I gave orders to an unknown soldier on the other side of the planet. I stood behind a bunker in the dark of a cold Afghan night. He stood in the woods of the high ridge across from the Crossroads Café. I smelled sangria and cheap rum. War and heroin and suicide attempts and pain.
But loyalty.
Someone sent him to guard Luce.
Twenty degrees right. Down ten. Wind from the southeast. Now.
“INSIDE. NOW,” Kern ordered, shoving me toward the café’s doors.
He pulled his gun and crouched, watching the woods across the Trace.
My head light and a dazed smile growing on my face, I walked through the cozy dining rooms, past the server’s station with its napkin-wrapped cutlery and canisters for tea and water. I walked down a back hall through the flour-dusted kitchen and the big pantry, then through a side hall that ended at a sturdy door with a screen door inset. I opened both and stepped out onto a side porch crammed with cardboard boxes of vegetables from local farms. I walked down stern concrete steps to the graveled side yard, and I headed straight to a small, drafty barn so old that Delta and Pike parked tractors in it and filled it with hay so their grandkids would bounce if they fell out of its loft.
I flattened myself on the cold gravel and crawled through a ragged hole in the boards.
The teenagers huddled beside their truck.
I stood. “You sprayed the trinity bar symbol on the courthouse doors.”
They nodded. “Everybody’s doing it,” the girl said. She raised a fist. “We’re in the Resistance.”
I pointed to my right. “Walk down this driveway. Tell Delta I sent you. Me. Lucy. She’ll take care of you.”
“Burkett will send us to jail. He’s beating people up. He gets away with it because he knows how. Everybody says Sheriff Whittlespoon is letting him . . . ”
“Sheriff Whittlespoon has people watching him. Did you hear that shot out front? Tell everyone that was Sheriff Whittlespoon protecting the people of this county.”
“Are you really a witch at the lesbian farm?”
“Yes. Do what I say.”
They ducked out the hole in the wall. I slumped beside their car, watching cold sunlight filter through the slats in the barn walls. My knees went south and the rest of me followed.
Breathe. Breathe.
Several minutes later, the big doors creaked open.
“Shit Yarny,” Gutsy said, lowering her rifle. “Get the fuck outta here.” She spoke into a mic on her headpiece. “All clear.” Then, to me. “Dragon will walk you back to the farm. We’ve got this covered.”
“Stop vandalizing the court house.”
She looked wounded. “That wasn’t us. The Resistance is growing, Yarny. And when they hear what you did today, you’re gonna be a inspiration. Five parts inspire.” She swiped a hand across my clammy forehead. “Two parts perspiration.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You went Voodoo on Berg. You told him to shoot.”
“I would never . . . ”
She shrugged. “Okay, if you wanta be humble about it, he’ll say one of his voices told him to do it.”
Gutsy grinned and left.
I sat there in awe.
It was Gus.
THREE WEEKS UNTIL March. Three weeks until I went on leave. Went back to the mountains I said I’d never call home, again.
Back to Luce. She had been there in spirit when I was young. She was there now, in the flesh.
I would never let Kern get near her again.
Groucho Khan, Bazir yelled. Bazir’s young voice rode the wind of the high, stark hills of my brain.
I’d broken my rule about never telling my full name. I’d told the kids Dad named me Groucho Marx and my sisters Tallulah Bankhead and Greta Garbo. Mama indulged Dad because he loved old movies so much. The kids had no idea who those stars were, but they understood when I made faces about being called Groucho. So it became our game. Groucho Khan! And me making the faces, and them laughing.
Now I felt him tugging my hands when I walked. Pointing. There, over there, Groucho Khan. That is where he is. At the sunrise.
I was running out of time to close this part of my life. I couldn’t leave for home without making things right.
“Change of plans,” I said into my helmet mic.” I rolled new coordinates off my tongue.
I felt the curious glances of my men. Beer poured into the light armored vehicles in our small caravan. A tsunami of dark stout, the foam spent, the hops giving off the odor of burnt oak. The essence of fear and excitement. They trusted me. I didn’t tell them more than they needed to know, and I took full responsibility for what happened next.
Sanchez, who was seated in the back wearing sunglasses that reflected green, making her look like a fly, said, “New mission?”
“A detour,” I answered. “You’ll drop me off and wait.”
SHADOWS ROSE IN the corners of my vision, but when I looked quickly, they weren’t there. I couldn’t concentrate on my spinning. Gus had been away from base for days. I shivered. The barn’s temp had dropped from a cozy sixty degrees to forty in only an hour, and it wasn’t even noon, yet.
My phone beeped.
I stared at the name. Amber Burkett.
I KNOW you tried to seduce Kern the other day. And now I know about the pictures you sent Kern. Why don’t you go back where you came from? I’ll pay you to leave. Trust me, if you don’t leave, my father is going to make you sorry.
As firefly lights began to flit across my vision, the next text message arrived.
K Burkett.
What did I ever do to you except offer patience and understanding? To visit you, to talk to you. To be your friend and encourage you so that you’d see how I could give you a normal, happy life. So why are you trying to destroy my marriage to Amber and my election campaign? I won’t let you ruin my life.
Time slowed down. I fanned myself. My hand looked odd. Disconnected. Here it came—the thick, suffocating cloud pressing around me. A waking dream, not a good one. Nothing felt real.
The phone was going blurry.
Block the fear.
Too late. Everything inside me turned rage-red. Stored fantasies sent their tentacles toward the light. I’d executed my rapists countless times, not in vague ways but vividly; I’d even researched the details. I’d picked the exact guns, the knives, the medical instruments; I studied the methods of electrocution and strangling, the forms of torture, the use of painful poisons and crushing devices.
“It’s your process, hon, and I support it,” Macy told me when I came to the farm. “But let’s work on letting go of that anger. Don’t be like Sisyphus, pushing his rock up the same hill for the rest of your life. Be Themis, the goddess of justice. The embodiment of wisdom and foresight, of law, order, of balance. Protector of the helpless.”
I pointed out that Themis relied on Nemesis, goddess of revenge, when justice failed.
Still, I understood that the rage inside me was toxic and infinite. Every stressful event revived it, fed it. I’d worked hard to stop the gory daydreams. Alberta had offered to teach me to shoot guns, and I took her up on it. Strangely, it helped. I loved them. Guns.
This is giving me flashbacks. About . . . wanting to become Nemesis.
No, hon. You won’t become the goddess of revenge. If you try you’ll just turn into ol’ corrupt Sisyphus, pushing the eternal rock of frustration up the same endless mountain and watching it roll back down, forever. Remember? Use what I’ve taught you. Practice staying in the moment. You. Are. Themis. Goddess of justice and protector of the helpless. Okay?
All right.
Like an ingrown hair. I’d lanced boils on sheep. Get the infection out. Relieve the suffering.
I TOLD MACY about the text messages.
“Amber has moved out of their house,” she said flatly.
I stared at her, mouth open. “It’s not public news yet.”
She nodded. “A broken marriage won’t help Kern beat Pike in the election. And Howard’s not going to allow it. Take your meds, go for a walk. Breathe. We’ll just wait and see what happens next. Think happy thoughts. Gus will be home in two weeks. Next Wednesday you’re going to Asheville to shop for a new outfit. Big trip, on a whirlybird, with Tal and Gabby? You’re getting on that fancy Wakefield copter and you’re going. I mean it.”
Macy’s voice, always calm, was filled with an unblocked flow of kind energy, the way a skilled therapist and high level yoga practitioner ought to be. Namaste, you all. Macy Spruill-Groover, PhD in counseling. Wife of Alberta Spruill-Groover, ex-Marine medic and doctor of kicking ass and taking names later.
I would try to breathe.
PIECES OF MY QUIET world ripped slowly down the sides of an old picture frame. I felt the fragile linen fibers of the vintage canvas pulling my skin off my bones. Gus was trapped in the weave. I had to hold warp and weft together for his sake, at least.
Gus’s bare shoulder was warm against my cheek. I snuggled next to him on top of his imagined covers, sliding upwards. Soon my head burrowed against his neck, my naked arm was draped over his bare chest and my right leg over his right leg, with my knee sunk deep in the valley between his thighs.
I half-opened my eyes, seeing a stone wall against the other side of the mattress. The black shadows crowded in close around us, just like before. Inside a mountain, the light never changes.
Inside a mountain?
His chest and abdomen were a tree trunk of hard muscles. I rode the rhythm of his heart and lungs and felt the gentle gush of air on my forehead every time he exhaled. Want him, want, no fear, want. The sweet cramp of desire surged down between my thighs; they tightened around his leg and pulled him closer. My body, unleashed from the terror center of memories, knew exactly where it wanted his body to go.
I ached for more.
Suddenly Gus’s hand closed around my throat. He threw me on the stone floor. He was quick, naked, and erect. I was naked, too, and fighting. I couldn’t see his face.
He slapped me until my neck popped. His leg between my thighs became a bony knee jamming into my pelvis.
“You want me to hold her down again?”
“Nah, not this time. Gimme that ass,” he ordered. He jabbed his fingers into me. “Turn over. Give it.”
It’s just a flashback. End it.
I opened my eyes. My heart broke my ribs. Disoriented, I shoved my tent of shawls aside and grabbed a flashlight from the tote dragging from one shoulder. My breath puffed white in frigid darkness. A coterie of herding dogs grunted unhappily as they floundered from beneath my snow-dappled woolens.
A commotion erupted, and the dog pack raised their voices.
A slender young female voice screeched back at them.
“Stop barking at me. Morons. Goat-head dick brains. Stop it.”
And then a sputtering, angry sound like an old car engine trying to catch in cold weather. An angry male llama answer.
More shouts, all human, all that young female voice. Panic. Fear. Dogs barking. The thud of hooved llama feet. Grunts. I recognized llama territorial defense when I heard it. The visitor had been cornered by Michelangelo.
I staggered back to the barn. The sheep, llamas, and alpacas stirred in the shadows, agitated; the dust from wildly tossed wood shavings still filtered through the cold dim glow.
Brim towered among them, her mule muzzle curling to reveal yellow, brutal teeth.
I saw the wagging, barking dogs in a cluster around Michelangelo’s shaggy tan legs. Standing, he was six-feet-six at the tip of his banana-curved llama ears. He guarded not only his small family of ten female llamas but all the other livestock and me, too. Between him and Brim, the entire livestock family of Rainbow Goddess was protected. Beyond him, plastered against the barn wall, I glimpsed spikey brown hair, a pale face glistening with llama spit, and a thick camo jacket over skinny jeans.
Megan Rowen.
I coughed up some spit, licked my lips, and managed a low whistle.
The dogs quieted. Brim snorted in disgust, but stepped aside. Megan inched toward me. She stumbled to a halt, blocked by four llamas, a dozen ewes, two alpacas, and a donkey. The overhead light revealed a lean creature with spikey brown hair, a nose ring, black denim and leather. She perched on wobbly, high heeled black boots. Her face and eyes were hypnotically pale and delicate. A deep aura, the colors of a ripe bruise, haloed her head and body.
Anger, fear, pride. A heartbeat that’s lost its wings.
“I know what you’re afraid of,” she drawled. “I eavesdropped on your nightmare. It was hot.”
Flames burst through the hay-strewn floor. Smoke and bright orange cinders floated to the ceiling, exploding. My mind filled with the acrid scent of charred wood.
Burning. Destroying.
Megan Rowen was a Fire Witch.
Megan blew out a long breath. Her shoulders sagged.
My illusionary flames evaporated. The barn returned to normal.
I nodded toward the small blank canvas Megan tried to hide behind her leg. Now I knew who’d been pilfering from my storage room.
She whipped it at me like a Frisbee. It landed on a bale of hay near my feet. “So I’m a thief. You caught me, bitch.”
She needs a mother. A friend.
I remembered the softness of my mother’s hands and the whisper of her voice, even though I was a baby when she died. Dad’s adoration of her was a shrine in our lives; he filled the rooms in our three-story Queen Anne parsonage with her photographs. But Auntie Teresa Parmenter, who had donated that historic Charlotte house to the church, and still controlled it and the church, always smiled at his shrines in a way that made me think of sour milk. “Your father was lucky to find such a tolerant woman,” she said often. “One who likes his kind.”
“Look, I’ll pay for the fucking canvas,” Megan said, shifting from foot to foot.
“Please, stop pretending. Who sent you here? What do you want to know?”
“I’m not gonna talk to you around all these goats. They smell like ass taint.”
“These aren’t goats.”
“What-the-fuck-ever.”
I picked up the canvas and whirled it back. “Do you want paints and brushes?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a joke?”
“No. I’ll give you art supplies. I’ll give you art lessons. I’ll teach you to spin wool, and to knit and crochet. Like everything here at the farm, you’ll earn it.”
Her face hardened. “I’m not dropping my panties for you or anybody else.”
“No one here will ever abuse you. Ever. If you ever feel pressured or threatened, come to me, or Macy, or Alberta, and we’ll take care of it. Understand? You’re safe here.”
“Like you really give a shit.”
“I do.”
“I’m not afraid of you. The witch of Rainbow Lezbo farm. That’s what people call you. They say you read minds and cast spells using the old mountain hoo-doo. You turned Howard Monzell’s third wife against him so she sided with his kids from his second marriage in that lawsuit against his kids in his first marriage. And then she took all her money and left. Then last fall you started trying to take Deputy Burkett away from Howard’s daughter. You’re trying to screw up Kern’s chances of bein’ elected sheriff, right?”
“Do you know what you are?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She doesn’t know. Doesn’t understand her power.
“We’ll talk about it later.” I pulled my phone out. “It’s almost midnight. I’ll walk you back to the dorms.”
�
��Let’s talk now.”
“All right. How about a cup of tea?”
“Whatever.”
She followed me up the wooden stairs to my porch. A small light fixture illuminated the wooden door and its knob. I reached for the door key that lived in a pocket of my skirt.
A deep growl came from the shadows beyond the light. Patton leapt up on the platform. The four-footed member of the Knights. A damaged veteran, like his human compatriots. A soldier.
The scarred German shepherd pushed himself between me and Megan. He looked up at her with his fangs bared.
Her face paled. She stepped back.
The scent of smoke drifted from the storeroom.
“Run,” Megan yelled.
Patton grabbed my wrist in his jaws and tugged.
Flames burst into orange flowers in the barn’s loft.
10
YOU HAVE TO FOCUS. Here. In this dust and blood. Not thousands of miles away in North Carolina. Luce is safe. The fire didn’t hurt her. Didn’t hurt her animals. Thank God for the dog. That big shepherd—where did he come from? He heard me. He listened.
Just as the unknown soldier had listened when I told him to shoot the light out next to Kern, on the porch at the café.
THE FEBRUARY SUN rose on the barn—my home—in smoldering ruins.
All the animals were safe. After making sure that all had exited the barn, I managed to rescue my computer, my meds, and the antique spinning wheel that had belonged to one of Gus’s ancestors. Delta had saved it over the years. She’d given it to me with the blessings of Gus, Tal, and Gabby.
Elam’s short-legged table, however, was gone.
“Drink more,” Macy ordered, squatting beside me on the frosty grass. She gently inserted another hot mug of tea into my bandaged hands. “It has chamomile in it. Very soothing.” She lowered her voice. “Also two shots of bourbon.”
“Just blisters and scrapes,” I said, as if she’d asked.
The Jefferson County Fire Department was still spraying water on the smoking timbers. Alberta hoisted charred boards and kicked icicles that had formed on the water spigots, her grim face almost hidden under a baseball cap and the hood of a heavy jacket.
The Kitchen Charmer Page 14
