Mercury Retrograde

by Laura Bickle

  Her hand slid from his chest, and he looked down at it, cradling it in his. There was a black stain on the palm, like oil. It pooled up in her palm and trickled down her fingers.

  Her eyes were dark, dark and black like the smear on her hand.

  And the rain came rushing down the mountain, across the field in a torrent. Through all that hissing wind and scouring rain, the stain remained on her hand and in her eyes, unable to be rinsed away.

  He knew that what he wanted was impossible. It would not last.

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her anyway.

  Nothing ever did last. Not the tree, not the Hanged Men. But if he held on to it, perhaps this moment of his dream would usher him gently into the soft, rotting darkness of the Lunaria’s death.

  Petra wanted nothing more than to stumble into a bath and a deep, dreamless sleep. But she had to get home. There was a fair amount of gas left in the Triumph, but she was stumped by figuring out how to get Sig on the bike. She drove the bike to the barn and poked around until she found a pair of crates to strap onto the sides. She convinced Sig to perch in one and put a counterbalancing sack of fertilizer in the other. It wasn’t elegant, but it would get them home.

  Still, she drove slowly on the way. Sig seemed content to huddle in the crate, and she was convinced that he would do just as well with a sidecar . . . if she ever had time to complete that project. She drove slowly in a driving rain that made them both miserable. It seeped through her scalp and clothes, sending mud draining away in runnels. The cold was sharp and brittle, and it was hard to steer on gravel when she was shivering.

  At last, she made it home to the Airstream. She moved the bike underneath the tarp that covered the parts of the old bike she was working on. She’d figure out how to dispose of the Triumph later; just getting it out of casual view was enough for now.

  She unlocked the door and stumbled inside. She filled Sig’s dishes with water and dog food, got a bottle of water out of the fridge, and headed for the tiny bathtub. She hoped to hell that she didn’t fuck up the plumbing with a cleanup of this magnitude, but this was going to be between her and whatever plumber had rigged the Airstream in the first place.

  She wiped as much of the remaining sludge off her body as she could with towels, figuring the towels were going to be the Laundromat’s problem. She peeled off her clothes, leaving a muddy pile on the floor. She took stock of her injuries—­scrapes and purpling bruises, mostly. The worst seemed to be an overall scalding from the mud; it looked like she had a bad sunburn. And there was one small spot on the inside of her left arm that looked like it could have been an acid splash, but she wasn’t certain. Just one more part of her life that was told on the scars on her arms. There was Des’s handprint around her right wrist, the marks where Stroud had bled her, and now a drop of acid from the basilisk.

  By the time she’d taken stock, the tub was full, and she scrunched in to sink up to her chin in the lukewarm water. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, to let the adrenaline drain out of her system. She wanted nothing more than a nap after this. Maybe a good twelve-­hour one.

  She shrieked as a coyote jumped into the tiny tub, splashing water all over the floor. Sig wasn’t waiting his turn. After a ­couple of attempts to shove him out, Petra reached for the drain and the handheld shower to give him a proper lather and rinse.

  After a good half hour, the both of them were clean and smelling of Maria’s homemade rosewater shampoo. Petra eyed the sediment at the bottom of the tub, but it drained perfectly. Petra dressed the last clean clothes she had—­a tank top and cargo pants—­and fell onto her futon. Sig wiggled his wet hide into bed, and she was too tired to boot him off.

  She’d had her eyes shut for a whole ten minutes when someone rapped at the door.

  “Fuck.” She pressed her face to the pillow. Maybe she could just pretend she wasn’t here.

  The knocking began again, more insistent. Yep, that was a police knock.

  Petra rolled out of bed and padded across the linoleum to answer it. Sig wisely stayed in bed and rolled over to the dry side he hadn’t soaked with his wet fur.

  She opened the door to find Mike on her doorstep. She looked past him—­there was another ranger in a Forestry Ser­vice Jeep, and her Bronco was parked in front of the trailer.

  “Hey. Brought your truck back.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “We were running out of parking spaces at the station.” He made a face.

  “C’mon in. What’s going on?”

  Mike waved at his colleague, but the ranger was on the phone and paced to the edge of the gravel.

  Mike came inside and parked himself on a kitchen chair.

  “I thought you guys closed the park,” she said, digging in the fridge for a ­couple of cold bottles of iced tea.

  “Yeah, well. The Feds are all over us. About everything. They want me to get a written statement from you. And this is your official interview.”

  “Awesome.” She hadn’t given a whole lot of thought to embellishing her story. She handed him a drink.

  “I did get some of your personal effects back from the scene,” he said, putting her truck keys and her cell phone on the table. “They kept everything else.”

  “Thanks. What do you think they’ll want to know?”

  Mike shrugged and unscrewed the cap from the iced tea. “I think they’re gonna have their hands full, honestly. Shit really blew up last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “Among all the monster-­hunting crackpots that have descended upon the park for purposes of fame and fortune were some guys who ran a television show. Mystery Trackers or some such.”

  “Haven’t seen it.”

  “Me, neither. But they all turned up dead.”

  “Whoa. Did the snake get them?”

  “No . . . that’s where shit continues to slide down the slippery slope of weird. We think they were killed by a biker gang. A cult, really.”

  “You have enough ­people out here to have cults?” Petra took a drink and tried to look blank, though her heart was racing.

  “This isn’t ours. This is a gang that the Feds had some limited intel on. The Sisters of Serpens. They’re into some funky stuff—­black magic, murder, some racketeering. They apparently showed up here in search of the snake. Looks like they had one hell of a gunfight with parties unknown. The Feds will interrogate the ones who are left, but they’re tough cookies. I don’t think they’ll get much.”

  Petra nodded. “What about the snake?”

  “They’re looking.” He took a swig of his tea. “Listen, I know that you know more than you’re saying about this.”

  She frowned, but remained silent. She was a shitty liar, and they both knew it.

  “But I think I know you well enough by now to know that, whatever you were up to . . . it was on the side of the angels, okay? So. I’ll watch your back as much as I can with the Feds.”

  She looked down at the table, took a deep breath. She wanted to tell him the truth. But she couldn’t. “Thanks. It’s complicated. But I promised someone I care about that I wouldn’t get anyone else involved.”

  “I can respect that. Just . . . can you tell me something, for my own peace of mind?”

  “I’ll sure try.”

  “That snake . . . is it still a threat?”

  She could see it in him, that needing to know. He needed to protect the ­people in the park, and that was entirely fair.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about the snake, ever again.”

  She wound up sticking to her guns with respect to the official statement that she scribbled out on notebook paper. She said she’d fled when the snake had killed Phil and Meg had fallen. She reiterated that she’d gotten a nose full of the vapor, passed out on horseback, and apparently woke up at
Sal’s ranch. She didn’t deviate, didn’t elaborate. If any of the higher-­ups wanted more details, she’d come up with something better, later.

  She jumped when her cell phone rang. She answered it as she scribbled: “Hello.”

  “Ms. Dee?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the Phoenix Village Nursing Home. We’ve been trying to reach you.”

  Her pen stilled. “Is my father all right?”

  “Yes . . . he’s awake, and he’s asking for you.”

  She sucked in her breath. What? How? “I’ll be right there.”

  She shoved the paperwork back at Mike and reached for her truck keys.

  “Where are you going?”

  “My father—­at the nursing home. I’ll let you know later.” She left him behind to lock up and sprinted out to the Bronco.

  Petra made record time to the nursing home, pushing the Bronco’s engine until the old car roared like a proper dinosaur.

  Could it be? Could her father be having a window of lucidity? And had she missed it, mucking about in the backcountry with snakes and undead guys?

  She skidded through the doors of the nursing home, past the arrangements of silk flowers and a mop bucket surrounded with yellow caution placards. She skipped the front desk and rushed straight to her father’s room.

  The door stood open, and her father’s wheelchair was sitting before the window, as it often was in the afternoons. A nurse was standing at the foot of his bed, taking notes.

  “My dad . . .” Petra began, breathless.

  The nurse intercepted Petra, leading her out into the hallway by her elbow. “Before you talk to him, you need to know some things. His lucidity comes and goes. He seems pretty with it, now . . . but he goes off on delusions, talking nonsense about snakes and the underworld and doves. The doctor wants to do some testing, some psychological testing and a brain scan. Would that be okay with you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Can I see him now?”

  “Sure. Just don’t . . . don’t expect too much, okay?” She patted Petra’s arm. “He’s not going to be the guy you knew when you last saw him.”

  “I understand.” Anything more than staring out at the parking lot would be a gift. Even one word. Petra nodded and went in. She pulled up her usual chair beside her father’s.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  His chin moved toward her—­the first time she’d seen his head really move in response to stimuli. His mouth turned upward, just a bit.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was thin, like worn gauze.

  He recognized her. She leaned forward to give him a hug. He felt light and fragile as a bird in her arms.

  “How do you feel?” she asked as she released him.

  He squinted, as if he was focusing on something fuzzy. “The umbilicus. You remember?” It seemed to take him a great deal of effort to speak.

  It had been true. All of it. She touched his cheek. “Yes, Dad. You and me and Sig and the raven.”

  “You cleaned up.”

  She looked down at her tank top and cargo pants. Not fancy, but at least, she wasn’t covered in goo. Her hair was still damp as it hung against her freckled cheek. “Yeah. That was first on the order of business.”

  “You brought me back.” His eyes shone. “The raven was a powerful thing. Much more than I thought.”

  She grinned. Her chest felt like her heart could burst inside it.

  “Listen . . .” He leaned forward, and his thin hand grasped hers. “You didn’t just bring me. You brought something else.”

  Nothing could dampen her joy. “What?”

  “Stroud. You brought Stroud back through.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SHELLS AND VESSELS

  Petra’s father lapsed into mumbling about wanting biscuits and gravy for breakfast. Moments later, he drifted off to sleep, leaving Petra to mull his words.

  She wasn’t certain what she thought. The idea of Stroud—­whether on the spirit plane or physical world—­invoked a visceral sense of terror in her. If he had returned somehow, some way . . . he would have it in for her. Revenge would be on his bucket list. She’d have to figure out how to deal with it. Later.

  She returned home, to bed, finding that Sig had not budged a muscle. She locked the door, propping up a chair beneath the knob. She slept for the rest of the day with Sig’s ass in her armpit, awakening only to the sound of her phone ringing.

  “Damn it, Mike,” she groaned, pressing her face to the pillow. She hauled herself up to answer her cell.

  “Hello.”

  But it wasn’t Mike. It was Maria. “You’re back. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  But something was wrong; her friend’s voice trembled. “Maria, what is it?”

  “It’s Frankie. He’s in a trance at the Eye of the World. I can’t wake him up.” A sob caught at the end of her words.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Petra dressed and headed out the door with a sleepy Sig in tow. They drove back to the reservation, with early evening light streaming over the land in a haze of orange. She parked in Maria’s driveway and ran into the field that stretched between the house and the Eye of the World.

  Two figures were huddled there in the falling light. Frankie was sitting on a rock, cross-­legged, with his hands in his lap, eyes closed. Maria had wrapped a blanket around him and was rubbing his shoulders.

  Sig crept up to him and licked his hand. When he got no response, the coyote sat down, whined, and slapped his tail on the ground.

  “What happened?” Petra panted.

  “He said he was coming out here to meditate. I mean, that’s usual for him. It was just a few hours, but he didn’t come back for supper. He never misses supper when it’s stuffed peppers, you know? So I went out looking for him, and . . . he’s just in a trance. I can’t get him out of it. I’ve tried splashing him with water, pinching him . . . nothing seems to work.” Maria eyed the turquoise pool. “I even took a drink of the sweetwater, to see if I could follow him, wherever he’s gone. But nothing happened, and I don’t know what else to do.”

  Petra knelt by the water’s edge. “Let me try it.” The water slipped down the back of her throat, tasting like tea and minerals. She expected that nothing would happen, as usual. But she had to make the attempt. She sat down on the ground at Frankie’s feet, trying to ignore the chill of autumn radiating up through her ass. Sig took a slurp of the water and crawled into her lap, his legs sprawling over her knees.

  “I think that maybe we should call somebody . . .” she began. But the word became slippery, and her words ran together with the orange of sunset. She sucked in her breath and tried to gather her equilibrium, but the world faded.

  Autumn’s brilliance was replaced by a soft, pearly grey. A diffuse mist surrounded Petra; she couldn’t identify a light source from where she stood, but a dim glow seemed to filter from somewhere above. Beneath her feet stretched silty mud the color of slate. It felt like a thin concrete that hadn’t set, with a wash of water over it. She couldn’t make out the horizon from here—­just the fog and the mud.

  “Why is the spirit world always sticky?” she wanted to know. And she wasn’t dressed for this nonsense—­she was wearing, of all things, a sleeveless white dress. The last time she’d worn a white dress had been at her baptism as a child. At least she was barefoot; that made the mud somewhat easier to deal with. It was actually lukewarm, and her toes splayed as they squished in it.

  Sig was beside her. He nosed around the slop, his nose wrinkling. If he had an answer to her question, it wasn’t a pleasant one.

  “Frankie!” Petra called out into the grey.

  There was no answer. But Sig found some light, sketchy tracks in the mud. They looked like a bird’s—­three front toes and one ba
ck one, large, with a ten-­inch stride. These weren’t raven tracks; these were the steps of a big wading bird.

  They followed the tracks in the mud. Sig had a smear of mud on his nose, and the hem of Petra’s dress was grey by the time they caught up with the bird: a blue heron, standing at the edge of the filthy water.

  She squinted at the heron. “Frankie? Is that you?”

  The bird cocked its head and answered in Frankie’s voice: “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Were you expecting someone else? Maria tried, but couldn’t get here.”

  “No, it’s fine.” He ruffled his feathers, as if convincing himself. “It’s good that it’s you, because, well. You’re responsible for this.” He gestured toward the grey water, beyond a stand of scraggly reeds.

  Petra sucked in her breath and took a step back. The basilisk lay in the water, motionless and curled in on itself, with its tail in its mouth. Sludge water lapped over its scales, dulling the iridescence of the ouroboros, still as a creature carved from granite.

  “What the hell, Frankie?” She automatically reached for the guns at her waist, but there was no gun belt and no guns on her hips in this jaunt to the spirit world. Her hands came back empty.

  Sig insinuated himself between Petra and the snake, hackles rising.

  “Relax.” The heron whacked Sig on the back of the head with his wing. The coyote yelped and looked offended.

  “What’s wrong with it, Frankie?” She had given no thought to the basilisk’s afterlife; she’d been fixated on stopping its rampage and getting its blood. It had not occurred to her to wonder what would happen . . . afterward.

  “Well, it’s stuck.” The heron folded his wings back. “Lascaris summoned her out of the spirit world a hundred and fifty years ago and poured her into a snake body. When she was killed in the physical world, she had nowhere to go. She’s now here . . . in limbo. She’s trapped, and she can’t move on.”