by Coralie Moss
“Shama asked me what I wanted to do: go full-Fae, transition gradually, or continue to keep the real Sallie Flechette hidden. Honestly, Aunt Calliope, when she was done explaining, I was afraid to embrace any part of being Fae. I mean, look at the shining examples on my side of the family, shit. I also want to find out who and what I really am. Shamaha has me on a, a…what did she call it, Thatch?”
“Time-release spell,” he said, “which is also why Jasper’s here.”
I had decisions to make. “Let me toss an idea out for you. As a temporary solution for Sallie.” I emphasized the word temporary. “I’m happy to provide shelter here at the house. We can’t offer you your own room, kiddo, but if Thatcher is willing to share his, I’m sure we can do something in here so you each have privacy. And now that you’re both awake, come on downstairs. Sallie, it’s time for your first Jones’ Family Meeting.”
Chapter 11
I plucked a mish-mash of porcelain cups and saucers from one of my harder-to-reach kitchen cupboards and set them on the island, along with a stack of sticky notes and a Sharpie.
“Here’s what I need,” I said to the family and guests answering my call to assemble.
As I spoke, I scribbled a name on a note, tore it off, and affixed it to one of the objects in front of me. I ran out of names before I ran out of cracked and stained saucers.
“And Harper, Leilani, are you two there?” I had asked them to join our family meeting via phone.
“We’re here,” said Leilani.
“I’m here too,” said James.
“Great. I’ll get started.” I added their names to three pieces of paper, took in a big breath, let it out, and began my pep talk. “We’ve gone from being a family of three to an extended…family’s not quite the right word.” I counted and looked up. “There are about two dozen people I now feel the need to keep tabs on. I don’t know much about many of them, or you,” I said, pointing the capped end of the Sharpie at Christoph, “and some of these Magicals I’d rather not have in my inner circle.”
I placed Jessamyne’s saucer to the left and added the six adult Flechettes.
Sallie Flechette’s dainty cup stayed in the cluster in front. I made sure she saw me nestle her closer to me and my boys.
“I need everyone’s help and input on creating the strongest magical protections we can provide. There are three eighteen-year-olds in this mix, Thatch is sixteen-and-a-half, and all of them are at the bare beginnings of finding their magic. I don’t think any of them yet know how to use their magic when they’re in trouble.”
“I’m eighteen-and-a-half,” Lei-li piped in. I smiled. She was soft-spoken by nature, and hearing her use her voice more and more would only help her—and all of us—as we went forward.
“Duly noted, Lei-li.” I kept going. “We have at least four adult Fae on the loose. We know Meribah is powerful, Adelaide too. My ex-husband is now weaponized. I have no idea what his twin brother’s specialty might be, and they made it clear their intention is to bring one, if not both, of my sons into their…what’s a group of Fae called? A coterie?”
“That might be vampires, Mom,” said Thatcher. I could only open my eyes wide and pretend to shudder. I never, ever needed to meet a vampire.
“The term is court,” said James. “Based on her aggressive tactics the other night, I would place Meribah in the Unseelie Court. She has every appearance of being a ringleader. I would not, however, dismiss the idea she is working under the aegis of a higher authority. The Fae courts spend an inordinate amount of time trying to one-up each other.”
Oh boy. “Thank you, James.
“Even knowing that, the old Calliope would have insisted she could do it all by putting this house and everyone in it on lockdown until the Flechettes forgot about us. Between what my garden produces and grocery delivery and online learning, my boys and I could hold out here for a very long time. Or…”
I had no idea what or looked like, but it probably wasn’t pretty. I waved that idea away.
“However.” I eyed every person gathered around the kitchen island as I spoke. “The new Calliope has some catching up to do. I want to be able to leave this property for trainings and workshops. I need to know that Harper, Thatcher, Sallie, and anyone else living here is as safe as they can be without feeling like their lives are on hold. I know what it’s like to live that way, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” Tapping my fingers against the countertop, I let that confession sink in.
“Granddaughter, may I speak?” Christoph asked.
“Please. Yes.”
“I’ve not spent much time with little ones. In my position amongst the Magicals in the north, I was given the responsibility of mentoring teenagers and those who bloom later, even into their early twenties. Now that our family is reunited, there is nothing, nothing, that would please me more than to stay here and guide my great-grandsons into their unique magics.”
Oh, Goddess, I was going to need to build an addition to the house, complete with an aerie.
“I want to say yes, Christoph, but one thing concerns me.” I pointed to the arches of his richly feathered wings rising behind each shoulder. “Your wings. You can’t go out in public, even here on Salt Spring Island. I’ve seen people with wings cavorting around downtown. They ain’t real wings. Your wings…” I’d taken the cup with his name on it and turned it over and over in my hands. “Your wings exude magic.”
Wes coughed. “Christoph?”
My grandfather worried at the rings on his thumbs and cleared his throat. “I can force my wing feathers to molt, everything but the coverts. With Wes’s help and a bit of ingenuity, we can manufacture a flexible, removable garment that will hold the wing bones to my arms, from the humerus,” he pointed to his upper arm, “all the way down to the metacarpals and phalanges.” He wiggled his fingers. “It’ll mean I have to wear long-sleeved shirts or sweatshirts all the time, maybe gloves, but that’s manageable.” He chuckled. “The change takes my ability to fly out of the equation, but I have other magic I can tap into. The boys’ll just have to help me practice. I haven’t molted in years. It’ll be fun.”
Mischief lit up his eyes. When he glanced at Thatcher and waggled his eyebrows, I almost pulled the plug on using our genetic connection to safeguard my sons. I wanted to know what Christoph’s “other magic” was—and I kind of did not—but sending the boys away to private school on another continent, under aliases, was not an option.
“How does that sound to you, Thatcher?” I asked. He gave the idea two thumbs up. “And what about you, Harp?”
Where Thatcher’s eagerness made his whole body vibrate, I couldn’t deny that the resonating silence of Harper’s hesitation made my heart hurt.
“Mom?” he started. “Can you take me off speaker phone so I can say something?”
I palmed my phone, walked around the island, and stepped onto the front porch. “It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this, Mom. I didn’t ask for a father who’s a power junkie and who doesn’t give a fuck about who I am and what I want. I didn’t ask for a mother who lied to me about who she really is either. And I didn’t ask for wings.” He chuffed out his breath. “But I love you, Mom, and I love Thatch, and I’m probably going to need a lot of therapy at some point in my life.”
“I’ll start a money jar today.”
He snorted softly. “I want my life to be as normal as fucking possible while I finish high school. I want to go look at colleges and do stupid shit with my friends and spend time with Lei-li where we’re not having to be under adult supervision twenty-four seven. If you can promise me that, Mom, I’m on board. One hundred percent. But I need some freedom and space and normalcy. And I want to drop Dad’s last name.”
I glanced into the house. No one had moved, but they were talking. Maybe Thatcher and Sallie were expressing similar thoughts. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and spoke a vow I prayed to Goddess I would not regret. “Harper Jones, I pr
omise you a normal life.”
“Thanks, Mom. And just to be clear, I expect my normal to be off-the-charts magical.”
* * *
I returned my cell phone to the counter. “Harper? I have you three on speaker phone.”
Thatcher’s notifications were firing. “Harp, man, I can’t keep up with texting, but yeah, Sallie and I agree, magical normal’s the new normal.” He turned off the ringer and pocketed his phone. “Sorry.”
“At this rate you’re going to need a bunkhouse, Calliope,” said Wes, interjecting a bit of comic relief.
“Funny you should mention that because yeah, I don’t know what other options we have.” I was ready to table this discussion and get on with breakfast. “Christoph, you can have my office as soon as I transfer everything I need into my bedroom.”
“Bunk beds!” said Thatcher, high-fiving Sallie.
I cleared my throat. “Two more items. Stay with me. I met Jessamyne.”
“Who’s that?” asked Thatcher.
“An old friend of Tanner’s,” I said. “She brought Cliff and Abi to the hospital late last night. After we’re done here, I’m calling to see when I can visit. I want to believe Jessamyne did what she said, but I won’t until I see the Pearmains in person.”
“Do you want anyone to go with you?”
I shook my head. “If I can’t reach Tanner and have him meet me there, I’ll go in alone. I might have to finagle my way past the police. But Officer Jack’s an old friend.”
“Do you know where Tanner is?”
Busted. I shook my head again and rearranged the tea cups and saucers in front of me. “I do not.” Picturing Tanner in pursuit of Jessamyne did not give me the warm and fuzzies. “Anyone have anything else to say? Harper, Leilani, James: comments, thoughts?”
“We’re good, Mom,” said Harper. “Is it okay if James and Lei-li come over for brunch?”
* * *
After a raucous family meal, I left the cleaning up to the teenagers with the excuse I needed to call the hospital. The number was in my phone—had been since my ex and I had moved to the island with two rambunctious little boys in tow. “Hi, this is Calliope Jones. Friends of mine were brought in last night, and I was wondering if they were up for seeing visitors today?”
“What are their names?”
“Abigail and Clifford Pearmain.”
“Let me ask at the nurses’ station.” Voices in conversation and attendant hospital beeps and rattles filtered into my ear then an “Oh,” and everything was muffled until a different person spoke. “Who did you say is calling?”
“Calliope Jones.”
“May I ask what your relationship is to the Pearmains?”
“Family friend,” I answered.
“They were signed out about an hour ago by their granddaughter, Jessie Pearmain.”
Sucker punch to the gut.
“Can you tell me when they’ll be back?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.
“They’re on their way to a private clinic. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, Ms. Jones. If you need more information, you’ll have to speak with Officer Kaukonen at the RCMP station.”
I thanked the voice for their help, thumbed the off button, and placed my phone face down on my desk. Jessamyne had the Pearmains. Again. I flipped my phone over and pulled up another number.
“Officer Jack Kaukonen.”
“Jack, it’s Calliope.”
“Calli,” Jack said, “what’s up?”
Crap. Should I dance around or go right to the point? “The other night, when you stopped at the house, you said you smelled something coming.”
“Yes,” he answered, drawing out his response. “I did.”
“You met that something early Friday morning, after your stop at my house. You helped that something bring an elderly couple to the hospital. That same something got those people checked out of the hospital this morning.”
“What?” The scree of metal chair pieces rubbing together scratched at my eardrum.
“Abigail and Clifford Pearmain are part of an extremely sensitive and ongoing investigation into a series of deaths on this island and at other orchards in the Pacific northwest,” I explained. “All of the dead are Magicals. Hidden folk.”
“Calliope, stop right there. I’m coming to your house, and we’re going to talk.”
“Better I come there, Jack. Or you’re going to start asking a helluva lot more questions and Cliff and Abi don’t have time for me to give you all the answers.”
I brushed my teeth, gathered my keys, phone, and cross-body bag, and let Wes and Christoph know where I was going. Raised eyebrows and nods were all the response they gave.
At the station, the five seats in the corner of the waiting room were occupied. The two clerks behind the chest-high brick-and-glass divider juggled paperwork, ringing phones, and an impatient family trying to see their uncle, who was drying out in a holding cell.
Jack was waiting. He waved me in, covered the sign-in sheet with his broad hand, and steered away one of the clerks with a, “Personal business, Helen. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.”
His tiny office continued the theme begun in the hallway: gray concrete block walls, a gray metal desk, and mismatched chairs. He positioned the chair in front of the desk to face mine and sat. I grimaced at metal on metal.
“Talk to me, Calliope,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees. His hand circled the smartwatch on the opposite wrist, worrying it in one direction then the opposite. “And please don’t lie. I really, really hate it when friends try to pull one over on me.”
I started at the beginning, laying out the story from my first visit to the Pearmain orchard, and why I was there in the first place, all the way to my Blood Ceremony and the celebratory party and its aftermath. I was adrenalized from being inside the station, in front of Jack, and the words spilled out. Judicious editing occurred simultaneous to the telling. He didn’t need to know about Tanner and me and our awkward mating dance. I kept the details focused on the orchards, the hidden folk, and Abi and Cliff.
I also left out the whole thing about speaking with the dead while in magic-cloaked burial mounds. There was only so much I had time to share. When I finished, I gripped the arms of the chair and took a deep breath. And another, in through the nose and out through the mouth.
A distinct, commercially-produced smell greeted my nostrils. I recognized the fake pine woods of a deodorant Harper had once tried and Leilani had nixed within the first fifteen minutes of application. Either the station’s cleaning crew used a pine-scented soap, or Jack used the same deodorant.
“Calliope?” He leaned forward and tapped one of my hands.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just noticed a smell, and it distracted me.” I had the wherewithal to blush at being caught sniffing the air around an officer of the RCMP.
“I’m on hour twenty of a twenty-four rotation, Calli. Do I need to shower again?” he teased.
I shook my head. “No, not at all. The scent just got me wondering about shifters and their heightened sense of smell.”
“And you wonder if we have a heightened body odor to go along with that?”
“I’m sorry this conversation is veering off course…” I started.
“We can,” he said, “when our hind brain kicks in because we’re being threatened. Or aroused. Or when it’s been a long summer day and we’ve been chasing criminal elements all over the island.” He leaned away from me. “Shall we get back to the purpose of your visit, or is there more you’d like to know about shifter physiology?”
Now I was sweating and, I was sure, putting out the scent of someone trapped in a cage of their own making. Jack shut down his grin the moment it tried to change his neutral expression.
However, one more question wouldn’t stay unasked. “Do you recall smelling apple pie last night?”
Jack gave me a look that said I was clearly crazy. Then his facial features softened. “She used a lure on me.”
&nb
sp; “What are you talking about?” Even as I asked the question, I already knew the answer.
“Some Magicals purposefully emit a scent that’s meant to mask their actions or intentions or seduce whoever they’re going after.”
“Is there a way to avoid the effects of the lure?” I’d never met anyone who could resist the smell of fresh apple anything.
“Plug your nose?” he said. “Chew something that counteracts the lure, like garlic or mint leaves.”
And that explained why Tanner’s natural scent always carried whiffs of mint. “Thanks, Jack.”
He glanced at the notepad he’d scribbled on. “Getting back on track, you said this Jessamyne person is not related to the Pearmains.”
“Correct.”
“Do you know where she might have taken them when they left the hospital?”
“The nurse I spoke with said Cliff and Abi were on their way to a private clinic. The only one I know of that caters to Magicals is the—”
“Grand St. Kitts,” Jack said, finishing my sentence at the same time he sat up straight, tossed his pen to the side, and opened his laptop. He found the clinic’s website and punched the number into his phone. After identifying himself, he asked if they had any information on an incoming elderly couple. Any reservations would have been made by their granddaughter, Jessie Pearmain, he added.
“We did,” the man on the other end said. Jack had him on speakerphone. “But their stay with us was cancelled less than an hour ago.”
Asked if he had any more information, the man at the clinic answered in the negative, and Jack thanked him for his time. He drummed his fingers on the desk.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea where they might be off to next?” he asked, staring at his laptop.
“I might,” I admitted.
Jack gave me a wolfish look that was very different from the face he wore in his official capacity as an officer of the law. He didn’t have to tap his nose for me to know he was on high alert for any dissembling I might be tempted to try.
“But I can’t tell you.”
