by Martha Woods
“How do we stop him?” I ask, straightening myself up and bringing the palms of my hands to my eyes to try and drive the tears from them. Revenge, think of revenge. The anger will drive out everything else. I need it to drive out everything else.
“I believe that you can track him down,” Damon says carefully. “I want to take you to meet the witch.”
A witch. A real, spell-casting witch, who apparently works in close collaboration with the hunters. I shiver a bit thinking about it. It’s not that witches themselves scare me, exactly. I know that the whole myth of witches being worshippers of Satan or something like that was probably just a hateful rumor someone spread about something they didn’t understand. But I’m not sure I am ready for yet another supernatural element in my life. But given how Damon talks about her, she must be a good witch, and I guess that’s something I need in a world where there are vampires and shamans and werewolves and ghosts.
“Okay, when?”
“When you’re ready. Let’s get you something to eat first, and a change of clothes,” Damon says. “Want me to walk you over to your apartment?”
I nod uncertainly, and he helps me out of his bed. My legs are shaky, but he is there to lean on. We head over to my apartment, and I try to convince myself I can go in, I can face it. He unlocks my front door. It looks like it did before Bella was murdered; it must have been a massive job. Everything seems in place. I glance to the kitchen, afraid I’ll see my sweet girl’s tail sticking out of the kettle, but there is nothing. It’s a new kettle, I notice absently. I can’t explain it. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s blood. It shouldn’t have been possible to clean all of this up so thoroughly, so quickly.
Nothing is comforting about this place anymore. Even though the floors, the walls, the furniture have been wiped clean, the memory still remains. I squeeze Damon’s arm, and he leads me back to my bedroom where I can find clothes to wear.
I feel like I might pass out just standing in that painfully empty bedroom. I don’t know if I ever really noticed how grounding, how comforting Bella’s presence in my world was.
“Will y—” My voice cracks. “Will you talk to me? Will you distract me? I can’t…I need?”
Damon nods. “It’s okay. I understand.” He sighs, and suddenly he sounds so much older than his years. “I decided to become a hunter when I was 17,” he says as I rummage through my clothes. He has his backed turned to me to give me some privacy. I am glad, not because I am embarrassed to be seen, but because I want to study him without him knowing. His normally straight shoulders are hunched forward, his head down, his hands in his jean pockets. He looks so small. I know that he is about to tell me something awful, something painful to even think about, let alone say aloud. But he’s doing it anyway. For me.
“I grew up on a farm. We were…pretty isolated. It was almost an hour drive just to get to school. I had a sister,” he pauses and draws in a ragged breath.
Had. I think, with a pang of sorrow on his behalf. He said “had.”
“She was a year younger than me,” he continued. “My family kept a lot of cattle, chickens, a few ducks. All for eggs or milk, never meat for consumption. My sister didn’t have the heart to slaughter an animal. She loved them. And my parents couldn’t bear to see her sad. It was probably a big sacrifice, actually. Financially, I mean. But she was special. We would all have done anything for her.”
He stops again, but I don’t prompt him. I know he’ll continue when he’s ready. And anyway, I’m not sure I can bear to hear the rest. My heart is aching for him.
“Anyway, one night I heard her screaming. It had to be close to 2 in the morning. I grabbed my shotgun and ran out to the barn to see what was the matter, but I was too late. The werewolf was dumping her dead body in a pile of manure like she was trash to be taken out. I shot at him, but nothing that would do lethal damage. They’re hard to kill, werewolves. Then he was just gone. He had sliced up my sister’s stomach, her arms, her face, everything. She was completely disfigured. I could barely be sure it was her, but it was. He made sure to cause her as much pain as possible.”
I take a step towards him, then hesitate. He’s made his voice cold, at the end, so that it seems to lack all emotion, or maybe it is grim determination I’m hearing. It doesn’t seem like it would be an easy decision to choose to hunt and kill supernatural creatures. Like with many cops, there always has to be a little push to make them choose that path. Was Bella my push? I’m not quite sure I am ready to go full out hunter, but I have never wanted to hurt someone more in my life. That was just losing a dog. What if Elric takes out Abbey? What if he goes after my family? Rick? I have a whole list of people I can’t imagine my life properly functioning without.
“The death was unexplainable. Everyone thought I was a little crazy when I said I shot a monster. A hunter named Henry found me eventually and believed my story. He offered me the chance to be a hunter. We’re a strange kind of family. We rarely get together and try not to form close attachments to each other. We rarely hunt together because there’s always the fear of one of us getting caught and then the other losing sight of our mission: to kill the paranormal. Whether it was a werewolf or a vampire, we didn’t discriminate. But we still have human emotions; we can’t kill those off.”
I’ve managed to function well enough to pull on jeans and a t-shirt while Damon speaks. Now that I’m clothed, and his story seems to have come to a close, I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his torso. How lonely must his life be?
“Why did you take a risk dating me then?” I ask.
“Well, at first I just found you appealing. At the crime scene, I mean. You were so funny, but still certain of yourself, of your job. It reminded me of a hunter. Then…well, honestly, I could tell you were somehow involved. I saw you witness Vincent’s attack,” he spits the word “that night. I knew that, along with your role in the murder investigations, would make you a target. So I followed you. I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”
I don’t know what to think about this new information. Is that why he moved into my building? Why he asked me on a date? To protect me? Or maybe it was really just so he could be close to Elric’s next victim so he could hunt the werewolf easier. Either way, it doesn’t sound like he ever had genuine feelings for me.
“So really it was all about protecting me?” I choke out, stepping away from him.
He turns me to face him and squeezes my shoulder gently. His hand comes under my chin and tilts it up so I’m looking at him. I still feel like crying, because of Bella, because of Elric, because maybe Damon doesn’t actually care about me at all, but his eyes are so warm, so deep. I could fall into them. I want to see his lips turn up into a smile and see those dimples again.
“I really liked you, Amy. I might have used my job as an excuse to finally ask you out, but I truly wanted to get to know you better,” he says. He lowers his lips slowly to mine and kissed me. I feel him pouring the loneliness down my throat as our lips meet each other, devouring each other. Our tongues dance, his hands dig into my back so it is almost painful. I let my own emotions rise up: the pain I’ve been feeling over losing Bella, the feelings of being inadequate, unable to help. I let it all build up and throw it out through the kiss. My arms wrap around his neck and I feel him pressing against me, but he draws back, swallowing hard. My legs feel shaky, so I sit on the bed.
“We shouldn’t,” he says. “Not now. Not yet. Anyway, we have work to do. Come on, let’s go see the witch.”
I nod my head. I take his hand, and he draws me off the bed. My head is spinning with the passion of that single kiss. My body aches for more, but we have a mission, and whatever that mission might be, I have his hands clasped tightly around mine.
We take his truck again. We drive in silence towards what is widely considered the bad part of town, where gang activity is a little bit higher, the type of place a girl doesn’t want to be caught at alone at night. There is graffiti on the buildings, there are
windows broken in. The gas station looks like it could collapse at any moment, but is apparently the place to hang out since there are three broad, tattooed men standing outside the front of it. I spend a lot of time here. Perks of the job.
“Her store is here?” I’ve never been here to visit someone who wasn’t dead, and seldom someone who wasn’t a criminal.
“She doesn’t like the tourist crowd. Plus, most of her clients are those who have little or nothing. She helps the poor. There are a lot of poor and desperate souls here.”
He parks on the side of the street. I get out of the car and look towards the little store where the witch apparently lives and works. It’s a two-story townhouse that is painted a bright blue. The standard wooden front door has been swapped out for a bright glass-fronted shop door with a moon painted on it and a little sign that reads, “Moon Dust, Psychic Readings and More.”
“Doesn’t say anything about a witch,” I say.
“Of course it doesn’t. Most people either don’t believe in witches or don’t take kindly to them. Come on, she’s probably expecting us.”
“Did you call her?”
“You don’t need to call Faye,” he says.
We walk into the store. It is small. The scent of sage burning is almost overwhelming. There is a display table laid out with a collection of different stones for sale. On the shelves lining the walls, there are various tarot decks for sale, along with dozens of book on magic. Nothing that looks old and dusty, just rows of glossy covers and new-age illustrations. Like Damon said, very mainstream. There’s a glass counter with a cash register on it, and beneath the glass, an array of different jewelry for sale, but nothing I can see someone wearing out to the club. Beside each necklace or stone-laden bracelet, it describes what it protects against. I scan over them quickly to see if there is anything for bad dreams, but I get tired of writing the cramped little writing, and a slight movement catches my eye from behind the counter, where I see a doorway curtained in beads. I can’t see what’s beyond them because it is so dark, but I can tell there is movement there.
I am not sure what I am expecting the witch Faye to look like, but what comes through the beads definitely isn’t it. I am thinking of some sort of old woman with white hair, maybe a few warts, green skin maybe – thanks, Wizard of Oz. Or, if not that, some middle aged woman with crazy long hair, flowy clothes, and strands of beads wrapped around her neck and wrists.
But Faye looks young. The type of young that just doesn’t age, so she could well be in her thirties, it just doesn’t show on her heart-shaped pixie face. Faye looks like a punk rocker with half her hair shaved and piercings up the sides of both ears. She sports a nose ring that has a chain linked up to a high piercing on her right ear. Her hair is a swirl of purple and blue. She wears a tank top and ripped black jeans with black military boots. Her eyes are a pale blue encircled in a deeper blue circle, and they pop with the black eyeliner and mascara she wears. She has tattoos that run down her arms, twining around even her fingers. They are words, written in a language I can’t understand. Faye is intimidating. Not in the way a murderer is intimidating. More in the way a person with easy, natural confidence is intimidating. It’s like the self-assurance radiating from her makes me feel less self-assured. She doesn’t fit the quietness of the store. I want to avert my eyes. Staring rudely isn’t a great first impression. But I can’t keep my eyes off of her.
“This is the girl,” Faye says as she catches my eye. I quickly look away.
“This is Amy,” Damon says. “She’s having night terrors and she sleep walked to the werewolf we’ve been hunting.”
“She has the sight; I can feel it. Come here, girl,” Faye orders.
I stroll to the counter, trying to act casual, confident, but with everything I’ve been through, I hardly remember what that feels like. She reaches out to grab my hand, turning it so she can look at my palm. Her hands are abnormally warm, almost hot as she begins to trace lines down and over my own.
“You have always had the sight, but it was dormant until recently. Something triggered it,” she says.
“I… I stumbled into a vampire,” I stutter out.
“That would do it. Usually a brush with the paranormal will awaken what has always been beneath the surface. Do you want to be fully awakened?” she asks.
Fully awakened? What does that mean? I just want the dead girls gone, along with Elric, and for my life to go back to normal. I just want to be left alone. I want to mourn for my dog in peace, get back to work, probably look for a new apartment, maybe go on a few regular dates with Damon. That’s what I really want, but I get the feeling the likelihood of that ever happening again is growing slimmer and slimmer.
“You’re not ready,” she says, letting my hand go before I can even say anything. “Why did you come here then?”
“The girls. They keep coming to me, asking me to stop Elric,” I say.
“Simple. You do what they say, and they’ll disappear.”
“She’s not really equipped to fight a werewolf,” Damon says.
Faye shrugs, looking at Damon. “You are.”
“The dead girls make me sleepwalk to where he is,” I say. “I have to be able to protect myself.”
Faye goes quiet for a while, then disappears into a back room, coming out with a necklace with a silver cross on it.
“For one thing, you need to wear this. I’m surprised you don’t have one already,” Faye says.
I put it on. It feels cold against my bare skin. Damon scratches the back of his head looking ashamed, like he should have given me one. I know he has a one hidden underneath his shirt.
“But crosses are for vampires, right? Not werewolves?” Television has taught me that much, at least, assuming it’s accurate.
“That’s pure silver.”
“Most expensive piece of jewelry anyone’s ever given me, in that case,” I try to joke.
Faye just rolls her eyes. “Werewolves are repelled by silver. Birds. Stone.” She points squarely at my chest. “You don’t remove that. It won’t save you from him harming you, but it is a start.” Her voice softens a fraction. “He’s already hurt you,” she says. “I can sense it.”
I swallow and nod my head.
“He killed her dog,” Damon says.
“I’m not getting the entire story,” Faye says. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
I do, telling Faye about how I met Vincent while on a case. I tell her about the nightmares, about the girls suddenly appearing in my waking hours, how Vincent can’t read my mind. She is quiet through it all, casually taking out a deck of tarot cards that she begins to shuffle as I continue to speak. She doesn’t handle them like they are a deck of playing cards, instead just slipping cards in and out of the deck at random, her tattooed fingers playing across them. It is almost a loving caress. When I finish my story, choking out finding my dog in pieces in my apartment, she spreads the cards on the counter.
“Pick one,” she says.
I try to tamp down my skepticism. Of all the things I’ve discovered to be true recently, tarot cards seem an odd place to draw the line. But still, it seems a bit absurd. It’s as if every new facet of this world I discover, my rational mind has to push back against it. I have to remind myself of what we’re up against before I push my disbelief aside.
I hesitate, then move my hands over the cards until one of them seems to glow under my palm. I don’t feel anything different, not an energy or a pull or anything, the card just looks like it needs to be drawn. I take it and flip it over. There are two people intertwined together in the center of the card. In Roman numerals it reads six, and at the top, it says “The Lovers.”
“You are being protected by two that feel deeply for you, but be careful, because if they don’t work together, it could be the death of you,” Faye says. “Pick another.”
Again, I let my fingers move aimlessly over the cards until I feel that strange glow again. The next card I flip over featu
res a horned man, surrounded by fire, holding a chain. The Roman numerals for fifteen are on the top, and it reads “The Devil.”
“This werewolf is going to tempt you away from your protectors. Be aware of this. He can be very persuasive,” Faye says. “Now the last one.”
Again, my hands move over the cards. My hand hesitates over two, but I pull only one and flip it over. On the card is a woman with her eyes covered by a cloth. In one hand she holds a sword, in the other a scale that looks evenly balanced. I recognize her, but I read the card anyway. The Roman numerals for eight lie at the top of the card, and it reads “Judgment.” Or, as we know her in my line of work, Lady Justice.
“You have been called forward to be the truth seeker, no matter the damage that is done. Remember that judgment is a double-bladed sword and always blind. These girls have called you forward to be executioner, and they will not leave you until this werewolf is dead. I will equip you as best I can, but there is little you can do until you are ready to be fully awakened.”
“What do you mean fully awakened?”
“When you are prepared to see all the things that hide in the night. When you are ready to face the nightmares, because they will not stop coming. You are now a beacon, but you are still partially blinded,” Faye says.
I swallow. Nope, my life will never be normal again.
“What can we do to stop him?” Damon asks.
“She will be your guide. All she has to do is call on the girls, and they will come. Do you know any of their names?” she asks.
“I do. One of them is—” I begin.
“Don’t call her now,” Faye snaps. “I don’t like unwanted spirits in my store. Call her tonight and she will lead you to the werewolf.”
“Does she have to go?” Damon asks.
“You can’t see what she does, so unless you want to be caught unaware, the girl goes,” Faye says, folding her arms across her chest. “Let me get some vials of holy water.”
