by Alex Gordon
Well, there had been a son of sorts, once, but he had proved a cruel disappointment.
Your Mistress wife has taken to her bed, there to dream of her ascension to Queen of the Universe. I have just taken leave of her. Shadows shifted, formed a smile. So accommodating. You Catemans always trained your women well. Blaine stood. Ambition—my favorite weakness. I always enjoy the expressions on your faces, the utter surprise as the trap closes. He walked to the door, coattails fluttering in the nonexistent breeze. Farewell, Master Cateman. Many thanks for your excellent service.
A morning of sorts arrived, eventually, after a night spent taking turns standing watch. Brittany took over coffeemaking duties, and proved so adept that Rocky teased her about taking Deena’s job at the diner, and didn’t catch himself until she ran from the kitchen in tears.
Lauren returned to the sitting room. Hesitated before walking to the window, reluctant to view what the new day had brought even though she knew that she needed to see it. The morning light shone dull, heavy gray clouds hanging low enough to skim the roof of the Cateman house. The weird snow had been trampled flat on the streets and walkways where Blaine’s horde had gathered, and lay piled on the lawns like cold ashes.
Zeke’s house rested on a slight elevation, which allowed Lauren a clear view of the town square, now filled with a hundred or more of the restless dead. During the night, they had torn down the Fire Memorial and stacked the wood in a conical pile, maneuvered a post so it stuck up in the middle.
“What do you think they’re planning?” Waycross drew alongside, coffee mug in hand.
“I think it’s pretty obvious, don’t you?” Lauren backed away from the sight and returned to her desk. “Just a question of when, and who.”
“They try tying me to that thing, I’ll make them wish they’d stayed all the way dead.” Waycross pulled a chair next to Lauren’s and sat, elbows on the desk. She still had on the same jeans and heavy sweater that she had worn during their escape, and her sleep-mashed curls lay flat against her head. “Rocky and Phil found a couple of old snowmobiles in the garage out back. They think they can get them running.”
“So we make a break for it?” Lauren turned the pages of an old notebook that Zeke had scrounged for her, which she had spent the night filling with notes about spells, symbols, the odd curse word. “That doesn’t solve the primary problem.”
“It would give us a chance to regroup. And if he’s trapped here with his minions, well, much as it pains me, maybe we just let this place die. Let it fade from memory.”
“You really think that’s what would happen? Blaine found me in Seattle. He killed a woman there and drained my father dry. He’ll never die, and he’ll always find someone to help him.” Lauren reached for her own mug, the dregs long since grown cold. “What about the ones we’d leave behind?”
Waycross hung her head. “Brittany got answers from less than half the homes. And that was yesterday. Who knows how many lived—” Her voice cracked, and she paused. Took a swallow of coffee. “Who knows how many lasted the night?” She took a tissue that she had tucked up her sleeve and wiped her eyes.
“Maybe they were too scared to answer the phone. Maybe their lines had already been cut.” Lauren took out her phone, turned it on, knew what she would see before the status bar flashed: No Service.
“Or maybe they’re out there on the square, planning our burning.” Waycross jerked her chin toward the notes. “Are we any closer to anything?”
Lauren shook her head. “The elemental spells are so specific—you have to know your relationship to whoever you spell, and you usually need some part of them, an item of clothing or hair or sweat.” She paged through the ghost book, pointed to one of the spell diagrams. “And according to what I read, it’s only possible to affect one element at a time, but Blaine said he was bound by all four—earth, air, fire, wat—” A roar of an engine interrupted—it blasted for a few seconds, then stuttered into silence.
“Sounds enough like a chain saw, maybe.” Waycross shrugged. “I think we’re past trying to sneak at this point. We’ll have to meet them head-on and bull our way—” She quieted, and looked toward the window. Then she slammed her mug on the desk and bolted out of the room.
Lauren listened, heard a hard clattering sound. Hoofbeats? She ran out of the room and almost collided with Zeke, who had dashed out from the rear of the house.
“My boys.” Waycross pulled at the door handle, worked the dead bolt with a shaking hand. “If they’ve come back—Zeke—is there any way we can—” She threw open the door, and stopped.
Lauren pushed past her and walked out onto the front step.
Good morning, Miss Mullin. Mistress Waycross. I trust I find you well. Blaine sat astride one of the Waycross horses, his followers crowded around him like revelers welcoming a triumphant general home from the wars. I wanted to thank you personally for the use of this fine mount, Mistress Waycross. I expect he will serve me quite well in the days to come.
“Kermit.” Waycross raised her hand to her mouth. “Kermit, my boy. My poor, poor—”
Lauren slumped against one of the entry columns. She could see the blood that flowed down the horse’s flanks, feel the pain as Blaine struck it with his stick, gouged its side with the spurs that glistened on his boots, yanked on the reins, and drove the bit into its mouth. Flesh gashed, wounds laid open, as though it had been beaten over and over.
I just wanted to pay my respects, and let you know that you can expect more where this came from. Have you seen what my chosen have built in the square? Such wonderful festivals we used to have in Gideon, with dancing and bonfires. We will have those times again, starting today, unless Miss Mullin sees her way clear to do me one small service. With that, he touched his hand to the brim of his tall hat, wheeled Kermit around, dug in his spurs, and galloped through the snow down the street, vanishing into the murk.
“Oh, dear Lady.” Zeke took hold of Waycross’s arm, steered her back into the house. “Mistress, come inside now, come in and sit. Come in—” He ushered her back down the hall into the kitchen and to the large worktable. “Sit right down here.” He held out a chair for her, tapped her on the shoulder to get her to sit down, pushed the chair in. “Whiskey, I think.” He rummaged through cupboards. “Something strong.”
Lauren sat across from the woman, took hold of her hands, and held them until the wide, dazed eyes met hers. A look she understood all too well, the continuous replay, a loop in the brain. The same hell, over and over and over.
“My boy. My poor silly—” Waycross finally closed her eyes. The tears fell.
“Blame me, Mistress.” Zeke set down a tray with a bottle and glasses, and poured. “I told you to leave them. I told you there wasn’t time to see to them.”
Waycross shook her head. “No, Zeke, they were my boys, my charges.”
“That’s how he works.” Lauren rubbed one of the woman’s hands, then the other. Both so cold. “He finds what you love and tears it apart.” She released Waycross when Zeke sat next to her. “He enjoys it.” She stood, let one old friend minister to the other as the rest stood by in stunned silence.
Lauren walked down the hall, grabbing her coat off the hook along the way. Returned to the sitting room, gathered the books and her notes, and started to stuff them in her handbag. Stopped, and set them back on the desk.
“What are you doing?”
Waycross stepped inside the room, folded her arms and tucked her hands, and leaned against the jamb.
Lauren walked to the window and looked out. The snow was falling again, greasy flakes smearing the glass. She sensed eyes watching from the murk, saw a stocky figure standing at the gate like a suitor awaiting his beloved. Lolly.
“I asked you a question.” Waycross drew up beside her. Caught sight of Lolly, and drew in a shuddery breath.
Lauren stepped away from the window, pressed her back to the wall. “He said it himself. I’m the one he wants, and he will never stop until he has me. He
’ll kill the rest of you off, one by one, until I’m the only one left. And if he doesn’t get what he wants out of me, then he’ll think of other things to try, and I’m not sure I want to know what those are.” She started to pace, but her knees felt weak and something like static worked like hooks beneath her skin because she knew what she had to do. Knew that she had no choice.
Waycross remained at the window, her eyes on Lolly. “You have a plan?”
“I have shit.” Lauren stopped, leaned against the desk. “In the kitchen, I heard Rocky tell Phil that he felt the snowmobiles were in pretty good shape. It’s your decision whether or not to leave, but you’ll have a better chance to make it if I’m not with you.”
Waycross’s head snapped around. “No.”
“Hear me out.”
“I said, no.”
“It’s not your decision.” Lauren pulled on her coat. “I think I know why Dad ran. He realized the choice he had to make. I don’t know why he didn’t follow through. Fear? Or maybe he needed Emma to help him, and she wasn’t there.” She shrugged. “I think he thought that if he left, things here would stay the same. They might not get better, but at least they wouldn’t get worse. I don’t think he understood what he was up against until it was too late.”
“But if you don’t have a plan, how can you fight him?” Waycross walked to her side, took her hand.
“Maybe I can figure out how to fight on the other side. Guerrilla witch in the borderland. Maybe Blaine can’t hurt me if I’m dead.” Lauren eased her hand from Waycross’s grasp. The contact, the kindness, hurt too much, reminded her of what she would leave behind. “When I go out the front, you go out the back. Pack as little as possible. I doubt supplies would do any good, anyway. I’m not sure you’d be able to survive for long out there.”
Waycross nodded, eventually. “When?”
“Now? This moment is the best it will ever be.” Lauren heard a cough, and turned to find the others in the doorway. She could tell from their expressions that they heard, that they knew. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
“Not your fault.” Zeke sniffed. “Blame the Catemans for sheltering him all these years. Hell, may as well blame the Lady, come to that, for letting something like Blaine get back to this world in the first place.”
“Can you give us an hour?” Rocky grabbed a coat from the wall hook, dragged on gloves. “That’ll give us a chance to move the snowmobiles into position, load a few things we might need.”
“Sure.” Lauren started to follow him to the back door. “I’d like to help.” She wanted to keep busy. Best not to think too much at times like these.
But then came the tug on her elbow, the staying hand. “Be there in a minute.” She stilled. Waited.
“I just want to say—”
“Please don’t.”
“—that you are as much of this place as any I have ever known.” Waycross paused to breathe, one slow inhalation. A sigh. “I am bound to call you witch, and I hope I can call you friend.”
Lauren nodded. Stood in place until Waycross released her, then headed out back to help the others prepare.
LAUREN WAITED UNTIL she heard the back door close, the rev of the snowmobiles. Then she opened the front door, and walked out into the gloom.
They sensed her, Blaine’s horde, and crowded around the gate like revelers at a homecoming. Lauren spotted Deena, smiling widely, anticipating the destruction to come. Betty Joan and Ruthie, clinging together in half death as they had in life, their hatred just as strong.
But it was Lolly whom she met first. He held the gate open for her, then fell in beside her as she crossed the street to the Cateman house, his step heavy and his face a mass of bruises and scabs and scar tissue.
“He knows—you’re coming.” Lolly’s voice sounded with the same gutter fierceness it had possessed in life, tempered by gasps of pain as his overlord sought to silence him. “He’s—preparing.”
“You’ll get into trouble if you keep talking,” Lauren said under her breath.
“You mean it’ll get worse?” The rough laugh sounded. “Not for me. Can’t get much worse for me.” He pushed with her through the gate even as the others remained behind, walked with her as far as the Catemans’ front porch, stopped at the first step. “You, on the other hand . . . ?” He shook his head, neck cracking with every movement. “Good ol’ Matt, leavin’ his little girl to twist in the wind.”
“It wasn’t his fault.” Lauren turned to look into eyes gone milk-filmed and dull.
“Whose is it, then?” Lolly’s swollen lips twitched as he spoke, a line of blood streaming from the corner of his mouth.
Lauren turned her back on him, mounted the steps to the porch, and reached for the doorbell. But before she could ring it, the door opened, and Amanda Petrie stepped out.
“Master hoped you’d come. He’s been waiting for you.” Circles ringed Petrie’s eyes. She had discarded the jacket of her black pant suit, revealing a white shell stained with sweat and other, darker effluvia. “We should go inside.” She looked past Lauren to the silent throng that crowded the sidewalk outside the gate, then down at Lolly, who still stood at the foot of the steps. “Begone, you foul thing.”
Lolly grinned, then turned and limped back the way he had come. “I’ll save you a seat, Mandy.” He pushed through the gate, jostling others out of the way. “We’re all waiting for you. All your old, dear friends.”
Petrie hurried Lauren inside, then ducked in after her. Slammed the door and locked it, then dragged a chair from alongside the entry wall and jammed it beneath the handle. “That’ll keep the damned things out.” Then she dug into her trouser pocket. “Put some of this under your nose. It will help.” She removed a tin of ointment, slid off the lid, and held it out to Lauren.
“You’re kidding, right?” Lauren shook her head. “Not if my life depended on it.”
“It’s just chest rub. Stuff you get in the store.” Petrie hooked a glob with her index finger and slathered it beneath her nose. “I’m not trying to spell you. Master’s wish, and I am bound to obey.”
Lauren looked toward the staircase, twisting upward into the darkness. “Which Master are we talking about?”
“I serve the Catemans and only the Catemans.” Petrie’s voice came tight. “The true Catemans, not the tramps they fall prey to, those stupid, stupid men.” Red splotches bloomed on her cheeks, her neck. “That bitch polluted my ointment. She—” Tears poised on the brink, ready to spill. “I made it with my own hands. I never let her near it.”
“Where is Jorie?” Lauren scraped a small dollop of the ointment and smeared it above her upper lip. “I didn’t see her face in the crowd outside.”
“She’s still here, the useless bitch.” Petrie pocketed the ointment tin and headed for the stairs. “Waiting for the rising. The final unveiling.” She plodded upward, crepe-sole shoes whispering against the runner. “Thinks her reward is imminent for the foul way she treated my Master.”
Lauren ascended behind the woman, past the second floor and onto the third. They walked past Leaf Cateman’s office to a set of double doors that capped the end of the hallway, knocked, then entered. “Master? She’s here.” A pause. Then she beckoned to Lauren. “He’ll see you.”
Lauren entered. The bedroom was huge and high-ceilinged, the walls covered in imperial-purple silk, the armoire, dresser, and bedstead hulking walnut monuments to another time. The battery-powered lanterns that Petrie had placed in each corner filled the space with weak yellow light, allowing one to see just enough, and leaving imagination to fill in the rest.
The stench intensified with each step toward the bed—by the time Lauren reached the foot, not even the menthol in the chest rub could make a dent. She stared at the form that lay prone beneath an ornate blanket until a cough from Petrie let her know that she had stood silent for too long. “You wanted to see me.”
A hand swaddled in stained gauze twitched in the direction of a bedside chair, and Lauren sidesteppe
d around the bed and sat.
Leaf Cateman lay propped up on pillows. He wore no pajama shirt, and his exposed skin had been wrapped in gauze from forehead to chest, including arms and hands. Only the top of his head lay exposed, a crusted, festering wound of a scalp from which a few remaining strands of lank white hair sprouted. Petrie had cut a slit in the gauze to allow him to see, and his eyes glittered like black marbles amid the bloodstained white.
Despite Lauren’s contempt for the man, the extent of his decline, the speed at which it had occurred, stunned her. Only the day before, ill though he had been, he had still radiated some sense of presence, some power. Gone now, all that, replaced by a gasping, twitching form like something out of a tale by Poe.
“It’s all the fault of the Mullins—that’s all I’ve heard since I’ve been in Gideon. The Freeze. The Great Fire. The curse on this town because Eliza Mullin bore false witness against Nicholas Blaine.” Lauren paused. “I’ve even heard that my dad was responsible for Emma’s disappearance.” She stopped, tried to gather thoughts scattered by fears of what lay ahead, then struggled on. “Did you know that after the fire, your grandfather Hiram had Books of Endor reprinted for the entire town. Did you know he left things out? Spells for binding demons, among other things. It would have been nice if everyone in Gideon knew those, given what’s been happening, don’t you think?”
The light in Cateman’s eyes sparked, his hands twitched and flexed as though they had taken on a life of their own.
“I wouldn’t have let you in here if I’d known you were going to abuse him.” Petrie sat on the edge of the bed opposite Lauren’s chair, patting Cateman’s hands until they stilled, adjusting the bandages.
Lauren caught a glimpse of Cateman’s chest through a gap in the gauze. Raw red. A bit of yellow. Exposed muscle and bone. Did the man feel pain? Or had his nerve endings deteriorated along with the rest of him? “I just want to ask him a few questions. Whether he answers, that’s up to him.” She watched Cateman’s eyes as she spoke.
