The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  Mandy darts out of her building and straight into the waiting cab. Once her building is out of sight, she sighs with relief and swallows a sob. Don’t cry anymore, dammit! You’ll ruin your makeup.

  She was wrong. Morris came early, eager for news of Aven’s defeat. She cowered as she told him what she’d seen; he grew larger and darker with each word. He lunged at her, swiping a gnarled hand across her stomach. Morris was reasonably solid now, made so by her boundless hate and animosity towards Aven. The cut was superficial, but it burned as if done with acid. She screamed again and again that it wasn’t her fault, it was theirs. Those fucking kids! Morris flung his rage at the walls of her living room, shattering every single precious curio. She cried as she watched him, helpless to defend her treasures.

  He flew from her balcony after that, presumably to pay the boys a visit. Mandy didn’t care; he was gone, at least for now.

  There is a great deal of traffic on Derby—it’s Halloween, after all. Salem swells beyond reason on this day; actually, the onslaught of tourists begins a few weeks before and lasts a week after. Salem makes a lot of money in the months of October and early November, and the only ones who seem to be bothered by the congestion are the residents who don’t profit from the tourist trade. Mandy would usually work this night; she can charge four times as much on Halloween, and people pay it without question. Her assistant is on duty instead. Though she isn’t nearly as good as Mandy herself, Mandy would never dream of closing her shop on Halloween. She’ll make a pretty penny before the tourist hordes leave town.

  Mandy grumbles that she could’ve walked and gotten there faster. It is taking way too long to go a single mile. But she knows her five-inch, patent leather spiked pumps are definitely not made for walking, and she didn’t wear a coat. She wanted nothing to obscure the grandness of her costume.

  When the taxi gets close enough to Dovenelle’s for Mandy’s satisfaction, she tells the driver she’s getting out and throws a wad of money into the hopper. He is already stopped—it is bumper to bumper—so she wriggles out of the back seat as demurely as she can in her tight gold lamé minidress.

  She trots to the curb and takes a moment to ensure her Cleopatra costume is in order. She straightens the body-hugging material and smooths her long golden cape. She checks her headdress and wig with her hands and realigns the wide, ornate collar across her shoulders. A familiar maniacal laugh resounds behind her, making her skin crawl. She searches the crowded street. There is nothing there. She must have just heard wrong. She takes a deep breath and pushes all thoughts of Morris from her mind.

  She hurries along the sidewalk, holding firmly to her position in the crowd. She stops only because the throng of people before her has stopped. They all stare at the same thing, at the gate to Dovenelle’s—or more precisely, what surrounds the gate.

  45

  Mandy blinks several times to ensure she is seeing this right. Thick, white smoke—in the distinct shape of a bird, a crow or raven maybe—stands at the gate and towers high above it. The raven’s massive wings are outstretched and curved upward, with its beak pointing to the sky. The mist shimmers with wisps of silver and swirls of brilliant white. It seems alive! The bird fans its wings when a guest passes through it and lets out a deep caw that echoes for several seconds. Mandy marvels at the technology that’s making this magnificent spectacle and looks around for the smoke machine and lighting apparatus. She sees nothing in the bushes, not even a single extension cord. She will have to learn which company did this before she leaves tonight.

  The large, barrel-chested man stationed by the gate bars entrance to those without an invitation. Mandy flashes hers proudly, and he inspects it with a pen light. He hands the invitation back and welcomes her to Dovenelle’s, motioning for her to proceed. She is a little apprehensive at passing through the impressive bird; the smoke is so thick, she can’t see through it. She chides herself for being stupid—it’s just a special effect. The man encourages her with a manufactured smile and motions with his head for her to get a move on.

  Waving a hand before her to disperse the smoke does nothing. The dense white and silver vapor swirls only slightly and holds its form. Mandy puffs her chest out and takes a step forward. She sniffs, expecting the distinctive aroma of the liquid used in fog machines, but instead inhales a faint scent of cloves. Frowning at her inability to figure out this trick, she takes another step forward, bringing her out of the raven’s massive tail feathers.

  The front yard of Dovenelle’s is alight with hundreds of tiny silver and gold lights. Some of these lights seem to fly about the yard. Several come towards her, and she takes a half step back. They aren’t lights. They’re…fairies? Those can’t be real. The little winged creatures hold what appear to be small lanterns, their light reflected brightly off their delicate wings. She is momentarily startled by the number of them surrounding her, chittering and…singing? Instinctively, she lifts a hand to swat them away. The one closest scowls and says something that she can only assume is a swear word. It turns around and waves the rest to follow it.

  How the hell did Aven manage that? Some sort of fancy drone tech? Mandy is no longer impressed. She is irritated; jealousy burns in her chest. A laughing, awestruck couple pushes past her. She watches them in their ridiculous matching mummy costumes walk arm-in-arm slowly up the path, gawking stupidly at the unbelievable spectacle around them. They point here and there, with audible gasps of amazement. She scoffs at them. Idiots.

  She doesn’t want to see any more; she wants to go home. Sobering at the thought of what awaits her at home, Mandy starts up the path. Try as she might, she can’t help but gaze around. A thick layer of rolling fog covers the ground, everywhere except the walkway. Each footfall prompts a glow from the cobblestones. Flaming jack-o-lanterns float menacingly in the air, their expressions changing as they inspect each guest. The mummy couple receive accepting smiles, and the woman earns a wink from the fatter pumpkin. As a large one approaches Mandy, its fiery eyes and mouth glower at her. She shrinks from it with a squeal and trots quickly onto the porch, her heart racing.

  The porch is crammed with people, laughing and talking merrily with drinks in hand, all in elaborate and expensive costumes. She inspects herself to confirm she looks better than everyone else.

  She stops at the threshold to the shop, amazed by the sights before her. All of the walls are covered in black and silver brocade wallpaper, which is peeling in many places. Old paintings with ornate but weathered frames are scattered haphazardly across the walls. The images in the paintings move within the frames and interact with those who gawk at them. One painting features a very old and crotchety man, dressed in old-fashioned sea captain clothes. He’s perched precariously in a dinghy in the middle of a dry ocean bed. He shakes his fist at those staring at him, yelling that they need to move on or they’ll get what’s coming to them.

  She looks up to see an enormous chandelier that spans the full length of the great room. Its black metal workings make it look like a thorny mass of seething brambles, and the vines are moving within it. There are no bulbs or candles—instead the thorns are aflame, flickering vigorously with each movement of the thick vines.

  She senses eyes upon her. Aven Dovenelle glares down at her from the middle of the staircase, her eyes narrow slits. Her nails are dug into the railing, which looks like a glimmering snake. Mandy instantly feels exposed, as if Aven knows she is the mastermind behind the vandalism. But that can’t be—there is nothing amiss about the shop at all. Nothing is broken or smashed, nothing is torn, or ripped, or even out of place. Everything is perfect. Under the hawk-like stare of Aven’s creepy purple eyes, Mandy flushes red. Aven is probably just pissed that she’s actually shown up. Aven’s going to have to share the spotlight at her own party. Ha!

  Aven’s stare is interrupted by her friend Josephine coming up to her and placing a hand on her arm. Aven jolts from her trance, her face brightening immediately at the sight of Jo. Aven gushes over Jo’s ensemble; the
woman turns and pivots for Aven on the steps, the copious folds of her deep purple velveteen dress swirling about her, slapping at the person coming up the stairs beside them. A laugh is shared by all three, and the older man hugs Jo briefly then continues upstairs where the buffet is stationed. Mandy rolls her eyes. The Stevie Nicks look is SO over, honey.

  Mandy takes this opportunity to assess Aven’s choice of costume. She is dressed as a witch—how unimaginative—and the full-length gown is way too sexy for the likes of Aven. It clings to her body like a second skin, accentuating her small breasts and the curve of her hips. Its shiny black material appears to be latex from where Mandy is standing, with a long slit up the front of her left leg to her hip, exposing a muscular leg that takes Mandy by surprise. The forearm sleeves drape down and attach to a cape of satiny material, giving the effect of wings when she opens her arms. The cut down the front of the dress exposes more breast than hers does, but Mandy isn’t jealous. She actually has boobs. Mandy isn’t going to admit that Aven looks great, she isn’t. But she will find out where Aven got the dress. She could really rock that, minus the pointy hat.

  She turns at hearing her professional name and graciously takes the extended hand of a formerly frequent client, smiling and laughing, extolling how absolutely marvelous the woman looks. The spitting image of Marie Antoinette if ever there was one. Mandy takes the woman’s arm, requesting to be shown the way to the bar. As they pick their way through the crowd, she asks the woman why she hasn’t been to see her in such a long time.

  Mandy stands at the back of the room, her glass filled to the brim with champagne, sipping it without relish. Greatly annoyed at the extremely fine options at the bar, she chose the most expensive thing she would drink. Mandy prodded the bartender to fill her glass completely, leering unabashedly at the handsome young man as she imagined what it would be like to ride him. She must give him her card before the night ends.

  Her foot taps to the beat from the DJ, but she stops it immediately. Taking another sip of the champagne, she finds the glass empty and pushes herself from the wall, heading back to the bar.

  She leans on the polished wood counter, ensuring her breasts are displayed for Jake the bartender’s benefit. He smiles the mandatory server smile and takes her glass, turning away.

  “Isn’t he a bit young for you?”

  Mandy’s eyes narrow at the sound of the annoying voice and her impertinent words. Mandy doesn’t acknowledge the woman right away. She waits for Jake to present her drink. She takes it, thanks him for being so kind to her, then turns her body towards the unwelcome visitor.

  “Josephine.” Mandy nods curtly, taking a sip from her glass.

  “Mandala,” Jo says with unrestrained sarcasm. “I’m surprised you showed, to be honest.” Jake hands her a short glass filled with two fingers of some dark amber liquid. His smile for Jo is genuine, which vexes Mandy immensely.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I was invited, wasn’t I? It would have been rude to decline an invitation to such a marvelous event.” Mandy’s voice drips with sweetness.

  “Right,” Jo snorts, swirling the liquid in her glass. “Then try not to look so sour about it, huh? People might think you’re, I don’t know…jealous or something.” She tips her drink to Mandy and turns away.

  Mandy snarls at the woman’s back, watching Jo’s ample form melt into the crowd of revelers. Catching herself immediately, she straightens, plastering a big smile on her face, showing off her perfect teeth. She can’t be caught not having a good time or begrudging Aven her success. She takes a deep breath and switches into full social butterfly mode. If she can’t beat Aven, she will at least get something out of it—eat the expensive caviar, drink the expensive champagne, and maybe drum up some business while she’s here. She has several of her business cards tucked in her cleavage.

  Before long, she finds herself having fun, much to her surprise. She’s danced with a young, lanky vampire, and the wait staff make sure she is never thirsty. A ghostlike little girl in a simple white shift gives her a ghostlike rose that turns into a colorful butterfly in the palm of Mandy’s hand. She marvels at the trick, watching the butterfly flit around before her, dancing in and out of her upraised hands, eventually disappearing in a puff of glitter. She turns to ask the child how the trick is done, but the little girl is gone.

  Wonders such as this are everywhere. A large dragon, made of silver wire and purple glass, flies around the ceiling, its tail whipping through the air, occasionally swooping down to the delight of the crowd. It perches momentarily on the loft’s railing, then hops off and dives when someone reaches for it. It is clearly having fun with the crowd, and they eat it up. It lands on the outstretched arm of a woman covered from head to toe in luminescent white feathers. Her extended arm looks like a wing. The woman stands quietly, apart from everyone else, and appears content to survey the festivities around her. When she gazes up at the writhing chandelier, Mandy sees her eyes glint purple in the light.

  The fairy things are everywhere too. Their job seems to be lighting, as each still holds a tiny lantern and hovers a foot or two from the ceiling. Mandy squints to see if she can spot the fishing line that they have to be hanging from, but she can’t see anything of the sort.

  Cal comes through the front door just then, dressed in a simple, well-fitted tuxedo and plain black mask, met quickly by Aven, who seems to appear from nowhere. Cal is apologizing profusely, mentioning something about being held up in Worcester, and Aven silences him with a kiss. Mandy looks away in disgust, deciding she needs another drink. She waves away the waitress and heads for the bar.

  Mandy’s foul mood has returned, and she finds it increasingly difficult to keep the smile up. She’s been hearing people chatter excitedly about a rooftop terrace, so she decides to go see this impossibility for herself.

  The buffet is set up in Aven’s kitchen and is filled with people chatting and eating, laughing and singing the praises of Aven’s fabulous home and her skills at party throwing. Several guests lounge in the living room, which has been decorated like a turn-of-the century graveyard. All of this must have cost Aven a fortune! It is really movie-quality stuff, Mandy admits reluctantly. She stifles a growl as she snatches a tiny hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. Whatever she put in her mouth is delicious, which makes her scowl deepen.

  Mandy stands staring up the steep staircase to the roof. A small star-shaped LED candle lights each polished wood step. She questions whether her dress or her heels will allow her to climb it. She huffs aloud and angles herself, taking the steps sideways, a hand on each rail.

  A little spiny creature with a pointed snout is positioned at the top of the staircase, seated on what looks like a tiny bejeweled throne. He holds up a black paw.

  “Mind your head, please,” he advises in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.

  She stares at the little thing, astonished. Is that a hedgehog wearing a top hat and bow tie? Mandy shakes her head, exasperated with trying to figure out how all these tricks are being pulled off.

  She lowers her head and steps through. “Holy shit,” escapes her lips. She covers her mouth, embarrassed that she’s been heard by the people nearest the door. They chuckle and admit to saying much the same when they saw it.

  What is billed as a rooftop terrace looks more like the deck of an Egyptian pharaoh’s ship. The raised dais in the middle has gilded posts at each corner, adorned in colorful hieroglyphics. In the center burns a roaring fire in a large golden bowl supported by four clawed feet. Four golden thrones surround the fire, also covered with hieroglyphics. The thump of the music downstairs is barely audible. People mill around, admiring the sight, commenting on how cold the fire is, and taking selfies in the thrones.

  Needing to get away from all these happy people, and the heavy scent of frankincense wafting from the fire, she finds an empty corner at the back. She grips the coping of the waist-high parapet and leans forward, inhaling the crisp, night air. She tunes out the sounds around her and closes her eyes,
enjoying the stillness.

  “I know what you did,” comes a harsh whisper in Mandy’s ear. Her eyes snap open and she flinches, her skin threatening to jump off her body, knowing who’s behind her. But Aven doesn’t know anything, can’t know anything. Unless those fuck heads ratted her out—they were acting a little weird when they came over. But there is no damage! She can’t be blamed for anything. She swallows hard, pulling her clammy palms from the coping and making fists at her sides. Mandy steels her face and turns to her enemy.

  Aven stands only a handspan from her. Even with Mandy’s high-heeled pumps, Aven is still taller. Mandy hates having to look up at her. She holds the woman’s glare, not letting Aven’s murderous expression get to her.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Mandy says with her chin high. Aven’s hand lashes out and grips Mandy’s upper arm. She squeals as Aven’s nails dig into her flesh.

  “Now you listen to me,” Aven says, inches from her face. “You sent those fucking kids to destroy my shop. I know you did. I knew it the moment you set foot in my house. You reek of guilt. There is nothing you can hide from me.”

  Mandy tries to wrench her arm free but can’t.

  “Let me go, you fucking bitch!” Mandy says, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone is there. Mandy gulps. The rooftop is empty save for a few fairy lanterns, bobbing up and down with the beat of their wings. Are they staring?

  Aven jerks her forward, closing the distance between them. “You have crossed the wrong witch, Janet Kellogg, and you will regret it.”

  Mandy trembles despite herself. There are flames in Aven’s eyes, actual flames. She tries to look away but can’t. Fear sweeps over her, threatening to choke her. The same crippling fear she feels around Morris Stiles.