by Les Goodrich
She dodged a car and moved to the east side of A1A and gladly negotiated the traffic on the busy road and did so all the way to her neighborhood north of town and she did not see the girls again from there but she was no less shaken. She went straight to her room and called Brit. Brit’s phone rang just as she got in her own door and Casey was a bit hysterical.
“Are you okay though?” Brit asked her.
“I guess. I’m really having second thoughts about all this. I’m not into getting freaked out everyday.”
“Those girls are just Darkspell.”
“Darkspell!” Casey shouted.
“Casey are you all right?” her mother called from downstairs.
“Fine Mom,” She yelled back. “Darkspell from The Poison Apple, right?” she asked back on the phone.
“Their names are Dracaena and Ella. They’re, well, I wouldn’t say they’re harmless. But they’re not as hateful as they seem. They’re just creepy. I think I can talk to them. Maybe. I know it’s easy for me to say, but don’t be scared of them. Being freaked out by them is like a right of passage for new witches around here.”
“Brit, can you at least show me some spells with the wand. I can’t wait for Jordan to come back.”
“I will, I will,” Brit said and they talked for a while and when Casey calmed down Brit said bye and hung up. “Mother Goddess Diana,” Brit exhaled. “What next?”
Later Brit looked up a tide chart on her computer and made a mental note to meet Shay that night when the high tide peaked at nine p.m. She texted Carol to be sure it was okay if she stopped by to get Thistle, and it was.
At eight that night Brit rode her bike through the chilly streets to Carol’s with her backpack, notebook, and the plum wand. She knocked on the front door of the tall narrow house.
“Come in,” Carol said at the opened door.
“Thank you.”
A fire danced in the fireplace and the smooth, perfectly distant sound of reggae drifted down the stairs.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Carol offered with a gesture to her own steaming cup on the coffee table.
“That sounds nice, but I’m on a bit of a schedule. I’m to meet Shay at the long dock. How do I find Thistle at this hour?”
“At this time Thistle will be in the garden house. I told her you were coming tonight. Come this way.” Carol took up her tea cup and led Brit through the living room, then the kitchen, and she walked with her as far as the back patio. From the deck they could see, through the branches, a warm yellow light cast from the top window of the garden house at the far back. “Yes, see. She’s in the loft. Just follow the path and go right in.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you in the shop,” Brit said and she set off through the darkened, narrow, walled garden. She admired the quaint garden house as she grew closer. She opened the door and went in.
“Hello?”
Thistle flew to the loft rail. “Brit! I’ll be right down. Turn the light on there.”
Brit pulled the chain on the floor lamp and lit the downstairs just as Thistle turned off the loft lamp.
“Aren’t you cold in here?” Brit asked as Thistle flew down in her royal blue tights, grey shirt, and grey jacket. She had her tiny bag and from it the handle of her twig wand stuck.
“Yes cold, but I was only in here a short time. I often make a fire in the stove before I go to sleep at night, if I sleep in here. I sleep outside in the tree too.”
“How do you get in and out of here? Can you open the door?”
“Sam made the cat door for me. And the cat too I guess. That cat was called Hunter but she’s gone now.”
Brit knew Sam had been Carol’s grandfather and that he had built the garden house. He had been a professor at the college and an adventurer. Thistle always spoke of him with great fondness and even reverence.
“You can ride in this top pocket of the backpack. Just stand in it and hold the top handle. You think?” Brit suggested.
“That works. Are we riding the bike?”
“Yeah the bike. It’s in the front.”
“Cool. Get the light.”
Brit turned the light off and they headed through the garden to her bike where it waited against the front porch rail. They rode through the cool night then down the riverfront lane to the long dock. It was just two minutes before nine p.m. when Brit coasted to a stop at the dock steps.
She walked with Thistle at her shoulder down the dock and out over the black water the air was even colder and a slow wind kept it so.
“So how do we call the mermaid?” Thistle asked.
“I don’t think we call her. She’s supposed to just meet us here. Her name is Shay.”
Thistle bounced along at the backpack top and when they were halfway along the low dock she climbed from the pocket and flew. They saw fireflies ignite along the shore of a small island in the sound and their fluorescent green strobes faded in and out like floating confetti and the image was more mystical than the highest witchcraft spell.
“There are faeries that can light up like that,” Thistle said. “Did you know?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They have it in their blood somehow and their skin is as pale as the Moon. When they get excited they glow. It’s usually girls that can glow and all the guys love it.”
“I bet.”
“Yeah, I think they’re a species all their own. When they talk, they sing.”
“Sing?”
“Like they sing every word. Hellooooooo. How are youuuuuu. Some regular faerie girls sing like that to make guys think they can glow.”
“That’s amazing,” Brit said and they came to the end of the dock. Brit stood and Thistle hovered and they looked across the slick water under the moonlight and in the distance the surface stirred.
“There,” Thistle pointed and she landed on one of the dock pilings and sat to watch. The water pushed and trickled and Shays head and shoulders emerged and she came forth at a strong speed. She pulled up before the dock and the water swirled under her and lapped around the pilings and she spun from the momentum then stopped and backed away some. She dipped her head back and slicked her hair with her hands and wiped her eyes.
“Are you Brit?” Shay asked.
“Yes.”
“And you’re friends with Jordan?”
“I am.”
“And Tanner?”
“Yeah. And this is Thistle,” Brit said and Thistle bowed. She was speechless upon seeing Shay’s long bottle green hair and her strong torso.
“Oh my gosh!” Shay burst and she lunged back then eased forward again. “A real faerie!”
“Yes a real faerie,” Brit said.
Shay swam up to the dock edge. “You’re exactly like a little person. I’ve never seen a faerie before.”
“And I’ve never seen a mermaid either,” Thistle said. “Your hair is so pretty.”
“I like her,” Shay said to Brit. She moved to the left end of the dock and spun underwater. She rolled and came with a splash out and up to land sitting on the dock edge. She kicked a few strings of sea grass from her tail, dipped it, then curled it up on the dock around her.
“Oberon’s boots! Look at that tail!” Thistle said and she flew down to land closer to Shay. Brit sat with her legs crossed and spun her backpack around. She pulled out her notebook.
“Tell me what you know about the witch spell so far,” Shay said.
Brit spoke. “We’ve gone over the mermaid spell, I mean the witch spell, and we’ve hit a little snag. Thistle discovered an ingredient that was listed as powder in the spellbook, but she has since learned that the witch Araja made numerous mentions of pink pearl dust in other books. We believe the powder in the spell is this. But we don’t know if it is the ground dust from actual pink pearls, or the dust of conch pearls, which as you know, are also pink. Or can be pink.”
“What does the witch say about them? Tell me,” Shay said thoughtfully.
Brit paged through her notebook and Thi
stle spoke up. “She says they were gathered at great expense. She says they were precious beyond other pearls because of their pink color. But she never records the sources or origins.”
Brit stopped at one page then flipped back. “Here,” she said. “The first time I held one I was dazzled by the delicate pink shade and the perfectly round smoothness of the stone. It took all of my will power to grind such a fine jewel.”
“Conch pearls are never perfectly round. At best they are egg-shaped. Even polished ones are oblong. Never round.”
“Then they are pink oyster pearls! They must be,” Thistle hopped on the dock. She danced around. She flew up and kissed Shay on the cheek.
“It is good to know, but we aren’t going to run right out and buy a bunch of pink pearls to grind up. They’d cost a fortune.”
“We’ll figure it out somehow,” Thistle said.
“We will,” Brit agreed. “Thank you so much Shay. We have another question. One ingredient is mermaid scales. Is there a way to get them without hurting anyone?”
“Oh sure,” Shay assured her. “They come off and grow back all the time. Feels kind of good to scratch old ones away sometimes.”
Thistle and Brit stayed on the dock and talked to Shay long into the night. They talked of pirates and mermaids and faeries and witches and magick and curses and of all things wonderful, dreamy, and cool.
Chapter 18
Secret Places
Figment laughed from his chair as he wheeled from desk to desk in his lair. He knew his zombies would give the witches trouble. His Shadowclan altar fumed and the ever dark room hummed with cursed and malicious energy. The condensed power of the Dark Moon Induction had worked beautifully and its weight hung in the air like a disease. All of the money from the robberies had been collected, laundered, and transferred to his accounts.
His brilliant but unhinged mind reeled and he stood to add notes to the spider web of calculations, news clippings, photos, and various equations and sigils where they formed a patchwork of madness that filled an entire wall.
A university graduation photo of his nemesis resided in the center of the collage and all red and hastily cut lines and marks and spells led to it. The five-by-seven of a grinning young man in a suit and tie peered out from behind a malicious X scratched over him in the dried black blood of some forgotten animal.
Figment hated his former roommate and he blamed him for every misfortune and ill deed. He loathed his success. He even blamed the roommate for his own hatred of him and he turned all thoughts and dreams to his destruction as he had for some time. His name was Joel Ellis, and he had risen to fame as CEO of the world’s foremost software security company, Cyberloch, where Figment had longed to work since he was a boy.
Joel Ellis had stolen Figment’s stellar idea to combine quantum particle behavior parameters with the additive mechanics of fractal equations to create a system of computer encryption that evolved in ways that were beyond all hacking. He had also framed Figment for cheating and gotten him expelled to cover his tracks.
Before I accepted my birthright and embraced voodoo, Figment thought as he glared at the photo. Before I learned Shadowclan witchcraft. Before I became the most powerful dark witch in the world. Before I took my revenge.
Figment left the board behind and reinstalled himself at the desk. He programmed into the evening. All day his helpers had brought news of witches looking for him, and they were rumored to be in league with an IWM agent.
“Bring ‘em on,” Figment said and he glanced at the gaming monitors. He knew the ghosts would at least stop the pests for a while. He knew his ally, the dark witch Karla, would send them into his trap. She had better. She owed him one. And he knew, that if he could hex them, they would bother him no more. In fact, he thought the girl could be of some use in the future. He programmed the stun-hex and copied it two times then arranged the uploads.
He returned to his work but kept an eye on the decoy house connections. “For the time being,” he said to himself. He had everything he needed and he wasn’t about to let a few nosy witches get in his way. He was grateful for Gwen but her big plans would have to wait.
He moved money around and used much of it to finance the increased power and storage his elaborate scheme required. He was going to crash Cyberloch and distribute every single one of their most sensitive files across the globe. Their clients were military contractors. They were national security cells. They were the largest banks in the world.
He was setting it up with precision so that Joel Ellis would take the blame. Not only would Ellis take the blame, he would confess. He would gloat. He would laugh at the press conference and he would scoff at the money lost and maybe at the lives lost and he would say they all deserved it because, and Figment paused to think. He typed.
They deserve it because they are worthless, he typed into the metadata field and he pictured Joel speaking those exact words for the cameras. He typed again. They deserve it because the aliens are coming, and they aren’t good enough to ride with us to Venus.
“Perfect,” Figment said and laughed maniacally. He pictured Joel Ellis stammering those words out to an astounded and heartless press that would shred him for weeks, months, years. He typed one last sentence. They deserve it because they have cooties.
***
By the fire in the Lemort house Tanner and Jordan sat with Rick Warren. They drank various beverages offered by Josephine. Tanner drank a local craft ale, Jordan had a red apple martini, and Rick sipped straight Kentucky bourbon. All of the Lemort’s sipped hot tea, including Fallon who sat on the floor by the fireplace.
“We covered the north-west end and you see how that turned out,” Rick said.
“We fared no better,” Josephine said. We fought ghosts twice and Charles and Grayson beat back at least six zombies.
“How’d you beat them?” Tanner asked.
“Kung fu,” Grayson said and Charles held his hands up in martial arts blades.
“I’d like to see that,” Tanner said.
“We’ll show you some moves later on if you want.”
“We fought zombies too. And ghosts. And we were tricked by an old witch,” Rick said and Fallon’s eyes were wide and she wrote notes in a notebook.
“If he’s recruiting ghosts and undead, then he must be near a graveyard,” Jordan said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Josephine said. “But there are more than a few around here. Some quite old. We too have been deceived. But we can’t just knock on doors near every cemetery.”
“I have an idea,” Jordan said and she stood up and pulled out her phone.
“What?” asked Tanner.
“Brit,” Jordan said and she walked out on the porch to make the call.
The others looked over the map on the coffee table and Fallon walked on her knees to look as well. They looked at the Saint Louis Cemeteries, one large and one smaller.
“Is this an industrial area here?” Tanner asked pointing between the two graveyards.
“Somewhat,” Josephine said. “But if he were in that area I’d know it. We have allies in those buildings and right here is Congo Square.
“Congo Square?” Rick asked and looked.
“Congo Square is a sacred voodoo plaza. I feel like the area is too busy for Figment to set up shop there. Too much light.”
Outside Jordan was on the phone with Brit. “So that was our day. The run around and a few nasty fights. This place is so sketchy. You never know what’s around the next corner.”
“How can I help?” Brit asked.
“Can you quest through the city and help us find this guy for once and all?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like that.”
“But you can. Will you just try?”
“Why don’t you ask Carol?”
“Carol already did and all she came up with was a bust.”
“She saw he wasn’t sending long range thought forms.”
“Yeah but that doesn�
��t matter to us here. We need to know where he is. Tomorrow we’re going to the bank where the last robbery was.”
“Where the kid got shot?”
“Yeah. I wanted to go sooner but I’m dealing with Rick, this IWM agent. I mean he’s cool, but he’s hardheaded.”
“What about Tanner?”
“Tanner does whatever Rick wants to do.”
“I mean how is he?”
“He’s great. So will you quest over the town and see if you can see the guy’s aura or whatever it is you see?”
“I’ll try.”
“Can you do it tonight?”
“Yes! Jeez.”
“Love you.”
“Love you. Be careful.”
“Always am.”
Inside Tanner and Rick studied the map, Charles and Grayson sat back, Fallon scooted back near the fire, and Jordan returned.
“Brit will do it. She’ll do it tonight.”
“Do what, exactly?” Josephine asked.
“Brit’s a quester. She’s gonna do a projection and see if she can locate this guy’s place. We know we’re close.”
“That’s a risky endeavor,” Josephine remarked.
“But it’s better than doing it from here, right? If he sees her it will only confuse him.”
“You may be right,” Josephine said. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Besides,” Jordan said. “She doesn’t have to play chess with him. All she has to do is get a glimpse of the house or whatever it is.”
“Fair enough,” Rick said. “It’s worth a try.”
“And the bank is worth a visit. We go there first thing tomorrow.”
“I said we would,” Rick said. “Thank you for the drink and I’ll see you all at first light.”
Everyone stood and Rick left.
