Gideon

by Alex Gordon

  “I don’t think you should get involved in this.” Waycross sat up straighter, tugged at the sleeves of her sweater, rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t doubt that you mean well, and I can tell that you’re a quick learner. But your lack of experience could get someone killed—”

  “It looks to me like people are dying regardless.” Lauren backed away from the table as Waycross’s glare drilled deep. “I wasn’t questioning—”

  “We can talk more tomorrow.” Waycross massaged her temples, pressing so hard that her fingertips whitened. “You’ve had a helluva day. Better get some sleep.”

  Lauren pushed in her chair. “So should you.”

  “I’m going to stay up awhile longer.” Waycross picked up the glove again. “Dylan should be stopping back with your things. I’ll tell him not to get his hopes up about the search for Connie. If he asks why, I’ll just say that I have a feeling. He’s used to my feelings.” She sniffled, removed a handkerchief from her sleeve, and wiped her nose, her eyes. “Want me to call you when he shows up?”

  “Not tonight. I’m too tired to be lucid.” Lauren paused in the doorway. “Thank you. For taking me in.”

  Waycross nodded, eventually. Closed the book, and handed it to Lauren. “Phil repairs bindings and such. He should be able to take care of this for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to him.”

  “The hot-water tap sticks. I need to fix it but I haven’t had the time. There’s a set of channel locks on the toilet tank.”

  “Thanks.” Lauren walked down the short hallway to the back staircase, then paused at the foot of the stairs. Then she buttoned her shirt to the neck, zipped her vest, and headed for the back door.

  The damp night chill startled her awake, like a splash of cold water in her face. She sat on the step, looked up at the dark country sky, picked out stars twinkling between the clouds.

  Tensed when she heard the dead grass crunch of footsteps.

  “Hello? Hello?” Tom Barton tottered into view. “Thought it might be Mistress catching a few drags. She does that once in a while.” He had stuck strips of reflective tape to his gloves, jacket sleeves, and both pant legs, so that when he moved, he looked like a glow-in-the-dark stick man.

  “Dylan Corey said you’re the one who told him I needed help.” Lauren held out her hand. “Thank you.”

  Barton stared at her. Then he lunged forward, arm stuck straight out, and gave her hand the briefest of taps. “Welcome.” He backed up, twitching back and forth like a fencer looking for an opening. “I found this by where your car was. Out by the sign, just before you come into town.” More uncertain rocking. Then he stilled and reached out again, this time more slowly. “Thought you better have it back.”

  Lauren braced for a messy surprise, a corroded penny or broken bit of jewelry caked with mud. Instead, Barton dropped one of her wire circlets onto her open palm. “It must have fallen out when I got out of the car. Thanks. Again.”

  Barton nodded with his entire upper body, jerky as a puppet. “Change comin’.”

  “Yes. I think you’re right.” Lauren tucked the circlet in her vest pocket. When she looked up, Barton had gone.

  Jerome Hoard turned onto Old Main Road, hands tight on the wheel. He had always hated Ginny’s convocations, but this one decided him. Liquor. Binding curses. Women’s tears. No more. Son of Gideon he may well be, but there were limits.

  She shouldn’t have come here. Mullin’s daughter. He had sensed it immediately, the tumult, the chaos, emanating from her like the stink of cheap perfume. She knew better than he did how to treat injuries, oh yes. Amanda Petrie’s ointment wasn’t good enough.

  Hoard hit a wave of mist thick as fog, switched his headlights to the low-beam setting, and slowed down. Damned depressing weather—he needed to get away. Far away, this time for good. San Diego. Miami. Someplace with beaches, clear sky, sunshine. Someplace where he would no longer feel the tug at his soul, the eternal call to never-ending duty.

  Dammit, he hated this place.

  The car hit a series of ruts, shuddered and shook like it would fall apart at any moment, and Hoard slowed to a crawl. Funny. He should have reached the turnoff to the state road by now. Damned Tom Barton probably took down the sign again. Easy to miss the turnoff without the sign, no matter how many times one traveled the route. Gideon had no money to pay for road maintenance, and at least five years had passed since the county had sent a crew to trim trees, resurface the road. Every year that passed, conditions grew worse and worse, Gideon more and more isolated.

  “Dammit.” Hoard pulled to the side of the road, and rolled to a stop. Checked the time on the dashboard clock. Just as he thought—he should have been halfway to Geneva by now. Damn you, Tom Barton.

  As if on cue, the mist changed to rain, a monsoon pounding of water that Hoard knew sure as hell was falling on his car and nowhere else. That’s how it went every time he came home. Every moment spent in Gideon served to remind him why he had left in the first place.

  “Calm yourself, Doctor.” Hoard pulled in one deep breath, then exhaled through his mouth. Whoosh. Concentrated on expanding his chest muscles, felt the tension as they resisted. Wound up tight, yes he was, but he would be home soon. Just needed to wait for the rain to let up a little.

  He unclasped the black bag that sat nestled in the passenger seat, and rummaged until he found the jar of ointment. He unscrewed the cap, checked the underside for any sign of mold. “Perfectly clean.” He expected nothing less. Amanda’s compounding methods had always been meticulous.

  Old ways are the best.

  “Yes, they are—” Hoard flinched. He had heard the voice as clear as if the speaker sat in the car. Gideon nerves. That hypersensitivity that alerted one to any hint of an incursion by those who inhabited the wilderness. A blessing as well as a curse . . . no, it was a curse no matter how you looked at it. Betty Joan and the others didn’t realize how lucky they would be to have it stripped away, if only for a little while. What a relief it would be, not to feel that eternal tingling, like hooks under his skin. The inability to work spells and set wards would be a small price to pay in exchange for that feeling of peace.

  Hoard glanced in the rearview mirror at the backseat, then checked over his shoulder. Of course it was empty. Of course no one sat there, mumbling witch words in his ear. I need a vacation. As soon as he got home, he’d go online, book something. A weekend in Las Vegas. Anything.

  He took another long, slow breath as he stared at the ointment. It didn’t appear different from any other batch. The same baby-shit-green color. The same herbal stink.

  He turned on the interior light, held up the jar to the weak glow. Sniffed the ointment again, then took a dab between his fingers and rubbed it. Set his conscious self aside and let his senses wander . . .

  . . . dammit. Yes, there was something. So, so subtle—the work of a skilled talent, and no mistake—

  The interior light flickered. Then the bulb blew with a soft pop.

  “Shit.” Hoard resealed the jar and tossed it back in his bag, then tapped the light cover with his knuckle even though he knew it was a lost cause. Brand-new car, too. What was the point in spending thousands extra for European luxury when things broke after only a week?

  At least the rain had let up. Hoard shifted into first, pulled out onto the road—

  —then hit the brake, but forgot to downshift. The car shuddered, then stalled, headlights illuminating the middle of the road, and the body that lay there.

  Hoard stared at the still form. It hadn’t been there before—he would have seen it, even in the rain and the dark. Light-colored gown, light blue or white, sodden cloth stuck to curves like second skin. Bare feet and dark, waist-length hair soaked into strands of twisted rope.

  Hoard checked his phone. Still too close to Gideon to get a good signal, which meant he couldn’t summon an ambulance if needed. Oh well, he had blankets in the trunk, plastic bags to protect the leather upholstery from the wet. He knew
what had happened, had seen it too many times before. Someone’s been chasing fairy lights. Gone out in the night to commune with the spirits. Bottle up teenage girls during long winter nights, add Gideon nerves, and you’ll learn of all the ways witches could kill themselves, accidentally or otherwise. He had to give the Mullin woman credit—at least she had dressed properly for the woods. Synthetics. Layers.

  Hoard flipped up the hood of his rain jacket and struggled out of the car. The girl hadn’t moved yet, which wasn’t a good sign. “Hello?” He trudged through puddles, over shards of shattered asphalt. “Are you hurt?” He felt a surge of relief when the girl flexed her arm and turned over. It would have been a struggle for him to move a limp body of that size. Nothing but deadweight—

  “No, Dr. Hoard.” Ashley Petersbury smiled. “I’m just fine.” She sat up, flipped back her lank hair. Her gown rode up her thighs as she moved, revealing mottled skin, a thatch of pubic hair. “See something you like?” She peeled back the neck of the gown, flashed a flat, white breast, the nipple blue from cold.

  Blue from dead. Hoard backed away. It’s blue because she’s dead. “You can’t be here. You can’t.”

  Dead Ashley stood and started toward him. “It’s nice to see you again, Doctor.”

  Hoard stumbled, caught himself before he fell, scrambled on all fours before righting himself. Ashley’s laughter jangled his ears, like fingernails across slate. He fell against the car, grabbed for the handle. Pulled. Pulled.

  I didn’t lock the doors. He rooted through pockets, looked inside the car, saw the keys on the driver’s seat.

  “Could you give me a ride into town?”

  Hoard ducked just out of reach of Ashley’s blackened fingertips. Avoid the touch. Avoid the demon touch and ye shall survive. Words of the Lady. Lady help me. He spun away from the girl—corpse—corpse-girl—bounced off the car, and careened down the road.

  Jerome, son of Frederick.

  Hoard steadied. Ran. Toward Gideon.

  You don’t care about Gideon anymore, Jerome. Why should it care about you?

  “I care! I care!” Pain in Hoard’s knee, a god-awful wrench like the stab of a knife. “Lady, help me. Lady help me!” Through the haze of rain and pain and panic, he saw a figure walking toward him, a man in a long coat.

  Someplace warm, Jerome—isn’t that where you want to go?

  Hoard staggered as the pain ripped through his chest and burst through his hands, flames in orange and gold, swirling around him. “My Lady!” He crumpled to the road, watched his hands blister, blacken, rupture.

  Someplace bright and warm . . .

  Stiff. That was Lauren’s first thought when she opened her eyes. Her ribs, thighs, every place the stones had struck, fought her each time she tried to move, tensing to the edge of cramp. She peeled back the bandage covering the thorn wound. At least that looked better—the itching had ceased, the redness paled to pink. Chalk one up for her distrust of Amanda Petrie’s ointments.

  She sat up slowly, worked her shoulders. The mattress on which she had slept felt hard as a board, the feather pillows flattened by use and age. The bedroom, a narrow space with just enough room for a twin bed and dresser, smelled musty, and she knew she was the first person to sleep there in years. A lonely room, in a lonely house.

  Dreams. Only one, that replayed over and over. The man in the long coat, leaning close, his face a smoky blank and his breath like the gust from an opened freezer. Only the voice held warmth, like a caress. A promise in the dark. Let me in . . . let me in . . .

  Lauren edged out of bed, and stood in stages. Moving around helped, and removal of tapes and bandages revealed that her wounds had begun to heal. Her face still looked a little lopsided and her jaw felt stiff, but she could talk without too much difficulty.

  By the time she had dressed and gone down to the kitchen, Waycross had already breakfasted and departed, leaving a carafe of coffee on the stove and a Crock-Pot of oatmeal on the counter, a scrawled note tucked beneath. In the barn—yell if needed.

  Lauren ate, cleaned up, then wandered the front rooms, coffee in hand, and pondered her options. Stay put. She greatly reduced the chance of being attacked if she did so, but then it would be highly unlikely she would uncover any useful information. Go into town. She liked that choice better.

  She hesitated in the doorway of Waycross’s small office, which was located just off the kitchen. The door had been removed from the hinges, which implied it wasn’t a private space. But Waycross lived alone, and she was Mistress of Gideon. For her, doors and locks may not have been necessary.

  Lauren stepped over the threshold. Felt a mild tingling in her hands, chalked it up to nerves and residual soreness, and looked around, on the alert for sounds of approaching Mistresses.

  The office was tiny, windowless, with three walls lined with shelves. The small table that served as the desk held nothing but an ancient black dial phone, phone books, a soup-can pencil holder. Lauren picked up one of the phone books and searched for the number for Lolly’s garage. Took out her phone, turned it on. No bars. No signal.

  Lauren shut off the phone and tucked it away. Dialed the number on the landline, listened to the rings. Mr. Loll apparently had no use for voice mail.

  She hung up, then walked to the front window to check the weather. Dylan Corey had indeed delivered her things the previous night as promised, allowing her to finally switch out her filthy clothes for flannel-lined jeans and a red crew-neck sweater. She now had thicker gloves, and a heavier coat to take the place of her father’s leather jacket.

  “All geared up with no place to go.” Well, in truth, she did have a place to go. She just needed to get there without Virginia Waycross finding out and trying to stop her.

  Lauren donned her coat, then gathered her wallet and her father’s book and tucked them into the inside pockets. One of the pens from Waycross’s office. Nothing to carry, drop, leave behind. Hands-free, just in case any friends of Deena or Betty Joan decided to express their irritation with her in person.

  She found the front door unlocked, which surprised her at first, until it struck her that if there was one person in Gideon who never needed to worry about a break-in, it was its Mistress. Different world. Different dangers.

  Lauren walked out onto the front porch, closed the door after her. Down the steps, the long gravel driveway, keeping to the edge in case she needed to dart into the nearby trees to avoid being seen.

  The road that ran past the Waycross place had been paved once, but the asphalt had cracked and rubbled over the years, tufts of brown grass pushing up through the gaps. This morning, it looked like the sort of place you saw in dreams. Shreds of nighttime fog still remained, heavy enough to mist your face and whiten the air like drops of milk in water. Trees were visible only as looming grayed shapes that closed in from both sides.

  Lauren could see only a short distance in any direction. Vehicle tracks had the glassy look of water that had melted and then frozen again, as though hours had passed since anyone had driven past. For all she knew, she had already reentered Connie Petersbury’s world—it all felt the same to her, close and dark and wet and cold, the worlds of the living and the dead combined.

  She looked up into the soft white sky, saw the faint shadow of a hawk as it glided overhead. “I would love to know how anyone gets to where they’re going in this damn town.” She looked back toward the house. There were no vehicles in the driveway—they were all parked in the back near the barn. No way would she be able to sneak one out without Waycross knowing.

  Dammit. She started the long trudge back up to the house when she heard the crunch and whine of a truck changing gears, and squinted in the direction of the noise.

  A shadow in the fog. Then an ancient International pickup rumbled out of the murk, a barn-red tank with an unbent wire coat hanger sticking up where the antenna used to be.

  Lauren caught sight of the driver, and stepped out into the road and waved him down. “Hi.” She waited until the t
ruck eased to a grumbling stop, then walked up to the driver’s-side window. “You’re Zeke, right?”

  “Ezekiel Pyne, Miz Reardon. Spelled with a y.” He looked like the quintessential old farmer from a commercial, weathered benignity topped with an iron-gray crew cut. “Waiting for someone?”

  “Well, thing is, I need to get into town. Could you give me a lift?” Lauren smiled her brightest. “I wanted to check and see how Lolly’s doing with my car.”

  Zeke glanced past her toward the house, and frowned. “Couldn’t you just phone?”

  “I tried. No answer.”

  “In a hurry for your car, are you? Thinking of leaving?”

  Lauren took a deep breath. Wasn’t it true that if you kept smiling no matter how irritated you felt, it came through in your voice and calmed you down? “No, but I would feel better if it were here in the driveway instead of in a repair shop. I just thought if you were headed that way . . . ?”

  “I am, but . . .” Zeke again looked toward the house. “Situation seemed a bit tense last night. Mistress might not like you going off on your own.”

  “You know, she said nothing to me this morning about staying put.” She hadn’t said anything at all because she hadn’t been in the house to say it, but, well, details. “I’m guessing that means things are safe enough.”

  “Maybe. But then . . .” Zeke’s voice trailed. Then he reached across the bench seat to the passenger side and cranked the door handle. “Oh hell—get in. I’ve already lived a long, full life.”

  The seat felt hard as wood and the shocks had seen better days—Lauren jostled and bounced as frigid air found its way to her from the holes rusted through the floor.

  “She’s an old rattletrap.” Zeke rummaged a pack of gum from his pocket and pulled out a stick, then passed the pack to her. “But I can still fix ’er myself. She’ll probably outlive me.”

  Lauren took out a stick of the gum. It proved to be cinnamon, one of those odd old brands you found on the bottom rack in a store checkout line, with flavor harsh enough to bring tears. “Is her name Betsy?”