Indigo Springs

by A. M. Dellamonica

  “Could you act freaked out—too upset to talk?” Astrid suggested.

  “I’m no actor. But listen, after you get this…vitagua, you called it?”

  Astrid nodded.

  “After it’s hid, you can tell the truth, more or less. I saw the Chief break in here. He did attack Sahara.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “As for what happened after—is it true Astrid hit him to get him off you?”

  “Yes,” Astrid said slowly. “We’ve got the ax marks on the door—”

  “And you’re all banged up,” Jacks added in a hoarse voice. “As long as nobody said anything about magic…”

  “Please. My niece’d toss me in the psych ward,” Mrs. Skye said. “But what about Mark?”

  Sahara glowered. “Do we care?”

  “Yes,” Astrid answered firmly. “We absolutely do.”

  “Then maybe you ought to ask my opinion,” Mark rasped.

  Sahara’s lip curled. Jacks scowled back, a warning.

  “Go ahead,” Astrid said.

  Mark shook his head, as if to clear it. “First off, you all officially suck. Second, she—” He pointed at Sahara. “—stops zapping me, or whatever you call it.”

  “That seems reasonable,” Mrs. Skye said. Jacks nodded.

  “Why not take the mermaid off, Sahara?” Astrid said.

  Face taut, Sahara stuck the pendant in her pocket. “Happy?”

  “Third,” Mark said. “Me and the old lady are now part of the gang. We vote on what to do, we get a share of the magic goodies—”

  “No way,” said Sahara, rising. “Not a chance.”

  He spread his hands. “I cooperate, nobody has to feel guilty. Everything gets simpler. Isn’t that right?”

  Mrs. Skye said, “I’m not sure I want a share….”

  “It’s a deal,” Astrid said.

  “This is crazy,” Sahara protested. “He’s an untrustworthy piece of shit. He’ll betray us.”

  “So we make him our puppet?” Astrid said.

  “We can’t do that, Sahara,” said Jacks.

  “Okay, I know. That would be wrong.” Sahara bared her teeth in an insincere attempt at a smile, and Astrid saw that her lips were strangely stiff. “But tell me—what do we say to the cops when we come out?”

  Mark said, “I’ll tell them I panicked when Jacks blamed me for the Chief’s death.”

  Astrid said: “Panicked…you freaked out?”

  “I knew I was in trouble, I saw the shotgun….”

  “Yeah, I can work with this,” Sahara said. “He was worked up, because of the prank I played in Boston—”

  “Prank.” He sneered. “You framed me for—”

  “They’ll still charge you for shooting at them, Mark.” The skin under Jacks’s eyes was gray; he looked decades older. “They aren’t going to laugh and slap your wrist.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got that mermaid. If you gave it to me, I could convince them to let me go.”

  Sahara gave him a flat, venomous glance.

  “Or you give me something just as…” He groped for a word, then beamed. “Powerful. Something powerful.”

  “You’d be taking a big chance,” Astrid said uneasily.

  “Clearly the rewards are gonna be worth the risk.”

  “There has to be another way,” Sahara said. “Astrid, you can’t let him blackmail us.”

  Jacks glared. “If you hadn’t been playing with people’s minds, Sahara, this would never have happened.”

  “We can fix this, Jacks.”

  “You can’t fix him!” he bellowed, pointing at his father. “Your screwing around got someone killed.”

  “Why are you yelling at me? Am I in charge here? Did I bash Lee’s head in? You want to be pissed at me so you don’t have to face up to the fact that the love of your life killed your old man—” Jacks barely moved, but Sahara shut up suddenly, backing away.

  “She’s right,” Astrid said, convinced he was about to deck her. “It is my fault, Jacks.”

  He stared at them, face bleak and furious, fists clenched.

  “The point,” Mark said, “is that if I cooperate, nobody’s going to jail. Not me, not Astrid.”

  Sure, the grumbles laughed. She bit her lip, fighting the misgivings. “So the Chief attacks Sahara, I kill the Chief, Mark gets blamed, Mark freaks out. Isn’t that kind of a feeble story?”

  Sahara shook her head, still cat-tense and watching Jacks. “That’s because it’s practically true. The cops have heard dumber things than this, believe me.”

  Astrid touched the gash the Chief had made in her forearm. “Jacks?”

  “It’s all we’ve got,” he muttered. “If nothing else, it might buy us some time to run.”

  Us. Astrid smiled wanly, thinking idly of jail cells and interrogations that hadn’t happened yet.

  “Pat?” Sahara asked Mrs. Skye.

  Mrs. Skye gave Sahara a stern look. “You keep Mark out of jail and I’ll keep quiet about the magic.”

  Pat, Astrid mused. She’d never known the old woman’s first name.

  “Mark will be okay, promise.” Sahara patted her hand. “So—now there’s a plan, how about you get out of here?”

  Mrs. Skye took the kaleidoscope from Jacks, looking out at the street. “They’ve trampled those flowers you put in my garden.”

  “Pat?”

  “I’m not leaving Mark in here with you three.”

  “Fine,” Sahara said, flapping her arms in frustration. “Don’t blame me if something happens. You could be out there right now sharing your ordeal with the reporters, selling your story to the highest bidder.”

  “Reporters?” Astrid said.

  Wordlessly, Mrs. Skye passed over the kaleidoscope. Astrid squeezed her clenched fist tighter, ensuring she could still concentrate on pushing the liquid magic into the unreal. Then she peered at the mob outside her house.

  The police were tense, alert, and numerous, in sharp contrast to the spectators wilting in the wretched heat. Townspeople were gathered behind yellow tape, some furtively munching convenience store goodies—potato chips, chocolate bars, and nuts. Sure enough, there was a news van out there, a battered-looking vehicle with a satellite dish on top and an excited camera crew.

  How long since Mark had fired at the Sheriff—two hours?

  This won’t work, Astrid thought. The resistance from the unreal increased as her hope faltered—she had to push harder, to squeeze her fist until the knuckles were white.

  “I can’t sit in here with him anymore,” Jacks said. Pushing past Sahara, he headed upstairs.

  Astrid found him in Sahara’s room, pacing and red with anger.

  “I’m sorry, Jacks.”

  He kicked the bedframe, rattling it so hard, a screw fell out. “Dad killed Albert?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And he hurt Sahara. He hurt you.”

  “If we’d been more discreet, like you said…”

  He kicked the bed again. “If he’d hurt you, I’d have killed him myself.”

  She was afraid to reach for him.

  “All that ‘follow in my path’ stuff. Dad wanted me to be one of them.”

  “A Fyreman. Yeah.”

  “Witch-burners. He wanted me to murder people.” He laughed, rubbing his eyes. “So why am I mad at you?”

  “I’m still here?” She kicked off the high heels, tears running down her face. I didn’t mean for this to happen, she wanted to say, but what kind of excuse was that? “I could go to jail, Jacks. Confess, not fight it.”

  He sat, head lowered. “Then the well closes, right? Dad wins, it was all for nothing, and you and I—”

  Footsteps interrupted him. The others came in, settling around them: Sahara crowding next to Astrid, Mrs. Skye perching in a wicker chair. Mark hovered at the doorway.

  The phone rang, an electronic shrill that made them jump. Mark took it from Sahara. “Hello?”

  Low words bumbled from the receiver, inaudible. “
Demands? Um, no,” Mark said. “I’m hashing things out with my ex, that’s all. I’ll let everyone go real soon.” With that, he hit the disconnect.

  “You shouldn’t incriminate yourself,” Mrs. Skye said.

  “What do you know about it, Pat?”

  “It makes him look guiltier, Sahara.”

  “We’re gonna get him off, how many times do I have to tell you? He’ll have a wonderful life and we’ll keep him out of prison. Okay?”

  “It’ll work out,” Mark said, pocketing the phone. “I’m coming out ahead on this one way or another.”

  “See, he’s not worried,” Sahara said irritably. “Is anyone else hungry? We’re going to pass out if we don’t fuel up.” With that, she flounced out of the room.

  “She can’t charm every cop in the state,” Mrs. Skye said.

  “No,” Astrid said. “She probably can’t.”

  The woman put her hands on Astrid’s cheeks, peering deeply into her eyes. “You owe Mark. He’s taking the blame for you.”

  “She’s right,” Jacks said. “And Sahara’s never going to give him Siren.”

  Astrid nodded, looking at Mark. A chantment, then. Something the police wouldn’t confiscate…

  She clenched her fist again, concentrated. The vitagua downstairs was still moving out of the real. Carefully, she drew on the magic still pooled within her, bringing it through the cut the Chief had made in her arm. Vitagua flowed down her wrist to her index finger, and she reached out, touching the plastic frames of Mark’s glasses. The fluid vanished into them, glowing bright blue and then dimming. When Astrid dropped her hand, they seemed brand-new, almost sparkling.

  “The glasses will make people believe you,” she said in a low voice. “When you say you’re innocent—when you say anything that’s true—they’ll buy it.”

  Mark’s eyes gleamed—with greed? “What good does that do me if the sharpshooters get trigger happy?”

  Chilling thought. Grasping the barrel of the shotgun, Astrid chanted it too. “Point this at the window and pull the trigger,” she said.

  “You crazy?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Mark fired the rifle. It clicked softly, and then the windowsill stretched like taffy, growing up over the glass and creating a hardwood barrier.

  “No bullet’s getting through that,” she said.

  “So I can lock us in,” Mark said. “What if we want out?”

  “Smack the butt of the gun against the barricade,” Astrid said.

  He shot at the bedroom door, watching the wood grow over it before doing as she’d said. The barrier flaked to dust, leaving an ordinary door behind.

  “I’m starving,” he said.

  “Magic takes energy,” Astrid replied.

  “Can I do the other windows without passing out?”

  Should they tell Mark about the cantations? She looked at Jacks.

  “As long as you eat and rest,” he said. “Sahara’s getting food.”

  “Cool.” With that, Mark went out into the hall, pointing and clicking the trigger at every possible entry point into the house.

  Astrid looked at Mrs. Skye. “Are we good now?”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” the old woman said. She dabbed at Astrid’s gashed arm with the edge of her shirtsleeve. “They’ll break you up, girl. Separate you, ask what happened about a hundred times. Take your stories, chop ’em up. Finally one or another of you will slip and tell some kind of truth that can’t be taken back.”

  “Sahara can keep that from happening,” Astrid said.

  “That girl.” Mrs. Skye’s tone was sad. “She’s too pleased with the sound of her voice.”

  The statement sent ice crawling down Astrid’s back.

  “I should check on her.” Jacks disappeared down the hall.

  “This is a big damn mess,” Mrs. Skye muttered.

  “I’ll make other things to help us.” Astrid fumbled for the lipstick, one-handed. “Would you take this one? If we end up in jail, at least I’ll have gotten a few chantments out.”

  “What’s it do?”

  Astrid blushed. “Makes you pretty.”

  “Isn’t Sahara watching the inventory?”

  “You’re part of the gang, remember? Besides, she doesn’t know about this one.”

  “Oh, kid.” The old lady’s face filled with sympathy. “Don’t you see what you’re saying? You don’t trust her.”

  Astrid’s eyes welled with tears; she almost lost her grip on the vitagua downstairs. “I have to help her.”

  “You won’t help by dancing to her tune.” Mrs. Skye leaned into the mirror, putting on the lipstick and blotting her lips with a cotton hankie. Together they watched her features become stronger, the weariness around her eyes vanishing as the salt-and-pepper hair thickened, leaving her looking both beautiful and formidable.

  “Cute trick.” With a sigh, she tucked the lipstick into her pocket. “What if you put that earring on her?”

  “On Sahara?”

  “It made you forget about magic, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Hold her down, put it on, get Mark to send her out to the cops before she can make any more trouble.”

  Astrid opened her mouth to refuse but the others returned, Sahara and Jacks each carrying a tray piled with random foods: a big bowl of instant soup, crackers, a salad made of canned asparagus and a mixture of pickles.

  “Things look good downstairs,” Jacks said. “The vitagua is almost gone. We can go soon.”

  “Good,” Astrid said fervently. It was taking more and more effort to keep the flow going.

  With the windows sealed, the room seemed like a cave. The temperature had dropped but the air tasted close, stale. They all smelled of nerves and blood.

  Jacks sat beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders.

  She kissed his cheek, pleased. He was on her left side; Sahara was curled on the floor at her right. The three of them picked at the makeshift feast, and the phone did not ring again.

  For that last half hour, Astrid could believe that it could stay this way, that she’d find a way to make the events of this terrible day recede without ripples, that the trouble would wash away and leave her with the two people she loved most.

  • Chapter Thirty •

  “It’s gotta be time by now,” Mrs. Skye said, as they neared the end of their meal. “Should we check?”

  “I’ll go.” Draining the last drops of her lukewarm soup, Astrid rose.

  “We’ll all go.” Sahara hopped up, brushing invisible dust from her slacks. She had eaten nothing but pickles. Her eyes were peculiar, dark and inhuman.

  I should have drained her while she was unconscious.

  Pushing on the vitagua to hold it out of the real, Astrid tried to see forward, to see if danger lay ahead.

  Nothing. The grumbles were all but silent.

  Good riddance, then. “Come on.”

  Leaving the dishes on the floor, they trooped downstairs, single file, to see if it was time to surrender.

  It would be okay, Astrid thought. They had magic on their side, after all—Sahara would Siren the authorities, and with the evidence of magic hidden away…

  It was a shock to come upon the body of the Chief again, the motionless hump on the living room floor, covered in the drop cloth. Astrid flashed on swinging the block of ice, hitting him—and cringed.

  Jacks groped for her hand. “It was self-defense,” he whispered, voice thready but firm, and she nodded fiercely.

  They crept up to the fireplace, searching for any trace of blue. There was nothing. The vitagua was gone.

  “We’re done,” Sahara said. “Quick, Astrid, freeze it and we’ll tidy up.”

  “We’re not done,” Astrid said. “Sahara, I need to drain you.”

  “No way! Henna died—”

  “You know it’s safe. I’ve done it three times now.”

  “I need it,” Sahara said. “To gauge the cops…” She looked at J
acks pleadingly.

  “I’m with Astrid on this.”

  “And what a big surprise that is.”

  “Sahara…” Astrid grasped for a gentle way to induce her friend to allow the drain. “It’s the best way.”

  “It’s not best for me!”

  Jacks gave her a sidelong glance, eyebrow raised in query. Offering to grab Sahara, perhaps, make her submit?

  It might be the only way. Sahara had always been headstrong, selfish even, and the liquid magic was making her worse.

  And it had to be done. It wasn’t just her eyes that had changed—the skin of her hands was pink and rough, and the streaks in her hair were more apparent, light circles on glossy, almost green-tinted hair.

  Hold her down, drain her, and use the earring to make her forget, as Mrs. Skye had suggested. But Sahara had been betrayed by everyone she’d ever loved.

  No. Try reason. “Sahara, I’m in charge of the spring. You said so yourself.”

  “You’re punishing me for causing the spill.”

  “Your eyes look strange. They’ll notice.”

  “We mermaid them into ignoring it!”

  “Sahara—”

  “I said no.” She threw out a hand in a stop gesture, and caught Astrid under the chin with her index finger.

  The jolt of contact brought knowledge with it, a sense of how fast Sahara was falling—had fallen—into vitagua-induced madness. Their plight didn’t matter—all that mattered was getting more magic. The grumbles were telling her things about all of them, intoxicating knowledge….

  Astrid jerked back, raising a hand to her neck. Her clamped-down concentration on the fireplace—on the vitagua flood—broke.

  The house trembled, shivering at first and then bucking. They all fell, Jacks pitching toward the kitchen, Sahara and Astrid doing an involuntary dance near the front door. Mark caught Mrs. Skye before she could pitch down the steps, then tumbled onto the carpet.

  Outside, they heard car horns and people shouting.

  Vitagua geysered out of the fireplace in a rush, spraying the room, washing over Mark, crumbling the hearth. Hunks of brick and mortar bounced on the carpet as the floor around the fireplace caved in, revealing the basement, the open maw of the freezer. Astrid had pushed it under the first vitagua leak but it had been perfectly cleaned out, just like everything else. Now it overflowed as the vitagua poured out in a gush.