by Coralie Moss
A grid of minuscule red dots circled Hyslop’s throat. My heart went out to Sallie. I stepped away from the group and dug my phone out of my bag. Pulling up my messaging app, I texted Harper to remove the bracelet Sallie made for him if he was still wearing it, bag it, and give the bag to James for safekeeping.
I added the emoji for poison, hoping it would convey a sufficient sense of urgency, and looked up from my phone’s screen. A wavering shape emerged from the worn and weathered path leading to the older parts of the orchard. What I first read as heat rising from the dry ground and distorting the figure’s clothing was, as they shuffled closer, not the effect of heat at all.
A middle-aged, average-sized female was accompanied by a cloud of shimmering particles, browns and greens from across the natural spectrum intermingled with flickers of purple and yellow.
The woman stopped walking and squatted. The confetti-like bits dropped with her. She raised her arm away from her shins, described a generous circle around herself, and made sweeping motions with both hands until the particles collected themselves into a conical pile.
“Maritza,” said Rose, stepping from the back door to the wide stairs. She stepped down, taking the rest of the steps with slow deliberation. “Maritza,” she repeated, her gaze on the woman, “who did you see?”
“If you could bring me a glass of fresh lemonade with mint leaves, two teaspoons of Abigail’s honey, and chopped ice, I will tell you what I saw and who I met.” She looked from the dirt to Rose, who retraced her steps back into the house. Then to me, Maritza said, “Calliope, daughter of Genevieve, mother to sons. I am Maritza Brodeur, daughter of Margarita, mother to none.”
While she spoke, she stood, her shape morphing as she straightened her legs. The druids and hidden folk ringed behind me went silent. Even garrulous Belle was wordless. Wafting from the kitchen was the rapid tink-tink-tink of metal against glass as Rose filled the beverage request.
“I can see the cat has taken your collective tongues.” Maritza went to bat away a piece of thread floating up and away from the front of one shoulder and instead grabbed the end and pulled. She continued to pull, hand over hand, until all the pieces of cloth stitched together to create her shapeless, ankle-length garment had fallen free. Underneath was a gaunt assembly of bones, clothed in fuschia leggings and a lavender halter top, perched on a pair of yellow platform sandals.
Maritza withdrew black-framed sunglasses stationed in the center of her top and put them on, sliding baby blue-tipped fingernails through hair the color and texture of raven feathers. The woman knew how to make an entrance. I envied she could traverse the orchard’s terrain in such impractical footwear. She pressed her knees together, shifted her hips to one side, and bent to reach for the bamboo handle of an oval, flat-lidded purse decorated with a clump of fake kumquats and green leaves.
“Come,” she said, sliding the handle onto her forearm before waving us back from the edge of the porch and toward the chairs. “Let us sit and talk.”
The peak of the pile curled in her direction but did not move from the circle, while the pieces of fabric settled themselves into a pile beside the stack of colorful particles.
Tanner brought out more chairs, and with the sun past its apex, the back of the house and yard would grow more shaded as the afternoon progressed. Rose and Belle brought Maritza her drink, paper-thin slices of lemon layered with crushed ice, mint leaves, and honey-scented lemonade. My mouth watered. The tall glass offered to Maritza sparkled with more resonance than the pedestrian mixture of lemons and fizzy water, while another tray offered a pitcher of the same concoction.
Maritza lowered herself onto the red rocking chair, crossed her legs, and pulled an Hermès scarf from her bag. The square of silk was printed with a lavish image of a Phoenix. She folded the scarf into a triangle, covered her hair, and knotted two corners underneath her chin.
Belle handed Maritza a petite linen lunch napkin, which she pressed against the bottom of the glass.
Even with my feet encased in unfashionable work books, I could feel the ground’s tremor of anticipation.
With one last long draught of lemonade, Maritza’s muscle tissues plumped enough she went from scrawny to, simply, a bit on the skinny side. “Have the heads thawed?”
I swallowed hard, connecting the dots. Maritza was the necromancer. And if family genetics were as generous to her as to Malvyn, there was a storehouse of power sitting next to me.
Together, Rose and Belle answered, “Yes,” with Rose adding, “We followed your instructions to the letter, although I must say your suggestion to…”
“Rose, there are those here who would not react well to the nuances of reanimation.”
Rose nodded, curt and precise. “Have you decided where you would like to do this, Maritza? Shall we bring the heads to the bodies or the bodies to the heads?”
The necromancer held her glass out to be refilled, leaned into the back of the rocker, and eyed Tanner.
“You are Jessamyne’s druid?” A statement more than a question and not the response Rose was waiting for.
Tanner stood rock-still before bending from the waist and extending his hand. “Tanner Marechal, Provincial Agent for Ministry of Forests, Lands, and Natural Resources. And druid from the lineage of Ni’eve du Blanc.”
Maritza curled her middle three fingers over his, gave him the subtlest nod, and turned her attention to Belle. “Were you able to locate enough yellow marigolds?”
“I was, and I think you will be pleased with the quality of the petals.”
“And do we have any clothing from the deceased?” Maritza directed that question to the group at large.
“The heads were bare when I found them in the freezer,” I said, finding my way into the conversation while continuing to stand.
“Then let us hope the bodies are clothed.” Maritza placed her napkin and glass on the tray. “Here is what I propose. We bring the heads to the burial mounds. The druids will lift the veil shielding the sacred resting ground and move the soil covering the bodies. I would find it problematic but not impossible to perform this with the bodies and heads such a distance from one another, but I think it would please the group to witness as much as possible. That way, there will be no discrepancy about what I would otherwise simply report to you.”
“Did you decide how you would like us to transport the heads?” Belle asked.
Rose stepped in. “Abigail would harangue us no end if we used her bread bowls, but they’re the right size. Has anyone seen something similar, perhaps in one of the barns?”
Tanner, Wes, and Kaz peeled away from our grouping, as though they’d been waiting for the excuse to put some distance between themselves and the necromancer, and strode toward the nearest outbuilding.
Maritza pointed to one of the empty rocking chairs. “Sit with me, Calliope. While they’re off, I will tell you a story.”
I settled into the seat’s high back, making myself comfortable but not overly so. There was a bird-of-prey quality to Maritza’s bearing, even as I deduced she was the likely owner of the cheery Volkswagen out front.
“I was born in a Mexican cemetery on the night of November first, Día de los Muertos, when the veils between the living and the dead lift. My father was embarrassed and horrified, but my mother sought to make good use of the moment—and perhaps to annoy her husband—and like the wily bruja she was, told no one but her best friend that she was well into labor when she joined our town’s procession to the graveyard.
“She swaddled me in one of my grandmother’s woven rebozos and tucked me into a coffin made for a baby. Not a specific baby.” She leaned forward and shook a blue-tipped finger at me. “My mother’s sense of humor was not that macabre. Coffins are plentiful that time of year in San Miguel, as are candles, calaveras, and calacas.”
I quirked my head at the unfamiliar words.
“Skulls and skeletons. Decorations,” Maritza added. “Once I was securely ensconced, my mother released my unadorned,
unremarkable, unpainted pine coffin into the crowd, whereupon I was paraded around the graves while she delivered the afterbirth and buried it in the ground. To this day I can feel the scratchy wool of my grandmother’s shawl against my tender skin.” She lifted her glass, indicating I should pour her more lemonade. “Beginning my life in a graveyard, during a celebration of life and death, was a gift. This has allowed me to truly see and know that Death is simply another phase of Life.”
She separated one of the gold chains looped around her neck and waved a small glass vial at me.
“Soil with the bloods of my mother and me, mixed. I trade this with the dead. An offering, an exchange for their time.”
Tucking the vial under her blouse, she peered over the top of her sunglasses. Her eyes were as blue as her painted fingernails.
“And you, Calliope, must collect as much of your blood as you can. Feed it directly into the soil that marks the place you call home. The earth needs it, and you won’t have moon blood to give forever.”
Chapter 7
Tanner, Wes, and the others returned as Maritza’s recounting of her birth ended. We left Hyslop and Peasgood on the porch with two fully charged cell phones, one of those compressed air horns to blow if anyone or anything showed up, and orders to rest.
The quartet of men led the way to the burial mounds, backpacks bouncing off Kaz and Tanner’s backs, and two canvas tool bags hanging from Wes’s hands. Maritza had tasked the druids with opening the spelled wards hiding the burial mounds from public eye.
Muted words filtered back to us as they strategized then fell silent. A flock of little birds acted as escorts and sentries, moving in a triangulation of chirps, tweets, and fluttering wings.
Rose and Belle carried the severed heads, which they’d wrapped first in tea towels then cradled in wood watering troughs once used for small animals. Their pace was steady and solemn, and they barely spoke.
Maritza hummed and never wobbled on her platform heels. The stack of fabric pieces and the pile of particles trailed behind us, hovering above the ground like frantic puppies trying to keep pace with their beloved owner.
“Calliope,” the necromancer said, startling me out of a meandering thought loosely connected to watching Tanner’s ass and thighs from the back. “I have spoken with our dear Rose de Benauge about your training. She has agreed I shall supervise the modules pertaining to the Study of Death.”
I gulped. Nothing like switching gears from sex to death.
Maritza continued, “Consider today your first lesson. The timing isn’t perfect. Death is rarely perfect unless a skilled practitioner has had a hand in the planning and execution of the event. Yet here we are and so you should view this as both an aspect of your investigation and a…what do they call it? Ah, yes, a ‘teaching moment.’”
Nodding, I thanked her.
“Take notes,” she admonished, pointing at my cross-body bag without breaking her stride. “I assume your grimoire is in there?”
“I have a note-taking app on my phone,” I said. “Could I use just use that? And what’s a grimoire?” To me, it sounded like a cumbersome piece of furniture.
Maritza’s disbelief was palpable. She exhaled from her nostrils, loudly. “A grimoire is a book where you keep all of your notes. All of your spells, lists of ingredients you used, results of experiments—good, bad, indifferent. Basically, a grimoire is a repository of your knowledge, no one else’s. And no one else would, or should, have access to it.”
She stopped, held up a palm to halt the progress of her adoring but silent piles, and addressed me face to face.
“You must have a grimoire, Calliope Jones. When we have finished here today, your first priority should be to make a book.” She tapped the same accusatory pointer finger against her chin. “Or there is one grimoire maker in all of western Canada. They may have something appropriate for sale.”
“Where are they located?” I asked.
“Near Mount Edziza. From here, it takes at least twenty-four hours of driving to get there. Most Magicals prefer to utilize the portal, but even for Magicals it’s a strenuous trip.”
Well, that threw a hitch in things.
“Could I look around my house first? See if there’s an empty book or something I could use temporarily?” I was thinking of my mother’s books, lined up for all these years on the low shelf in the attic, gathering dust.
“You may do that,” she said. “Whatever book you choose—and however it comes into your possession—we will bind you to it. The book will be yours, and only yours, for the rest of your life.”
I wasn’t sure if Maritza was pleased or distressed at the interim solution, but I couldn’t see a two- to three-day trip in my near future. Not unless I wrapped Harper, Thatcher, and Sallie in a pink-bubble of protection and brought them with me in a house-sized RV.
While we had been speaking, the druids, Rose, and Belle had walked far enough ahead they were out of sight.
“Thank you for offering to teach me,” I said. “We should catch up with the others.”
The six ahead of us had paused at an empty field. I wiggled my feet out of my boots and dug my toes into the soil. The tremor was there, but when I walked forward to meet up with the line of druids, witches, and necromancer, the earth fell silent beneath my feet. I went back to my boots. The tremor returned and was gone again by the time I finished my experiment and stood next to Tanner.
“The burial mounds are right there, aren’t they?” I asked, flicking my hand in front of us. I wanted to know how Clifford had hidden the mounds from detection both above and below ground. I surreptitiously typed the question into my phone.
“Join hands, and we’ll take everyone through,” said River.
Belle and Rose moved to either end of our line-up, the troughs with the hidden folks’ heads cradled in their free arms. We stepped forward as one.
The first things I noticed were a drop in temperature and the absence of bird activity. The second was an all-encompassing field of green. Outside this protected area, dried grasses crackled underfoot. Here, the blades were vibrant, trimmed, and oh-so-green, carpeting the area in front of us and rolling up the sides and across the tops of the burial mounds. The lichen-covered rocks at the bases of the First Nations-style mounds and the misty sky overhead gave swaths and splotches of color to break up the incessant, verdant green.
Tanner spoke. “The day after you had the heart-to-heart with Cliff, when he admitted he was a druid and asked for our help, we came here and refreshed the protective wards. Unfortunately, Cliff was correct. The lack of regular maintenance had weakened the layers of magic masking this entire area. Anyone with the know-how could been entering and leaving from above and below ground, for months, maybe years.”
We all took a moment to absorb that sobering observation, the druids especially.
Tanner continued, “If you look up, what you’ll witness are the new layers of magic incorporating themselves with the old. If we could stand closer to the barrier itself, it would look like a massive, stretched-out fishing net. Charged fibers create an open mesh, which allows magical energy to permeate the spaces in between the flexible grid.”
All in all, it was an awe-inspiring display of magic in motion.
“The threads are like cotton-candy twists,” I said.
“We drew from the full spectrum of colors in the surrounding grasses, trees, and flowers. Another day or two and it will look less—”
“Less like a child puked up a candy store?” Maritza pointed to the middle of the three conical mounds. “Your attention should be toward the grass and what lies buried below, not wandering up there in all that fluff.”
I sneaked a last glance at the wavering blush-pink and peach strands and followed the group to the middle mound.
“Have you completely masked the door?” Maritza asked. “I cannot see a break in the wall.”
Kaz nodded. He stepped in close and ran his hand along the trimmed sod wall until he was two-thirds of the
way to the corner of the structure. He stopped, shrugged off the straps of his backpack, and gestured to the rest of us. “There are shrouds in my pack,” he said, “Wes, Calli, if you could grab two of them and follow me in, we’ll extract the bodies. Maritza, we will await your signal before we bring them into the light.”
Rose and Belle remained silent as they lowered the troughs to the ground and adjusted the cloths covering the heads. I shook out one piece of fabric, handed it over to Wes, and removed another for myself. Kaz faced the mound, his arms raised to the sides. He kept his elbows relaxed as he moved his fingers as though seeking an opening and chanted under his breath.
A series of charcoal gray lines formed, following the path of his fingers. Kaz moved his arms, drawing out a rectangle and continued to walk his fingers along the lines as more appeared. Once he touched them, the lines solidified into the shape of a doorway. He tugged on a chain looped around his neck and leaned forward, pressing whatever was hanging onto the sod.
The door inside the rectangle he’d formed swung inward. A hazy beam of light inside the cavernous space came into focus. The mound had at least one skylight and the air smelled not at all like death. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting or why I imagined something creepier, like the dirt-floored cellar of my house which always stank of mold and decay.
Maybe Magicals—druids at least—took a different kind of care with their dead.
Kaz paused, took a step back, and gestured to Maritza. She nodded and hooked her arm through his. “I have changed my mind. I will accompany Kazimir. The rest of you stay here until we know what awaits.”
Tanner came over to me, did that thing again where he clamped his hands on the tops of my shoulders and kneaded my muscles with his thumbs. I shrugged him off. My body kept trying to tug me back to our previous level of intimacy, and my head wanted only to absorb the experience unfolding in front of me and suck up every drop of knowledge.
