“Oh, yes, I’m sure that you just swallowed some lake water. Nick’s let me know exactly what you’re up to, and I’m telling you that the buck stops here. I am going to call Sydney and give her a piece of my mind for letting this go on under her roof. What is she running? A brothel up there?”
“Are you finished?”
“Am I finished?” her mother seethed, and Abby imagined her standing in her narrow kitchen, twisting the phone cord frantically around her wrist while the shopping network blared from the living room.
“This,” Abby snapped, “is why I didn’t call you, mother. Because I knew that if I tried to be honest and let you know that I was unhappy, you’d just torment me until I stayed.”
“How dare you speak to me that way? After all I’ve done for you, Abigail. You must stop this, immediately!” She enunciated every word. If they were written, it would be all caps with giant exclamation points after each syllable.
“I CAN-NOT DO THIS RIGHT NOW!” Abby yelled into the phone, and then reached behind her and smashed it onto its base.
She was now fully awake and filled with a blind rage that left her momentarily frozen on the couch, back stiff and hands clenched on her knees like they were stress balls and not sensitive joints filled with bone and cartilage. She forced a few deep breaths and then thirstily drank the last of the water that Sebastian had left on the coffee table.
Abby shoved off the couch, her mother’s words ringing in her ears. Normally, her mother was an expert emotional blackmailer, but this time Abby had stood up for herself. In fact, it had not even crossed her mind to bow down to her mother’s rant. Her mother, who considered suffocation and love to be synonymous, had finally been forced back.
From a small child, Abby’s mother had played her like a puppeteer plays her dummies. “Dance,” she’d say, and Abby danced. She danced and sewed and ice-skated. She took anti-depressants, attended college close to home, and even cut her hair the way that her mother (and Nick) recommended. She stayed with Nick, long after their relationship had curdled, largely because her mother adored him.
Suddenly, she was liberated from the maternal talons that had been clutching her spine since birth.
In the kitchen, she drank another glass of water and then dug out bread and cheese, which she munched angrily as she mentally blacked out every piece of advice her mother had ever given her. “Abigail, your fingernails are ghastly,” her mother used to say. “Wipe off that paint right now.” And she would wipe it off. She skipped navel piercing, tattoos and parties at her mother’s command.
How many Friday nights had she spent carefully supergluing porcelain faces on little doll bodies stuffed with cotton? Even as a child, Abby had hated dolls and yet she dedicated half of her adolescence to assembling the freakish things and piling them on her bedspread, exactly as her mother liked them. They never stopped, the dolls, arriving in gleaming white trucks, ordered from some infomercial or magazine ad. They came in wooden boxes, stiff with packing straw, their glass eyes staring out from disembodied heads. 'Suzie, Sissy, Madeleine, Ginger, Heather'. Her mother named every one. She named three of them Abigail, insisting that they looked like her daughter with their thick, frizzy curls and empty brown eyes.
Abby reached up and touched her hair, crinkled where she’d lain on it. It smelled like lake water. She pulled a long butcher knife from the wooden block next to Sydney’s sink, reached for a clump of hair and sliced. The blade did not cut easily; it grated back and forth on the strands, a stylist’s worst nightmare, but Abby hacked away, ignoring the clumps of brown that fell at her feet. She did not stop until her hair stood in ear length strands, bits brushed her cheek and others stood erect, too short to lay flat on her scalp. She dropped the knife; it clattered in the sink where she left it.
In Sydney’s closet, she found tight black stretch pants and a glittery red tank top that said Jamaica in leather block letters. She dug out a bottle of nail polish and painted her toes and fingernails red, not bright red, but a darker one, the color of blood. She put on red lipstick and scared herself when she glanced in the mirror. Who was that face looking back? Her cheeks were bone white, her lips looked like she’d been kissing a bloody carcass and gotten her teeth involved in the process. She opened her mouth wide and licked the lipstick off her teeth, grinning. Her brown hair could have belonged to a Chia Pet who’d spent the day with a group of five year olds. She sprayed some mousse in her hand and fluffed it up, somehow making it better and worse, as it stiffened into a helmet of spirals.
She kept waiting to hear Sebastian clunking around downstairs, but when she looked out the window, she saw that he had left. Had he left for good? Had she scared him away?
She barely entertained the thought as she pushed open the guest bedroom door. A blue duffel bag lay open on the bed and in the corner half a dozen boxes were stacked.
She did not consider Sebastian’s privacy as she walked boldly into the room, shuffling the clothes in his suitcase. He appeared to own only two types of clothing: t-shirts and jeans, all torn and unwashed. She lifted an orange Bob Marley shirt to her face and sniffed. It stank of sweat and aftershave, but she liked it and carefully smoothed it on the bed, tracing her fingers along the collar.
Moving to the boxes, she crouched and looked for labels, but none were marked. She picked one out, pulled the flaps open and peered inside. Loose leaf papers were stuffed at various angles, some water marked and coffee stained. She dug beneath the papers, and her fingers brushed leather. Trying to move the papers aside without damaging them further, she lifted out a heavy, leather-bound book. The words Astral Coven were engraved in the upper left corner and stained red. The book looked and smelled old, its heavy thickness balancing on her knees. She slid her hands along the cover, the smooth leather cold to the touch.
She did not have a plan or even a thought as she dived into Sebastian’s personal life. She had only a hunger for power, for knowledge.
She slipped her index finger beneath the bulky shield, opening it gingerly. The pages were old, fragile, and reminded her of the crumbling bodies of B-grade mummy flicks. She wondered if Sebastian was carting around ancient family heirlooms and felt vaguely disappointed that it was not his journal. The first page held a long list of names, each written in French cursive, the letters elegantly and painstakingly placed on the page. She hunched over the book, squinting at each tiny name, barely legible after years of fading. She recognized none, but realized that the list went on and on, ten pages, at least, of the packed identities, most likely long ago dead and buried. Beyond the names came another section that listed various recipes, some in English, others scrawled in languages that Abby did not recognize. She peered closely at a recipe titled 'Darken The Moon'. The recipe, which looked more like a poem, read:
Shining Mother in divinest night
Drip down the wax of thy candlelight
Bleed forth your luminescent fire
Leave these woods in shadowed streaks
We ask you hasten quick to cloak
For blessed blackness you evoke
Beneath the poem, more words were scattered without any apparent rhyme or reason. Rosemary, black snake, river stones, one double yoke egg and Indian cane.
She flipped deeper into the book, and several sheets of loose paper fluttered to the floor. Different than the thick parchment of the other pages, these appeared to be yellowed newspaper clippings, their edges stiff and cracking.
Abby spread the pages flat on the carpeting and crouched over them. The first clipping depicted a fire ravaging a dense forest. Even on the withered pages, Abby could see the intensity of the blaze as it leaped across the desperate leaves. The caption below read 'Ebony Woods Destroyed At Last.' She found the date, 10th of August 1908, and was amazed that the clipping was still in one piece.
She pulled out the next newspaper article, staring incredulously at the blown up picture staring back it her. It was Devin, or someone who so closely resembled her that, for a moment, Abby was sure tha
t she was seeing a ghost. August 8, 1908, only two days before the burning of the Ebony Woods. A short article followed the photo of the Devin look-a-like standing in front of a small cabin, a single wildflower clutched in her palm. Like Devin, her hair was wild, her skin a pearly white. She wore a long, dark dress buttoned high up her neck.
Aubrey Blake Stands Accused
Com. vs. Aubrey Blake: The defendant in this case is the single living child of the deceased Nathan and Susan Blake. Complainant is one Jonas Herman of the upper end of the city. The defendant threatened revenge against Herman and his family after her mule took ill. Upon the mule's death, Herman's single son Solomon came ill with the Black Death and died three short days later. Aubrey Blake is accused of having dealings with the devil and performing witch behavior to infect Solomon Herman. Aubrey Blake resides in the Ebony Woods. Proceeding is scheduled for the Monday after next.
Abby stared at the picture until her eyes swam. She shut them tight and tried to block it out, to force the face of Aubrey - Devin’s face - from her mind. Slowly, the picture dissolved, but Sebastian’s took its place. She saw him the first day, the surprised look on his face when she pulled into the driveway, the box he quickly placed in his trunk. She wanted to justify the clippings, to pretend that this was all part of his separate investigation, but she knew better.
“No, no, no, no.” She realized that she’d been murmuring aloud, and she clamped her teeth together, putting a hand on the floor to brace herself. She stared at the newspaper clipping again, at the face smiling out. Devin’s face, Aubrey’s face, Devin’s face, Aubrey’s face, they swirled in her mind, became an inferno scorching her eyes, a fire like the one in Ebony Woods, a fire that could burn you alive.
“Abby?” Sebastian’s voice startled her and she shot to her feet, staring at him with wild eyes. Terror streaked up her spine and screamed that she, “RUN!”
She tried to streak past him, but he caught her around the waist, heaving his body back to balance the thrust of her own. He pinned her against the doorway, forcing her arms to her sides, and she cranked her head away, refusing to look into his face.
“What the hell is going on? Why are you freaking out?”
Her mind reeled for an excuse, for a logical explanation, but how could there be one? How could she explain what she’d discovered and still get away?
“I, ummm, I was looking for your phone. I thought I heard a cell phone.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed into hers, reading her, and she concentrated on her heart, on steady beats that might bring the color back to her face.
“What happened to your hair?” He smiled and she shrank away from him.
“Ha,” she laughed weakly. “I cut it.”
He reached his hand up and touched it, bouncing his fingers on the stiff curls.
“Yes, you did.”
He looked past her into the room, and she saw his eyes shift down. They paused on the leather book and the newspaper clippings.
“Were you going through my stuff?” He didn’t sound angry, just surprised and curious.
“No, I mean, not exactly. It sounded like a phone was in that box, so I just, you know, looked around, but I didn’t see anything,” she added quickly.
“Well, we need to talk about all of that anyway,” he told her, the smile dropping from his face. He released her arms and moved further into the room, sinking onto the edge of the bed. He patted the space next to him. “Wanna chat?”
Her eyes darted from him to the bed, and, without thinking, she rushed into the hallway and slammed the door behind her. She fled down the steps, ripped her purse from the kitchen table and raced across the driveway to her car, sure that any second his hands would reach out and take hold. Nearly ripping the door from its hinge, she dived inside and hit the lock button, starting the engine and reversing faster than she could control, which sent the car into a tailspin in the gravel drive. She pointed the nose towards the road and lurched forward, gunning the engine. As she pulled away, she caught a glimpse of Sebastian standing on Sydney’s porch, a questioning gaze on his face.
Chapter 11
She drove recklessly, her foot skidding from gas to break as she sped down the tree-lined road towards town. She looked in her mirror more than she looked at the road and twice had to slam on her breaks when cars slowed in front of her.
“Go, dammit, go,” she cursed out loud, tears streaming. The tears had begun when she pulled from the drive, and realizing that Sebastian had not followed her, had time to grasp the magnitude of her discovery. Sebastian was a murderer. He had killed Devin. Why else would he have pictures of Devin? Of her family? Why would he pretend not to know her, while carting around her family keepsakes? Maybe he had murdered her and then stolen the boxes. Maybe they were filled with Devin’s valuables, and Sebastian thought that he could hock the old book as an antique.
She thought these things on one plane, but just below that another river of thought ran. Who had been in the woods when she showed him the body? Why did he insist that Devin’s brother wasn’t the murderer?
She sped into town, swearing at every red light, and nearly mowing down a group of tourists rollerblading on the side of the road. She pulled into the police station and cut the engine, turning fully in her seat to scan for Sebastian’s car from every window. When she was sure that he was nowhere in sight, she jumped from the car and ran into the precinct.
“Hi, I need to speak to Chief Caplan,” she said urgently to a middle-aged woman perched behind a wide, mahogany desk.
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked, taking off her glasses and rubbing them on her tropical themed blouse. The blouse, a hideous umbrella-like thing, was smothered by parrots and crocodiles.
“No, no, but it’s urgent. I have to see him right now.” She almost said, “it’s about a murder,” but stopped when she noticed several officers eavesdropping nearby.
“Well, honey, he’s gone for the day.”
Abby gaped at the woman before her, ready to scream or grab the lady by her bloody looking blouse and shake her until she understood.
“Well, can you call him? It’s very important."
The woman rolled her eyes and started to speak, but was interrupted.
“Hello, miss,” a man said behind Abby, and she spun around.
The scary detective, the Praying Mantis, was silhouetted in the doorway. He leaned toward Abby and drooped his head, looking directly into her face and smiling a wide, white grin. Up close, he looked fake, like one of her old porcelain dolls, and she backed away from him, stopping when her back hit the receptionist’s desk.
“I’m covering for the Chief today. You can talk to me,” he said in a strange drawl that made every word long, like an echo that continued in Abby’s head, rolling in circles around her skull.
She followed him, partially out of fear, but also because she felt mesmerized, like he had all the answers, like he could help her with anything.
He shut the door in the Chief’s office and beckoned her to a chair. When she sat down, he continued to stand behind her, his long, bony fingers on the chair back. She tried to sit forward, but he gripped her shoulders and pulled her back.
“Here, now, just relax, young lady. Just take a deep breath.”
She did take a deep breath and then another. The florescent lights of the office had seemed harsh at first, but they began to appear dimmer, soothing even, and she leaned her head fully back.
He stepped in front of her, walked behind the Chief’s desk and sat down, lacing his fingers in front of him.
His eyes sought hers, and he looked and looked, his black pupils enlarging and then shrinking, narrowing to tiny points that she could feel. They didn’t land on the outside; instead, they penetrated her own pupils, traveled along the optic nerve and into her brain. She shook her head, feeling dizzy and sleepy. Sebastian didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore, nothing did. She just wanted a nap.
“It’s okay, dear, just rest. That’s it. It�
��s warm in here, close your eyes.”
He stood up, walked to the office’s single window and lowered the shades, flicking the wand to close them completely.
He took a chair close to hers, allowing his knee to brush her own - she felt a shock like she’d been electrocuted. She jerked, and her chair yelped on the rubbery floor. The room focused, and she realized that the detective was leaning towards her, his eyes closed, sniffing at the air.
“Go!”
The command was so loud that she turned, looking for the source, before she realized that it had risen in her own mind. She paused for another second, frozen with fear and wanting to bolt, but afraid that she couldn’t reach the door in time.
The detective opened his eyes, and they seemed to be searching her again, as if he’d lost his connection and wanted desperately to get it back.
“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” she said, too loud, but better than the whisper she had feared.
He stared at her for another second, his head cocked to the side, and then a smile slid over his face, revealing the straight, sharp teeth beneath his thin lips.
Concentrating on a steady step, she walked across the office, opened the door and stepped back into the precinct. The lights buzzed and cops milled about, talking and laughing. A few looked her way but paid little attention. She stumbled forward and looked back. The Chief’s office had become a tomb and the lights hurt her eyes. She felt foggy, but dared not slow as she hurried through the building and back into the parking lot. She was sure that she had not been in the building long, but already her car seats were hot. She cranked the air conditioner and pulled back onto the street, searching for a place to go.
* * * *
Sebastian veered off the road, maneuvering his car down a two track clogged with weeds, but still visible in the dense woods. He cut the engine and leaned his head back on his seat, seeking refuge in his mind. Claire had taught him a few things, not powers exactly, but more like a sixth sense. A sense that had to be found within and strengthened with mediation, which he rarely had the time or concentration for.
Ula (Born of Shadows Book 1) Page 9
