by R. L. King
I got a cup and wormed my way between the tables, dropping into the chair across from him with a loud sigh. “I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find a place to park.”
“Yes, I thought of that—probably should have picked a different place. University’s frightful this time of night.” He sipped his black coffee. “So, then—suppose you tell me what’s brought you to my little talk?”
I hesitated, staring down into my own creamed-and-sugared cup. Did I dare let this particular cat out of the bag? Would he look at me like I should be carted away by the men in the white coats?
“Ms. Huntley…”
“Oh!” I snapped my head up. “I’m sorry. This…it’s just not easy for me.”
His expression was gentle. “I promise, whatever you tell me, I won’t judge you. I’ve heard some fairly incredible stories in my line of work—I doubt you can shock me. Just have it out—I can see that whatever it is, it’s causing you considerable distress.”
That was an understatement. Still, I hesitated, but his voice was so calm, so compelling. I was sure he was either telling the truth or he was such a good liar that he’d never let me catch on if he thought I was crazy. “I had some questions about—about the occult,” I finally blurted, meeting his gaze with a firm one of my own. There. He could laugh now.
He didn’t laugh. “I see.”
“Yes. I’ve been trying to find out on my own—in fact, I was at a shop in San Francisco looking for reference books when I saw the flyer about your talk. I figured since you’re an expert…” I let my voice trail off and covered it with another sip of coffee.
“I might be able to help you with your problem,” he finished. He leaned back, stretching out his long legs. “Well, it’s entirely possible I can, but first you have to tell me what it is.”
I rubbed at my face. Where to even start? How would I—
“I want to know about witches.” The words popped out before I could stop them.
“Witches.”
“Yes. Do you know anything about them?”
“I know quite a lot about them. But you’ll need to be more specific. Are you talking about practitioners of Wicca, the sorts who fly around on brooms…”
“Don’t make fun of me, Dr. Stone. Please. I’ve had a long day.”
“I’m not making fun of you, Ms. Huntley.” He tilted forward, aiming that focused gaze on me again, like I was the only person in the shop. “I can see you’ve got something you’re quite agitated about, and you’ve come to me for help about it. What I’m trying to tell you is that it’s possible I can help you, but you’ve got to stop worrying I’ll think you’re mental.”
This was a mistake. Panic rose inside me: I was wasting time talking to this guy when I should be out looking for Emma. I started to rise. “I’m sorry, Dr. Stone. I shouldn’t have come here and wasted your time. I’ll let you get back to—”
“Ms. Huntley,” he said firmly. “Please. Just sit down and tell me.”
Something broke suddenly, cutting through the panic. I couldn’t do this anymore. “A witch killed my sister and took my baby niece!” I blurted, throwing myself back down into the chair. I glanced around quickly to make sure nobody else had heard my outburst, but the place was loud and no one was staring at us.
“I see,” he said again. He looked utterly serious, and certainly not like someone who was planning to excuse himself to call the authorities. “All right, then. Now we’ve got something to work with. Suppose you tell me the rest. Don’t leave out anything, even if you don’t think it’s relevant.”
I swallowed. I still felt stupid and foolish, but now I’d already given him enough to get myself in trouble with if he wanted to cause problems. Might as well go for the rest.
He listened silently as I poured out the story of Chuck’s accident, Susan’s account of the bargain she made with Madame Minna, and then her own accident and Emma’s disappearance. I told him about how I’d gone to see Madame Minna in San Francisco, how she’d warned me off, and about the disappearing dead crows spread around Melanie’s bed. By the time I finished the story, both my voice and my hands were shaking. I glared at Stone. “There,” I said. “Now you’ve got the whole unbelievable story. Do you think I’m nuts?”
He didn’t answer for several seconds, once again appearing to be looking at something behind me. Then he focused back on my face. “No. I don’t.”
Great. Then you’re as crazy as I am.
He didn’t look crazy, though. He looked like he was taking everything I’d said under deep consideration. “So—what, then?”
“I think I was correct in my initial assessment: you’re a woman with a problem.”
I glared harder. “Yeah. That’s obvious. But is there anything you can tell me that might help me? Have you ever heard of anything like this before?”
“I have.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yes.” He paused, thinking. “Wait. I think I might have seen something about this in the papers recently. About the missing child, at least. Did this happen somewhere south of here?”
“Yes. My sister was killed down by San Luis Obispo. And Emma was in the car, Dr. Stone. I don’t care what the police say about not finding her, and not even finding the car seat. Susan wouldn’t have left her anywhere, not if she thought she was running for her life and that horrible woman was after Emma.”
He nodded. “And what sort of help were you looking for from me?”
“I don’t even know anymore.” I drained my coffee cup and sat with my shoulders slumped, fighting back the urge to burst into tears of frustration and despair. “I guess—I just want somebody to believe me. The police won’t—I told them about Madame Minna, but they don’t believe she’s really a witch. Hell, she claims I’m harassing her and she’s talking about getting a restraining order. They think I’m the crazy one. That all this tragedy has pushed me over the edge and I’m looking for somebody to punish.” I gripped the table and leaned in toward him. “I get it—I get how this must look to them. I don’t blame them for thinking so. But I’m not crazy, Dr. Stone. I know what I saw, and I know what that awful old woman told me. Even if my recorder didn’t work, I heard her. She has Emma, and I need to know how I can get her back. If she hasn’t killed her already—sacrificed her to the Devil, or drained her blood to make an immortality potion, or something.”
That thought did it: the mental image of chubby, rosy-cheeked baby Emma lying pale and dead with that old toad cackling over her body, coated in her blood. The tears flowed, and I choked out a sob. Angrily, I snatched up a napkin and pawed at my face with it. “I’m sorry…” I mumbled.
“It’s quite all right.” He pressed a crisp, folded white handkerchief into my hand.
I took it gratefully, mopping at my eyes. A few people were looking at us now, but I no longer cared. “Do you believe me, Dr. Stone?”
“I do.”
I blinked. “Really? Because I don’t think I could take it right now if you—”
“Really. I believe you. And I’m going to help you.”
“You…are? How? Is there something you can tell me about witches? Something that will help me find her and—”
He looked at me as if trying to decide whether to say something. Finally, he let his breath out. “Ms. Huntley, you said you wanted to get your niece back, if she’s still alive.”
“Of course I do!” I blotted my eyes with the handkerchief again, only now realizing how odd it was—how many guys in their thirties carried actual cloth handkerchiefs anymore? Maybe it was a British thing. “What kind of question is that?”
“A pertinent one,” he said, unruffled. “I need to know how far you’re willing to go with this. It’s very important that you give me an honest answer—I promise not to hold anything you say against you.”
“What?” I stared at him, suddenly feeling the conversational ground shifting under my feet again. “I don’t understand, Dr. Stone. Of course I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get
Emma back. That’s why I’m here talking to you! Do you think she’s still alive?”
“I do. But I think getting her back will require some fairly significant readjustment on your part. I want to know if you’re willing to make that adjustment.”
“Adjustment? What are you talking about?” He wasn’t making sense. Then I realized what else he’d said, and grasped at a straw. “Why do you think she’s still alive?”
“Because you told me Madame Minna said she ‘would be well treated, and want for nothing.’ That implies she has plans for her.”
“Plans? What kind of plans? How do you have plans for a baby?”
He seemed to reach a conclusion. “Ms. Huntley, if you’re serious about your willingness to make adjustments, we’ve got to go somewhere else, where we can talk in private. There are things you need to know.”
“Things?” I looked around us. The people who’d been casting glances my way when I’d burst into tears had looked away now, returning to their own conversations. “What things? Why can’t you tell them to me here?” I narrowed my eyes in suspicion, wondering if he was using this as an excuse to lure me off somewhere. After all, I didn’t know him at all. He could be as dangerous as Madame Minna, in his own way. Darby Jameson hadn’t been a witch, but he’d destroyed Susan’s life almost as badly as the old woman had.
He appeared unaffected by my sudden nervousness. “Because they aren’t the sorts of things you can discuss in the middle of a crowded coffee shop. And also, I need to check a couple of things of my own. I need to see the place where you found the dead crows, and, if possible, your sister’s house.”
“Why?” I demanded. “I told you the crows were gone, and there’s nothing at Susan’s place. Why would you want to—”
He leaned forward again, and something in his expression changed. Hardened. Not in a cold or nasty way, though—more like he was getting down to business and had no patience for anyone who wasn’t willing to come along. “Because, Ms. Huntley, based on what you’ve told me, I’m fairly certain you’re facing real magic here. And in order to fight that, you need some real magic of your own. I can help you with that—but you’ve got to trust me.”
12
My mind was going.
That was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with for why I’d agreed to invite Alastair Stone, a man I’d just met and barely knew, into my home. Professor or no professor, that was just foolish.
Real magic.
That’s what he’d said. That I was facing “real magic,” and I’d need to have the same thing on my side if I wanted to fight for Emma. As if that was a thing that really existed in the world. It was absurd. I was spiraling down a rabbit hole at top speed, and if I didn’t put the brakes on soon, I’d never get back out. I’d end up like one of those women who hung around the front of the supermarket, talking to herself and cussing at shoppers.
Except…
I didn’t want to admit it, but part of me, a small part, had felt relieved when Stone said that. Even if he was as crazy as I was, at least now I had someone else who believed me. I had no idea what he knew about “real magic,” but at least it seemed he might acknowledge that it was a thing.
That scared the hell out of me, to be honest.
I’d always prided myself on being a normal person, whatever that meant. I went with the flow. I didn’t stand out. I raised my kids, helped them with their homework, did my job, cooked dinner, watched the same TV shows everybody else watched at night. I played tennis with my friends sometimes, went to movies now and then, and ate fast food more often than I’d like. I know a lot of people look at “normal” with contempt, like everybody should be trying their best to be as different as possible so they’d make a splash, but I knew better. When you got right down to it, most people just want to live their lives and fit in somewhere. I didn’t see any shame in that.
Now, though, I had a choice. Chuck was dead. Susan was dead. Emma had vanished without a trace. Those were facts. Whether “magic” had anything to do with them, whether Madame Minna was really a witch or just some nasty old con-woman preying on the fears of frightened people—those were beside the point. Something had happened, and it was up to me to decide whether I wanted to stay “normal,” put my head in the sand, and let the police handle trying to find my niece, or whether I wanted to believe my own senses, accept that maybe there was more going on in the world than my suburban, “normal” lifestyle wanted to acknowledge, and take control of the situation.
I thought about all this as I drove toward Redwood City from the coffee shop, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror to make sure Stone was still following. He drove a black Jaguar, which I suppose fit him—what had I expected, that he’d have a hearse, or that spooky old car from The Munsters? I’d given him directions, but still stayed in the slow lane and watched his headlights behind me.
It was almost nine-thirty when I drove into my garage and the Jaguar pulled in behind me a few moments later. The street was quiet; most of the residents here were families, so they’d already settled in for the night. I closed the garage door behind me and walked out to the driveway as Stone got out of his car. Last chance to back out, I told myself, wondering what the neighbors would think if they saw a strange man in a long coat visiting me this late.
As soon as Stone exited his car and slammed the door shut, he stopped next to it and appeared to be staring hard at the house. He did this for several moments, ignoring me, and I didn’t interrupt him.
“Right, then,” he said briskly, snapping back to the here-and-now. “Suppose you show me where you saw these dead crows.”
“Uh—right. It’s in here.” I led him inside, once again experiencing a brief thrill of fear at letting an unfamiliar man into my house after dark when nobody else knew he was here, but shoved it aside with thoughts of Emma.
He followed me down the hall to Mel’s bedroom. I hadn’t touched it since we’d fled the birds, so the pillow and comforter still lay rumpled on the bed. When I switched the light on, I still saw no sign the disgusting crows had ever been there.
“They’re gone,” I said, almost apologetically. “I wish I had something tangible to show you. I should have taken pictures, but by the time I got back, they—”
“Quite all right. Just give me a moment, please.”
He approached the bed, walking slowly and deliberately around it. I watched him closely, noticing he once again had that strange, fuzzed-out look like he was examining something on the other side of the wall. He kept this up for several minutes—much longer than he’d spent looking at the house from the driveway—and then nodded. “Yes, it’s just as I thought.”
“It—uh—is?” I had no idea what he was talking about. Nothing looked strange to me at all. I could almost believe I hadn’t seen anything.
“Yes. Is there somewhere we can chat? It’s too late to go to your sister’s house tonight, but I’d like to get a look at it tomorrow, if that’s possible.”
“Well—yes, of course I can take you there. Come on, we can talk out in the kitchen. My kids are with their father, so we won’t wake anyone up.”
I offered him a cup of coffee, which he accepted, and he settled at the kitchen table, slipping off his black overcoat and tossing it over another chair. I could see the logo on his black T-shirt now; it was for a London pub called the Dancing Dragon Inn. I half-expected him to have tattoos running up and down his arms, but he didn’t.
“So—uh—what did you mean when you said it was exactly as you expected?”
“The reason the crows disappeared without a trace is because they were never there in the first place.”
I stared at him. “But I saw them, Dr. Stone. And it wasn’t just me—my daughter did too!”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt you did. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“You’re not making sense. What do you mean?”
“They were illusions.”
I stopped, my coffee cup halfway from the table to
my mouth. “Illusions?”
“Yes.” He seemed calm, completely unaffected by the thought of dead crows, illusionary or otherwise, turning up in a nine-year-old girl’s bed.
“But wait, that can’t be right!” I remembered something Mel had told me, and shook my head emphatically. “My daughter said she accidentally touched one, and it felt warm and wet. We smelled them, Dr. Stone. They weren’t any illusions!”
He leaned forward and set his cup down, aiming that intense stare at me again. I felt like he was reading my mind. “Ms. Huntley, you’ve got to understand: real illusions don’t work like the sorts of things you see at the cinema. They aren’t just visual, to start with. Good illusions provide the full sensory experience. And these sound like they were cast by someone who knew what they were doing.”
I couldn’t help gaping at him. “Wait. So you’re saying somebody—like maybe this crazy old witch—cast spells to make us think there were dead birds in my daughter’s bed? Why would she do that? How would she do that?” I looked around, panicked. “Was she in my house? Could she be here now?”
“Hold on,” he said, holding up both hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First thing: I doubt she got into your house, and I’m certain she’s not here now.”
“How…how do you know that?”
“I just do. You’ll have to trust me on that. She wouldn’t have needed to get in to cast the illusion.”
“Sh-she wouldn’t?” Once again, the image of me, this time dressed as Alice plummeting down a winding rabbit-hole, popped up in my mind’s eye. Around me, the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, and the Cheshire Cat laughed uproariously, shouting “We’re all mad here!” as I flew past them. “Then…how would she do it?”
His expression changed, softening its intensity. “Ms. Huntley, this is the part where you’ve got to make a decision about whether you’re willing to alter a few paradigms. I think I can help you get your niece back, but not without your assistance. And in order to help me help you, you’ve got to accept some things you might find difficult to handle.”