Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult

by Jennifer L. Greene

  “No,” Trey replied.

  “You in, if they do?”

  “Only if he passes the screen,” Salah said, joining them. His caramel colored eyes were cool and judgmental, just like the tone of his voice. “Can you pass the screen, Trey?”

  “I’m clean now,” Trey replied, his voice matching the mental mantra for a second.

  “We’ll see.” Salah inclined his head, then preceded them out onto the platform.

  “Headin’ to Alma’s for dinner. You coming?” Jacob asked.

  Trey shook his head. “I have to go high side. See you tomorrow.”

  Jacob shrugged, not bothering to ask, and they parted. Trey waited on the platform for the train, while Jacob trotted up the steps to the street above.

  This time of day the train was packed, so Trey stood near the door with one hand on a pole to keep his balance. He watched as the dark walls slid past the windows, gathering speed until they were just a blur. In the reflection he could see his own indistinct figure. Behind him stood a dark shape, watching him.

  Trey closed his eyes. Too many bad memories, too many imagined mythologies configured by his chemically stewed brain, and now he saw flashes of them everywhere. Even though he was clean now.

  Eventually the train exited the tunnels, coming out on the other side of the wall that kept the haves separated from the have-nots. There were white clouds in the sky, trees provided shade with wide green leaves, and the lowering sun cast an auburn light over everything. At the checkpoint, Trey showed his ID and the chip that gave him access to Apex on the first Monday of each month. After running his credentials through the system, the city guards let him pass with a reminder of curfew.

  Trey could have taken a cab, there was an allowance for it. But it had been a while since he’d had the opportunity to walk in clean air, beneath the shade of real trees and without fear of being robbed or pressed into one of a dozen gangs. He could hear birds singing, and a group of children were playing tag in a broad swath of grass across the street. He took his time, knowing he should hurry—he only had until midnight to be back to the train. Spending an evening every month with his parents was mandatory to his sentence, and though he would follow the requirement he saw no reason to cut short what little bit of this monthly penance he actually enjoyed.

  His path took him on a zigzag course down ever wider boulevards. The townhomes and single-family houses grew in size as did the yards surrounding them. In less than an hour, he had reached an area where the homes were mansions encompassed by elaborate grounds. The monolith he finally approached was clad in white marble, with twin fountains splashing merrily on either side of the gated walkway. Charles, the resident butler, was waiting on the front steps.

  “Master Shain,” he said, looking down his long aristocratic nose.

  “Hello Charles,” Trey said quietly, and nodded when the servant opened the front door for him.

  The entryway was elegant, carpeted in a tasteful gold-chased burgundy and accented with delicate tables on which to display framed photos and small figurines. Trey knew the way, so didn’t wait for Charles to guide him. Instead, he went to the curving grand staircase, up and to the left, to the room that had once been his. He didn’t linger there; he didn’t have time. Instead, he quickly changed into appropriate clothing from the closet, attempted to tame his unruly ginger hair, and made his way back downstairs to the formal dining room where dinner would be served.

  The heavy table that took up most of the room was already set with gold-rimmed china, lead crystal glassware and the good silver. Since there were no other guests besides Trey, only three places had been set at one end of the table. Trey sat at the left of the seat of honor, letting his calloused fingertips trace the edges of the fine dishes. His nails were ragged, and dirt that he was unable to wash away was visible beneath the keratin.

  A soft humming sound alerted him that his parents were coming. Trey stood, putting his hands behind his back and squaring his shoulders. He kept his eyes low, however; he didn’t want to be accused of arrogance, as had happened the last time.

  A motorized wheelchair appeared in the doorway, and Father sat rigidly upright in the seat with his feet firmly planted on the footplates. He was dressed in a suit, but a knitted shawl had been placed across his shoulders for extra warmth. Thick grey hair shadowed his forehead, and his dark eyes were vague and unfocused.

  Mother accompanied him, one thin and veiny hand resting on Father’s shoulder. She wore a dark blue dress with matching shoes, and ropes of diamonds around throat and wrists. Her Harlow-gold hair was perfectly coiffed, and as always, Trey felt completely out of place.

  Father’s chair wheeled around to the head of the table and stopped at his place setting. Mother waited until Charles pulled out her chair for her, then took her seat at Father’s right. Only then, did Trey sit back down.

  “Hello Father. Mother.” he said softly, taking his heavy cloth napkin off the table to put over his lap.

  Mother’s eyes dropped to his hands, immediately taking in the grime beneath the nails. Her thin lips pursed, but she didn’t comment.

  Trey sighed silently, and waited while the first course was served.

  The train ride back to low side seemed to take forever. Plenty of time for Trey to brood over the latest family visit. Memories passed like arduous vignettes before his mind’s eye, and he clenched his teeth in defense.

  “I realize that you’re living on subsistence these days,” Mother said coolly, “but you could at least get a haircut and take the time to wash your hands.”

  Father’s eyes were open, but only focused on his food. He said not a word, as though he dined alone.

  “And what kind of work is it you’re doing?”

  “I’m on the maintenance crew for the transit authority.”

  Mother’s upper lip wrinkled a little at that. She had never used public transport in her life. “I hate to ask, but are you clean?”

  Trey had sighed. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Mother sniffed. She flicked her bony fingers, signaling for the servants to clear their plates and bring the next course.

  “I know you don’t want me here, Mother. But it’s part of my sentence.” Trey kept his voice soft and level. It did no good to show any emotion here; it never had.

  “When I think of all the prospects you had, your potential,” she mused, sipping her wine.

  “I think of it, too,” he said dutifully. Being here, in the cold company of his closest family, reminded him of why he’d started to use in the first place.

  “Such a disappointment,” Mother said. She could have meant his lost opportunities, but probably not.

  He put his head against the window, unable to watch the tunnel wall rippling past as it was making him sick. After dinner he’d had a small reprieve. He’d gone up to his once-bedroom and changed back into his real clothes, leaving the fancy costume to be washed and returned to the closet. Instead of searching out his parents, he had gone outside into the garden that took up the space between house and garage.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Trey had not bothered to turn. He knew the voice was only in his own mind.

  “I’ve missed you.” The voice was that of his sister Emilia.

  “You’re not here,” he whispered.

  “I’ll always be here,” she replied. But when he finally gave in and turned to look, he was alone. Emilia did not haunt the house or grounds, she only haunted him. But she only came to him here.

  “I’m sorry, Emi,” he said. Losing her had changed everything in his life.

  Trey got off the train and trudged up the stairs to the street. After spending time in Apex, it was even harder to come back to the low side. The air here was tainted with the stench of smoke and chemicals, and the sun rarely shone. The sky was never clear enough to reveal stars or moon; instead the smog reflected back the clashing shades of neon and arc-sodium lighting. Graffiti marred every flat surface, and garbage
collected in the gutters. By the time he reached the street where his apartment building stood, it was almost 1:00 a.m.

  He stopped on the sidewalk, ignoring the heavy traffic. Cars skimmed bumper to bumper, and throngs of people jostled him and each other. Trey found himself gazing at the black crow holding an eyeball, and realized that the door below it was not completely closed. The Open sign flickered in the window, and a breath of cinnamon scented air escaped.

  He hesitated, seeing in his memory the grand façade of his parents’ house in his final look back.

  Charles stood on the front steps, as though to be sure Trey were really leaving. Of Mother and Father there was no sign. Neither of them had bothered to see him off, but they had given up on him a long time ago. When Emilia died, he might as well have crawled into her coffin with her.

  Without remembering how, he found himself standing on the other side of the mirrored door, his hand resting on the handle where he’d pulled it closed. He could see the throngs of people and vehicles through the glass, but could hear nothing from outside.

  There was the soft sound of falling water, and he searched the dim room until he saw the fountain on a bottom shelf. A few candles burned in holders placed advantageously, and he moved slowly about the room looking but not touching the articles displayed in the many cases. There were tumbled stones and raw crystals, wooden boxes carved with sinuous designs, figurines and small statues carved of many substances and revealing an amazing range of colors and styles. In the farthest corner of the room, between ceiling high shelves filled with books, a wooden post with crossarms supported a large black bird. Head cocked to one side, Trey approached it. He had known people in the high side who had taxidermied trophies, but had never seen anything like this.

  The bird looked like the painting on the sign out front, and its glossy black feathers and perfectly rendered eyes were so lifelike it nearly took his breath away. Trey reached out to smooth the fine feathers beneath the matte beak, and jumped when the bird blinked. Its beak opened, but it made no sound or any threatening gesture.

  “Welcome.” The voice that spoke was soft and rich, and Trey started again, nearly falling. The woman who had spoken stood near the door, her dark hair pulled back from her face. Her right eye was dark, yet glimmered with red eyeshine like an animal’s; her left eye was obscured by a white caul, and he wondered if that eye were blind. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  She shrugged, unconcerned.

  “What kind of place is this?” Trey asked.

  “Hmm,” she hummed, coming across the room toward him. “That is debatable. If you can tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to better answer that.”

  “Nousha said this is the Morrigan’s. Is that you?”

  “Ah.” She stepped past him, reaching out toward the bird. It opened its wings and hopped from the wooden stand to her arm, sidled up to her shoulder, then tucked its wings back and nestled against her ear. “The shop is known by many names. The name is less important than what my customers need. That is what defines us—what we need.” She turned back to face him, her blank white-filmed eye making him uncomfortable. He didn’t know whether to look at it or not. “I am Ciara Dubhbran.”

  He nodded awkwardly. “My name is Trey.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I know. So I ask again. What do you need?”

  He shook his head. He had no money to buy anything from her; he could barely afford rent and food after his restitution. He didn’t even know why he’d come in here, except maybe from curiosity and the need to take his mind off the evening he’d just had.

  “Few indeed are those who need nothing, Mr. Shain. You must consider yourself among the luckiest of men.” She moved away from him then, the bird balancing effortlessly on her shoulder. Her long inky hair trailed behind her like a shadow.

  “Not lucky,” he said. “Unless you mean bad luck.”

  “A man with any luck can turn it to his advantage.”

  He realized then that she had called him by his surname, which he hadn’t given her. “Wait, how did you—”

  “All it takes is will, and a certain amount of confidence.” She began to extinguish candles, one after another, the room falling into deeper gloom. The crow spread its wings, making a soft croaking noise but did not fly. “Think on it, if you like. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Trey felt dizzy, and put his hand out to steady himself. Something cool and heavy tipped out from under his fingertips, dislodged from its place on the shelf, and shattered on the floor. He looked down, aghast. How much would he have to pay for the broken item?

  “Broken things can be useful, even beautiful, Mr. Shain.” She knelt before him, her dark hair or the crow’s outstretched wing brushing against his wrist. “The witching hour has come to a close, and so my shop must close as well. Think on it, as long as you’d like. And come again, when you have an answer.” She looked up, her long-fingered hands full of broken shards of stone, one eye white and inscrutable, the other glinting red. “I’ll clean this up, now.”

  Clean now clean now, clamored in his mind, as it had not done since he’d found himself in the strange store. Trey closed his eyes, rubbed his face wearily. “I’m very sorry,” he said, knowing he had to say something for the damage he’d done. Someone bumped into him, and he looked to find himself standing on the sidewalk before the Morrigan’s. The neon sign was dark.

  Across the street, the painted girl Nousha smiled slyly at him, her skin shimmering with her latest hit of Prizm.

  Trey passed the screen as he was clean now, and took the overtime that was available. He didn’t want to work in the dark, dirty tunnels any longer than he had to; but it was better than sitting in his tiny one-room apartment with nothing to do but think. And even that was better than hanging out on the street, waiting until his weakening will made him ask Nousha or someone else for a hit of Prizm, or his own drug of choice—Bliss. Yet even while he worked, marking his digital map with notations of dry-rot or rodent-chewed cables, he found himself remembering the strange tableau that had taken place on his return to low side. Ciara Dubhbran had asked him what he needed. It seemed such a simple question, yet there was no easy answer. Now he couldn’t get that question out of his mind, and the words What do you need? began to run counterpoint to clean now in his ongoing mental mantra.

  “Going to Alma’s?” Jacob asked after their double shift.

  Salah watched Trey with his judgmental caramel eyes, and Trey shook his head wearily.

  It was strange getting off work in the middle of the night, even though the heavy smog never allowed the sun to shine in the daytime anyway. Trey walked slowly, too exhausted to quicken his step, and wasn’t surprised when he looked up to see the crow and eyeball sign above him. The neon Open sign burned against the black curtains. He pushed on the mirrored door and stepped inside.

  Everything had moved. The shelves and cases were staggered across the center of the room, leaving the walls bare. A mural had been painted on the plaster, making the room into a forest glade. Dark tree trunks marched around the room, and delicate ferns uncurled between them. Spotted toadstools and dark hooded flowers grew among the painted boles, and in the corner where the crow’s perch had been a full moon peeked between the bare branches.

  “Have you come to an answer?”

  Trey turned, finding Ciara standing by the door as though she’d just followed him in. “It’s not material things that I need,” he said without thinking, “and I don’t know how you could possibly give me anything else.”

  “There are many hidden things, Mr. Shain, that do not lend themselves to easy discovery.” She wore grey today, instead of the black she’d had on the last time, and her sooty hair fell free around her shoulders. “It is a wise man who truly knows himself, and only self-knowledge can ever lead to happiness.”

  “I thought ignorance is bliss,” Trey said.

  “Bliss is, as y
ou know, not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  He stared at her, sure that she somehow knew about his addiction to the drug, though he’d discussed it with no one since being sentenced to low side.

  Ciara stepped past him taking a bowl carved from translucent stone and a small wooden box off a shelf. “Come with me,” she said, walking to the corner where the painted moon gleamed from a star filled sky. She walked between the boles of two trees, disappearing into the darkness beyond them.

  Trey stared, mouth hanging open. Before he could talk himself out of it, he followed her.

  The room revealed was warm and cozy. A fire burned in a stone fireplace, and a low exposed-beam ceiling was hung with bunches of dried flowers and leaf stems. A low table and chairs were pulled up near the fire, and Ciara had already taken a seat there.

  “What is this?” he asked. Even the air smelled different, fresh with hints of pine and mint.

  “This is my home.” She looked up, her white eye gleaming in the shadows of her hair.

  “What if someone comes into the store?”

  Her lips curved, and she opened the box she’d taken off the shelf. Inside were dried herbs. “No one can enter without my leave.”

  “I entered.”

  Her smile broadened. “Not without my leave.” She put some of the herbs into the stone bowl and added water from a kettle on the hearth. “You came to me with great need. I felt it from across the street just as strongly as I feel it now. I am prepared to help you, Trey. But first you must tell me what you need.”

  He sat beside her, watching as she placed the bowl on the table before him. “What are you?” he asked.

  “We are all many things,” she replied, closing the box. “I am a woman, I am a soul, I am a daughter and a sister. Once I was a wife and mother, but no more. I am a dreamer, a creator and a destroyer. I am a witch.”

  “All I am is a disappointment,” he whispered, feeling the bitterness in his heart that was all that he had left.