Bad to the Crone

by Amanda M. Lee

  “No.” She shook her head, her eyes wide as she opened the book to a random page. “Wow! This is Sanskrit.”

  I was officially befuddled. “How can you possibly know that?”

  “I know things.” She puffed out her chest and sat on the bed. “Seriously, where did you get this? It’s ancient … and like really impressive.”

  I wasn’t keen on telling her I’d broken into a dead man’s house and stole his fancy grimoire. That was not the sort of thing you wanted to own up to, especially to a young and impressionable girl.

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said finally, making up my mind. “What I can tell you is that I’m trying to learn from it. I don’t suppose you can read Sanskrit, can you?”

  She shot me a “Well, duh” look. “I know what it is, but I can’t read it. I can barely keep up with my regular schoolwork. How do you expect me to know Sanskrit?”

  That was a good question. “I don’t know. I guess I was simply hoping you could. That would certainly make my life easier.”

  “We can try running it through a program on the internet,” she suggested.

  “There are programs on the internet to decrypt ancient Sanskrit?”

  “There are programs on the internet to decrypt anything,” she replied, matter-of-fact. “It won’t be exact. All those translation programs come across nutty sometimes, but it might give us a general idea.”

  I’d heard worse offers. “I have a computer.”

  She smiled. “Boot it up. Oh, and grab those cookies you mentioned … and the soda. If you have something salty, bring that, too.”

  I sighed but kept my smile in place. She was a teenager. She couldn’t change the fact that she was annoying. Eventually she would get over it. Er, well, hopefully.

  “I THINK IT’S TALKING ABOUT dealing with hellmouths,” Raisin announced an hour later, her gaze intent as we flipped through the book. She sounded much surer than I felt.

  “Really?” I rolled to my back and stared at the ceiling, my mind busy. “Where do you get that?”

  “Here.” She pointed at a page full of letters that looked almost familiar, but not quite. “This is in Old English.”

  “I prefer new English,” I replied dryly.

  She ignored my attitude. “There are a lot of thous and stuff in here, but it clearly says hellmouth.” She tapped the page for emphasis. “Do you think that means that Hawthorne Hollow is a hellmouth?”

  “No.” I had to nip her inclination to assume things in the bud. Her imagination was already huge. If I let her engage in fanciful ideas, it would come back to haunt both of us. “I think we would know if Hawthorne Hollow was a hellmouth.”

  “How?”

  “Well, for one thing, there would be hellhounds everywhere.” I meant it as a joke, but Raisin bobbed her head as if what I was saying made perfect sense. “For another, Hawthorne Hollow doesn’t have enough people to keep a hellmouth happy.”

  “A hellmouth isn’t a thing with feelings,” Raisin argued. “It’s a place.”

  “Have you ever seen a hellmouth?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re sitting on a hellmouth and don’t even know it. I can’t rule anything out.”

  I was afraid she would say that. “Listen … .”

  “Have you seen a hellmouth?” She was eager when she locked gazes with me. “You’ve been all over, right? You must have seen one.”

  “I’ve only been to Detroit for the most part,” I countered, choosing my words carefully. “I was shuttled around to various parts of the state when I was little, but I don’t really remember it. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a hellmouth.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No, I guess not.” I took the book from her and shoved it to the side. Neither of us was getting anywhere with the text, which was dense. The fact that it kept jumping from one dead language to another was beyond frustrating. “The thing is, hellmouths have to be so fantastical that there’s no way of missing them. I don’t think you could be near one and not realize it.”

  Raisin pursed her lips and glanced toward the closed window. “Maybe I just want to be part of something,” she said finally. “You know, be a part of something that’s big and important.”

  I chuckled. She was serious, but I couldn’t understand where the bout of melancholy came from. “You have plenty of time to do something big and important.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Of course you do,” I insisted. “You’re still young. Do you even know what you want to do with your life?”

  She nodded without hesitation. “I want to change the world.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I want to be important. I want to be like you … and Gunner … and Bonnie. I don’t really want to be like Marissa, because I find her annoying, but I definitely want to be like Rooster. You guys change the world all the time; you just don’t realize it.”

  That was a nice way to look at things, if a bit naïve. It did bring up an interesting topic, though. “How do you know about us? About what we do, I mean.”

  “What do you mean?” Raisin’s expression was blank. “I’ve known for a long time, years … or maybe months. It feels like years.”

  “But how do you know?” I pressed. “We’re not supposed to tell outsiders. I guess it’s possible you saw someone slip up.”

  “I’ve only seen one person actually use magic,” Raisin intoned. “It’s the person who lived here before you.”

  “Rain? I don’t know anything about her. In fact, nothing was said when I was recruited. I just know there was a sudden opening and they needed someone to fill it.”

  “She’s not here anymore.” Raisin averted her gaze and focused on the cat. “What are you going to name him?” It was an obvious distraction, one that I had no intention of letting her get away with.

  “What happened to Rain?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know.” Her eyes were cloudy when she raised them again. “They said she left, but I think something else happened to her. They won’t tell me.”

  “Who won’t tell you?”

  “None of them. Gunner, Rooster, Whistler … none of them.”

  It was possible the mysterious Rain had picked up and left. Something may have come up, forcing her to return to her family or leave for greener pastures. Or perhaps she quit for an entirely different reason. It was also possible she’d died, and I was starting to lean toward that possibility given the secrecy the woman was veiled in.

  “I don’t get why the cabin was in such disarray when I arrived,” I said after a beat. “How long has she been gone?”

  “Months.”

  “Yeah, but … .”

  “She never fixed anything up when she got here,” Raisin volunteered. “She wasn’t a do-it-yourselfer and she complained about being so far away from everything. Plus, well, she didn’t like Tim.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You know about Tim?”

  “I’ve heard the others talk. I’ve never seen him or anything. I’m not magical.”

  And there, I assumed, was the heart of the problem. What Raisin had been struggling to say earlier was that she wanted to be a member of Spells Angels when she grew up and started making her own way. If she wasn’t paranormal, that would severely limit her options. It wouldn’t eradicate them, though.

  “You can still be part of the group and not have powers,” I offered. “It happens all the time.”

  “But you need powers to be on the frontline.”

  “Not always.”

  “Usually.”

  She wasn’t wrong, so I decided to change the subject. “We should start thinking about dinner. Where is there to order from around here that delivers?”

  “Dinner?” Her eyes wild, Raisin lifted the curtains and peered outside. “Holy … why didn’t you tell me it was so late?” She scrambled off the bed, the book and potential takeout forgotten. “The curtains made me think it was earlier than it was. Oh, my father is going to ki
ll me!”

  I didn’t understand her urgency. She seemed panicked, and not in a normal teenager way. “It’s okay.” I watched her fly through the house, confused. “I’ll tell your father you were helping me if you’re really worried about getting in trouble. You don’t have to freak out. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “He won’t understand.” Raisin threw open the door and stomped out. “He won’t … he’ll … I can’t. He’s going to be so mad.”

  She sounded as if she was on the verge of tears, and my heart rate picked up a notch because I recognized that her fear was potent. “Raisin … .”

  “I have to go.” She almost stumbled over her own feet as she went down the stairs. “I’ll see you around … probably.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to go.” She was firm as she broke into a run toward the road. “I’m sorry about this. I just … my father is strict. I have to go home right now. I just have to.”

  “Let me go with you,” I offered one more time. “I’m sure if I tell him that you were helping me that he’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t come with me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you do, he’ll kill you, too.”

  She sounded so certain I came to a full stop and watched her run, her pace impossibly fast. She didn’t look back even once, and the fear I felt emanating from her was strong enough to wrap a fist around my heart and squeeze.

  Eighteen

  I wanted to ask someone about my suspicions regarding Raisin’s father — being strict is one thing, but it sounded as if he bordered on something else — but I wasn’t sure who to call. In truth, the only one I had a phone number for was Rooster, and I wasn’t sure I should bother him over something that wasn’t club related.

  Because I was antsy, I decided I needed to get out of the cabin. I locked it up, making sure the kitten had plenty of fresh food and water, and headed for town. I wasn’t familiar with Hawthorne Hollow. I could go to The Rusty Cauldron and risk running into Gunner, who was pretty much the last person I wanted to see, or I could head out to the dive bar on the highway. Gunner steadfastly warned me against visiting there, but I had a mind of my own ... and a different idea. It was a better idea than either bar – at least that’s what I told myself.

  I was a block away from All Souls Church before I realized where I was heading. I couldn’t shake the idea that something weird was going on within the confines of the facility’s walls, so that’s where I headed. I parked on a side street and concealed my bike in some bushes not far from the road.

  I wore dark jeans and a black leather jacket, which were fine for disappearing into the murk, but my hair was an issue. It stood out in stark contrast to the shadows. I had no way to hide it other than my helmet, so I abandoned my efforts and headed toward the side door I’d seen when watching the property earlier in the afternoon.

  I surveyed the parking lot, which was empty, before trying the door handle. I wasn’t surprised to find it locked. I wasn’t above breaking and entering — not even a little — so I decided to take a look around without risking prying eyes. It was late. There were no services tonight. I had no idea where Father Bram resided, but I was fairly certain it wasn’t on the premises. Sure, that could’ve been wishful thinking, but even if I ran into him I was positive I could take him.

  It took longer to pick the lock than normal thanks to the limited light. It was an older mechanism, though, so it slid open with little fuss. It was still relatively early even though darkness had fallen. I took a moment to study the quiet neighborhood before slipping inside. The houses weren’t quiet, families flitted across the light from windows, but no eyes appeared to be on the church.

  That was exactly how I wanted things.

  If I thought it was quiet outside, the lack of noise inside was almost doubly jarring. My boots squeaked on the linoleum floor, making me uncomfortable enough that I made sure to lift them to cut down the noise. I took a moment to get my bearings, and then tilted my head as I debated which way to point myself.

  Father Bram had made sure to keep me out of the nave, forcing me to spend most of my visit in the vestibule, where I couldn’t see anything. Now that I had my run of the place, I took advantage and walked slowly down the center aisle.

  The pews were old school, polished wood that didn’t particularly make for a comfortable resting spot. They reminded me of the time I was sent to live with an ultra-religious family that insisted on attending services four times a week. That placement lasted only a month because they didn’t like my attitude. They were trying to save souls, but said I was a lost cause. I was fine with that.

  I pulled one of the prayer books from the pocket at the back of a pew and opened it, reading the words as I flipped through the pages. I wasn’t the religious sort, but they seemed like normal prayers to me. There was nothing in them that stood out, no appeals to demons that ripped off people’s faces. They were simple prayers and hymns, at least as far as I could tell.

  I returned the book to its place and moved further up the aisle, to where the crossing met the altar. There was a large crucifix on the wall behind the altar, which made me think of Catholicism, but I was fairly certain Father Bram said All Souls was non-denominational. When I moved closer to the sculpture, I noticed an odd feature. The eyes seemed to follow me, which wasn’t possible because it was a huge resin sculpture on a wall. Still, it was disconcerting as I watched it, and it in turn watched me head toward the door at the back of the altar. I wasn’t sure what lay beyond it. If I had to guess, it was some sort of preparation room for Father Bram. I turned out to be right, but the ornate room was more than I’d envisioned. So much more. It was overloaded with tchotchkes and paintings, all of the bloody and religious variety. Each and every one was disturbing to the point I felt uncomfortable even being in the same room with them. I was about to make my escape when I noticed yet another door at the back of the room. This one was different, smaller and unobtrusive, and the second I saw it I was drawn to it.

  I’d already gone his far, I rationalized. There was no reason to turn back now.

  The second I pulled open the door I started to doubt my original instincts. The only thing I saw was a staircase that led down, a curvature that was illuminated thanks to a glowing red light from below.

  My heart skipped a beat as I tentatively put a foot on the first step, but then, as if by magic, chanting began. I couldn’t decide if it was real or in my head, but it was definitely coming from beneath me. I didn’t recognize the language — perhaps it was one of the dead ones Raisin had been talking about earlier — but there was an urgency to whatever the words.

  I lost myself in the rhythm of the chant, a spell weaving over me as I began swaying. My eyes drifted from the stairwell to an ornate mirror at my left. It looked old – centuries old, to be precise – and the glass seemed warmed. I almost thought I could see movement in it, which was ridiculous.

  Even as I considered the possibility, the chanting continued. I wasn’t the sort who would fall under just any spell, but the chants beckoned me to join those assembled in the red glow of destiny. I’m not sure how I knew that I was being invited, but something inside me wanted to acquiesce.

  Part of my brain recognized that was an idiotic idea. If congregation members were down there, explaining my sudden appearance would be impossible. They could very well be dangerous. I was cocky enough to believe I could escape, but the other part of me, the one I wasn’t completely in control of, thought it was a fine idea to descend into the creepy basement with the evil chanting.

  That’s when I knew something was terribly wrong. Thankfully, a noise in the nave caught my attention and caused me to force shut the door and focus on what was happening outside the ornate dressing room. I strode to the other door, the one that I’d entered through, and cracked it so I could listen. I recognized Cecily’s voice right away.

  “You’re supposed to be downstairs, not loitering around upstairs.”
/>   I listened, certain I would hear Father Bram’s voice admonishing Cecily to mind her own business. Instead I heard another woman respond. “I thought I saw someone walking through here a few minutes ago,” she protested. I couldn’t make out a face, not that I would recognize it even if I could. “I was trying to make sure that no one broke in.”

  “And who would break in?” Cecily asked, imperious. “Why don’t you mind your own business and leave potential thieves to me?” Her tone told me she meant business.

  I searched the room again, this time looking for an escape. To my utter relief, there was a window close to the stairwell wall. I pushed the panel open and waved my hand around to make sure a screen wouldn’t trip me up when it was time to go through. I wanted to stay and eavesdrop some more, but I’d assumed the building was empty. Now was definitely the time to make my escape.

  I went through the window, swearing viciously under my breath when I ended up in a scratchy bush on the other side. I fought my way free, glowering when I landed on my behind and rubbed my scratched arms.

  I heard a noise through the open window and instinctively pressed myself closer to the bush to hide. I felt a presence staring out above me, but given my position it was impossible to look without drawing attention. Instead, I held my breath and hoped whoever was poking his or her head out of the window wouldn’t look down.

  I got my wish, and after a few moments whoever was inside pulled the window shut. After that, I waited even longer before making my escape. I turned to look over my shoulder three times and found the space between the church and me empty, but I still felt eyes on me as I scurried to my motorcycle.

  IF I WAS ANTSY BEFORE, my close encounter in the church only exacerbated things. I thought about heading to The Rusty Cauldron to share my adventure with anyone who would listen, but the idea of seeing Gunner irritated me. Even worse, the realization that I was irritated at the thought of seeing him made me want to punch myself in the face.

  Instead of heading to the bar, I got out my phone and plugged in the information I had on Raisin. I knew her real name was Ruth Morton, and I figured there couldn’t be too many people sharing the same last name in one small town. I lucked out and found two of them: Irene Morton and Steven Morton. Raisin said she lived with her father, so I plugged Steven’s address into my GPS. It was only a few minutes from my cabin.