Indigo Springs

by A. M. Dellamonica

  Ignore the noise. Idly, she picked up the kaleidoscope again. Downstairs, she found Jacks haloed by the amber glow of the streetlight outside his window. His chin was dark, stubbly. Jealousy tickled her: he was fast asleep.

  Plan the garden, she thought, watching his chest rise and fall. She hadn’t had her hands in dirt since Sahara arrived. Now she pictured the yard of her new home. Start under the fig tree. Bedding plants for the summer, and in the fall I’ll load it with bulbs—crocuses, daffodils, tulips to go with the hyacinths already flourishing there. There are iris bulbs in the shed….

  She squeezed her eyes shut as Sahara rolled out of bed, tried not to hear the footsteps padding down the hall.

  I’m tired, honest. Sweet peas by the fence…

  She heard the squeak of weight on a soft part of the kitchen floor.

  Don’t listen. Relax. Think about honeysuckle, about where to plant a clematis.

  In the kitchen, water ran in the sink and stopped. Silence. Then the drip sounded again, and Sahara cursed.

  Climbing out of bed, Astrid scrambled down to the kitchen. She found Sahara on hands and knees, with her head in the cupboard under the sink. Her panty-clad bottom peeked out from under an orange T-shirt as she ran her hands along the pipes.

  “You’re blocking my light,” she said, and Astrid dutifully moved. “This is why you’re not charging me rent.”

  “You can pay someone to fix the taps if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “You know Mrs. Skye said the house is haunted?”

  “No. She didn’t say this to Ma, did she?”

  “’Fraid so. According to her, the previous tenants hanged themselves. The owner before that killed his twin daughters and is institutionalized—in Switzerland.”

  “Just what I needed. Ma’s probably halfway to Geneva.”

  “Don’t be hard on Mrs. Skye, Astrid. Her niece is paying some doctor to come certify she’s too deaf and senile to live alone anymore.”

  Astrid thought of the old lady wandering the house, muttering. “You don’t think she’s that bad?”

  “Just overtired. She lost her driver’s license, so she’s walking to work. She just needs a ride, basically, but the niece is taking advantage….”

  “We could help with that, right? Find a carpool.”

  “Yeah. People are such assholes.” Backing out of the cupboard, Sahara blinked at Astrid with reddened eyes.

  Crying over Mark again. “You okay?”

  Sniffing, Sahara nodded. “Pipe’s dry. Bottom of the cupboard too. I don’t think our leak is down here.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.” The drip spoke up obligingly and they canted their heads.

  “Bathroom?” Sahara jerked a thumb in the direction opposite the sound’s apparent source.

  “Shhh.” Listening hard, Astrid turned to face the cavernous living room. “Maybe the chimney?”

  Sahara sprang up, bounding past Astrid to the massive blue-painted fireplace. In the curtain-filtered glow from the Mascer Lane streetlights, it looked less blue, less like an artifact from the honeymoon suite of a tacky hotel. The copper inlay on Dad’s urn glinted in the dim light.

  Stopping in front of the hearth, Sahara traced the mortar seams before laying her ear against the stone.

  Drip-drip.

  “You’re right—it’s louder. Put your head here.”

  Astrid set the kaleidoscope next to her father’s urn and reached up the chimney, tinkering with the flue. “Rainwater maybe, trapped up there?”

  “Could be. We could light a fire, steam it out.” Sahara’s eyes danced—she loved a good blaze.

  “If the water’s falling, where’s it ending up?” She ran a finger along the inside of the fireplace, coming up sooty but dry; then she laid her hand flat under the grate.

  Drip-drop. Faint vibrations buzzed her palm.

  “What is it?” Sahara crowded in beside her.

  “Someone’s sealed the bottom of the fireplace.” Drip-drip and she felt it again, minute impacts under her hand. Like someone was tapping from beneath the sealed surface.

  Sahara pulled the grate free, sprinkling grit and ash everywhere, streaking her T-shirt. Henna, who had been about to squeeze between them, hopped sideways, sniffing as Sahara leaned the grate up on the hearth. She brushed away soot, revealing a grid of bricks grouted against the bottom of the fireplace. It was an odd but solid job, thick mortar sealing the stone into place. It raised the level of the hearth by almost an inch.

  “Must you stomp on my ceiling?” Jacks appeared in the basement doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and his magic watch. He looked sleepy and harassed.

  “Underwear model look suits you, Eligible.”

  “Shut up, Sahara.”

  “Sorry, Jacks,” Astrid broke in. “There’s a drip—”

  “It can wait until morning.”

  “But look at this.” She tapped the bricks.

  He sighed. “Another inept Albert repair job. Maybe the hearth was cracked.”

  Sahara laid a cheek on the smudged brickwork. “What about the sound? It’s coming from underneath.”

  “You’re never going to get down there,” Jacks said. “Let it go. Bad pipes, bad tiles…”

  Drip-drop, agreed the house.

  “This brick’s attached funny,” Sahara said, tugging at the edge of the hearth. “I might work it loose—”

  “To what end? Sahara, leave the property damage for daytime.”

  “Do we have a screwdriver?”

  “I don’t think so,” Astrid said.

  “We could try the Crumbler,” Sahara said.

  “What?”

  “You know. The magic pocketknife.”

  “You want the roof to collapse?” Jacks said.

  “Right, bad idea. But this brick’s loose, I swear.”

  He pointed at the kaleidoscope. “Look down and see what it is.”

  “Hmmm,” Sahara agreed, still worrying at the brick. “I just need some leverage.”

  “It’s probably too dark….” Astrid reached for the kaleidoscope.

  There was a scrape of stone on stone and a deep liquid belch from under the floor. Sahara’s cry of triumph was cut off as a rush of something bright and blue splashed out of the hole, driving the hunk of brick into her forehead. She fell, Astrid catching her awkwardly as the stuff geysered out. Warm, syrup-thick, redolent with lilac and strawberry perfume, the gout of liquid sprayed them both. The remainder hit the ceiling with a wet splud.

  Astrid flinched as the fluid soaked her hand and face. Her eye was tingling and the room was filmed with a faint blue haze. She saw a splatter of blue on Sahara’s throat, centered around the mermaid pendant. A red mark in the middle of her forehead showed where the brick had struck her; its corner had gouged a tiny slice of skin loose. Blood welled from the center of the injury.

  The smell…cloying, flowery…somehow familiar.

  Astrid remembered the broken perfume atomizer from Albert’s sack of junk. It had been oil-wet, slick with an unidentifiable fluid….

  …her head, already achy, began to pound. And suddenly there were whispers, a rhythmic, almost singsong grumble she couldn’t make out….

  Looking faintly scalded, Henna licked a glob of blue off her belly. Only Jacks was untouched—he had stepped away from the hearth just in time. Had the watch moved him? Did that mean the liquid was dangerous?

  He reached out to steady Astrid. “You okay?”

  “I think so.” She blinked hard, and the tingles in her eye became needle sharp. She turned her hand over. It was stained blue, colored by the fluid but already dry.

  “Look.” Sahara pointed at the ceiling.

  Astrid expected to see the rest of the strange blue fluid pooled up there, about to dribble back down on them. But its drops were flat and mobile, sliding together near the light fixture to form one big pool.

  Sahara giggled nervously. “Well, I think we’re ahead. I don’t hear the drip anymore, do you?”


  “Not funny,” Jacks said. “What is this stuff?”

  Astrid’s stomach did a slow roll, as if she were upside down. She ground a fist against her throbbing temple, and the pain spread across the right side of her face.

  Grabbing an ash-shovel from the fireplace, Sahara scooped at the puddle. As she neared it, the puddle stretched in her direction, and she scooped a few spoonfuls into the shovel.

  “Maybe it’s a chemical spill. We should call a hospital. God, Astrid, it’s all over you.”

  “This isn’t pollution, Eligible, relax.” Sahara brought it down, flipping the shovel so they could peer at the stuff. The fluid immediately launched itself at her neck, spattering the mermaid before sinking into her skin.

  “Sahara!”

  She peered up at it. “Do you think it’s attracted to the magical objects?”

  “If so, why’s it up there?” Jacks demanded.

  “Because…” She jittered up and down on her toes. “Because Astrid’s room is above this part of the ceiling, and there’s a bunch of them in her desk!”

  “Great. You’ve got the answers, tell us what it is.”

  “What do you think it is, dummy?”

  “Frankly, I don’t care,” Jacks said. “A handful of weird luck charms was one thing. Flying blue…whatever that is…that’s too much.”

  Sahara’s eyes sparkled within her blue-stained face. “Maybe we can get it into a jar. Hold the mermaid underneath the glass, pull it in?”

  “And what if it’s carcinogenic?” Jacks said.

  “Magic carcinogens? Come on, Astrid and I have both been splashed and we’re not dead.”

  “If that’s supposed to be a rationale for more exposure—”

  “It is, yeah.”

  “That’s like saying you want to swim in radioactive waste because you survived a chest X-ray!”

  “I didn’t say it was a good argument,” Sahara said. “This stuff is magic, guys. Like the widgets.”

  “Chantments,” Astrid corrected, wincing as their voices rose.

  “It may be magical, but that doesn’t make it safe.”

  “If it is dangerous, that’s all the more reason to bottle it. Come on, Astrid, can you really say no?”

  And of course she couldn’t; she never could.

  “No more touching it,” she ordered, trying to placate Jacks and instead sending him into a low fume.

  “Sure, no touching.” Sahara snatched a jar of nails from the windowsill, dumping them onto the hearth.

  “Give it to me.” Jacks took the jar.

  “Why, ’cause you’re the boy?”

  “I’m taller and I’m more careful.”

  “Fine.” Sahara was watching the blue puddle. Then Jacks reached for the mermaid and she stepped back, startled. She opened her mouth to object, but he put a finger to her lips.

  “You shouldn’t be wearing it anyway. Not around us.”

  Sahara looked to Astrid for support.

  “He’s right, Sahara.”

  “I fell asleep with it on, that’s all.” Yanking the pendant over her head, she slapped it into his palm. “I would never use it on you.”

  “That’s good,” Jacks said. “Because if you ever so much as try, I’ll take a blowtorch to it.” He clapped the mermaid underneath the jar and raised it to the ceiling.

  “Nothing’s happening,” he said.

  “Come on,” Astrid muttered.

  Rippling with miniature waves, the large pool flowed obediently into the glass container, leaving a big blue stain on the ceiling.

  • Chapter Nine •

  The following morning Astrid awoke to the sound of tapping at her door. “You in there?” It was Jacks.

  “Yeah, come in.” She sat, making sure her T-shirt was pulled down, before rubbing her ringing head. It was bright outside—too bright—she had slept in again.

  He slipped inside. “You’re lucky I wandered past. I thought you were up at dawn and gone as usual.”

  “I have to get an alarm.” She yawned, mentally ticking through her client list. “I can’t keep sleeping in.”

  “You need to eat more,” he said. “Besides tired, how are you feeling?”

  “My head hurts.”

  He peered into her eyes, expression friendly but detached: his rescue-worker face. “No sign of the blue goo on your face.” He turned her hand over, searching.

  Blue goo. The chantments, Jacks’s watch, the fireplace, and the odd fluid. Astrid had forgotten completely.

  “What is it?” He was still assessing her. “You okay?”

  “Maybe I need some air.”

  He opened her balcony doors. Dew covered the lawns of Mascer Lane in glittering silver beads. Two months into the growing season, the rhododendrons were fading. She could see hints of color among the rosebushes as they prepared to bring in the next wave of blooms.

  A trio of local kids dressed in blue baseball uniforms was walking through the alley. One of them waved, an ordinary gesture that made her feel inexplicably teary.

  “Hey,” she called, waving back.

  Taking a deep breath of the morning air, she looked at her hand, searching for any sign of the blue stain. Bruisy color seemed to puddle under her fingers, then vanished.

  Maybe the magic was gone.

  Jacks had followed her outside. “You’re not okay.”

  “I am. I was just…thinking of Dad,” she lied, and he folded her into a hug. She leaned her aching head against his chest, smothering guilt. Saying it was grief would keep him from dragging her to a doctor.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, suddenly awkward. She remembered dancing with him at Dad and Olive’s wedding. They’d been the same height then; now he towered over her.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I have to get to work. Thanks for waking me.”

  He locked glances with her, still assessing, and she tried to look even-keel. “Call my cell if you need to.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. And no playing with the blue goo until we’re all home tonight.”

  “I promise.” She saluted.

  Once he was gone she lurched over to the dresser, trying on the lipstick and staring at her reflection anxiously. Rumpled, worried Astrid became a picture of tousled glamour; she sighed, reassured, and opened her drawer. If the blue fluid had disappeared from her skin…

  But no—it was there, caught in a sealed pint jar.

  Relieved, she donned her gardening uniform—a layer of sunblock, boots and jeans, T-shirt and a ball cap.

  “Ssst!” Sahara’s hiss drew her across the hall.

  “You rang, milady?”

  Sahara was preening in front of her mirror, clad only in a bra and pan ties, an outfit in each hand. “Interview clothes,” she said. “The suit too much for rural America?”

  The suit was a straw-colored two-piece, slacks and a jacket with a pale green blouse. “Let’s see you in it.”

  “Lecher.”

  “You have an interview?”

  Sahara jerked her head in the direction of her laptop. “Local radio station needs a nighttime host.”

  “You’re looking for work in Indigo Springs?”

  “I have this addiction to money. Without it I get all hungry and strung out. The withdrawal’s awful.”

  “What happened to ‘This is a stopover on the way to Los Angeles’?” Astrid asked. “Or ‘you’d better keep me entertained if I’m going to last three weeks—’?”

  Sahara winked. “Believe me, I’m entertained.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  Astrid blushed. “Is your interview with Matt Goode?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wear the skirt, then. And act like you’re glad to be out of the big bad city.”

  “Shucks, sir, I always was a country girl at heart.”

  “Lay it on half that thick and you’re a shoo-in.”

  Tossing the suit aside, Sahara pulled the dress over
her head. “I could just mermaid him into hiring me.”

  “You need magic to get a job in your own field?” Astrid asked.

  “Of course not,” Sahara said. “How do I look?”

  The dress was cream-colored linen, stylish but reasonably conservative. “Perfect,” Astrid said.

  Sahara unrolled a pair of nylons and slid into them, every move graceful. “Hey, were you serious about wanting to fall in love?”

  “Why?”

  “Classifieds. Same webpage as the job listings. ‘Shy guy, thirty, just discharged from army, loves hiking, fishing, watersports…’”

  “I am not answering a personals ad. Anyway, that would be David Crane.”

  “The guy who used to spit on people’s desk chairs at school?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then how are you going to get yourself a man?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Want a make over?” Turning to the profusion of bottles and brushes on her dresser, Sahara selected a comb and began working on her hacked-up hair.

  “Thanks, no.”

  “Let me help you find some new clothes, at least. Your good stuff got trashed by the Crumbler, didn’t it?”

  “The what—oh, the magic pocketknife.” Astrid tilted her head. “I might agree to clothes shopping.”

  “I bet you and Jacks can tell me exactly how many available men are in town.”

  “Just men? Are we shopping for you or for me?”

  “Well, I am on the market too. Besides, if there were any single lesbians in town besides Jemmy, you’d have made your move.” To Astrid’s surprise, the hair was taking shape, curling around Sahara’s face as obediently as if it had been professionally styled. She spritzed it with something that smelled of pineapples and chocolate.

  She fiddled with the mermaid pendant. “Maybe this isn’t a good time for an Astrid romance project.”

  “There’s never a good time. Love is by definition a vast inconvenience.”

  “Cynic.”

  “We’ll just make a list of candidates, okay?”

  “Not now—I’m running late.”

  “Wait, don’t go! There’s something else.”