitting to herself that she just wasn’t keeping up with all of her household chores.

  The cleaners, however, were under strict orders to not touch the altar.

  Looking at the large console tucked with statues and candles, photos, and goblets of water, she felt guilty. Lucy realized not only did she need to spend more quality time at the big space in her living room, but she needed to clean and rebuild it. Dust lay thick on every shelf and the tops of the photo frames. The water glasses were empty, just a white rime coating the bottoms.

  “Damn, girl. You’ve seriously been neglecting your shit, haven’t you?” She winced, looking at her beloved altar, especially at the large, central statue that graced the space. A dark-skinned indigenous woman in a starry cloak, surrounded by golden rays. The entity her abuela had called La Virgen, but whom Lucy honored as the much older Goddess, Tonantzin, the Mother.

  Looking at her watch, she tapped her foot. She didn’t have time for this. She should be on her way to the job already, coffee in hand.

  ::Slow down, mija. You’re going to crash.::

  Lucy stopped tapping, took a deep breath, and focused. That wasn’t just her inner voice speaking. It was the voice of her highest self, when it was connected to the Goddess. At least that was how Lucy explained it to herself. Abuela had talked about the “still, small voice” that was God speaking through the faithful when they bothered to shut up enough inside to listen.

  Lucy wasn’t always faithful, and she honored other deities than her abuela had, but the concept felt close enough.

  Tonantzin had her attention, and wasn’t going to let it go. From past experience, Lucy knew that the voice would ping her until she gave it her full attention.

  Lucy sighed, and pulled her phone from her back pocket. She texted Suco first, then Jack, letting them both know she was running late.

  Then she opened one of the drawers at the base of the console, pulled out a dust cloth, and began to remove every object from the first shelf, placing them carefully on the wood floor. She would go one shelf at a time, ending with the largest space, the one that held the proud statue.

  As she worked, Lucy let her hands and breath fall into a gentle, steady rhythm. After the first two shelves were done, the still pool that rested in the center of her belly, the place she connected with during magic or meditation, was back. She felt it expand, sending ripples of still certainty throughout her whole being.

  How long had it been since she’d felt that? Too long. She’d been rattled with tension. Keyed up. Ready to strike from anger or frustration, rather than from her honed will.

  “Rookie mistake,” she muttered to the empty room. But a mistake even seasoned witches made when they had neglected their most basic practices. It was the common downfall of many a priestess: thinking that once they had their initiations, or had gotten their lives together, they could coast.

  A witch could only coast on past work for so long, before something bit her in the ass.

  “So, madre mía,” she said. “What messages do you have for me?”

  Lucy picked up the two clear water tumblers and a small red vase of wilted roses and carried them into her bright turquoise-and-white kitchen. As she washed and rinsed the vessels, she allowed her attention to cast itself outward. Listening. Her hands caressed the familiar objects, and the water gushed past her fingers. There was no tingling, just the sense of rightness. A coming home.

  ::The children need you, daughter. They cry out in fear and pain. The hearts of the parents are broken and the world must be repaired.::

  Lucy’s hands stilled in the water. Her breathing slowed down. Eyes closed, she waited again.

  Her head filled with images. Images of children, with tears on their faces. Images of women, mouths open, screaming. Images of rape, and fire. Images of men doubled over, after a blow to the belly with the butt of an AR-15.

  She shuddered and turned off the tap. The kitchen was quiet, but outside the window, she heard cars and the calling of a scrub jay.

  “Mother?”

  Damp hands pressed against the edge of the sink, she took in another long, shuddering breath. Her body wanted to tense,
to run, to strike out, or to hide. Lucy forced breath deeper into her lungs. She willed her muscles to steady their trembling, and relax.

  The onslaught of images continued. Cities on fire. Police in riot gear. The scent of terror. A desert, marked by scrub and cactus. A mighty river, dappled with moonlight. A bridge.

  The taste of tears and freedom.

  Lucy bit back a sob. Her face streamed with tears. She felt pain in her chest, and this time, both of her hands felt as if they were on fire.

  Opening her eyes, she grabbed a dish towel and mopped at her hands and face, then looked out the window above the sink. The summer sun still shone bright.

  Just an ordinary day. But then, weren’t they all?

  And she still didn’t know what Tonantzin wanted from her. She knew all about the pain, already. But what was she supposed to do?

  10

  Jack

  “Modulate your breathing.”

  Olivia’s voice penetrated his skull, and he tried. He really tried. It was all Jack could do to gasp, wheezing, as his feet pounded the pathway that made a circuit beneath the pines, impact jarring its way up his shins. He practically sobbed with effort.

  When will the torture stop? he thought.

  “We can quit if you need to.” Olivia’s voice again. He gave a shake of his head, sending sweat flying through the air. Hot. Too hot. But he couldn’t stop. There was still something about that shape that drove him on. The spear. It was as if he was being goaded forward.

  The spirit was willing, and all that, but his flesh was really weak. When he’d asked if she had time, he figured she would have already come back from her morning run and be working. But Olivia had replied, “How about now?”

  And, fool that he was, Jack had agreed. Yeah. Great idea, Jack.

  “Really, Jack. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  Jack slowed, but only slightly, willing his breath to move from sobbing gasps into full and heavy inhalations. The sense of the jarring pounding decreased, but the pattern still swirled in his head and electricity still buzzed inside him. Paint spatter. Computer code. And the overwhelming feeling in his body that all of it was meant to come together in one great wedge. That spear the tall blond guy held in his long arm.

  “Come on man, slow all the way down to a walk. Last thing I need is for you to faint on me, or puke on my shoes.”

  That was Olivia, always so delicate. Sun glinted in a shaft through the pine needles, blinding him for a second. Jack winced and blinked, then unscrewed the cap from his steel water bottle and poured some over his face, rinsing away the salt and sweat. He took a drink. Nothing had ever tasted that good. He finally looked around at the group of parents with giant strollers, the children shrieking and laughing over in the play area, flinging sand, climbing monkey bars, sliding down slides. Beyond them, past the tall fence that marked the backstop of the ball field, he saw a group of people wearing red, black, and white. They were doing a strange set of martial arts exercises he’d never seen before. But he recognized two of the men. They were friends of Raquel’s.

  “The Sons of Sàngó,” Olivia said. “They’re pretty badass. They train in a West African form of martial arts.”

  “Right,” Jack said, nodding. “I remember now.”

  Sàngó. That was the God they worked for, right? At least that was what Jack remembered from snatches of overheard conversation with Raquel and the coven. He wasn’t sure what it even meant to work for a God, but if that vision he’d had earlier was any indication, he was well on his way to finding out. The blond guy looked like he could be some sort of God.

  Maybe Jack should have called Alejandro instead. Maybe he needed a witch.

  Jack pulled a hankie from the pocket of his shorts and mopped at his face. As they walked the winding pathway through picnic benches, beneath the towering pines, Jack slowly started to feel better. But the urgency was draining out of him and he still felt no closer to figuring out the pattern.

  “So, you finally gonna tell me why the sudden urge to work out when you’ve never had one before in your life?”

  He stopped and gazed up at his friend. She was barely sweating. Jerk.

  “It just felt like… Like that pattern I’m seeing, that thing that’s not random? Not only is it not random, it’s purposeful.”

  “Well, of course it is,” Olivia replied, as if it should be obvious. “All patterns are. We just have to figure out what the purpose is, and whose purpose it is.”

  “Yeah, but.”

  “Keep walking so you don’t seize up.”

  They fell into step, Jack could already tell he was going to pay for this the next day. His muscles screamed and trembled.

  He tried again. “Yeah, but most patterns, it’s easier for me to see the pattern. Sorry, I know I sound like a doofus, I’m not used to this.”

  Olivia smiled. “Not used to not making sense?”

  “I know you’re giving me shit, but yeah, actually. It’s as if there’s something just beyond my grasp. But the thing I’m trying to explain is that this randomness has a purpose and that purpose wants a focus. And this is gonna sound even weirder, but that focus? Right now it’s looking an awful lot like a spear.”

  Olivia’s grin grew feral. “Well, if that’s the case, my friend, I know just where we can aim.”

  Jack was reassured. Olivia didn’t think he was crazy. That was good. He swallowed some water, taking slow sips.

  All of a sudden, the wish to run wasn’t just about the restless energy inside of him. It was about wanting to be strong, for once in his life. Wanting to show up for something. Wanting, maybe, even, to run toward something instead of away.

  Maybe it was time to take more risks. See what would happen.

  “Can we run some more?” he asked Olivia.

  She shook her head. “You’re an extremist, Jack. Either couch potatoing all the way, or ready to run a marathon first day out. Why don’t you try jogging home? A slow jog. We can do more training later, but the first rule of training is ‘don’t break anything’.”

  “Okay.” Jack had to admit that he felt slightly disappointed. For the first time in his life, a sense of determination had stepped up and replaced his need for comfort and safety.

  He wanted to be like that tall man with the spear. Strong. Certain. With a cloak that moved in the wind.

  A superhero. Yeah. For real.

  11

  Lucy

  Lucy pulled up in front of Jack’s house, truck windows wide open. A squirrel chattered at her from high in the towering maple tree across the street. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel.

  She needed to unhook her seatbelt. Grab the sack of grilled sandwiches. Open her damn truck door. The visions in front of her altar had left her spinning. She’d barely been able to get through ordering lunch without Raquel dragging her into the worker’s break room. If the café hadn’t been so busy, Lucy knew that was exactly what would have happened.

  “What the hell? Get. A. Grip.” The words came out as barely a whisper, hardly louder than the ticking of the truck’s cooling engine and the chattering of the squirrel through the open windows.

  This wasn’t her. This had never been her. Trembling at visions, unwilling to see. And her coven’s reaction the night before didn’t help. They were impatient, worried, even a little bit pissed off. Lucy knew she needed to have a private consult from Brenda or Raquel, but she just couldn’t bring herself to.

  So she had fled the café, making no promises of further conversations or explanations for why in multiple Goddesses’ names she was walking around so far off her center in the middle of what should be a regular work day.

  What in the world was there to explain? That her hands were leading her, over and over, to the ICE building and that Tonantzin was telling her to help the children? Filling her head with terrifying, heart-wrenching visions, when all Lucy had tried to do was clean her altar and center herself?

  Come. On. Every witch knew about the coven membe
r who got delusions of grandeur and decided that they were the high muckety-muck who was going to save the world through magic and the power of their will alone. Lucy had always prided herself on action on the physical plane. Coalition-building. Fundraising. Building things. Painting houses. Yeah, she had psychic skills, but the psychometry had always just been a way to gather information.

  Right now? She didn’t know what it was trying to tell her, and she didn’t like the fact that the itching in her hands seemed to want her to do something. Something she could barely see, and that felt bigger than Lucy was ready for.

  For the first time in her life, both the Goddess Lucy honored and her magic seemed to be working around her rather than with her. As if her own magic had gone rogue and was in cahoots with La Madre, no matter what Lucy thought or said. She was outside of the conversation and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  From behind the truck, she heard a sound. The distinctive slap slap slap of trainers on concrete, but just a little off. The cadence wasn’t quite steady. Lucy supposed it was still cool, relatively speaking, but still, she wouldn’t want to be out for even the slow, raggedy-ass run this errant jogger seemed to be on. She glanced into her side mirror.

  “Dammit,” she said. It was Jack, face red as a tomato. He looked like he was wheezing. What the hell was he doing? Had he actually gone for a run?

  All of a sudden, Lucy wished she hadn’t offered to bring sandwiches. Jack would definitely expect to check in on the project over lunch, but she’d made that promise before the morning’s visions had wrecked her equilibrium, smashing her ability to cope.

  “Only way out is through,” she said.

  Sighing, Lucy grabbed the crackling, fragrant bag, hoisted open the heavy truck door, and slid out until her boots were on tarmac. She reached back and across the wide leather seat, grabbing the cardboard carton filled with coffee go cups emblazoned with the swirling red script that simply read Raquel’s.