by Lori Devoti
So one A.M. and here I was, squatting in the dirt, ready to call on Artemis and find out if the Amazons had gotten my message. Artemis might not be able to direct me to the girls’ killer, but she could certainly help me plug into the tribe.
I flattened my bare palms into the soil, connecting, letting my body soak in the power that pulsed from deep in the earth’s core. I needed all the strength I could get to do this. Linking myself spiritually to the Amazons again, after all these years…it was something I’d thought I’d never do.
Shaking off a renewed swell of anger-this one completely selfish, angry that the killer had chosen me to suck into her twisted world, leaving me with no choice but to face my heritage, at least to a degree-I carefully plucked acorns from the leather pouch I’d stolen from Bubbe’s workroom and piled them in front of me. Next, I unwrapped two tiny stone figures: a bear and a leopard, not too different from the ones I’d left at the safe camp. The fetishes would help me link to the girls’ families. If my message had been received, the totems would tell me; their clans’ mourning would tell me.
I built the fire, a tiny one, but big enough, I hoped. I couldn’t risk anything larger; performing the ceremony in my side yard was risky enough. I certainly didn’t need the neighbors calling the fire department on me.
As the fire crackled, I tossed one of the acorns onto the blaze and murmured a prayer to Artemis.
“Artemis, huntress of the moon, guide me along the path to truth. Grant me the strength to see through the mist, to feel what those of this totem feel, to know what otherwise they might hide from me.”
Smoke snaked from the fire: twisting, turning, morphing.
The world shifted beneath me and my nails gouged into the damp earth. The musky scent of decayed leaves filled my nostrils, then the smoke shifted again, this time taking on the round shape of a bear ambling through the woods. My breath caught in my chest. I reached out and grasped the bear totem in my hand.
Sorrow pierced me like a spear. The pain was so sudden and intense that I almost dropped the tiny stone figure. Gasping in a breath, I clutched the fetish tighter, pushed past the sorrow, and felt for what I knew would follow.
Anger pulsed against me. Revenge, retribution, the need was tangible. Flashes of steel, women flipping across a grassy clearing, fighting, training…my heart beat faster, as if I shared their exertion. Then the mood switched-darker, faces I couldn’t make out gathered around a fire, a big fire, a council fire.
My own anger leapt at the sight. My hate for the council that had cost me so much was interfering with the vision.
Nostrils flaring, I tried to separate myself from the vision, to keep my past and emotion from intruding. I gripped the bear figure tighter in my hand and rubbed my thumb over its head, apologizing for my weakness, begging Artemis to forgive my digression. I squeezed my eyes shut until tears leaked out, but the effort was fruitless. The connection was lost.
I opened my eyes and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, watched as the smoke thinned, spiraling down back into the fire, until I stared at nothing but a few smoldering embers.
I still held the tiny bear. Unclenching my fist, I let it drop onto the dirt. My palms pressed into the earth again; I hung my head and struggled to breathe.
My message had been received-at least for the first girl, and since I’d left the fetishes together, reason said for the second too. I waited for the guilt to diminish. I’d done my part. I’d warned the Amazons. But my wait was futile. There was no relief, no feeling of completion-just a hollow sickness deep in the pit of my stomach.
The girls were still dead, and I was still involved.
After hiding all signs of my clandestine spell-casting, I stumbled back to bed. I didn’t expect to sleep, but somehow I did. Then around three, the sound of crying woke me. I clutched the wool blanket, my thoughts first rushing to Harmony-my mommy instincts in full force even though she hadn’t suffered from night terrors since she’d been four. But the door to my bedroom was closed, no towheaded preschooler gazing up at me from the side of the bed.
Now, sitting upright, I touched my fingers to my fevered cheeks. They came back wet. The sobs had been coming from me.
A nightmare. I must have been having a nightmare. Not surprising, considering my life lately.
Scrubbing the moisture off my face with the wool blanket, I tried to settle back down, to brush aside the anxiety that still clung to me.
Then I felt them. The dead girls. Their presence weighed on me, then flitted away, only to return an instant later to tug at me like the impatient child I’d imagined when I first awoke.
They wanted me to help them, were becoming more restless as their fruitless wandering went on.
I tried to shake the feeling off and told myself it was just the remnants of my nightmare-the heightened sense that came with waking deep in the night.
But it was a lie. As my mind wakened more fully and became less hazy, their presence grew stronger, not weaker.
Something had them trapped, and the little piece of my soul that had gone with them when I’d performed the death rites wasn’t enough to keep them calm much longer. Their panic was growing, was big enough to be a tangible force in the small space of my bedroom, clawing over my skin, making me want to curl into a ball to protect myself.
Why is this my problem? Why did their killer choose me?
I picked up my pillow and flung it across the room, knocking a lamp to the ground with an earth-shattering crash.
The noise seemed to settle them. I waited for them to reappear or one of my family, awakened by the noise, to knock on my door, but all was quiet. I breathed in, my chin dropping to my chest, and my fingers crimped the blanket.
Damn it all. I didn’t want to be involved, didn’t want to face my past. Didn’t want to be responsible for the souls of two dead teenagers.
Something flickered past me then, just a whisper of a touch, as if the girls were waiting, watching.
I refused to look up, as if staring at the navy blue wool of my blanket would make the nightmare I’d been thrown into disappear. I sat there the rest of the night, until dawn turned the sky outside my window a peachy pink and the morning sun broke the link between spirit and mortal.
No dead girls’ spirits around to plead with me for help, to make me question who was more barbarous-the Amazons I’d left behind or me.
Chapter Five
I rose early that morning, unrested and edgy. Not only was my visit from the night before lurking in my mind, but today, for the first time ever, a man was joining the Amazons-or at least our little group of Amazons. I had called Peter right after leaving my conversation with Mother. He’d agreed to start today.
Short notice for everyone. Which meant no time to prepare my family-all in all, the best solution.
Fresh from a night of hauntings, I was ready to beard the lion of two millennia in my den.
After a quick look at my bedraggled reflection in the bathroom mirror, I dragged myself out to the main living area. Harmony was in her room polishing her nails while Bubbe stomped around the kitchen muttering something in Russian I didn’t care to translate, and Mother had already disappeared into the basement. A peaceful, if early, morning in the Saka household.
Not up for conversation, I skipped breakfast and sneaked down the steps to the shop. I was rearranging the stations, trying to decide who would be best suited to pair with our new addition, when there was a rap on the front door. The metal pan of needles I was holding fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Dropping to my knees, I muttered a curse and began rounding up the once-sterile tools.
“We don’t open till eleven,” I yelled, my voice loud in the small cubicle.
The door rattled in response.
My hands shook as they hovered over the spilled needles. Jumpy. I was too damn jumpy. Lost spirits didn’t knock on your front door and, bold as the killer might seem, so far all her gifts had been left in the dead of night. My palm sank onto the sharp end of
a needle; the sudden pain brought me back to myself. I stared at the red bubble of blood forming on my hand and folded my fingers closed over it.
A fist hammered against the wood.
Blowing out a breath, I rubbed my palm against my jeans, leaving a red, angry stain, and started toward the steps. Let it be the killer. I was ready to end this.
I was halfway down the stairs when the rattling stopped. Frowning, I stomped down the last few steps anyway.
Only empty concrete stairs and an old chip bag shoved against the building by a biting fall wind greeted me. I crumpled the trash in my hand and glanced around one more time-nothing. A familiar fragrance I couldn’t quite peg drifted around me. My anger dissipated, replaced by a rush of unease.
My gaze darted around the yard, looking for any sign of my early-morning visitor, but there was nothing more suspicious than a squirrel busily hoarding nuts for the coming winter.
Unable to shake the unsettling impression off, I considered storming around the side of the building in hopes of catching whoever had made the earlier racket, just to prove to myself it was nothing more ominous than a bored neighborhood kid pulling a prank, but thought better of it.
I had stepped back inside, feeling as useless as the crumpled chip bag in my hand, and had started the trek up to the shop level when I heard voices coming from the basement.
Someone was visiting Mother.
This was unusual. Bubbe loved mingling with the locals-or more accurately, rooking them out of their cash-but Mother kept to herself. She did the odd tattoo for me, basic stuff, but that was it. I’d never known her to encourage company.
I paused, one hand on the wooden railing, the other still holding the chip bag, and considered going down to see who rated high enough to be invited into her world. Then, unbidden, a rough laugh escaped my lips. Secrets. Mother wasn’t the only one who had them. Maybe if I let her keep hers awhile longer, the cosmos would look kindly on me and return the favor by helping me to hide my own.
Besides, my latest secret, Peter, was due in at ten. I needed the time left until his arrival to work out how I was going to present him to my family. I tapped my fingers a couple of times on the banister, then went back to stocking Peter’s station with bandages and other necessities of tattooing life.
The next couple of hours passed uneventfully. Harmony flounced off to school and Bubbe stomped directly from the second floor to the basement without stopping in the shop to harass me-another unusual occurrence. On a different day this might have raised some notice from me, but today I was too busy battling my warring emotions-still anxious thanks to my nocturnal visitors and their killer, proud I was doing my part to break old prejudices, and nervous that Bubbe, Mother, and centuries of other Amazons who had banned men from all but one aspect of their lives were right and I was on the brink of making a fatal error.
The third emotion was beginning to edge out the others when I glanced up at the clock and realized it was almost ten. Squaring my shoulders, I tromped down the stairs and unlocked the door.
Peter Arpada in all his brown-eyed, six-foot-plus-tall glory was waiting for me. He had a new, bigger portfolio under one arm and two steaming cups of premium coffee in his hands. My heart jumped a beat-for the coffee, I told myself. I don’t splurge for the good stuff too often.
He followed me up the stairs.
“Interesting setup,” he commented, once we were on the main/shop level. He was staring up the stairs that led to our living area.
“Uh, yeah. It works for us.” I gestured for him to follow me through the glass doors that separated the tattoo cubicles from the waiting room. Wisconsin regulations required tattoo areas be separated from living areas by a full wall. Putting one on this level was easier than trying to close off the stairs some way. In other words, anyone who walked into our shop could just stroll up the stairs, past the JUST STROLL UP THE STAIRS, PAST THE sign and be in our living area. Assuming they made it past Mother, Bubbe, and me, that is. Until now, it had never occurred to me to worry about the possibility. Funny how a couple of dead bodies and having a man around could twist your view of things.
He gave the stairs one last glance, then followed.
“I thought I’d set you up here.” I pointed to an empty cubicle in the front. “It’s next to Cheryl. She’ll be in at eleven. So she can show you around.” Cheryl, a forty-something divorced mom of three, was one of the artists at my shop. The other, Janet, a fifty-year-old lesbian who had never bothered to tell her husband of twenty years her sexual preference, had the day off. I’d called Cheryl last night after I talked to Peter. She was the only one in on our new team addition.
“Won’t you be showing me around?” He arched an eyebrow, and I would have sworn his eyes twinkled.
Despite my sleepless night and internal emotional battles, something inside me went all soft and girly. I obviously needed to get out more.
Trying to act casual, I grabbed one of the two rolling chairs in the space and, positioning it between us, pointed toward the back room. “Back there you’ll find extra supplies and the autoclave. You’re responsible for keeping your own equipment sterile, but Mandy, our office manager, will usually help out if she can.” Spinning so the chair was against my back, I gestured past the reception area. “Over there’s the little boys’ room. That’s it. You got the tour.” Shoving the chair away, I took a step toward the reception area and freedom.
I hated to admit it, but he made me nervous-or my reaction to him made me nervous. No matter which, I needed to leave.
“What about these?”
Cursing my short legs for costing me the three seconds it took him to ask the question, I stopped and looked back. He was holding up his portfolio.
“And paperwork. Isn’t there paperwork I need to fill out?”
“Mandy will help you with that-the paperwork, I mean.” Remembering how Mandy had looked him over a few days earlier, I barely suppressed an eye roll. Yeah, she would help him out.
“And?” He shook the portfolio.
“If you have something you want added to the shop flash, give me a copy and I’ll look it over. Each artist has a private flash too. Give those to Mandy, and she’ll get them displayed.” I waited to see if he had any other questions, but he just nodded and picked up the iron. As I left, I could tell he was doing a mental inventory of ink and supplies. I knew, because it’s the first thing I’d do too.
Lucky for me, I had a cover-up scheduled for ten thirty, a long-time client I’d agreed to work on before the shop officially opened. It kept me busy and away from Peter. By the time I was done wrapping a bandage around my client’s arm, I could hear low voices peppered by the occasional giggle coming from reception. Guess Mandy is helping Peter with his paperwork. I escorted the client out, giving her a last few care instructions on the way.
As I suspected, Mandy was pressed against the reception desk and Peter. What surprised me were the other two women-Cheryl and Janet-also as close as they could get to our new employee. Cheryl, maybe, but Janet?
“Slow morning?” I asked, my tone dry.
Four heads popped up to stare at me, only Janet had the grace to look embarrassed.
“What? You can’t stay away, Janet?”
Her hand went up to rub her close-cropped head. “I remembered I left my…pen here last night.”
Uh-huh. I shot a look at Cheryl. I’d thought she was the only one who’d known about Peter-wonder who else she had told? Anger swelled momentarily, but I forced the emotional uprising down. What did I care? It saved me from making the announcement. I turned to the gossip queen.
“How about you, Cheryl? You searching for a paper clip or something?”
Never one to be intimidated by me, Cheryl grinned. “We were just helping Peter pick what to put in his flash.”
Mandy reached across the chest-high desk to slide a sheet of paper toward her. Her upper arm brushed Peter’s chest in the process. A simple accident, I was sure.
“I love this one,�
�� Mandy gushed.
“There’s a lot of nice work there.” Eyes twinkling, Cheryl looked at me behind Peter’s bowed head, her hand pointing to his muscled backside. “What about you, Mel? You see anything you like?”
At that moment, a forty-something man dressed in a suit and wearing a no-nonsense expression stepped out of the men’s restroom. His hair matched the suit, short and conservative, but his face was too rugged for a complete fit. He didn’t look like my typical client. I frowned and looked for another clue that would tell me his purpose here. His stance said he was physically fit and used to being in charge. And while his hands hung casually at his side, there was nothing casual about the expression in his blue eyes or the way his gaze worked its way around the room.
Glancing from the group clustered around the desk to me, he took a step forward. “Are you Mel Saka?”
I looked over my shoulder at my office manager. Mandy had the sense to look sheepish. “Sorry. There’s somebody here to see you. I told him you were with a client and he said he’d-”
“Yeah, I can figure out the rest.” I waved a hand at her and turned back to the man. “I’m Mel.”
He stared at me, checking me over as if he could learn some secret I held simply by looking. I shook off a shiver of disquiet and squared my shoulders. “May I help you?”
He stood there another beat or two, then reached into his jacket. He brought out a leather wallet, flipping it open to display his ID.
“Detective Reynolds. Milwaukee Police Department. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a few moments.”
I could feel the curious eyes of the group behind me pressing into my back. I resisted the urge to glance back at them. The bodies. Could he have traced them to me? I’d been careful-leaving the corpses in unpopulated areas, making sure nothing of mine touched them. I was confident no one had seen me anywhere near the bodies and any evidence left on them was from the killer, not me.
