by S. A. Hunt
Tears spilled out anyway, tracing the curves of her cheeks. She redoubled her efforts, folding shirts even tighter. “You can’t go,” said Rook. “If you’re gone when he gets back, it’s going to break his heart anyway.”
“I can and I am.”
“Listen—”
“I would rather him be a little bit hurt than a whole lot of hurt … or dead, goddammit.” Robin thrust a hand into her bag and showed the other woman her little GoPro camera. “I’m going to keep making my Malus Domestica videos. Or the podcast, or whatever. He can keep an eye on me that way if he wants. But I’m not putting him in danger again.”
She coughed into her gauntlet fist and put the camera away again. “I forgot to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Saving his life.”
“Oh, hell,” said Rook. “Anyone else would have done the same, had they the power I do.”
“All the same.” Robin continued packing, shoving things into the bag as if they’d done her wrong. The blue guitar she’d bought at the pawn shop a billion years ago lay on the bed between them. “You know, Haruko,” she said, looking up from her violent packing method, “you should let your family know the truth.”
Rook froze. She let the statement linger for a difficult beat.
“How did you know?”
“When I touch things—mostly relics, but sometimes mundane objects with a lot of sentimental value—I get a mental flash of moments, memories. Insights of its previous owners. It’s like I’m supernaturally tasting them, like I’m licking everything I touch. I don’t do it on purpose.” She glanced at her fingertips, as if she would see taste buds sprouting from them, and then down at the guitar that used to belong to a teenage girl. Robin wondered where that girl was now, and if she still wanted to be in a rock band. “I’m some kind of demon fly-person, I guess. I’m a demonic Jeff Goldblum.”
“I see.”
“But I picked up Andy’s ring just after the Winnebago crash, and saw a sliver of time—the moment, standing in whatever repository you keep relics in, that you gave him the ring. He called you Haruko. I’d been suspicious of you before then, both me and Kenway had, but that’s when I knew.”
Gently shaking her head, Rook crossed the room and stood at the window, staring outside. “I can’t. There are just too many strings in the mix to undo what’s happened.”
“If that’s a metaphor or something, I don’t get it.”
“My name isn’t Haruko anymore,” said Rook, turning to regard her. “It’s Rook. It’s whatever it needs to be. I’m whatever I need to be, whatever Frank needs me to be. Haruko is dead. All that’s left is an Origo, a magician, and I live a dangerous life. One I don’t want Leon and Wayne involved in.”
“Why you?” Robin sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her elbows. “Andy told me they found you through your Etsy shop or whatever. Why did they pick you? Why did they make you fake your death and abandon your family?”
Hurt flickered across Rook’s face.
“Hey, I’m sorry, but facts is facts, man,” said Robin. “You know Leon’s drinking got really bad after they lost you, right? Got so bad that Wayne basically raised himself. And nursed his own father back from the brink on his own.”
Guilt warred with hurt as Rook’s eyes sank to the floor and she turned back to the window. “No matter what I chose, they would be mourning me. It was either die of cancer—for real—or let the Dogs cure my cancer and then I’m obligated to pay them back by working for them.”
“You could have refused. Told them to eat shit and kick rocks.”
“Agreeing to work for them was a condition of treating me from the get-go. If I hadn’t agreed, I’d—”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.”
“Exactly.”
The two women languished in the silence, one of them wrestling an old ghost of guilt, the other fighting to choke down her irritation. “Man, what a shitty dilemma to put on you like that. Throw away your family or die. Remind me to give Frank Gendreau a piece of my mind.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Rook, shrugging. “I get to put my skills to work to help people. They didn’t know it when they came to recruit me, but it turns out I’m the most naturally gifted Origo the organization has ever seen. I’m really good at it, and I finally get to stretch my legs for real now, doing real good. Found my purpose. You know Frank sends his healers—me, Andy, a few others—out to hospitals to cure people of terminal illnesses? In secret, of course. Unlike you, we can’t make the newspapers or put videos up on YouTube. Just doesn’t work like that.”
“So, what, are you like, the Men in Black or something? The CIA of magic?”
“No,” Rook said with a wistful smile, “just a few friends trying to make the world a little less shitty without inviting trouble to our doorstep.” The magician sat next to her, folding her arms. “You know, you’re being real hypocritical right now.”
“How so?”
“I don’t want to contact my family because I want to keep them safe. You’re leaving Kenway because you want to keep him safe. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, you know. If you can’t walk the walk, don’t talk the talk.”
“Fine, don’t talk to them,” Robin said with a scowl, “but because of those rings you gave them, your husband and son are mixed up in this shit anyway, you know that, right? And they still have those rings, lady.”
“Well, I didn’t expect them to move into your childhood home. And I didn’t expect the rings to react to the wards your mother put on that house, either.”
“The sentimentality of objects and the energies of magic go hand in hand,” said Robin. “Magic is about connotations. You of all people should know that. Better than me, probably.” She went back to packing her bag. The last thing in the satchel was the GoPro. Turned off, for now. She stared into its dead, unseeing cyclopean eye, and a tiny reflection of her face stared back, broken hematite spikes jutting from her forehead. Looking up at the mirror over the motel room desk, she studied them from afar—one of them, the right horn, was longer than the left at about four inches. The other, a little under three inches, was almost hidden by her bangs. Using the Transfiguration relic to regain her human form had resulted in her undercut growing out, so that she had a full head of hair again.
“Why did you keep the horns?” asked Rook.
“Can’t seem to get rid of them.” Robin reached up to touch the left horn. “They wouldn’t go away.”
Rook stared at her wryly until she relented.
“Okay, yeah. I wanted to keep them. They’re cool. Happy?”
“No problem!” Rook put her hands up. “Your prerogative. Might make it hard to find a job, and the TSA will probably find them problematic, but otherwise, they’re pretty stylish. I’m sure Wayne would say they look badass.”
“Thanks. Think I’ll keep them for a while.”
Soft knocking came from the suite door.
Both women glanced at each other and then at the door. Whoever it was knocked again.
“Who’s there?” called Rook.
“Me.”
“Carly?” said Robin, face scrunching in surprise. She opened the door to find a teenage version of herself standing on the sidewalk.
Since her outburst at Elisa’s house, Carly had dyed her hair purple and dressed all in black—black band T-shirt, black skinny jeans, black Converse, spiky punk bracelets, a studded dog-collar belt, a lacy black choker. Black lipstick. Against her rich Latina skin, goth was more fetching than it had any right to be.
Lord have mercy, Robin thought.
“Nice,” she said, taking it all in. “You look like a Hot Topic mannequin gained sentience and ran away.”
“What is Hot Topic?”
“What are you, like, six? Is there a diaper in those jeans?”
“I’m only a few years younger than you,” said Carly. “What kind of six-year-olds you know wear diapers?”
“These are the
jokes; take ’em or leave ’em.”
“Whatever, look, I want to go with you.”
“What?”
“I want to go with you,” Carly reiterated slowly, as if talking to an idiot. “I want to help you get rid of all the magic things and witches out there fucking up peoples’ lives like they fucked up mine. I want—I need—to keep what happened to me from happening to anybody else. There are women and little girls out there staying silent because they’re afraid they’re going to get their freakin’ teeth knocked out.” Carly threw her arms wide for emphasis. “I know what you do. What you’ve seen, the things you do. The people you help. I want to do that. And I want to be like these guys,” she said, throwing a hand toward Rook. “They can use magic! They throw fire! They—they make things move with their mind! I mean, seriously, that’s amazing!”
“Are you crazy?” asked Robin, going back to packing. “You’re not coming with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already let one person into my life and it almost got him killed. Twice. Your mother died, and almost you and Andy. Do you hear me? I already have enough death on my hands.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Carly.
“You have demonstrated that admirably well.”
Carly fumed. “I saved Mom from Dad when he was hurting her. I stopped him from—”
“Well, that didn’t help—” Robin started to say, alluding to the fact that Marina Valenzuela did not survive this week’s major fiasco, but Carly clenched her fists.
“Don’t you even go there, lady.”
Robin shook her head sadly. “You’re already at my throat. Just goes to show you that this would never work out.” She zipped her bag shut and passed Carly, walking out the door with it. “Besides, there ain’t but one seat on my motorcycle, and I’m no cradle-robber.”
Rook cackled, then said, “Ew,” and covered her mouth.
“You’re leaving?” Carly followed her outside. “By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What about your hot boyfriend with the one leg?”
“Kenway is safer without me. Everybody is. Navathe, Gendreau, Rook. You. You’re all better off without me.” Robin opened a motorcycle saddlebag and took out a wad of the previous owner’s dirty gym clothes, making a face. A little glass pipe fell out and broke on the pavement.
“Is that a hash pipe?”
“I think so.”
“Gross.” Carly folded her arms. “Take me with you. I can be your sidekick.”
“Don’t need a sidekick.” Robin buckled the saddlebag shut and rounded on Carly. That’s when she noticed the rectangle pressing against the inside of the girl’s hip pocket. Man, Elisa and Isabella both would kill her if they knew she was smoking. She pointed at the cigarettes. “When I started doing this, I was just a couple years older than you. Smoked a lot back then. My nerves were shot from fighting these crazy undead witch-bitches and their 28 Days Later cat-zombies. Hate to sound like a cliché, but I’ve seen some shit. Seen bugs come out of my skin. Children cooked in ovens like brisket. Fucking arm was bitten off by a hog the size of a UPS truck, and I got so pissed off, it grew back.” Lifting the blue guitar, she ducked through the strap and let it lay across her back. “Used to cut myself and scald myself with hot water and burn the insides of my thighs with cigarettes to psych myself up and push the pain and the PTSD and fear out. Just to keep going. That’s how scary this gig is. I’ve gone up against things that would make Dracula piss the bed.”
Carly remained where she stood, her arms still folded.
“Can vampires piss?” Robin asked.
Slowly, Carly’s fists sank down to her sides. “If you won’t take me, then I’ll go with the magicians.”
Throwing a leg over the motorcycle, Robin sat down and stood the Harley up, folding the kickstand back. “That’s up to them.” She walked the bike backward out of the parking spot and stood there straddling it in the middle of the access.
“Maybe after you’ve graduated high school,” said Rook, in a humoring tone. “I’ll have to talk to the others, and Frank, first. Frank runs our operation. He’s got final say on who comes and goes.”
“There you go, then,” said Robin. “That’s sorted out. Your mom would probably rather see you go to college or something, but hey—a job’s a job, right?” She shrugged. “Why don’t you go to school and be a social worker?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t choose what I do. It was chosen for me. What I do is a cold river. I was thrown in and it was sink or swim. Actually, I was more Houdini chained up and thrown into a river. And I’m only just now getting out of those chains and clawing my way back to the surface.” Hopping off the seat, Robin came down on the kickstarter and the engine let out one hideous gunshot backfire, growling to life in that farty Harley way.
“What do I tell him?” Rook shouted over the roar.
Robin revved the motorcycle once and squinted into the morning sun, burning their faces into her memory. “Tell him not to come find me. Once I’ve burned and slashed my way through all the witches, monsters, and devils, and there’s nobody left to hurt him, I’ll come back. He’s still got his debit card for my account, and there’s more in there than I could possibly need all by myself. He can get another RV. Or, hell, get his own apartment. I don’t care. Long as he’s safe.”
“Wait,” said the Origo. She threw her hands up in exasperation and wrung them. “What else can I say to convince you to stick around?”
This anguish was more agonizing than any injury she’d weathered thus far. Burning up in the hoarder house, losing her arm, seeing Marina fall, being gored by Santiago … none of it held a candle to what she was feeling just then. Took every single bit of her willpower not to walk the bike back into the parking spot and turn it off.
I have to keep them safe.
“Be good, Wednesday Addams. The world needs more good people.”
“Oh, jam it up your ass. I hope you wreck.” Carly’s voice was the warm burr of a newbie smoker.
“Thanks, you too.”
With a last salute, the witch-hunter roared away.
Track 43
As so often that summer, the old house was quiet and solitary, a hollow edifice of air and shine, catching dust and spinning time. Its current occupants spent most of their days elsewhere—the elder, at work and hanging out with his new colleagues; the younger, running around town with his friends, and—
—in other places, strange and distant places.
But today, the boy was just getting home from school. Footsteps thumped across the front porch, and a key rattled in a deadbolt lock.
As the front door opened, the phone rang.
Now several inches taller and a dozen pounds heavier, Wayne Parkin walked into the Victorian and dropped his bookbag in the foyer. Making a beeline for the kitchen, he grabbed the handset phone and pressed his ear to the earpiece. As he did so, the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window glinted on the curve of the wedding band around his index finger. An identical gold ring glistened on the index finger of the other hand.
“Hello?” he asked, out of breath.
He stood there, listening to the voice on the other end of the line.
Goose bumps crawled up his arms. He attempted to speak, but only a choked sob came out. When he tried again, he could only manage one word at first. He removed his glasses, scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve, and put them back on.
They spoke at length, both of them crying.
When they finished, he hung up the phone and twisted the rings off of his fingers, holding them up like a pair of binoculars.
A soft shaft of light appeared inside the hoop of the one in his left hand, pointing into the dusty stillness of the house. He turned. The light grew stronger still, becoming a ghostly dagger blade. He followed it up the stairs and into his father’s room, where it became a shining white blowtorch. He held the right-hand ring to his eye and looked around the ro
om.
To his left, between a big armoire and the closet, was a door. But it was unlike any of the other doors in this house; instead, it was a steel fire door, the kind you see in department stores and government buildings. He pushed it open, and on the other side was a weedy backlot, a stretch of pavement overlooking a rusty chain-link fence and, behind that, what appeared to be an apartment complex.
Seagulls called from beyond the doorway, mewing, a sound so alien in rural Georgia that his heart pounded in his chest.
Only took him a few minutes to empty his bookbag of everything inside and replace it with a few provisions—a twenty-dollar bill, the rest of the granola bars, a half-box of Cheez-Its, a thermal bottle full of water. Giving it a second thought, he put his homework back in.
Back upstairs, he shouldered the backpack and pushed the rings onto his forefingers. The light vanished, but the door did not.
“I’m coming, Mom,” said Wayne, and walked through.
Track 44
Three Months Later
She was almost out the food court door when the mall security guard caught her. Adrenaline blasted through Carly’s system, making her heart pound in her fingers. “Where d’you think you’re going?”
She rounded on him with dark eyes. “Home. Do you mind letting go of me?”
“Thought you was bein’ slick, didn’t you?” Tall, beer-bellied man with wet lips and steel gray in his temples. His uniform was a simple white polo shirt and black slacks, and he wore a patrol belt with a radio and a flashlight on it.
Carly stepped back inside, letting the door ease shut on a cool autumn breeze. “What do you mean?”
Still hadn’t grown out of her sudden goth phase. If anything, she had gone even deeper: tiny miniskirt, combat boots over a pair of thigh-highs, denim jacket over a band T-shirt. Every stitch of clothing: black. She’d dyed her hair Irish-rose red. Robin was right. She looked like the nineties had taken on a life of its own and was trying to hook on the street, but she liked it—Marina had always dressed her like some dowdy goody-two-shoes teen queen from a family TV show. Felt good to buck Mom’s authority and slum it as hard as possible.