Gideon

by Alex Gordon

  Waycross watched them approach, back straight, arms at her sides. Like Corey, she looked Lauren up and down, brow arching ever so slightly in question. Unlike Corey, she kept those questions to herself.

  Interviewing 101. Lauren stopped at the foot of the steps. She wants me to jump in and fill the silence. The angle was such that she had to lean back and look up to meet Waycross’s eye, and she wondered if the older woman had staged the scene that way on purpose. Of course she did. Leading the witches of Gideon appeared about as simple as cat herding. One had to take advantage where one found it.

  So. Lauren clasped her hands in front of her and waited, while behind her, Corey shuffled his feet.

  Waycross understood. Her eyes glinted, and a flush began the long, slow journey up her neck. “Did I say you could leave?”

  Lauren shrugged. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.”

  “I thought you had more damn sense.” Waycross leaned forward, hands taking a white-knuckled grip on the railing. “There are people in Gideon who would string you up as soon as look at you, and you just waltzed in like—”

  “Zeke drove her,” Corey piped.

  “Did he, now?” Waycross glared until Corey muttered an apology and started pacing.

  “He said he’d lived a long, full life.” Lauren smiled at the memory, forced herself serious when Waycross fixed back on her.

  “Has he?” Waycross closed her eyes, hung her head. When she looked at Lauren again, her face had gone slack, her eyes, dull. Years older, in the span of a few heartbeats. “What happened to you?”

  Corey stepped forward. “She ran into ol’ Tom—”

  “Are you her interpreter, Dylan?”

  “No, Mistress.” Corey held up his hands in surrender.

  “I found the lot. What was left of the house.” Lauren reached into her coat pocket. “Dad’s house.” She pulled out her find, held it on her open palms like an offering. “I found this—”

  Waycross leaned over the railing. “Where did you get that?”

  “—up in the chimney.” Lauren took a step back, driven by the expression on Waycross’s face. Anger, yes. Disgust. Rage. All those, she would have expected, understood. But horror, no.

  And fear. Never fear.

  “That’s not possible.” Waycross shook her head, eyes wide. “We searched. So hard, we looked. Even while the house burned, Jimbo and Lolly—Jimbo almost got caught when the roof collapsed, and Lolly had to drag him out.” She pounded the railing with her fist. “Because Matt had already vanished. He ran, but we hoped that maybe he had left us something we could use to keep us safe.” She folded her arms across her chest, and backed away. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s old.” Lauren brushed a smear of ash off the cover. “It’s dirty. It’s been stuck up in a chimney for almost forty years.”

  “And I’m telling you that we looked. Over and over again, we searched that chimney. Lolly ripped out the damper. He tore out the throat and the smoke shelf and smashed the bricks to dust.” Waycross stilled, the edge returning. “How did you find it?” Cold eye, and a voice that knew your worst secret. “You crossed over again, didn’t you?”

  “She did what?” Corey held out a pleading hand as he looked from Lauren to Waycross. “Crossed over—what does that mean?”

  Waycross twitched her head in the direction of the barn. “Dylan, go and check on the hay delivery.”

  “Mistress—”

  “I said, go.” Waycross waited until Corey turned on his heel and muttered his way to the barn. Then she looked to Lauren, and sighed. “You should clean up.”

  Lauren nodded and started toward the house, then stopped when Waycross met her at the foot of the steps.

  “In there.” Waycross pointed to a rickety wood-frame building about twenty yards distant. “It was a storage shed, so it’s a little sparse. But it has power, and I had a shower and toilet put in for Dylan and the workmen. I don’t want any of what’s on you in my house. It’s nothing personal, but we’re past manners at this stage.” She sighed. “Dylan told you about Lolly.”

  “Yes.” Lauren held the book close. It felt normal. Wouldn’t she have sensed if it were tainted? “But he’s only been gone a few hours. He probably just went to an auto-supply house. Or he could have been working, and didn’t hear Phil come in.”

  “If you knew him like we do, you would know—” Waycross’s mouth moved soundlessly. Then she pointed again to the shed. “Don’t come in the house. I’ll bring your things to you.”

  LAUREN WRAPPED A towel around herself and stepped out of the tiny half bath to find Waycross walking around the outer edge of the room that served as the workmen’s break area. The woman held a small wooden bowl in one hand, a wire whisk in the other; every few feet, she dipped the whisk into the bowl and flicked her wrist, spraying liquid across the walls. Clear and thin, whatever it was, with a sharp, herbal scent.

  Lauren waited until Waycross finished. “I did that today. First time. Around the lot. Dad’s house. I heard things in the trees across the street, and I wanted to keep them away.” She described the scene by the hedge, the way the wound on her forehead bled, how she cleaned herself, and what she did after. “They didn’t like it, whoever they were. Whatever they were. I think it’ll keep them away.”

  “That was warding.” Waycross studied her. “We don’t use our own blood, though. We wouldn’t have any left.” She nodded toward the rivulets streaming down the near wall. “It’s a protective formula. Keeps the bad things at bay.”

  Then why spread it inside? Lauren felt her forehead, had to search for a bit until she found the tiny remains of a scab. So fast, the healing. Like magic. “But others have used blood before? It works?”

  Waycross wrinkled her nose. “It’s old school, from back when Gideon was first settled. Before they realized how much more important thinking and influence were. How the will of the many could work to strengthen the barriers, hold back the demon hordes.” She held up the dripping whisk, then lowered it back into the liquid and slowly stirred. “Coupled with smells they don’t particularly care for.” She glanced at Lauren sidelong. “But blood magic? That’s for the television shows. Yours is the first use I’ve heard about in years.”

  “I think it worked.” Lauren adjusted the towel, fought the sense of being naked in more ways than one. “Did Dad—?”

  “Matt wasn’t the sort for spells. He was an arranger. I figured that out years later. He built and maneuvered and put something of himself in everything he did. Everything he touched. A constant witch, we call his type. Always adjusting. Manipulating. Influencing.” Waycross smiled, a thin, distant curve of lip. “I remember the first time ever I saw him. Mrs. Ellison’s ninth-grade algebra class. Principal Hoard brought him in and introduced him and all the girls sorta went ‘huh.’” Her stirring slowed, then ceased. “He didn’t like us much at first. He was a big-city boy. Gideon was quite the comedown for him.”

  Lauren walked to the center of the room, where Waycross had set her suitcase, the shopping bag filled with toothpaste, shampoo, underwear, other things bought along the way. She opened the suitcase and rummaged for jeans, the shirt with the fewest wrinkles.

  Felt the silence, and looked up to find Waycross sitting cross-legged on the floor, back to the wall, bowl cradled in her lap.

  “I worry about you.” Waycross hugged the bowl like a young child would a stuffed animal. “Connie was born here and lived here her whole life, and this place ate her alive. She had tried to build up, what could you call them, calluses? Armor? What good did they do her?” She paused to wipe her eyes with her sleeve. “You’re sensitive, like she was. I can tell. You have abilities. Unschooled, but still . . . I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in your head right now. I worry about you breaking, and what that could mean.”

  Lauren grabbed the shopping bag, hunted for a bra, socks. “I just came here to find out about my father. I’m outside of all this. Why should you care about me?”

  �
��Because you could serve as a conduit and not even realize it. Something could get inside your head, tell you things you want to hear.”

  “It can’t offer me anything I want.”

  “Not even truth about your family?” Waycross nodded. “That’s what it offered Matt. He wouldn’t admit it, but I knew. That’s what it does. It offers something good. Something kind. It offers peace to one in exchange for torment to the rest.”

  “You put Mullins through hell, then wonder why they look out for themselves?” Lauren glanced out the small window by the door, saw no one meandering about, dropped the towel and dragged on her clothes. “You don’t understand as much as you think.”

  “What do I not understand? That you crossed over into the borderland again, easy as crossing a street, and brought back a book that couldn’t possibly exist?” Waycross had set the bowl aside and worked into a crouch, an old cat set and ready to spring. “And before you could get hold of it, you had to ward the land to keep things away, things you didn’t want near you. But that meant they were able to walk that land before you got there. For all you know, they put that book there for you to find.”

  “I came back to this world, this side of the divide, before I found the book.” Lauren pulled on socks, then grabbed her boots. But the leather was coated with soot, and she took another sock from the bag and tried to wipe it away. “It’s another Book of Endor, a couple years older than Dad’s. From Hiram to his dear wife, Barbara.”

  Waycross stared at her for a long moment, then stood and took up the bowl. “Hiram Cateman was Leaf’s grandfather.” She circled Lauren, and sprinkled the floor around her with the potion.

  “Dad worked at the Cateman house. He could’ve swiped it, I guess.” Lauren brushed off the drops that splashed her. From across the room, the smell tickled her nose; up close, it stung like burning leaves. “Unless Emma gave it to him.”

  Waycross paused in midspray. “You were busy today, weren’t you?”

  “However Dad got hold of it, he hid it for a reason.” Lauren rose and returned to the bathroom, where she had left both books. “Maybe there was something in there that he wanted you to see. Something that would help you.”

  “Did you not hear what I said earlier? That book cannot exist. Whatever you have there is tainted.” Waycross set the bowl on the floor, then stood and looked to the door just as a knock sounded. “What is it, Dylan?”

  The door opened slowly. Then Corey stuck his head in the gap, sniffed the air, looked from Waycross to Lauren, then back to his Mistress. “Ed from the diner just called. Sheriff found Jerome’s car out on Old Main.”

  Waycross muttered something under her breath. A curse? A prayer? “Was it an accident?”

  “Car was locked. His keys and bag were inside. That’s all they know. They’re going to send someone to talk to you. What time he arrived yesterday. What time he left. The usual.” Corey edged farther inside. “Couldn’t you meet with Leaf?”

  “You think I haven’t tried? After they found Jimbo, I went to him—you know what he said to me?” Waycross roughened her voice. “‘You know how the Petersburys were, Virginia. Too sensitive. Unfit for the rigors of the world.’ After I had sat up all night with Connie, held her as she wept like a baby.” She picked up the bowl, gave the contents another slow stir. “I’m going to spread the rest of this outside.” She glanced back at Lauren. “We’ll be having dinner in an hour. I’ll leave yours on the back step.”

  “If I’m being exiled, I’ll need something to sleep on.” Lauren followed the woman outside, ignored Corey’s warning headshake.

  Waycross waved the whisk in the direction of the barn. “There’s an air mattress in the tack room. I keep it there for when one of the horses gets colicky.” She circled behind the shed, leaving a trail of biting scent in her wake.

  Lauren headed for the barn. Heard the pound of footsteps behind.

  “Don’t be an idiot. Apologize. Say anything you have to. You can’t stay out here.” Corey drew alongside. “If Jerome Hoard showed up at my door, bleeding and begging for help, I wouldn’t let him in because I couldn’t be sure whether it was still him or not.”

  “You live by yourself.”

  “I’m going to move back here. I don’t like the Mistress being here alone.”

  “She’s not alone. I’m here.” Lauren threw her hands in the air. “Oh, wait, I forgot. I’m a danger to all concerned, which is quite a feat considering that I don’t know anything.” She quickened her pace and left Corey behind, kicking the dirt and calling her name.

  DINNER CAME AND went. Lauren sat on a bench near the corral and ate as she watched the low clouds scud across the sky and listened to the air move through the trees. Every so often, Corey’s face would appear in the backdoor window, but she had begun to find his anxious solicitude as wearing as Waycross’s stern judgment, and she ignored his tight smile and occasional wave.

  Afterward, she walked around the yard as gloomy dusk fell, winter’s early night. The horses had been stabled, the workmen departed for home, leaving the place a desolation of empty corral and parking area, the barn a looming shadow and the shed in which she would spend the night a tiny outpost, dim light shining through the single window, casting a fan of pale yellow across the packed dirt.

  As she approached the shed, she spotted patches of darkness at the edge of the light, and her dinner turned to lead in her stomach. “Blaine.”

  So nice to be called by my real name. Nicholas Blaine edged farther into the light, his coat a swirl of black and tarnished silver. Instead of those insulting epithets.

  Lauren tried to pick out his features amid the gloom, hunted for detail through the ebb and flow that defined it. He could have shown her what he looked like, of that she had no doubt. But he’s sensitive about his face, the scarring from the flames. “I’ve been told that my family wronged you, and you want an apology. Reparations. But something about you tells me that’s not enough.”

  The deeds of your family bound me to this place. I need you to release me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Better that you saw for yourself what injustice and hate can do to a place, a people. Better that they told you themselves what brought them so low. Blaine took one step toward her. Another.

  Lauren backed away until she collided with the fence. “Just stay away.”

  Blaine raised a hand to the brim of his hat and bowed his head. As you wish. He leaned against a fence post. I watched you walk through my woods today. Again, you emerged unscathed. You did so on your own, with no one to guide you.

  “You saw me?”

  I see everyone. Every thing. Your wards are as nothing to me now—this place is mine. Blaine turned and leaned on the top fence post and rested one foot on the lowest, like a ranch hand bellied up to a bar. There are those here who are willing to teach you. If you went to them now, they would take you in, feed and shelter you, see to your every need.

  “There are people here who know you?”

  More than you realize.

  “Fools.”

  Pragmatists.

  Lauren looked toward the house, the lights burning in the windows. The kitchen. The rooms upstairs. Waycross can’t sense him—if she could, she’d be out here. He’s broken through her wards, and she can’t tell. “What happened to Lolly and Jerome Hoard?”

  Blaine waved a hand. They aren’t important. Your mother and father, however—they are pearls of great price. I can give them back to you. Just imagine them, happy and healthy and together once more. Your life as it used to be. He looked at her. You want that time back. You crave it like a drug. His voice like a balm, all kindness and concern.

  Lauren started to speak, but her throat clenched and tears sprang to her eyes, and even though she had known deep down that this would be his temptation for her, it still hurt. “What did you offer my father?”

  His good name.

  “He turned you down.”

  He was young. Foolish. You’re
older. Wiser. You know what loss truly means.

  Lauren stood quiet, as reality warred with wishes and fear trumped them all. “Why did you kill Dilys Martin?”

  What makes you believe she wished to help you? What makes you so sure that she had your best interests at heart?

  “I knew it. I felt it.”

  She sought to keep you from me—that could not be allowed. Blaine waved a dismissive hand. You refuse to think beyond your self-imposed limitations. You’re too caught up in the little lives of little people. You don’t need them. I could make you great. Or I could destroy everything you hold dear.

  “You already did that.”

  Oh, Lauren, daughter of Matthew. You really have no idea. He pushed away from the post, shadows eddying like tumbling storm cloud. I am tied to this place. Earth, air, water, and flame work to hold me here. A Mullin set these bindings long ago, and only a Mullin can sever them.

  “Whoever chained you must have had reasons.”

  Jealousy. Anger. Injured pride.

  “Not because you killed someone they loved? That seems to be your specialty.”

  Blaine stilled. Long ago, I knew one who reminds me of you. You look nothing like her. I would know you anywhere.

  A buzzing filled Lauren’s head.

  Don’t make me do to you what I did to her.

  Out in the darkness, Lauren could sense things milling, listening, waiting for her reply. “You’re trying to back me into a corner.”

  You’re in the corner, Lauren Mullin. I’m offering you the way out.

  “No.” Lauren shook her head, stopped as the world seemed to tilt. “It’s not what a Mullin did, it’s what you’ve done. It’s not what my family was, it’s what you are. You’re the danger. They don’t realize it. Mistress Waycross is the only one left who knew you for what you are, and she—”

  Hates you because you’re the walking embodiment of the life she never had with the only man she ever loved.

  “You know everything, don’t you? Everyone’s secrets. Their weaknesses. It hasn’t done you a damn bit of good, has it?” The buzzing in Lauren’s head ramped up to a throbbing wail as the sky darkened and the air thickened. “I won’t help you. Go back to Hell.”