by Raye Wagner
“Skata!” Athan breathed the curse under his breath, startling Hope.
Tugging her hand, he dragged her toward the car. “What would you say to some seafood?”
Instinctively, she pulled back, dropping his hand. The chill felt ominous, and she scanned the picnic area. A flicker of movement by the flower beds drew her attention, and her eyes widened, as she froze in her tracks.
The Skia stepped from behind the budded trees. Staring at Hope, he made no move to come closer.
“What is with you, Hope?” Haley asked. “Don’t you see I’m withering away?”
Hope didn’t even look at her friend. Could she reveal what she saw? Should she? She wanted to yell at him to leave her alone. She wanted to fight him so he couldn’t bother her again. She gritted her teeth.
“Hope?”
She felt Athan next to her, and glancing at him saw he’d bent down, fiddling with his shoe and pant leg.
Her gaze went back to the Skia, but he was gone.
Again.
Athan dropped his pant leg and stood up. “I’m starved. Let’s go eat.”
“Finally!” Tristan said.
Haley grabbed his hand and turned toward the car.
Hope wouldn’t ask Athan what made him curse. Had he seen the Skia? Did he know that she’d seen it? Had she been obvious?
She thought the best thing would be to say nothing. No reason to scare her friends. And more importantly, she didn’t want to reveal she could see them.
Hope set her bag on the table and grabbed an apple. A light rap at the door brought a smile of expectation. She and Athan had talked about getting together, and he hadn’t forgotten.
“Grab your homework. Let’s go,” Athan said, poking his head through the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked from the kitchen as she grabbed her backpack.
“My aunt wants to meet you, so I thought we’d have dinner with her. I hope you don’t mind skipping your run?”
She thought of the strange meeting at the grocery store weeks ago and shook her head.
“No, you don’t mind, or no you don’t want to go?”
The latter. But of course she couldn’t say that. Athan seemed so earnest, and she didn’t want to offend him. “I don’t mind skipping the run.”
“Good.” He grabbed her bag and slung it over his shoulder, then led Hope out the door.
“She’s great, but a bit odd,” Athan said as they wound through the quiet town toward the highway. “If she starts singing, or talking in rhyme, it’s okay to ignore her.”
“Does she do that a lot?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. She’s also likes to talk about the future.”
“Can she tell the future?” Maybe she was a witch. Hope had read that there were still visages of Hecate that roamed the mortal realm. As goddess of crossroads, maybe her subjects could see into the future.
“Sorry, what?” He turned but never met her eyes.
“I asked if she can see the future.”
He snorted. “You don’t believe that, do you? Fortune-tellers?”
She shrugged. Maybe. Probably. Why wouldn’t she believe it? She was a monster, after all.
They pulled into the driveway of the old bed and breakfast, and Athan faced her. “I know she’s a little . . . odd, but she’s always been there for me. I told her about you, and she wanted to meet you.”
Hope nodded. She could do this. “Let’s go see your aunt.”
White azaleas and pink rhododendrons lined the walkway, complementing a fresh coat of paint.
“Been doing a bit of work?” Clearly someone had.
“My aunt thinks it helps keep me from being idle.” Athan laughed. “‘A teenager shouldn’t have too much free time or he’ll find trouble.’” He wagged his finger at her.
Just before opening the door, he gave Hope’s hand a squeeze.
“Aunt Myrine?” Athan called out as soon as they crossed the threshold.
The inside of the house was the exact opposite of the outside. It was a complete mess. Boxes lined the entryway, hall, and glancing into the other rooms, every available space. It made the house feel like a maze. As they walked down the hall, Native American masks, statues of Greek gods, and stacks of books drew Hope’s attention. Some looked like they’d just been set down, others were covered in dust.
A door opened, and Myrine stepped out of a darkened room. Tinted goggles covered half her face, and her white hair escaped the confines of a bun at the top of her head.
When she removed her goggles, Hope’s gaze was drawn to her unlined face. If her hair had been any color besides white, she could easily have been in her twenties. She glanced at Athan and then the gaze of her pale-blue eyes converged on Hope. The look was piercing.
“Athan”—his aunt addressed him but kept her focus on Hope—“you’ve brought me a riddle.” Extending her hand to Hope, Myrine added in a singsong voice, “A riddle, a joke, lots of fun to poke, poke, poke.”
Hope cringed but took the woman’s hand. It was dry and cool.
“Cats and bats and lots of boys,” Mrs. Stephens chanted.
“Excuse me?” Hope stuttered.
Athan put his hand at the small of her back. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, then cleared his throat. “Aunt Myrine, what are you talking about? This is Hope, the girl I was telling you about.”
The two exchanged a look, and Myrine nodded. “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. Here for dinner. Hello, my dear. Manners, manners, manners. I’m Myrine, but of course you know that. And you are Hope. But of course you know that, too.” She turned and addressed him. “Locks of gold, and eyes that glitter, touched by gods . . . I can see why you are intrigued.”
Hope said nothing, and Myrine prattled on.
“Come for dinner; come to eat. What a treat . . .” She squinted her eyes and nodded. “Yes, yes. Athan, go start the grill.” She waved at him in dismissal. “Hope, my dear, help me in the kitchen?” Myrine bounced down the hallway, rhymes dribbling from her lips. “Greens are good, bread and butter, need some meat, yes, beef is better.”
“Are you freaking out?” Athan asked, holding Hope back with his slow pace.
“She’s . . . odd.” She was freaking out, but clearly it meant something to Athan for her to be here. And the weird verses seemed harmless. “I think I’ll be fine.”
Athan ran up a set of crowded stairs, leaving Hope to follow Myrine.
As Hope walked down the hall, she looked into the open doorways. Artifacts littered the house: a golden pomegranate, a wooden birdcage carved with doves and roses, a small harp . . . an anvil and tongs.
When Hope stepped into an immaculate, completely updated kitchen, she stood momentarily blinded by the incongruence.
“Thou art the great cat.” Myrine nodded at her. “Avenger to the gods . . .”
That was too close to the truth. Anxiety spiked Hope through the gut, and she glared at her hostess. “What are you saying?”
“It’s on the royal tombs in Thebes.” Myrine shook her head. “You . . . you have told him nothing.”
Hope’s jaw dropped. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“As you wish, as we be.” Myrine smoothed her hair back, then went to the sink. “Do be a dear and help me with the broccoli, Hope.” She set a paring knife and cutting board next to a produce bag on the counter. “I’ll get the corn ready.”
“Are you a witch?”
“A seer, a sage, a sibyl, a witch—call me what you want, take your pick.”
Was that a yes? Hope cut broccoli, placing it on a sheet pan. Athan passed through the kitchen and went out the sliding glass door to start the grill.
Myrine turned to Hope, blue eyes bright with interest. “You have many roads before you, kitten. Choose wisely where you step, for that is where you will walk.” Myrine closed her eyes. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”
“Stop!” Hope clenched her fists, and her heart hammered. “Just stop. Why are you saying all that? Wh
at do you want?”
The clanking outside ceased, and as the door slid open, Myrine shifted, singing about being close to where the watermelon grew.
“How’s it going in here?” Athan looked from Hope to Myrine.
Hope tried to smile, but the movement was forced, almost painful.
“Myrine?”
The older woman said nothing, and he turned to Hope.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head. There weren’t words for exactly how not okay she was.
“Do you want to go?” His warm fingers brushed her chin, and she looked up at him.
“Athan!” Myrine’s voice was sharp. “If you play with a cat, you must not mind its scratch.”
“Good gods!” He turned on his aunt. “Is this what you’ve been saying? You promised!”
Myrine bowed her head. “Cats and bats and lots of boys.”
Athan grabbed Hope’s hand, practically dragging her as he strode from the room.
In the doorway, Myrine’s face was cast in shadow, but her head was downcast, her shoulders slumped. She waved weakly. An apology or merely a farewell?
The drive home was silent.
“I asked her if she was a witch,” Hope confessed as they pulled up to her house. Maybe she’d actually triggered something and Myrine would tell him it was her fault.
Athan sighed. “She was in one of her moods. I should have checked in with her before I took you over. It’s my bad, Hope, nothing you did.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She thinks she’s an oracle. She has visions, hears voices . . . She thinks she’s called of the gods and that she can see the future. But really, she’s insane. When she’s on her medication, she’s docile. I’m sorry.”
Hope knew there were people with mental illness, but she’d never met anyone. She also guessed that there had to be actual oracles out there, and witches, and who knew what else.
“I’m not mad,” she said in an attempt to reassure him.
“But it scared you.”
She wore her emotions like a coat, all on the outside. “Yes. But—”
“No. I don’t want you defending her, or apologizing.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I let that happen to you.”
But if Myrine was crazy, how did she know what she knew?
There was less than a week before the change. Soon enough, Hope would need to figure out how she was going to pull it off. Leave or stay home? And what would she say to Mr. Jeffers?
“So, are you coming tonight or not? It’s a three-day weekend . . .” Haley tapped her pen against the lockers. “You only came that one time, and I promise—”
Hope shook her head as she turned her attention back to her friend.
“You didn’t even hear what I was going to promise.” Haley pouted.
“It doesn’t matter.” Hope grabbed her math book and slammed the locker door shut. “I’m not going back to the river.”
“Of course it does. Athan will be there.” Haley waggled her brows. “You don’t want him to get distracted by some other chica.”
Hope snorted. Since the disastrous dinner at his aunt’s house last night, she’d done her best to avoid him this morning. “Athan can get together with whoever he wants. It’s not like—”
Haley cleared her throat, and her eyes told Hope someone was behind her.
“Really, Hope?” Athan stepped around to face her. “I thought you said you wouldn’t break my heart.”
The blush went from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.
“We’re just friends,” she muttered, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“Yeah, but there’s friends, and then there’s friends.” Haley pursed her lips and made kissing sounds.
“Shut up.” Hope pushed Haley with a laugh. “You’re acting like you’re Eros-touched.”
Haley rolled her eyes. “If the god of love had shot me, I promise I wouldn’t be making kissing sounds at you. I would be getting all hot and sweaty with . . . uh, never mind.” She grimaced. “Think about coming tonight, ‘cause you should.” She turned and started running down the hall. “I’ll call you!”
Hope shook her head.
“You’re not coming to the river?” He leaned against the wall of lockers, blocking her immediate path.
“Not you too.” Hope stepped around him and ran down the hall to class just as the bell rang.
The piece of solitude was balm to her harried week. Hope responded to Athan’s and Haley’s texts with a definitive no. There was no way Hope was going to the river tonight. She needed a break.
But as exhaustion faded, worry wormed its way in.
If only Priska had said where she was going . . . Maybe they could find her. Mr. Davenport had sent a text Monday, telling Hope the same thing: stay put, no news. Was there anything Hope could do?
Useless . . . She was completely useless.
She blew out a breath and looked around her living room. The boxes from last week still sat stacked against the wall by the door.
It was dark out, but purpose burned through her. A few taps on her phone showed there was a Salvation Army in the Dalles. It was late, but not that late.
Hefting the first box, she fumbled at the front door and again as she pushed the button to release the trunk. The cool air tickled her skin, bringing goose bumps to her warm arms, but by the time the car was full, sweat ran from her hairline and soaked into her T-shirt. There were still four boxes inside, but nothing more would fit into her compact car. She’d just have to make a second trip later.
As she sang along to the radio, the thirty-mile drive went quickly. Once off the freeway, she followed the directions to the alley behind the Salvation Army. It wasn’t until she sat the third box down that she actually assessed her surroundings. She crashed from the high of her impulsiveness, suddenly tempered by the risk of being alone in an alley at night. Stupid, stupid, stupid. While the Dalles wasn’t a big city, it was certainly larger than Goldendale.
With the car off, she could hear music and loud, raucous clamor. At this time of night, and that kind of noise . . . There must be a bar nearby. Her heart beat a rhythm of anxiety, and she sped up to finish her task.
The largest box of clothing was wedged into the middle of the back seat. Hope pushed the box to the side then went around to pull it out. As unease raced through her veins, her palms became clammy. The large box was awkward, obstructing her view, and she stumbled over the uneven ground. As she bent to set her donations down, inebriated chortling roiled down the alleyway.
The box slipped from her hands, the contents spilling on the asphalt. The sleeve of her mom’s sweater landed in the gutter, the splash of red contrasting with the darkness around her.
Even before she turned to the car, the fermented stink of alcohol wafted on the breeze. Two men, just more than shadows, came from the left, their drunken gait slow as they ambled toward her car. Even if she ran, she couldn’t get in the car before they reached her. She sucked in a deep breath.
Adrenaline washed through her, and her muscles tensed. The sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears, pages of a book rustled in the wind, and then the sharp intake of breath from a man.
The shorter man leered, and his brown eyes bespoke his mortality, and his smirk promised pain. In his fist, he clenched the handle of something. A hammer? No, a wrench.
The taller man’s gait was steady, and something about his features was . . . off. Wrong. Washed out. And . . . his eyes! Two solid orbs of pitch.
Skia.
She swallowed back fear as it clawed up her throat. Hope grabbed for the golden dagger in her back pocket but came up empty. In another second, they would be in striking distance.
The human raised his arm, and instinctively, she moved. Stepping to the left, she hooked his wrist as he moved to strike, rotated her grip, and lunged behind him. She brought his arm with her, applying torque until she heard the snap. Before he had time to register the pain, she kicked his knees
with the heel of her foot, buckling him to the ground. Not even a second later, he screamed. He dropped the wrench and clutched his shoulder.
She spun to face the other attacker and dropped back into a defensive stance, her arms up in a guard position. The Skia chuckled, a ghostly wheezing sound. They circled each other twice, and Hope struck. She jabbed twice, measuring his ability. Fast and hard. He knew how to fight.
“You are not as you seem,” he rasped.
He reached as if to grab her, and she swung her left leg up in a crescent kick, clearing his arms. Before she brought the leg completely down, she shifted her stance and kicked him in the ribs. Sliding close, she delivered a hook punch where his liver would be, as if the dead still had their organs.
He bent over, exposing his left side, and she slammed her elbow into his jaw. The Skia crumpled to the ground.
Her legs trembled, and it felt like she was running through water, her movements lethargic and contorted. The man wrapped his warm hand around her forearm, and she stumbled.
Panicked, she lashed out with the heel of her palm, bringing her right hand back at the same time as she struck with her left. Over and over and over again. Using every ounce of force, she struck. Bones crunched and warm wetness covered her hands. Only when the man released her arm did she stop.
Hope looked around for the Skia.
The tall figure leaned against the wall of the alley, the shadows lapping at his feet, the weight of his gaze fixed on her.
She shifted back into a defensive stance, waiting for him to attack.
“Interesting.” He tipped his head. “Little monster . . .” He stepped into the shadow and disappeared.
Hope gasped. Just like the other Skia, he was gone. Staring at the shadow, she inched forward.
The Skia stepped back out and grabbed her arm.
“Your presence is requested by my master,” he hissed.
She screamed and yanked her arm away.
He cursed and, with a blade black as pitch, he swung at her.
Hope dropped to the ground, the air above her whistled. As soon as the knife had passed, she jumped up and ran to the car, falling into her seat. Her hands were slick with blood, and she struggled to get the key in the ignition.
