by Vered Ehsani
“Indeed it does,” he acknowledged, staring into his tea. “Let’s just hope the bureaucrats don’t ruin it by trying to overly impose law and order. This place does well with a bit of mayhem and bedlam.”
I decided not to tell him about the five-man anti-chaos committee recently created for that very reason. He’d learn soon enough. But it shouldn’t impact his import business beyond having to pay an extra tax or two.
“The most peculiar thing occurred,” Simon finally said, watching my reaction. “The letter… You remember the letter?”
I snorted and set my cup down. “You mean the one you wrote to your former fiancée, in which you admitted to an ability to absorb people’s identities and thus condemned yourself?”
He nodded. “That very one.”
“How could I forget?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “It’s the reason she was able to have you imprisoned. One must never admit to anything of that nature, and certainly not on paper.”
“Well,” Simon said, a finger stroking the rim of his cup, “the letter ceased to exist.”
“Really?” I maintained a neutral expression on my face even as I silently thanked Death yet again. “This is indeed peculiar. I suppose, due to its nonexistence, the court had no option but to dismiss the case.”
“You suppose correctly, Mrs. Timmons.”
“How fortunate for us all.”
“Hmm,” he said, scratching a sideburn and narrowing his eyes at me. “Stranger still was the means by which I found myself on the train from Mombasa Port to Nairobi.”
Pausing, he leaned back on the chair and patted the table’s surface a couple of times. “Upon being released from prison, I spent the night at my lawyer’s London home. I fell asleep in his spare room and awoke on the train just as it approached Nairobi. What do you think of that?”
“I should think you have a very clever lawyer, and he should be congratulated,” I replied, standing up with the empty teapot in hand. “Shall I prepare more tea?”
Simon chuckled. “What have you been up to in my absence, my dear?”
I pondered the activities of the last two months: receiving witch lessons from a she-demon; hunting down the Wedding Killer only to be captured by him; discovering the life-death cycle was no longer functioning; hosting Death, a zombie and a deceased elephant in my home; traveling up a spider’s silken rope to the Sky Kingdom; negotiating with the Creator for the reinstatement of Death on his Underworld throne; battling an ancient, diamond-hoarding dragon; and losing one child only to discover I still had another.
“Not much, really,” I said and forced a smile, the skeletal fingers of my metal left hand tapping against the engraved side of the metal teapot. Should I just blurt out the truth? Would he choke in shock? “Just the normal goings-on one would expect in an East African colonial town.”
Groaning, Simon shook his head and said, “That’s what I figured.”
Sighing, he closed his eyes. It was only then I noticed the lines around his eyes were more prominent than before his imprisonment. His bushy sideburns and unkempt hair had streaks of gray that were new. As he clenched his hands together, the veins stood out.
My eyes stung, and I had to focus on breathing for a moment. Placing the teapot on the table, I pulled one of the chairs closer to him, the wooden legs scraping against the stone tiles. As I sat down, I covered his hands with mine and lay my head on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry for everything,” I whispered. “What you must have endured over there…” My voice trailed into silence.
He pulled me closer, his arm tightly around my shoulders. In this safest of spaces, I said in a quiet voice, “There is something I must tell you.” As he tensed, I added, “It’s wonderful news, the best of all.”
He stared down at me, his gray eyes like twin storms that had spent their energy. They reminded me of Arthur, our little star. Would Emma have her father’s beautiful, wild eyes? Or would she have my golden-yellow werewolf eyes?
“And what is this wonderful news?” he asked, his lips lifting.
Placing my hands on either side of his face, I leaned even closer until our breaths mingled. I imagined how his mouth would smile and his eyes would dance once he knew the impossible had occurred. I’d believed I was incapable of ever being with child, and now…
As if imparting a secret, I whispered, “We have a daughter.”
His expression froze in between a half-smile and confusion. “Daughter?” he repeated. He stared into my eyes, and I watched as realization crept over him. Grasping my hands and pulling them against his chest, he asked in a breathy voice, “You’re… We’re… A daughter. Is it true?”
I nodded and smiled, perhaps even shed a tear, as he whooped and enveloped me in an embrace. Even though it was far too early in the morning for such energetic vocals, I laughed as he yelled, “We’re having a baby!”
Chapter Four
IT STARTS AS it always does: the last few moments of my parents’ life before they are murdered.
We’re in the carriage. A scent drifts around me, that of a wet dog. My nose wrinkles against the assault even as my eyes widen and my heart speeds up.
“Turn around,” I whine, my voice constricted with the fear of inevitability. “We need to go back.”
Wake up.
The wet dog stench intensifies.
I lean toward the narrow opening in the carriage wall through which I can see the driver sitting on the bench. The man’s head angles slightly to one side so that I can see his face in profile. He smiles, and I know we will die that night.
Wake up.
“No! Get out,” I yell, lunging for the door, my little fingers scratching at the leather interiors.
Over the clattering of wheels, I can hear another set of hooves galloping behind us.
I peer out the back window and see a large, hairy man atop a horse that breathes out fire. He smells of wet dog and a hint of the wild.
Before I can react, the carriage jerks to one side, veering off the road. Wooden rails splinter. Screams fill the carriage. The lake begins to seep through the windows.
Beatrice. Wake up.
“The door’s jammed,” someone shouts.
No, I think. It’s not jammed. It’s locked from the outside.
Glass shatters behind me. As I swivel around, a large shadow thrusts its meaty hand through the narrow space of the broken back window, grabbing at my throat.
I wake up.
“Beatrice, wake up. It’s just a dream,” Simon said, shaking me, unaware I was already awake.
Struggling into a sitting position and clutching my blanket to my heaving chest, I stared around the dark bedroom. A smidgen of light from the star-encrusted sky leaked through the thin curtains. We’d only been asleep a couple of hours.
“It wasn’t a dream,” I said, pushing back long, straight strands of hair from my damp face. “It happened. He murdered them. Prof. Runal…” My words faded as I gasped for breath.
Simon elbowed himself upright and rubbed a hand over his face; I could hear the bristles of his unshaven chin scratching against his skin. “You’re still having flashbacks then?”
I nodded, my right hand rubbing the stump where my left hand should have been. Why didn’t I have nightmares about that day when Koki cut off my hand? Or when a skeleton army led by a resurrected poet-warrior attacked our home?
Simon cleared his throat and laid a hand on my forearm. “Maybe you should stop training with Koki.”
Jerking away, I glared at him and regretted having told him about my classes. His face was lost in shadows but my werewolf vision was able to discern the strain in his expression.
Before I could consider a suitable response, he added, “I know you want to develop your witch powers, and you have the capacity to be as great a witch as your mother. But at what cost? And we don’t know the impact it might have on the… on our baby either.”
That last statement froze me.
As if sensing my weakening resolve, he l
eaned closer. “If just the meditation exercises do this to you, imagine when you start practicing spells.”
Gulping, I shifted closer to him, pressing against his side. His energy enveloped me with strength and warmth. As I inhaled his musky scent, the tension in my shoulders loosened.
“I thought I’d never see you again.” His gruff voice filled in the silence. “When I left here, I believed it was a one-way ticket either to prison or the noose.”
What if my witch training with Koki harmed Emma? My right hand drifted down to cover the little bump that was my daughter.
“Being released…” Simon paused to clear his throat. “Being released, knowing I was finally a free man without any need to fear retribution from the past, was the second-best gift I could ever receive.”
His hands enveloped mine. “Coming home to you, knowing we would be together again, was the best gift.” He pressed his forehead against mine. “Well, until this morning when I found out about Emma, and now…” Chuckling, he squeezed my hand. “I don’t want to lose either of you, not again.”
In the silence, the secret of our son lurked over me. I couldn’t keep that hidden from him any longer. He deserved the truth.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” I said. “And show you.”
Ignoring his questions, I tugged on my housecoat and scooped up a blanket. Together, we padded through the cottage and outside. The air was still and cool. As we strolled through the grass, insects paused in their buzzing and trilling, only to resume with greater vigor as we passed. The chorus of frogs floated up from the river. A hyena cackled in the distance, answered by another close by. Bats flitted across the sky, little shadows against the twinkling lights. The brightness of the stars cast a pale silver-blue sheen over the ground. A sliver of moon floated near the horizon.
I laid out the blanket and sat upon one edge. Once Simon joined me, he pulled the rest of the blanket around our shoulders.
“Do you see that star?” I asked, pointing to a spot next to the moon. I waited until Simon nodded, his gaze fixed on that celestial body. “That star…” I had to take a deep breath, praying my voice wouldn’t wobble. “It’s our son, Emma’s twin brother. His name is Arthur.”
Simon swallowed hard once, twice, before he could whisper, “Tell me what happened while I was away.”
So I did. I told him everything, including all the situations and misadventures I’d promised never to mention. And after explaining about Death and the dragon and saving the world, I described our son, our perfect, beautiful Arthur.
Only when I stopped talking and silence covered us like that blanket, he turned to me, his eyes dark, his bushy eyebrows pulled together in a frown. Mentally I prepared myself for the lecture he would surely give me about my safety. I could already imagine his stern voice as he warned me against taking unacceptable risks.
Instead, he placed his head on my shoulder and cried.
Chapter Five
I KNEW I was in trouble—again—when late that afternoon, a man dashed into the Cozy Tea Shoppe, blurted out, “No chai,” and dropped dead on top of a box of tea leaves.
“What do you make of it?” I demanded, waving at the corpse and the mess he’d created.
I didn’t expect a serious or helpful response, and in that I wasn’t disappointed. Gideon, the ghost of my first husband, shrugged his slim, translucent shoulders and said in his whispery voice, “Your premise seems to be a corpse magnet. It’s positively indecent.”
Yao the Adze grinned. The African vampire had flown into the shop in his firefly form but was now lounging about the shop in his human form. Given his disinterest in wearing anything more than a leather skirt, there was far too much of him on display than was appropriate. Fortunately for Victorian sensibilities, all the customers had departed for the day.
“Can Yao take a sip while the body’s still warm?” Yao asked. His long, sharp canines were bright against his dark face, and his eyes glittered in anticipation.
“And speaking of indecent,” Gideon said, smirking.
“You most certainly cannot, Yao,” I said as I stared across the Cozy Tea Shoppe to the man lying dead near the front door.
Sulking, Yao slumped into a chair and leaned his elbows against the small, round table before him.
Gideon chuckled at the vampire’s grumpy demeanor and remarked, “At least there are no customers as witnesses.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Although you’d be amazed what customers will tolerate for a decent cup of tea. At any rate, that’s not what concerns me.”
Leaning against the counter at the back of the store, I tapped the metal fingers of my left hand on the rose-colored, marble countertop. The clicking of metal against stone punctuated my words.
“A corpse among the teapots isn’t a cause for alarm. However, it’s an altogether different story when someone dies atop a case of tea leaves.” I gestured with my right hand to the broken bits of packaging material and loose tea leaves strewn around the dead man. “One can always wash the chinaware of any bodily fluids that might have spilled, but one can’t very well do the same with tea leaves. What a tragic waste.”
Gideon nodded, pretending to ponder the dilemma even as his charming features brightened at the prospect of mischief, his light brown eyes twinkling. “Some people are terribly inconsiderate. Why couldn’t he die outside your store?”
Yao and Gideon shared a laugh at my expense. “It’s not as if this is the first time, Beatrice,” Gideon added.
Springing up, Yao said, “Yes, Miss Knight, you must be very used to dead people now.”
“Considering the company I keep, indeed I should,” I said, glaring at the dead man atop my recent delivery of tea. “The last time a corpse appeared here—and right where you’re sitting, Yao—I became a prime suspect in her murder.”
“You do have a habit of collecting bodies,” Gideon pointed out as he floated above the man.
Throwing up my arms, I argued, “It’s not like I’m exerting any effort to do so.”
“And that makes it all the more remarkable,” Gideon said.
Scowling at him, I strode past the empty tables, my riding boots clicking against the wooden floor. I hadn’t bothered changing into shoes, nor did I plan on doing so. Let the ladies of high society stare at my unladylike footwear, I thought.
“What a waste,” Yao said, his full lips pouting as he stepped to my side, his arm brushing against mine. He was absolutely ignorant of the need of civilized people for personal space.
It was just my luck that African vampires have no fear of the sun and can therefore plague their friends both day and night. This particular specimen had attached himself to my household with irritating tenacity. It was easier to rid one’s home of bedbugs than the likes of Yao.
I glanced at him. He was an impressive figure, his muscular chest and arms…
“Enough,” I reprimanded myself.
“It’s not really your fault, Miss Knight,” Yao said, his silky voice soothing, his countenance the epitome of sincerity and eagerness to please.
“Of course it isn’t,” I snapped, using my irritation to push back at the Charm that naturally flowed from the vampire.
“And it’s not ours either,” Gideon chastised me, his brown hair waving about as he floated beside Yao.
Ignoring the offended expressions of the two masters of mischief, I glanced out one of the front windows. Dusk came early in the colonial town of Nairobi. East African days started between six and seven every morning, and ended precisely twelve hours later, all year round. It was the only thing that was on time.
As I watched the dirt road, shadows oozed across my view. The few people outside hastened to finish their business and retreat to their abodes. A solitary ox snorted as the driver urged it onward, the empty, two-wheeled wagon rolling behind it. Soon, Victoria Street and the small alleys of Nairobi would be the domain of lions and hyenas.
But even the normal people residing here sensed that those ani
mals weren’t the most dangerous predators lurking in the dark. One of those predators was in my shop, eyeing the dead man with undisguised hunger.
“Are you sure?” Yao whined.
“Don’t touch,” I ordered as I locked the front door, flipped the Closed sign to face the world and pulled curtains across the display windows. It wouldn’t do to have any passersby see the dead customer.
Turning around, I ignored the body, the ghost and the vampire. Taking a deep breath, I allowed myself to savor the rose-colored theme of my shop, the various perfumes from the assortment of teas, and the shelves of teapots displaying a diversity of shapes, sizes and colors. The small tables were covered with flowery cloth; normally there would be tea sets laid out with treats and a steaming pot of that most delectable of all beverages: tea.
“What does ‘chai’ mean?” I mused.
“It’s Swahili for tea,” Yao said, his toothy grin back in place.
“A man runs into a tea store and shouts, ‘No tea’?” Gideon scoffed.
“It does seem peculiar,” I said. Then again, in my previous line of business as a paranormal investigator, ‘peculiar’ was normal.
Bending over, I peered at the unfortunate man and observed the fine cut of his old fashioned suit and the reasonable quality of the fabric. “At least his was a clean death. You know I can’t abide a messy corpse. It makes for a horrid funeral experience. And he died in suitable attire. I approve. I wonder what killed him. Poison?”
Kneeling beside the body, I tried to ignore the broken box and the tea leaves crunching beneath me. The fragrance of jasmine and green tea wafted over me, reminding me of my loss. “What a waste,” I said, sighing.
“Yes, it is,” Yao sighed as he loomed behind me. “Maybe he was protesting against your shop.” The vampire’s eyes widened as he gazed at the shelves of tea sets.
“I’m sure that’s it,” Gideon said, nodding sagaciously.
“Really?” Yao asked, clapping his hands at having solved the mystery.
