“Trouble brewing?” Virginia asks, just as Becky Silverman skids out.
“Bitch,” spits Becky from the top of the stairs. Her features twist, blond curls do too, like snakes. Whatever has drawn this spite out of her, it’s Medusa-like in nature. She begins to curse up a blue storm that might even put a blush in Eugenie’s cheeks.
“Now, now, girl. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Virginia’s right hand barely moves, but the fingers curl upward elegantly, and abruptly the stream of profanities coming from Becky’s mouth ceases. Not by her will, though, for she keeps trying, and her eyes grow wider with every passing second that she fails to produce a sound. Virginia smiles, and the malign expression looks a little ill-fit on that gentle face.
She reaches a hand down to Chelsea, who takes it with only a small hesitation.
“How long…?” asks the girl as she hurries down the path beside the old woman, whose pace is more leisurely.
“Long enough to teach her a lesson.” Virginia smiles again, and it’s less frightening. “Come along, we need to get you some new clothes.”
“My mother…”
“Oh, darling. We both know your mother won’t be looking for you.” Then to soften the blow, she adds, “Don’t worry, Martha is making arrangements.”
* * *
Eugenie spends her morning sitting in a café across from Hannigan’s Garage, making bad coffee and a stale pastry last. The roller doors are up, so she can see Harper Hannigan and his employees moving back and forth as they work. Eugenie makes a mental note to talk to Harper about his choice in workers; Sookie Delorme is fine, been with him for thirteen years, but Teddy Landreneau was clearly a mistake.
He’s muscular, for sure, and Eugenie lets her mind wander a little, but when lunchtime comes and Teddy heads off toward the low-rent diner a ways down the street he goes to every day, she’s all business. She leaves money on the table, a generous tip, and a lot of crumbs, then follows Teddy with a stride not her own: it’s a hobble, really, an old lady’s gait. It distracts people; no one notices harmless little old ladies with limps.
But before he reaches the diner, Teddy takes a detour, nips between the iron gates in the fence around the rambling park. Eugenie puts on a burst of speed now, no sign of the slowness of age or infirmity; she buries her hands in her coat pockets, the right one fidgeting with the item she finds there. The trees are thick around the entrance so she hurries to get the mechanic in sight again, sees his broad back at last, disappearing around another bend.
If she’d given it any thought, which she doesn’t because she’s concentrating on pursuit, she might realize he’s gotten farther away than he should, even on his long legs; that he’s run while out of sight. That he’s drawing her deeper into the park, farther from the main thoroughfare, farther from the ears and eyes of witnesses, farther from potential aid.
Eugenie’s sturdy boots make no sound on the path and that’s probably what saves her: Teddy’s not quite ready when she rounds the corner, so he’s slow in swinging the thick branch, which in turn gives her a little time in which to jump backwards.
He catches her a glancing blow, however, and she’s knocked off balance. She totters, is amazed that he caught her where her late unlamented husband Sidney always used to. The pain in her left breast is astonishing, and she remains incredulous that she never developed cancer there, after all the abuse; but it’s over her heart, and she knows that’s where all the true damage was done.
Still and all, she’s grateful: if Teddy’d been prepared he’d probably have taken her head off, or at least given it a damned good rattling. And to her advantage, his miss-swing upset his equilibrium, and so gains her a few seconds. She pulls her hands out of her pockets (Honestly, Eugenie! Hands in pockets, how can you defend yourself that way?), the right one tugs the wooden thing up… and the thing makes a hollow pok pok pok as it hits the ground.
Eugenie scrambles after it, but finds herself hauled back and held aloft. She’s surprised, though she knows she shouldn’t be, at his automatic unprovoked violence against an old woman. What could possibly cause this? Being followed by an ostensibly harmless relict?
Now she’s being dangled. Her toes barely touch the dirt, the tips of her boots making a soft scrape. She feels like a cat held by its scruff.
“Bitch!” Teddy sneers, and breath reeking of cigarettes and old meat hits Eugenie in the face. “What the fuck do you want?”
She manages in her best cowardly quaver, “Why are you hurting me? I was just taking a walk!”
“Bullshit! You’ve been watching me all morning.”
“I was feeding the pigeons!” She injects, she hopes, just the right note of innocent despair. It’s the truth, too, she always carries seed in her coat pockets in case she needs a cover; prefers to feed the ravens, but pigeons are more numerous, less noteworthy, more mundane.
He glares at her with eyes so dark that pupil and iris are indistinguishable; whatever he sees in her face seems to convince him. Teddy throws her away.
She lands awkwardly, and feels the little finger of her right hand twist entirely the wrong way. Eugenie lets the cry out even though her natural instinct is to bite down on it. But it will make her seem innocuous. She scoops up what looks like a twig covered in thorns, and feels it puncturing her fingers; it doesn’t matter, she’s immune after all this time.
Eugenie stands, shuffles over to Teddy Landreneau, who’s now regarding her with utter disinterest. She moves past him as if to continue on her way. He doesn’t even turn his head to watch her passage, so dismissive is he, and that’s when she takes the opportunity to slash the twig down the back of his left hand. It’s fast-acting, the poison, digitalis-based, some paralytic in there too so he doesn’t even have the moment required to make a fist. Then he’s tilting and tipping as surely as a felled tree, landing with much the same shuddering effect on the earth. It’ll look like a heart attack; the scratches look quite natural, something he’d incur in the fall.
The Widows are clever and careful.
Eugenie stands tall, looks at her handiwork; the only effect the poison has on her is a slight numbing in her hand, which she welcomes as it means she can’t quite feel the pain in her fractured little finger. It’ll do until she gets home and Martha can attend to the injury properly.
* * *
Virginia has walked Chelsea home, neither saying much, and now they’re at the mouth of the dank little street where the girl shares a dank little house with her mother. Virginia stops very firmly beneath the sign that reads “Erebus Drive”; she won’t go further. She turns Chelsea to face her so she cannot see the police cruiser parked in the driveway of number 42, then hands over three shopping bags.
“Make sure your mother knows these were a gift.”
Chelsea nods. “Thank you, Miss Virginia. I don’t—”
Virginia holds up her hand. “Chelsea, your mother’s going to be a bit upset. I’m given to understand that something’s happened to Teddy.” Virginia pretends not to see the look of hope on the girl’s face. She pulls a bright blue bottle from her pocket; it’s stoppered with a small cork and sealed by red wax. It has no label.
“How do you—”
“Hush. You’ll learn that good and bad news travel at the same speed, but via different messengers.” Virginia drops the bottle into one of the shopping bags. “This will help her sleep tonight, and tomorrow she’ll be a new woman. Five drops, that’s all, then bring the bottle back to us when you’re done.”
Virginia touches the girl’s cheek. “Remember that you are welcome with us anytime. Should you need a refuge, our home is yours. The same goes for your mother. She is also welcome.”
“Thank you, Miss Virginia.” Chelsea smiles, then her face clouds over. “What about—”
“Oh, Becky will be back to normal tomorrow morning and more’s the pity. But you’ll find her less willing to trouble you, I’ll be bound. And, Chelsea?”
The girl says nothin
g, just waits with bated breath.
“We will teach you how to deal with ones such as her, how to walk in the shadows for your own safety. You need only attract attention when you wish.”
And Chelsea thinks this is the most wonderful news she’s ever heard, even better than Teddy’s accident. She gives Virginia a swift, hard hug that drives the air out of the older woman’s lungs, who laughs and hugs back.
Chelsea turns down the street toward her home, which looks bleaker than it ever has; she stumbles a little, seeing the sheriff’s car parked outside, then recovers, mindful of Virginia’s comment about Teddy. She throws a glance over her shoulder, gives the Widow a wave, and moves on to disappear up the broken path to number 42 Erebus Drive.
* * *
Ellie Bloom’s been crying for about two hours now. It didn’t take long for Teddy Landreneau’s body to be discovered by joggers, and it took even less time for Sheriff Taylor to call by and let Ellie know that he was gone from her life. The bruises on Ellie’s cheeks and wrists made Sheriff Janey Taylor wonder if it was any loss at all, but that didn’t seem to slow the tears. After a while, she then began to wonder where Chelsea was, because surely it was time for the girl to be home from school? Not that she wanted to leave Chelsea alone to deal with her mother, but she couldn’t quite figure out what she could do to fix the situation. Janey had had men like Teddy Landreneau in her life when she was young, her own mother had collected them like bad pennies, but when she lost her calm and said “C’mon, Ellie. You know you’re better off without him, don’t you?” Ellie just howled louder.
Sheriff Taylor is therefore quite relieved to hear the jingle of keys in the front door, and the sound of light footsteps along the short hallway. Janey hurries to meet her before she steps into the sitting room.
“Chelsea!”
“Hello, Sheriff.”
“Chelsea, some bad news, I guess. Teddy…”
But Chelsea just nods, and Janey realizes the girl already knows. The Sheriff doesn’t think to ask how: Mercy’s Brook is small enough that news flies like a winged thing.
“You give me a call if you need anything. I’ll drop by tomorrow to check on you, promise.”
“Okay, thanks.” And Chelsea sees Janey out, takes a deep breath, then goes into the sitting room where her mother weeps on the loveseat.
“Teddy’s gone!” Ellie manages through snot and tears.
“I know, Momma. I heard.”
“And you don’t even sound a bit sorry!” Ellie’s tone is sharp as a knife, but Chelsea doesn’t deny the accusation.
“Momma, he wasn’t good for you.”
“He looked after me! Loved me! Treated you like a daughter!”
And that last comment takes Chelsea’s breath away. If Teddy’s behaviour was paternal, then no wonder the world is so fucked up. Before she can form a response, Ellie starts in again.
“And now you want to leave me! My own daughter! Ungrateful!”
“No, Momma, no! Why would you think that?” But Chelsea’s voice trembles, knowing it’s true.
“That woman came here! That old bitch! Said they want to teach you. They’ll take you, take you away like they did those other girls! Taken from their own good mothers…”
Chelsea thinks about the girls fostered by the Widows, how they finished high school, then went on to college. Sometimes they come back to visit. When they do, Mercy’s Brook stops to watch, all the gossips churning internally, whispering and sniping. Some stayed here, made lives, but all their mothers went off on travels when their daughters moved into Widows’ Walk and have never returned from their holidays and have not been seen since as she can recall.
* * *
Ellie might not have felt quite so attached to her offspring had she not lost Teddy so recently; nor if Martha’s visit this morning wasn’t so fresh in her mind. All Ellie can think of is the older woman’s voice, quite reasonable at first as she proposed Chelsea, Ellie’s one and only baby, spend some time being tutored by the Widows. Then, the old bat had finally lost her temper and said, “You know, Ellie Bloom, you’re meant to care more about what comes out of your cunt than what goes into it. I’m not quite sure if you’ll ever learn that lesson, but I do hope you get the chance at some point.”
Ellie couldn’t know that half of Martha’s high color was from praying Eugenie would never learn of her lapse in manners.
* * *
“I’ll get you a drink, Momma, to calm your nerves, then we can talk about all this.”
In the tiny yellow kitchen Ellie finds a clean red-wine glass and fills it to the brim with white wine from a box in the refrigerator. She’s put the three shopping bags on the kitchen table, grateful that Ellie had been too distracted by her grief to ask where they’d come from. She digs the blue vial out of one of the bags, tips five drops in, resisting the urge to tip in more (an act of restraint of which the Widows would approve), then stirs it in with her finger. She needn’t have bothered, the fluid is clear as water.
She hands it to her mother, curled on the loveseat by the window, the crocheted blanket wound around her lap. Chelsea goes to sit on a chair opposite. She doesn’t say anything, but watches as Ellie guzzles the liquid down with barely a pause.
“Now, Momma…”
“Oh, my, that is strong.”
And as Chelsea watches, something strange happens: Ellie’s outline begins to change, to soften, her weeping changes to something new, something sharper and higher, a feline plaint.
The wine glass falls to the carpet with a soft thud. Where Ellie Bloom once sat there’s a pretty tortoiseshell cat, with long whiskers and a floofy tail, green eyes, and an expression of surprised displeasure. Chelsea finds a cat carrier in the garage, dusty, with a sprinkling of mice droppings across the top, from back when they’d had a pet. Chelsea packs her few treasures into the shopping bags. There isn’t much she wants to keep.
She locks the door behind her and leaves the house on Erebus Drive, makes the shortish walk to Carter Lane. Ellie meows loudly the whole way there; she’s heavy too, not just sitting in one spot but prowling the bottom of the cage as much as she can. Chelsea pauses at the fence, staring up at the big house. The closed gate clicks open without her having to touch it, and there’s only the smallest hesitation before she steps through.
Tomorrow, Sheriff Taylor will drop over for morning tea and the Widows will let her know that Ellie Bloom’s gone for a little holiday, that Chelsea will be staying with them for a while. Sheriff Taylor will look at the pretty new tortoiseshell cat sitting on the window ledge beside the black cat and give both a nod. Janey Taylor knows every inch of this house, having been fostered here herself. She will recall the Widows telling her that the transformation only lasts as long as the mothers remain selfish; the black cat’s never changed back into her own mother. She will wonder if Ellie Bloom will one day walk on two legs again. She will smile and pat Chelsea Margaret Bloom on the shoulder before she advises the girl to be careful with her shoes—the cats often register their disapproval in unpleasant ways, at least until they get used to their new living arrangements.
BLACK MAGIC MOMMA: AN OTHERWORLD STORY
Kelley Armstrong
St. Louis, 1995
As I throw open the refrigerator, I hit the button on my answering machine.
A tentative male voice says, “Eve? Eve Levine?” as if I normally answer the phone by brusquely telling the caller to leave a message.
The voice continues, “I was told this was your number.”
A pause. Then a throat-clearing. “My name is Harold Palmer. You don’t know me.”
I catch the supercilious twist in those last words. Of course, you won’t know me. We don’t travel in the same circles, my dear girl. Not at all.
“I was also told you are currently in possession of the Airelle grimoire. That is, the lost pages of that spellbook. That sorcerer’s spellbook.”
He stresses the word sorcerer, unable to keep the indignation out of his voice. The
thought of a mere witch possessing the lost pages of an infamous sorcerer’s spellbook…? Truly an affront to all that is good and proper.
I snort and crack open a Coke. As I slug it back, Palmer continues, “I don’t believe you are aware of what you possess, Miss Levine.”
Yep, totally am. But go ahead and explain it to me anyway.
He complies, of course. “That is a rare and valuable book, and yes, I’m sure you understand that part. I have heard of your… activities on the black market. But you cannot fully comprehend what you have in those pages.”
Dark magic lost for generations. Magic requiring human sacrifice with the promise of healing any illness or infirmity? Nope, I have no idea what that is.
“It is dark magic. The darkest magic. In the wrong hands…” He inhales dramatically, voice hissing on the recording.
In the wrong hands, people will die, my dear child. Die. Do you understand that? These are not spells for turning pigeons into puppies.
Palmer continues, “I understand that you are an independent young woman, raising your child without the support of a Coven or a husband.”
I choke on my Coke at that.
“So I am prepared to offer you five hundred dollars to take those pages and dispose of them properly. It is vital that they be destroyed.”
And you’ll do it for me. Paying me one-tenth what my client is offering.
“How can I resist?” I say aloud and then hit the End button as Palmer rattles off his contact information. On to the next message where yet another sorcerer offers to take the pages off my hands. At least this one doesn’t pretend he’s going to “destroy” them for the good of the universe. He even offers me a substantial improvement on what my client is paying.
I jot down his information as a potential future customer. I won’t be taking him up on this offer, though. I may be a dark witch, but I’m not stupid. With the kinds of items and services I deal in, screwing over a client is a sure way to guarantee that the next time they need a sacrificial victim, I’ll be first on their list.
Hex Life Page 3
