“It’s you!”
The lady cop drops her hands and straightens up. I can literally “see” Sebastian in her body. He’s wearing it like a suit. But he’s struggling with it like some puppet master who doesn’t quite have it right with his marionette. “Right, then. Get me to the ‘meat wagon,’ if you will. This is always so bloody hard in the beginning.”
I slide an arm around Sebastian’s waist and duck walk him out the back door, where there are fewer cops to notice us. Together, we creep down the alley and then around the corner to the street. By then, Sebastian is starting to recover and walking on his own.
“Well, now…this is not good.”
“What isn’t good?” I can’t imagine how it can get any worse.
“It’s getting easier to drive her.”
I just look at him. “What does that mean?”
Sebastian shakes slightly as though he’s on the edge of a seizure, then recovers. “The easier it is, the more my selfie takes over, and the more she slips away. And the more permanent this body becomes.”
“You mean…you’re killing her?” I hope I’m not right.
He makes a face. “And getting more and more trapped in her. Where the hell is that wagon?” He’s starting to sound panicky again, so I steer him toward the coroner’s van. By the time we reach it, he’s almost “driving her” perfectly, so the officer standing next to the van doesn’t even blink when Sebastian says, “I need to look at the bloody body.”
Unfortunately, he says it in an English accent, which makes the officer, who obviously knows the female cop, frown in response.
Before he can screw this whole thing up, I suddenly bark, “I heard some glass breaking inside. I think you’re needed, officer!”
Sebastian catches on and, glancing briefly at the cop’s name badge, joins in with, “They need you inside, Roberts!” He points behind him.
Officer Roberts stiffens, takes one look at Sebastian, and suddenly heads toward the shop while playing with his shoulder radio.
“Good job,” Sebastian says, pawing at the van. “Get this open. I can’t feel my fingers.”
Even though the last thing I want is to see inside a coroner’s van, I grab hold of the back hatch and yank on it. No go. Then I realize it must unlock from the front seat.
“Stay here,” I say and race around to the front and open the door. Lucky, no one is in the van. I search along the floor until I find the trunk release and pull the lever. The back hatch hisses open. By the time I make it back around, Sebastian is standing inside the spacious van, looking down at a black body bag lying on a collapsed stretcher.
“I hope it’s not too late,” he says, kneeling down beside his own body.
“If it is?” I say as I kneel on the opposite side.
He looks down at his hands. “My selfie takes over and I get to be a hot black chick in the city.”
“And you get to kill a hot black chick—who is innocent,” I remind him.
He looks up grimly, reaches for the zipper on the body bag, then stops. “I can’t.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes! You’re a necromancer. Haven’t you dealt with dead bodies?”
His bottom lips trembles. “It’s different when it’s…you. Spookier.”
With a sigh of frustration, I unzip the bag. I’m okay until I see Sebastian—his body, anyway—inside the bag, looking all blue-faced and cold and dead. I immediately zip it back up. “Oh, god.”
“Yeah.”
We both look down at Sebastian’s body (ex-body?), and I feel my eyes fill with tears, even though I know it’s stupid. He’s not really dead. He’s right here, looking at me.
Sebastian, for his own part, smiles. “Aww, you love me. You really, really love me!”
“Shut it!” I unzip the bag again with some force and point at the corpse. “Get in!”
Sebastian suddenly looks terrified as he reaches out and tentatively lays his hand on the corpse’s chest. He grimaces. “I might not be able to do this.” He looks up. “It might have been too long.”
I realized he’s truly terrified and reach across dead Sebastian to put my hand on living Sebastian’s arm.
“Right. Here goes.” He closes his eyes and, for what feels like forever, nothing seems to happen. Time ticks by, and I start to fear this won’t work, or that we’ll get caught by the coroner or the other cops—who have to be on their way back.
Then, all of a sudden, I feel a surge of electricity under Sebastian’s arm. It’s as if electric eels are moving under his skin. I assume this is his “selfie” on the move. I get some flashes of things in the past, but crazy, disconnected stuff. Horses and carts, gaslights, fisticuffs, filthy public houses, crowded streets that could be in London or Paris or anywhere. I see myself in a Victorian-style nursery, holding a squalling, frightened baby up in front of me, my wrists covered in lace and ruffles—and blood. That image is particularly powerful—and disturbing. Then the images start moving too fast for my brain to follow and I hear a massive intake of breath.
Opening my eyes, I see the female officer kneeling in front of me. She’s as still as a statue, but her eyes are all white like boiled eggs, seeing nothing. Ex-Sebastian is sitting up in the black body bag, having pulled the knife from his chest, and is staring at me with absolute horror. I have never seen such terror in my life.
“Holy fucking Christ on a cracker, you’re—!” he screeches, then stiffens and seems to pass out. I wait, trying not to freak out. When he comes to a few seconds later, he doesn’t wear the same expression.
“Witchy!” he says in greeting, looks around at his predicament, and, spotting the van and body bag, suddenly scrambles up. But the thick black bag prevents him from moving too fast and he winds up flopping back down.
All this surprises me so much, I let go of the officer, who falls sideways in some hypnotic state. Jumping up, I cringe away from him. “Sebastian?”
Formerly dead Sebastian collects himself a moment and then extradites himself from the body bag in such a way that I wonder if he’s done this in the past. He doesn’t seem to remember his earlier outburst, though he does say in a sleepy voice, “What the hell was all that? Why the hell were you on fire? Christ!”
He was touching me when he did his magic. He must have seen things in my past the same way I did his. An exchange of mental baggage.
Our eyes meet and I search for that look that says he knows about me, or that I frighten or disgust him.
Sebastian, still weak from his little adventure, blinks with his unfocused eyes, then totters to the edge of the meat wagon and collapses into a sitting position. “Help me down, luv. I need a fucking drink or ten.”
30
I GET Sebastian into the jeep before anyone notices his corpse is walking around and just drive until I hit the first no-tell motel I come upon—the Seaside Inn, whose name is ironic, considering the state of PA is landlocked. After tucking him into our sixty-dollar-a night room (he looks exhausted and nods off almost immediately) and writing a quick note, I grab my keys and go back out to the jeep.
And drive. Around midnight, I stop at a gas station to fill up. Inside the Wawa, there is a sleepy female clerk sitting behind the counter, yawning and texting at her phone. I pay for my gas, then pick up a vitamin water. Passing the Hostess display, I suddenly decide to stock up. I mean, it seems to work for Nick whenever he’s on the road.
Thus armed with water and calories, I walk back out to the jeep and just sit in it in the dark, stuffing my face with Devil Dogs and watching the other cars pull in and out and try to decide what to do next. There’s no way I can go back home. Confused cops and pissed-off Aztec wait back there (and here be monsters and whatever other shit I’ve brought down upon myself), and I’m not prepared to face any of that.
No, I plan to just sit here all night and eat chocolate and maybe cry for a little while until I clear my head. It’s while I’m bending over in the dark, digging napkins out from under my seat to wipe my leaky nose, that the cards my fa
ther gave me fall out of my pocket and into the footwell. I set the Devil Dogs aside and lean down to pick the cards up. Undoing the cloth, I look at the rectangles of sharp metal, wondering if I can somehow use them to help me determine what to do next. Maybe I can scribe my way out of his unholy mess. I’m not really a Tarot person, but I’m willing to try anything once.
I set the cards in a stack on the seat beside me and carefully shuffle them. I manage to cut my fingers twice in the process, so I don’t see that as a good sign. When I finally decide to cut the deck and try a three-card draw, I draw first a Devil card…and then another Devil card…and, finally, a third Devil card.
“What the fuck?”
I try again, but I get the same results. All Devil cards.
And again.
And again.
“Well, fuck! What’s the point of you!” I scream like a lunatic at the cards.
A middle-aged woman in nurse’s scrubs walks past my jeep on her way to her car, giving me an odd look. I roll the window all the way down and scream, “I’m the Devil. I’m the fucking Devil!”
Looking frightened, she starts to jog to her parked car. Not that I blame her.
Sighing, I lean back in my seat, the cards in my lap. What did my father say?
Learn. Or be taught.
“Thanks. That helps a lot, Dad.”
I must nod off for a time because before I realize it, the sun is coming up over the trees at the edge of the parking lot. Sitting up straighter, I feel a terrible kink in my back. I also spy a billboard across the street that I couldn’t read the night before. Even though my eyes are gummy and I feel like I have a sugar hangover, I see it reads:
This October, get in touch with your Witch Self!
There are pumpkins and black cats on the board, and a woman dressed in black robes, with a big, welcoming smile, pointing directly at me. Under it is a website for the Annual Witches’ Walk through Oldtown—the parade they hold in the older part of Blackwater every October. The Witches’ Walk is the biggest annual celebration in Blackwater. Actually, it’s only one. Tourists come from all over the country to watch self-styled witches (and regular people in costume) walk through the streets to the sound of a big band and point dramatically at the onlookers.
“Get in touch with your witch self,” I say.
Hell, why not?
I start the jeep and put it in drive. Blackwater is only a hundred miles away. I can be there in two hours. After that…who knows?
31
I’M WORRIED about stepping into Curiosities again. Seeing Nick…encountering Morgana…the idea sends a cold, icy finger up my spine. Nick and I didn’t exactly part on good terms, but I know I could probably deal with him. Morgana is another story.
She has never liked me. Can’t blame her. She’s this tall, cool, powerful green witch. She’s connected to the elements, to the stars and the Earth and the skies and all the good things in the world like a real-life Glinda. She lives in a state of total peace and has complete control over her powers. She helps people and asks for nothing in return.
Me? I’m a hot mess train wreck witch. I try, I really do. But I know I’ll never be as good as she is. I’ll never be good, period.
Parked in the curb outside the shop, I grab the wheel and take a few deep, rapid breaths. I don’t feel better, but gulping all that oxygen too fast does make me feel dizzy.
“Fuck it.”
Getting out, I walk to the door, grab the old-fashioned latch, and pull. With a tinkle of the bell, I’m in the store. It’s warm and stuffy and crowded with displays. Not the kind of place you take your toddler. I see racks of books and how-to DVDs and shelves of healing crystals, small pots of tinctures, and New Age-style curios and baubles. Not all of it is “magical stuff,” of course. Blackwater is a tourist trap, so there’s a whole section dedicated to souvenirs—Blackwater ball caps and T-shirts and wind chimes and that type of thing. Nick and Morgana make a lot of money off travel junk, but I know the real magic is made in the backroom, and every townie in Blackwater knows it, as well.
The funny thing about Blackwater is that if you ask any of the townies, they’ll act like they hate the reputation this shop gives the town, but nearly all of them come here when they have a problem they can’t solve on their own. While I was with Nick, I saw the full gamut of customers—people with embarrassing rashes, or sexual performance issues, or even more serious issues like cancer or genetic disorders that wouldn’t respond to traditional medicine. I saw old ladies buying tinctures for their rheumatoid arthritis, and I saw young girls buying pennyroyal for homemade abortions. I have to assume Morgana is very good at what she does, because no one ever died, and no one ever came back angry.
I want to be like that. I want to help people.
Maybe it will make up a little for all the shitty things I’ve done.
The shop is empty except for an older woman in a flowered hat looking through some sparkly scarves. Morgana suddenly appears from the back room and says in a cheery tone, “Here you go, Mrs. Bailey.”
Lucky for me, the rack of dreamcatchers is blocking me from her view.
Mrs. Bailey, dressed in a long, lavender dress, glides over to the counter to take a small white bag from Morgana. “Thank you, dear. This means so much.”
Morgana, looking pristine in a long, flouncy white gown that makes her hair glow fiercely yellow and gives her an almost angelic countenance, folds her hands together. She blinks slowly with those large, wise, crystal-blue eyes of hers. “I know Nick usually takes care of you, but he’s away on business, I’m afraid.”
“That’s quite all right, dear! I love to see you, too!”
The two women exchange pleasantries and even hug before Mrs. Bailey makes a dramatic exit out the door.
Morgana remains behind the counter, smiling at Mrs. Bailey. But as soon as she is gone, her smile falls, she puts her hands down, and she says in a much deeper and darker tone of voice, “You can come out now, Vivian.”
I lurch inside and swallow hard. I hate that she has that effect on me. Stepping out from behind the rack, I approach the counter—and the woman I fear almost more than any other—and then just stand there like some church mouse, afraid even to speak.
Her eyes are…not cold, exactly, but certainly remote. Her hands hang loosely at her sides and her posture is relaxed—unconcerned. The thing that bothers me most about Morgana is not that she makes a concentrated effort to hate me, but that I don’t seem to register at all. I’m merely an annoying fly in the ointment of her life, unworthy of such a strong emotion as hate. I know she would prefer it if I did not exist all, but since I do, I must be tolerated like a minor blight on an otherwise perfect field of wildflowers.
Yeah. She makes me feel insignificant.
“He’s not here,” she says, cutting right to the chase. “I’m sorry you made the trip.”
“Away on business,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds. It’s like when I talked to my parents or the teachers at school who hated me. I was the Mean Girl everyone reviled. I was the pariah.
She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she starts polishing the glass countertop with Windex. I’m amused to see that the display is holding Dark Shadows memorabilia this week. I see DVDs of the old series with Jonathan Frid looking particularly fierce on the covers and a few other items that probably give the tourists mini-orgasms, including Barnabus Collin’s infamous wolf cane and signature ring. I don’t know why that amuses me, but it does.
“Are you high?” she suddenly asks me.
My head snaps up. I’m exhausted and punch-drunk, so my mouth runs away with me. “Why?”
Her eyes shift with annoyance. “I don’t want you breaking anything.”
Finally, I’m angry. She can ignore me all she wants, but marginalizing and belittling me really roasts my chestnuts. “Don’t worry, I won’t break your stupid tourist shit,” I spit.
I see her perk up. I think maybe I’ve finally gotten to her, but then I realize she’s star
ing at my hands. My fingertips are smoldering again and leaving black marks on the glass.
Morgana lifts her head and flares her nostrils. Finally, she looks a little concerned. “Lady Lucifer,” she says, looking back up. She takes a moment to collect herself. “You’ve really come into your power, haven’t you, little witch?”
That surprises me—that she would know that name. I wonder if she sussed it out in her own magical way or just heard something through whatever magical underground grapevine exists in this stupid state. It might be wise to ask, but I don’t want to hold a complex conversation with her.
“That’s right,” I agree. “I’m not the stupid little girl you think I am.”
“I never thought that.”
Her admission unbalances me. In retaliation, I say, “I want to talk to Nick. Not you, Morgana.”
“He’s not he—”
“A business trip. Sure, whatever. But when have you ever trusted him with something like that?”
She sighs. Digging a memo pad out from under the counter, she jots down an address, rips the page off, and hands it to me.
I look at the paper and realize it’s a Lake Ariel address. I’m surprised she gave in so easily. Is she trying to trick me or make a fool of me?
After a second or two, she explains. “Nick’s found himself a coven of Satanists to hang with. Maybe you’ve heard of them? The Children of Endor?”
I remember what Josh told me.
“Their summerhouse is up on Lake Ariel. He’s there now if you need to speak to him that urgently.”
Fair enough. I take the paper.
“But warned, though,” she adds, her face suddenly strained. “He’s not the same man you knew.”
I look down at the paper in my hand, then back up. “What does that mean…?”
But she’s gone, with just the beads in the doorway to the back room lightly swaying.
32
I HAVE to drive slowly past the long series of luxury cabins on the outskirts of Lake Ariel. The guy back at the gas station I stopped at said the turnoff comes up fast on you, and he’s not kidding. The gravel road—little more than a goat path, really—comes out of nowhere and cuts right into a steep switchback. I rumble along for another five minutes, passing various Private Property notices before the private road crests a hilltop.
To the Devil a Daughter Page 14
