Gideon

by Alex Gordon

  “So the Gideon fire burned all that.” Lauren walked to the window, feet dragging as her socks snagged on the unfinished hardwood. “Must have been one hell of a long match.”

  Waycross studied her for a beat, then shook her head. “They say now that it was the hot summer, drought, the winds. But people know what they know, and you can’t tell them different.” She took a healthy slug of coffee, then stared into her cup.

  “The gazebo on the square. All that remained of the Corey house.” Lauren stood at the window, twitched the towel aside, and looked out at the low clouds. “Ruth Corey—she died in that house.”

  “Yes?”

  “Dylan’s a descendant.”

  “Of Micah’s, yes. Micah and Ruth had only been married a few weeks when the fire occurred, so they had no children.”

  “You know a lot of the detail.”

  “Gideon’s a small town. We all know its history.”

  “Where do you keep the records?”

  “We all keep our own.”

  “Didn’t they burn, though?” Lauren turned, leaned against the wall. “In the fire. Weren’t they lost?”

  “Some. What we lost, we reconstructed. I have family documents dating back to that time.” Waycross sat elbows on the table, coffee mug held close, as though she needed the warmth. “Other things were just known. We heard about—”

  “Heard about? From whom?” Lauren shook her head. “I’m not trying to start an argument.”

  Waycross sniffed. “You could’ve fooled me.”

  “I’m just saying that a fire destroys Gideon in 1871. Later that year, Hiram Cateman distributes brand-new copies of the Book of Endor to one and all.” Lauren pushed away from the wall and walked to the bed. Reached beneath the pillow, and removed the ghost Book of Endor. “It was similar to this older version in most respects, but the 1871 version didn’t contain instructions on how to bind demons and the humans that they co-opt.” She walked to the table and held out the book so Waycross could see it.

  The woman’s eyes rounded. She reached for it. Hesitated, fingers flexing. Then the need to know got the better of her—she plucked the book from Lauren’s hands and paged through it, frowning when she came to the list of demons. “I never saw any of this before.” She read, every so often clucked her tongue. “It’s possible that—”

  “That a demon rewrote the book and added spells that we would think would defeat them but that would actually call them forth. A trickster book, stuck in the chimney of my father’s house to trick me or anyone else who found it.” Lauren massaged her forehead to erase the growing ache. Thoughts had churned the night long even as she slept, the realization that however much everyone talked about what happened in Gideon, there seemed to be so little that they actually knew. “There’s a simpler explanation.” She finished her coffee, then set about straightening the bed. “That Hiram Cateman removed those passages because he didn’t want others to have that knowledge.” She turned to Waycross. “Out of character?”

  Waycross looked up from the ghost book. “I didn’t know him.” She snorted softly. “I’m not that old.”

  “But you know Leaf. You knew Leaf’s father.”

  Waycross set the book on the table and sat back, arms folded. “Your mind works just like Matt’s did. Corkscrew.”

  “The arranger. The manipulator and influencer. That’s what you called him.” Lauren pounded her pillow into shape, tossed it onto the bed. “Maybe he learned it from someone else.”

  Waycross’s voice grew harsh. “You’re saying he fell in with Leaf. You’re his daughter, and you’re saying that?”

  “He did to some extent. He and Emma had an affair. Lolly told me about it, but you only have to take a look at these drawings to know what happened.” Lauren retrieved her father’s book, opened it to one of the Emma sketches, and held it out to Waycross, waited as the woman stared, blinked, then looked away. “Leaf wanted my dad because of the power. You said that yourself. Not because he could fix what was wrong with Gideon—you didn’t say that. You said ‘power.’” She shifted until she met Waycross’s eye, saw the glisten, hated herself for hurting the woman even as she wondered what choice she had.

  Waycross set the ghost Book of Endor aside, stood, and walked to the window. Swept aside the towel curtain and stared out in silence as the ticking of Corey’s purloined alarm clock filled the space. “You push hard, don’t you.” She paused. Shook her head. “Matt did, too. Guess it’s in your blood.” She leaned on the narrow sill. “Leaf wants to call forth demons? Why?”

  “Why would anyone want them?” Lauren set the books on the table, then gathered her clothes. Jeans. A blue flannel shirt with patched elbows. “As servants. As sources of knowledge and power.”

  “You realize what you’re saying?”

  “It fits, doesn’t it?”

  “He is sworn to protect—”

  “He thinks he can control them. He wouldn’t be the first man to make that mistake.” Lauren ducked into the corner farthest from the window, and dressed. “You really won’t consider this?”

  “But to take it that far, it’s just—‘insane’ is the only word that I can think of.” Waycross turned from the window and paced to the far end of the shed, hands pressed together and fingers steepled, a jeans-clad nun at prayer.

  Lauren sat on the edge of the mattress to drag on socks and boots. “Dad learned that Blaine wasn’t the injured party that everyone claimed?”

  “That’s what he told us, yes. He said that Blaine was a witch gone bad, halfway to being a demon himself by the time he arrived in Gideon.” Waycross slowed, stilled. “And we all believed him, me and Jimbo and Lolly and little Connie, who wasn’t old enough to cast a spell but oh, how she adored Matt. All of us, together, were supposed to destroy Blaine for good.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “We tried. We arranged to meet in the woods near the Petersbury place because it was far enough out of town that no one would run into us. Matt was supposed to tell us what to do, but he never showed.” Waycross turned to her, the fears of thirty-seven years past etched anew in her face. “Why did he run? If he was right and Leaf Cateman was wrong, then why did he run away?” She wiped a sleeve across her eyes as tears spilled. “I thought he ran off with Emma. For years, I believed that. Leaf had her declared dead, but that was just him saving face. And now you’re here and you’re not Emma’s daughter and that means he just ran.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “And everyone’s gone now except for me.” She struggled to settle herself, smoothing her curls, straightening her sweater. “Why did he leave?”

  “I think he was scared, so scared that he didn’t think anything he did would do any good.” Lauren stood, then made a project out of folding her pajamas and stashing them under her pillow because seeing Waycross so shaken rattled her. “I’m not saying what he did was right. But something happened that drove him to run, and the answer is in Leaf Cateman’s house.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t go.” Waycross went to the sink, splashed water on her face, dried off with a paper towel. “Yes, Leaf’s been a thorn in my side since before I was chosen as Mistress. He had wanted the position for Emma, but Amanda Petrie’s aunt was serving then, and then Emma disappeared and he didn’t remarry until the child bride came along.” She shook out the towel, then crumpled it again. “That may seem unimportant to you. Stupid witch politics. But if you’re seen going to his house, at his invitation, it won’t just make me look weak. You would be walking into a trap, just like Matt did. It would be lined with promises, but it would be a trap all the same.”

  Lauren nodded. Her only experiences with power struggles had been in the corporate world, but none of those had involved death, the bone dread of seeing the world turned inside out. So much more at stake now—nothing could change her mind. “Trust me. I’m immune.”

  “Are you?” Waycross’s steadiness had returned, her quiet voice and clear eye. “If they offered you all you had lost, all you ever dreamed of having
, would you still say no?”

  I already did. Lauren nodded. “Would you?”

  “If it meant the world? Or even just Gideon. I would refuse, of course. It’s my duty as a child of the Lady. But you’re not me.”

  “It killed my father—I know he died trying to prevent it from getting to me. It killed a woman who tried to help me. It may have even killed my mother. Do you really believe I want to see it win? That I would want to help it?” Lauren waited for Waycross to answer, but the woman had started to pace, with the long, slow stride of the career worrier. “Lolly said there was a wall—”

  “Leaf’s office, yes.”

  “He said it was all there. He said I should go and ask Leaf if I could see it. I have to go.”

  Waycross stopped, sighed. Then she walked to the sink and dug into the storage box underneath, pulled out a whisk broom and a dustpan. “Better pick up these eyes before something happens to them. Stepping on them just isn’t right.”

  Lauren dug the paper sack out of her suitcase and followed Waycross around the room as she swept up the circlets. “I’m going.”

  “Yes, you said that.” Waycross kept focused on her task. “You also said that you have nothing suitable to wear.”

  “That’s what I’ll tell them. I’ll plead lack of packing skills.”

  “Leaf will wear black jeans and a white shirt because that’s what he’s worn since five minutes past birth. Jorie will wear something that cost more than my first car, and there’s nothing to be done about that.” Waycross straightened, eyed Lauren up and down. “A couple of my friends are about your size. Between them, we can find you a nice top and a dressy skirt. Some shoes.” She concentrated on dumping the circlets into the bag. “And after you return those things, they will be burned, because they won’t want anything that touched a Mullin in their house.”

  “Then they should make sure that they don’t give me anything too expensive.” Lauren crumpled the bag closed and set it on the bed. She would wait until Waycross left, then spread the circlets again. She trusted them, as much as she trusted anything in this restless place. “I would be happy to reimburse them, but I’m guessing that they wouldn’t want my money either.”

  “I daresay you’re correct.” Waycross sighed. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

  “I just want answers.” Lauren checked her face in the half bath’s shoe-box-size mirror. “I wouldn’t have expected your help, after yesterday.” She turned to Waycross, who had started for the door. “Thank you.”

  Waycross paused, her hand working the knob. Open—closed—open. “Whatever else you are, you’re a guest in my house.” She tried to grin, but only succeeded in looking sad. “My shed.” The expression faded. “And you’re Matt’s girl. I know what you’ve heard, about how I felt—don’t bother to deny it. People are going to think me a fool anyway. May as well give them a reason.” She cracked open the door, and the light that leaked in fell across her face, deepened the lines and shadows. “You’re going to need to be on your toes with Leaf. Pardon my saying this, but you don’t look up to it.”

  Lauren joined her in the open doorway, smelled the cold damp, the harsh stink of diesel fuel. Real smells, from this real world. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Waycross bent and picked up a small clod of dirt, rubbed it between her hands, smeared it over her fingers. Started to speak, then brushed the dirt off and walked across the yard to the house, step slow, head bowed, her thoughts her own.

  BY THE TIME Lauren arrived at the house, Waycross had put aside her grim mood and set about playing hostess. With her were two of the women who had stuck out the convocation to the end. Penny, one of the nurses, and Beth, who kept the books for most of the Gideon businesses. They had each brought clothes for Lauren to try on, dressy evening wear in bright jewel colors that gave her the jitters.

  She pointed to the two most somber items, a long black skirt and high-necked maroon blouse, and they slipped them off the hangers and handed them to her, silent, smiles frozen, children sharing because Mother told them to. When Lauren asked questions about fit or comfort, they simply nodded, and when she reached toward the table behind them for a lint roll to brush some cat hair off the skirt, they both backed away.

  She took the clothes into Waycross’s office and put them on, face burning and eyes stinging, even as she told herself that it was a small price to pay to get into the Cateman house.

  She emerged to murmured assurances that she had made just the right choices. The two women bundled the rest of the clothes into garment bags and muttered hurried good-byes. After seeing them out, Waycross stood silent by the front door. Then she returned to the living room, her face a study in determination.

  “You can’t wear those things.” She pointed to Lauren’s hiking boots. “Wait here.” She trotted up the stairs; then came thumping sounds, the opening and slamming of doors.

  After a few minutes, Waycross descended, holding a pair of well-worn black boots. They were a cross between cowboy and English, knee-high and low-heeled, leather shafts adorned with scrollwork, buffed to a satin sheen.

  “Had them since forever.” Waycross handed them to Lauren. “I gave riding lessons for a few summers, years back. Treated myself.”

  Lauren held the boots as though they were made of cobweb. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Waycross blinked, then turned away. “And I apologize.”

  “I don’t think they meant—”

  “Yes, they did, and I’m not apologizing for them.”

  Lauren stood still for a time. Then she perched on the arm of the couch and pulled the boots on. Stood up, clomped around the room, then presented herself for inspection. “They’re a little snug in the calves, but they fit.”

  Waycross cocked her head, chin in hand, and smiled. “I don’t think Jorie’s going to like you. Not that you’d expect her to.” Her expression held an edge. “I just think you’ve pretty much guaranteed it.” The smile wavered. “I want you to sleep in the house tonight.”

  “I’m not leaving the books out there.”

  “Bring them. Bring everything inside.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Thanks.” Before Lauren could make a move toward the back door, a knock sounded. Then the door opened, and Dylan Corey entered carrying a suitcase. He was dressed for the woods in worn jeans and scuffed hiking boots, a heavy pine-colored sweater topped with the usual orange vest.

  Waycross held her hand to her mouth, and spoke through her fingers. “Any news?”

  Corey shook his head. “Phil and Zeke did their own search around the garage. They didn’t find anything you could take to the sheriff’s, but Phil said he doesn’t want that truck back. He’s going to sell it as is to someone from outside Gideon.” He trudged into the living room, set down the case, fell back into one of the easy chairs. “I think we know what happened.”

  “My car’s still there.” Lauren lowered to the chair next to his. “Can’t drive it because it’s missing a fuel sensor.” She shook her head. “The man’s gone, and I’m worried about my car.” After a few moments, she grew conscious of the silence, turned to Corey to find him staring at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Corey looked away, then back again. “You look . . . nice.”

  Waycross took a seat on the couch opposite them. “Lauren has received an invitation to dinner at Leaf’s this evening. It shows all the signs of turning into a battle for dominance, and I didn’t want her to start out at a disadvantage. Hence the clothes.” She nodded to Corey. “I want you to go with her.”

  Corey and Lauren piped up as one.

  “Mistress, I—”

  “I don’t think the invitation mentioned a guest.”

  “I don’t care if you had plans or not, Dylan, and if you think for one minute that I am letting you go to that house by yourself, Miss Lauren Reardon Mullin, you don’t know me for beans.” Waycross rose. “And I expect a full report when you come back. No
matter what orders I gave before. No more surprises—do you understand?”

  Corey reddened. “Yes, Mistress.” He remained still and silent until Waycross left the room. Then he turned to Lauren. “What did you say to her?”

  Lauren looked to see if Waycross could hear, lowered her voice just in case. “I had to tell her about Blaine. Why didn’t you?”

  “How do you tell the Mistress of Gideon that her wards aren’t worth shit?” Corey slumped back. “I took a walk after you went back to the shed. After we . . . talked.”

  Lauren clasped her hands, felt the memory of Corey’s touch, the press of his lips. “And?”

  “What is it that ol’ Tom always says? Change comin’?” Corey yawned. There were pits beneath his eyes the same dull green as his sweater, and he sported a day’s growth of beard. “I think he missed it. The change is already here.” He laid back his head, sagged deep into the chair, and closed his eyes.

  Lauren tried not to stare at the way Corey’s lashes brushed the peaks of his cheekbones, the way his hands rested on his thighs. After a few minutes, the sounds of his light snoring drifted through the room, and she left to change her clothes and gather her things from the shed.

  Lauren spent the hours prior to dinner quartered in Waycross’s tiny office, comparing the old and new versions of the Book of Endor. In addition to excluding instructions on controlling demons and their human puppets, Master Hiram Cateman had also edited out recipes for salves and ointments and other medicinal preparations. Household spells that one was supposed to say while mending a pot or sewing a garment. All those little things that would have helped make a difficult time easier, allow an onerous task to go more quickly.

  She wondered how long Hiram Cateman had waited after the fire to hire the best herbalist in Gideon to be his housekeeper, then to commence cornering the market on useful spells and potions. “Bet you were a wily one.” And daring, too. One would think that the witches of Gideon had read the passages so many times that they would have noticed their absence, or already have memorized the recipes.