by P. R. Frost
“Who?” I whispered.
An image of a bubbly blonde. Gayla, the woman I had dragged in out of a thunderstorm and nursed through the imp flu. Sister Gert had tried to refuse her entrance, the infirmary was full, resources stretched to the limit. Maybe Sister Gert sensed that this bright and bubbly personality would become a rival for the leadership of the Sisterhood. Whatever, I couldn’t leave her out there to die alone. Under Sister Serena’s direction I had lanced the festering wounds of the infection. Our kinship went deeper than our scars.
What followed wasn’t truly a conversation, but it’s easier to convey in that manner.
“I need advice,” I whispered with voice and mind.
“Should I get Sister Serena or Sister Gert?”
“Let me talk to you first.” I sent a flood of information about WindScribe, the Orculli trolls, the Windago. At the last second I tucked in a bit about making a votive offering.
“All other dimensional beings are evil! You must kill all you encounter.” Sister Gert’s voice blasted across the miles in an almost physical manifestation.
I winced at her volume and intensity.
“But the prison warden of the universe?”
“He’s a troll. He’s evil.”
I always knew the leader of my Sisterhood was single-minded, with blinders on. Was that a redundant statement? Well, Sister Gert embodied redundancy.
“What about my leadership brooch, Teresa?” Sister Gert continued, barely stopping for breath. “When are you going to return my brooch?”
I let a long chasm of silence come between us. Scrap had given me the brooch. I wasn’t about to give it to a woman I didn’t like and barely respected.
“Don’t worry about the right or wrong of the Orculli trolls,” Gayla intervened. “Just do what you have to do.”
On a more private line of communication I sensed an upcoming vote between her and Gert about leadership of that particular branch of the Sisterhood.
“Okay. I can handle a fight with the trolls, though I’d like backup. Any chance of linking me to another Citadel?”
“I’ll see if there are any rogues in your area,” Gayla said.
“Rogues? I thought I was the only one.”
“Not anymore. Things are changing. New portals opening. A lot more traffic back and forth. We can no longer work in isolation.”
“And Gert doesn’t believe that,” I confirmed. “The old ways have worked so long she can’t envision any kind of change.”
“Correct.” Hesitancy, like there might be an eavesdropper.
“Good luck with the election. The Sisterhood needs you.”
“They need you, too. My first change will be to open communications.”
“Then make sure someone answers the telephone.” I felt a lot more comfortable and less alone with Gayla in charge.
“Gotcha.”
“What about the votive offering.”
“You have to question that?” Gayla came through almost as strong as Sister Gert had before. “I would think that would be the obvious course of action.”
“Obvious to you. I’m not sure I should bother . . .”
“Bother, Tess.” Gayla’s tone turned soft, confidential. A friend giving sound advice.
“If you think it will help . . .”
“I know it will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I believe.”
Scrap believed in a number of Gods and Goddesses. Mom had a deep and abiding faith.
I wished I could believe in something bigger and better than just my own strength and resolve.
Chapter 29
GRADUALLY I ROSE up through layers of meditation to an awareness of reality. I felt refreshed in mind and body, as if I’d slept deeply for an entire night.
Not for long.
A crash of cast iron frying pans hitting something metallic brought me the rest of the way back with a jolt. My temples throbbed. Candlelight pierced my eyes like a laser strobe. Too fast. I’d come out of the trance too fast. I don’t think my soul had a chance to catch up with my body.
I leaned forward and blew out the candles.
Another crash from the region of the kitchen, muffled by distance and thick walls.
I winced and tried to huddle back into myself.
I crawled out of the recliner, my joints just a little liquid with languor. Time to be the adult in the household.
I trudged through the house toward the kitchen, making my way by feel more than sight. I could too easily tip over from extreme relaxation to headache.
Blinking against the glare of sunset coming in through the bay window, I stood stock-still in the doorway from the butler’s pantry. WindScribe stood in the middle of the kitchen with a small saucepan in her hand, ready to throw it. MoonFeather sat at the island, out of the direct path of the girl’s aim.
Allie held a defensive position in front of the refrigerator, ready to duck or retreat when the next missile flew. A pile of heavy cookware lay at her feet and a big dent shadowed the fridge door behind Allie.
Damn, that would cost a mint to repair. I couldn’t afford to replace it.
Mike skulked at the breakfast table, not much more than a shadow, recording everything in a notebook as well as with a small digital recorder.
“What is going on here?” I asked as mildly as I could while I wrestled the pan out of WindScribe’s hands.
She whirled on me with hands extended like claws, ready to rake my face with her broken nails. For all the time she spent primping with my lipstick, she could have borrowed a nail file and used it.
“She’s lying!” WindScribe screeched. At the moment she sounded akin to the Windago.
I reared back.
“She’s spreading vicious lies about me.”
“Want to explain that?” I asked Allie.
“Actually, I am the one guilty of speaking too frankly about the WindScribe I knew in the past,” MoonFeather said. She sounded calm, but her eyes held shadows of inner pain.
“So why is she attacking Allie?”
“Because I tried to get her to speak honestly.” Allie shrugged and took a cautious step toward MoonFeather at the island.
“They both lie. I never did those things. Never, never, never,” WindScribe insisted. Fat tears welled up in her eyes and she . . . pouted.
That convinced me she lied. Her pout was too studied, too pretty. A mask.
“What did you accuse her of?”
“According to the old police records, the night before the coven went missing, WindScribe broke into her neighbor’s house and stole a diamond pendant and three valuable cocktail rings. Then she took a false prescription for Darvon to the pharmacy and had it filled— which she didn’t pay for. When she left, she shoplifted a bunch of candles and incense.”
“Lies!”
“Darvon?” I asked.
“It’s rarely used now,” MoonFeather said. “A powerful painkiller. Too addictive and too many abuses.”
“So, thirty years in Faery didn’t cure your addiction?” I cocked an eyebrow at the girl.
“I’m not addicted.” She stamped her foot like a two year old. Physically, she might be eighteen, but I don’t think she’d matured beyond twelve.
“Then what happened to an entire bottle of thirty tablets of tranquilizers?”
“I’m not addicted. I need help opening my mind to the wonders of the universe. Only when we break through the barriers that society imposes upon our psyches can we experience true vision. But I’m not addicted. I’m not. Only losers get addicted.”
I let that one pass.
“Speaking of losers, we picked up the girl from the mugging last night, Julie Martinez,” Allie said. “She really was the ringleader behind the muggings. And the boy Francis Jorgenson is recovering from his broken trachea,” Allie told me. “The DA says you acted in self-defense. No charges against you. All three kids are facing trial in adult court. They’re seventeen and high school seniors.”
<
br /> That was a relief. And a sadness. Those kids had destroyed their promise of a future. Much as WindScribe was doing, or had done.
“So, Allie provides the police record from thirty years ago, and I’m guessing you, MoonFeather, corroborated the story from personal experience. You’d seen her stoned more than once.”
“I will not lie. I had witnessed WindScribe indulging in her little . . . hobby too many times. Not always in her quest for enlightenment. I’d noticed her wearing expensive jewelry and exotic perfume I did not believe she or her parents could afford. As much as I believe in the threefold law and refrain from speaking ill of anyone, I felt that Allie needed to know the truth.”
“What happened to the jewelry?” I asked.
WindScribe clamped her mouth shut and shot me a mutinous glance.
“I’m guessing you used it as bribes in Faery. Maybe one of those shiny baubles got you out of King Scazzy’s prison?”
“That would mean . . . no, I won’t believe it. I can’t believe you’d actually do something so . . . dangerous.” MoonFeather shook her head, grabbed her crutches, and made to leave the kitchen.
I stopped her by simply removing the crutches from her grasp. She had to remain sitting.
“You won’t believe what?” I asked.
MoonFeather kept shaking her head.
WindScribe edged sideways toward the outside door. Mike shifted position, ready to grab her as she passed him.
“Let me guess,” I said trying to capture MoonFeather’s gaze. “The coven planned a different spell. They wanted to invite some of the faeries here. For enlightenment. Maybe to improve Earth in some way. But WindScribe deliberately altered the ritual. They all got whisked away to Faery instead.”
WindScribe gasped.
MoonFeather’s silence confirmed my suspicion.
"A dangerous thing to try, WindScribe. But stealing the jewelry and stocking up on pain pills before going makes it premeditated, not an accident.”
"I didn’t think she was that stupid,” MoonFeather whispered. “Perhaps desperate is a better word.” She looked up, having found a way to avoid saying anything bad about the girl.
“Stupid is the right word,” I said. The threefold law was MoonFeather’s path, not mine. I didn’t believe in Gods and Goddesses and karma and destiny and such.
If I told myself that often enough, I’d believe that. And I wouldn’t do something useless like make that votive offering tonight at moonset.
“The statute of limitations has run out on the theft,” Allie said. "I can’t arrest you, WindScribe. But I have to warn you that I am watching you. Anything like that happens again, and I will put you away. Our prisons are probably just as nasty as anything King Scazzy can come up with.” She turned abruptly and left. Without saying good-bye.
She was pissed. Really pissed. I hadn’t seen her like this since junior year in high school. She’d caught Zach Halohan—the chief constable’s son—cheating on a final exam. Then she got into more trouble than he did for tattling.
“How’s your arm, Mike?” I called after him as he tried to slip out the door unnoticed.
“Fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Was he hurt?” Allie poked her head back inside from the mudroom.
“Ask him.”
“I will.”
“You had better clean up the mess you made, WindScribe. If you want anyone to cook for you, those pans all need to be washed and put away properly.” I turned on my heel and exited as well.
Maybe I could justify having Gollum pay for the repair to the fridge out of the trust fund.
“I suppose you are going to desert me, too?” WindScribe sneered at MoonFeather. "Of all these losers and control freaks, I thought you would understand.”
“I understand. I do not approve. I’ve learned a lot about freedom and the responsibility that comes with it. Running away is not the answer. Drugs are not the answer. ”
"Then what is!” WindScribe demanded.
“That is something you have to figure out for yourself. Me telling you won’t help at all. I’d help with the washing up, but as you see, I cannot stand. Tess, will you help me back to bed?”
"Your ghosts are afraid of her,” MoonFeather whispered as we negotiated the step down from the butler’s pantry to the dining room. “They are all huddled in the library, as far from her as they can get.”
“What can frighten a ghost? They’re already dead?”
“What is dead but another transition? Ghosts have more transitions to make than most of us.”
Another pan hit the floor.
The sun set. We all gathered for a dinner of stew and fresh rolls in the formal dining room—except Donovan. He seemed strangely silent and absent. WindScribe had managed to put enough stuff away to give me enough pots to cook with. But the kitchen was still a mess.
The wind came up. I jumped and started at the first rattling window.
Gollum didn’t come home.
I picked at my food, listening diligently for the sound of his van wheezing across the gravel drive. No one else talked much. We watched each other and waited for someone else to make the first move into or away from politeness.
Finally, my cell phone rang. I breathed deeply for the first time in an hour at the caller ID.
“Gollum.”
“Tess, I think I need your help.”
“What’s up?” I couldn’t disguise my instant alertness from anyone. They all seemed to listen in, with different intent.
“Have you noticed the Wind?” He spoke cautiously, as if aware of listeners.
I caught the special inflection. “Yes. Where are you?”
“Just about to turn in at your street. But this van is top-heavy with a high turning radius. I’m afraid she’ll tip over.”
She as in the van or in Lilia David the Widowed Windago?
“On my way.”
“Tess, what can possibly be more important than finishing your dinner?” Mom admonished me. She looked at Darren rather than me.
“She’s an adult, Genevieve. Let her run her own life,” MoonFeather came to my defense.
“A little politeness toward your mother is expected,” Darren said. He smirked, as if he were my real father and not an unwanted step.
“My house. My rules,” I gave him back the same sickly sweet smile. “I’m done. I cooked. Someone else can clean up.” I stared meaningfully at WindScribe as I dashed for the kitchen.
Scrap turned scarlet and began stretching before I got my jacket zipped.
By the time I reached the gravel, he was fully extended and ready to taste monster blood.
The wind whipped my breath away and tangled my hair. I twirled the Celestial Blade above my head, cutting through the suddenly warmer air.
