Lies That Blind

by Diana Rose Wilson

  With another sweeping look across the bar, she picked out the finer details in the wreckage. She realized that the items on the bar were chess pieces, knights and rooks scattered and soaked in booze.

  All the kings’ horses, and all the kings’ men, couldn’t put Amy together again, she thought.

  As her ribs tried to crush her heart, she registered the worst possible piece to the entire tableau. Without thinking, she took a step forward, boots crunching on glass.

  Across the broken mirror behind the bar was spray painted.

  Cunt! Go Home!

  No, that couldn’t be right. She read the demand written in ugly black paint, but the words did not change. The letters continued bleeding down the fractured silver.

  Oh…no.

  They most certainly could not have vandalized her aunt’s bar. Her family bar. Her bar. They did not mean her!

  She tasted ozone for a moment and let her eyes fall closed.

  Easy. Calm, the voice inside her warned. The voice growled a low, soothing command.

  Still, she tasted ash and fire.

  The sour mash of whiskey and vodka was overpowering. She closed her eyes as though she could shut it all out and felt her nose sting with the burn of tears. The bar was—

  The unfamiliar emotion swimming up was snuffed out by anger and she saw red in the darkness behind her eyelids. She had to get out of there before she completely lost it.

  She walked outside, tipping her face up to the sun. The sun roasted her and she filled her lungs with air that felt cold in her lungs.

  Calm.

  Right.

  She paced up and down the path, trying to put her thoughts in reasonable order. Report this to the police? Did this one-pony town have police? Dear God. The description could be anyone. She didn’t even have eye color. Random black-clad baddies.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Then, up walked Sophia and Vivianne, arm in arm. Sophia wore a bubblegum-pink dress, matching lipstick, nail polish and a flower in her hair. Vivianne was dressed in crisp denim shorts and a silk top. Her hair was pinned back and her indigo eyes were hard little stones.

  They paused when they saw her and Frankie groaned inwardly. She could feel them looking her over. Not only picking out her dressed-down clothes but the marks on her body she had not bothered to conceal. Bruises on her exposed arms and legs, bite marks like she’d been mauled. Crossing her arms over her chest, she drew up her walls and balanced to fight.

  “What’s going on?” Vivianne asked in a sharp tone, nostrils flared, clearly smelling the fumes from inside. Her expression seemed to indicate she thought Frankie was the source a more unpleasant stink.

  “Oh, bar warming party,” Frankie said, blocking their path to the bar. “Don’t fucking go in there. I haven’t reported this yet.”

  “What in the hell?” Vivianne snapped and looked past her, seeing some of the damage from the open door. “Why aren’t you doing something? You let this happen? Oh, my God!”

  Calm slipped and Frankie gripped her hands into fists until the ring bit into the mark on her palm. The jolt was unexpectedly pleasant but the unfamiliar sensation snapped her back to her center. She blew out a breath rather than the insults she wanted to sling.

  Both women drew back at her expression. “I just got here. I am doing something.” Like trying not to lose my fucking shit. She didn’t say it aloud.

  Sophia, finally wrestling past her shock, showed some compassion. “This is horrible. We could call Christopher. He could—”

  “No,” Frankie said. “I don’t need a white knight right now. I’ve got this.” Humiliation crawled up her throat at the thought of Christopher riding in to make this right. She pulled out her cell phone.

  “Who do you think you’re calling?” Vivianne demanded.

  Gently, Intuition whispered, low and steady when fire sparked at the back of her throat.

  “I’m calling 9-1-1. I need to report this.” The edge was not gentle.

  Vivianne recoiled a step, blinking at her and then glanced at Sophia.

  “Frankie.” Sophia’s tone was a soft, kind plea. “That might not be the best idea.”

  “You can’t just invite outsiders into this,” Vivianne said over Sophia.

  “Oh, but I can. Welton responsibility and all that. You heard it yourself yesterday.” She swept a hand to the bar. “My bar. My responsibility.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Vivianne seethed. “You are asking for trouble. People will ask questions. They will dig around. They will… That is not how it’s done here, Frankie Welton.” She said the last name as disparagingly as she could, as though she doubted Frankie’s lineage.

  “If not Christopher, go to Barbara, or Delphine first. Or…Or…a Wallace. Uh, Marion. All level-headed, all…safe. Frankie, please,” Sophia begged.

  Secrets. She imagined trying to tell the police about the knife. How it sucked hungrily at her. Running a hand through her hair, she remembered how the blade melted through the curls. Not natural.

  In her mind, she replayed the size of the vandals. Not so big. Younger? Or— Her hands tightened. Mambo. One of them could be. The prospect made her anger heat.

  “I don’t know why not Christopher,” Vivianne hissed, looking pointedly at her neck and the marks as though reading some sort of message in the pattern of his roughly applied fingerprints. Owned by, Christopher Harris-Wallace.

  Fuck.

  She turned and walked toward the bar, dialing Barbara Harris-Wallace. She had to stop when she heard the pair coming after her and whirled, pointing them back down the walkway. They were not getting through her and into that mess before she had some plan in order.

  It picked up on the first ring. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Barbara?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “It’s Frankie.”

  “I know.” Barbara laughed softly,

  “Ah, right. This is very awkward, but there’s been an incident at the bar. Vivianne and Sophia are stringently requesting I not call the authorities for help.”

  There was a strange sort of pause, followed by a thoughtful. “Well, that is sage advice. What on earth happened?”

  Frankie provided a vague rundown of events, finishing with. “I hardly think this is the time to sweep things under the rug. I need to report this and I need to do the insurance claims and the—”

  “Frankie. I’ll be right down. Just take a deep breath and relax. This will all be taken care of.” And with that Barbara ended the call.

  Chapter 13

  Secrets

  It took less time for Barbara to get down to the Salamander than it did for Frankie to relax. Vivianne’s continued animosity didn’t help despite Sophia running interference between them.

  Vivianne solicitously performed the salute to Barbara. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here.” She slid a sour look at Frankie before moving forward to meet Barbara. “Can you believe this?”

  Barbara arched both eyebrows and stared at Vivianne until the younger woman hesitated, hand falling from over her heart. Only then did Barbara turn to Frankie. She noted the marks and inclined her head with a smile of approval before pressing fist to chest and holding it for particularly long.

  “Lady Welton.” She walked past Vivianne and Sophia to Frankie. “Let us talk inside.”

  Once Frankie had closed and locked the door, Barbara swept in and gave her a tight hug. The embrace was full of grief, relief, delight and support all balled up in one emotional tangle. “I am…so happy, Frankie.”

  “W-what?” she croaked, awkwardly returning the hug.

  “You and my son. I know the rest of this is horrible but we will take care of it. This mess. Vivianne and her foolish pride. It will balance out with time and proper handling.” Drawing in a long breath, she stepped back, holding on to Frankie’s shoulders at the length of her arms.

  Frankie blushed and her smile crept back, much to Barbara’s apparent delight.

  “Good. Now, tell me
everything you left out on the phone.”

  She told Barbara about the knife and the vague descriptions she had of the masked pair. Barbara listened, but was clearly disturbed by the strewn chess pieces.

  “The people weren’t very big. One of them might have been Mambo.”

  Barbara frowned up at her and shook her head. “No. He would never do such a thing. Not even in his wildest fit of mischief.”

  “But instigating a fight at Amy’s wake is just normal?”

  Barbara’s shoulders quirked. “Sebastian was in a very bad place. It took that particular nudge to encourage him back to sanity. They are best friends. Like brothers. You’ve only seen the worst in both of them.” She swept a hand toward the bar, watching Frankie intently. “This? Neither of them will take this lightly.”

  All the kings’ horses, and all the kings’ men, couldn’t put Amy together again.

  Barbara continued quietly, “These are the tokens of those who supported Amy. This is true insult. A deep cut. To you.” She moved around the bar with featherlight steps, not seeming to even crunch the glass underfoot.

  “Me?” Frankie squinted at the pieces and stepped closer as Barbara drew out towels. She mopped up the puddles of liquid before spreading out a fresh towel to lay the tokens in neat rows. They were beautiful pieces, handcrafted or carved in wood, stone, and metal.

  “You are Amy’s chosen. They have tainted them and eroded your foundation of power.”

  Frankie felt her nose crinkle, about to reject this idea out of hand but Barbara treated them with such reverence it made her pause and question instead. “Power? I had a foundation of power? They did that by dousing those knickknacks with liquor? You know what Ellen did with Frank’s chess set after he died? She took a hammer to all of it.”

  Barbara didn’t quite recoil, but horror registered in her eyes. “Oh, Gods.” She licked her lips, looked skyward and then back to Frankie, pained. “Clearly you were not taught properly by your guardians.” She cursed in an unfamiliar language. After taking a moment to center herself, she said more calmly, “This is very unorthodox. Your blood kin should be the one to explain this.”

  Frankie felt a hot little throb through her palm. “I cannot speak with the dead.”

  Barbara winced, a pained apology lined her face. “I didn’t mean to be cruel Frankie. Did Frank never say anything? As your blood, he had a responsibility to you and to Amy. You might recall something from childhood. A trip to a park? A zoo?”

  Memories of Ellen and her ranting were the first to jump to mind. They were too sharp and vivid. The warnings and the ravings. Older memories she buried, like Ellen had burned photos and crushed the lovely little figurines.

  The details were blurred, but she recalled Frank’s oil-stained fingers squeezing her hands closed until her delicate fingernails cut into her palms. ‘Do not show anyone. It is secret!’ His gaze held hers with fear. ‘Someday you’ll understand. But now? We must play hide and seek.’

  Hide and seek.

  “I…don’t really know,” she said aloud, shoving the dangerous memories back into their holes.

  “All right.” Barbara didn’t push, and her expression was unreadable. “I take huge risk sharing knowledge with you because I don’t know if you will accept this. A secret let loose is dangerous. Like a weapon. It has edges and weight and it can be turned against me and my family. These are desperate times, Frankie Welton.”

  She was serious. Deadly serious.

  Hide and seek.

  Do not show anyone. It is secret!

  Frankie rubbed her hands over her face to her neck. When her touch trailed over the welt on her skin, the discomfort reminded her of Christopher. He had underplayed just how risky it was to show her his little trick.

  Barbara noticed the ring and smiled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

  Frankie winced. “I am so sorry about this.” She held up the hand. “I put it on and between the time it took to get across the room to put it into a box, it stuck.” She pulled it to demonstrate. “So awkward.”

  “Oh, not at all, Frankie. It is fitting you wear that ring.”

  “Uh. I don’t know. I mean, obviously it’s from Amy’s…ah…boyfriend?” Frankie suggested, watching Barbara. The woman’s expression gave nothing away. “I mean, I don’t know who W.R. is, but just a wild guess? Amy has a huge naked mural of him in her bathroom.” Her cheeks heated.

  Barbara chuckled softly. “You have a problem with nudity?”

  Did she? She thought of Christopher’s complete lack of modesty. Then again, he also changed his form at will, clothing was optional for him. Frankie sighed. “I guess not. But it will be really awkward when I meet Uncle Hot Wings at some gathering.”

  “What?” Barbara stared and then laughed aloud. “Oh, Frankie.” She covered her eyes, dark cheeks reddening. “Hot Wings?” She murmured, “Amy would appreciate that Frankie. Oh, Gods. Sweetheart, he hasn’t been around for a very long time.”

  You? Or Him?

  “You know him though? Who is he?”

  “I knew him. He is a very long story for another time.” There was a definite door closed on that line of questioning. She placed the last of the figurines into the towel.

  “All right. How can we riddle through this so I know what’s going on and not endanger anyone? This is my home now.” Frankie was definitely not going anywhere.

  “Small steps. Trust me when I say these pieces were made with a certain intention and gifted with another, then kept, watched and protected with still others. It is layers of a careful woven tapestry. Whoever came in here, scattering and defiling them, did so with actions laced with talent. There is more than liquor here.”

  Frankie struggled to digest this. Did she believe it? She wasn’t sure. “So, now that my wheelhouse is fucked up. What do I do?” Waving a hand to the wreckage of the room, she indicated all inside. “This is really low. You’re saying I can’t bring this to anyone’s attention because the secret society will get their tails in a twist? What recourse do I have? How do I steward anything this way?”

  “You build a stronger wheelhouse, as you say. You are not without allies, Frankie. Anthony and I will help you. I think you have a rather generous patron who will—”

  “I don’t want to owe anyone favors. I want to be able to handle this on my own.”

  Barbara smiled softly. “No one wins a war alone. And make no mistake, this action screams of war.” She motioned to the towel of neatly wrapped pieces. “You don’t need to do this on your own. In fact, let me say very simply, you cannot do this alone. Even if you go to the police and bring mundane forces in to investigate and dig and pry and try to ferret out who did this, you are not doing it alone. They will fail to bring you justice and your footing will continue to crumble. Worse, they will bring a spotlight upon us that no one wants.”

  Amy’s words whispered back from the page. If you ever loved me or Frank—know that you can trust people.

  And good God, Frankie had been conditioned to keep secrets. “All right. Okay. So, we handle our shit ourselves.”

  “Absolutely,” Barbara said with finality. “Do not let Vivianne or Sophia see the desecration of the tokens. Their morale is battered enough.” Her eyes gleamed as she reached out and cupped Frankie’s cheek. “I hope it’s not too much for me to say again how pleased I am you and my son connected.”

  Frankie felt her face warm and leaned into the maternal touch. It had been so long since someone aside from Amy had offered that kindness. She dared open to that offered comfort. Christopher said he’d lost his sister Kelly. Frankie had lost Frank and Ellen. She and Barbara both lost Amy. Together they shared the same layers of loss and grief. “He is pretty great,” she whispered, throat tight.

  “Well, you might think of calling on him as well as myself and Anthony. I am not trying to push you away, but suggesting you invite him closer to your council. He has a fairly good head on his shoulders for a silly boy.”

  “I am not
quite ready for white-knighting. I need to prove I can handle myself. He doesn’t have to put on the gauntlets all the time.”

  Barbara looked at her with affection and pulled at a curl. “Ah, but that is the duty of a knight. Isn’t it? Chivalry is not chauvinism.”

  Frankie ducked her chin, avoiding the candid green eyes. “The men I know don’t know chivalry from Chianti.”

  “Do you know the difference?” Barbara asked, without heat. She held up a hand before Frankie could say anything. “We should see the rest of the damages and get this sorted out.” She held the bundle of tokens like a swaddled baby and passed it to Frankie, then strode through the bar, taking stock of the wreckage. Shocked by the weight of the bundle, she adjusted it in her arms and followed. In silence, she took her own series of notes and records of the wreckage.

  She was no stranger to vandalism. LaGrange had been broken into several times. Even the worst of those never felt like this. This was an insult and an assault. Barbara said it, but Frankie only understood as she began to really look at the damage. Not everything could be replaced or rebuilt.

  If they ever did this to her house? Ooh…

  No, Intuition purred soft and silky behind her ear. Never!

  They tried to ruin everything. In the back office, books were torn from cabinets, the desk toppled over and records scattered and soaked with alcohol. Every dish and glass in the kitchen appeared broken and all the food would need to be replaced.

  Graffiti continued throughout. Variations of, Cunt! Go Home! And, Bitch Die! dripped down walls and cabinets.

  Frankie was one popular lady.

  “I’m afraid the grand opening will have to be put off for a day or two,” Barbara said as they walked back into the bar. “But there is nothing here we can’t make right.”

  Looking around the room, Frankie didn’t know how, without tremendous expense. When she opened her mouth to question, Barbara smiled and held up her finger in a, just wait, motion, her expression was soft.

  “Why not put those in your car and let Vivianne and Sophia in. I will bend their ear a bit.”

  Frankie did just that, her own ears buzzing with anger and frustration. Vivianne looked through her as she came flying in with wide-eyed Sophia in her wake. She heard the cries of dismay when they took in the damage.