Twelve Shades of Midnight:

by Liliana Hart

  Chapter Six

  “You’re Lola’s uncle?” she repeated, using her forearm to wipe the sweat from her brow. There really was no break in sight for Winnie Foster, was there?

  He held out a hand to help her up, shrugging his big shoulders when she refused and rolled to her side. “Yes. Now why is my niece up on a flagpole in the heat of the day?”

  “Why don’t you ask the little darling yourself?” Mr. You Never Called Me Again. Winnie reached down and yanked the annoying Kotex slipper off, lobbing it to the other end of the lawn before rising to her feet and preparing to go back inside.

  “Hold on,” Ben said, grabbing her arm, his broad hand sending sparks along her arm. “I want an answer, Winnie. Why are you here in Paris at my niece’s school?”

  She looked down at his hand on her arm before narrowing her eyes at him until he let go. “That one you can ask your aunt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have cantarope and juice boxes to hand out. When you’ve gotten Lola down from up there, bring her inside so Miss Marjorie doesn’t strangle herself clutching her pearls.”

  Winnie stomped off across the grass, hopping over the gravel-lined pathway to the door of Miss Marjorie’s. She sucked in gulps of air, hiding under the small candy-striped awning.

  Just seeing Ben was enough to make her insides quiver, but knowing he lived here in the same town she was sentenced to live in—that his niece attended the school she had to come to every day—just might be the proverbial straw.

  Eff you, Baba Yomamma.

  There was a distinct rumble of a chuckle in her head before Baba Yaga said, Are you feeling pushed to your limits, Winnifred?

  Never.

  Then hold on to your Kotex pads. It’s going to be a bumpy ride!

  Ben levitated to the top of the flagpole and glared at Lola, resisting the temptation to chase after Winnie and give her hell. “Young lady? What’s goin’ on?”

  Like really, he wanted to ask, what’s going on, kiddo? He’d give his left arm to know what was happening in her beautiful brain. She was so much like his sister Moira, it hurt to look at her sometimes. But he was determined to fill this role he’d been given by circumstance.

  The trouble was, Lola wasn’t having it. She acted out all the time. His role as the fun uncle who made her Barbie’s twerk had turned into the role of authoritarian, and the crossover since had been hell on earth.

  She brushed her sweat-covered forehead on her shoulder, her eyes swollen with unshed tears. “I didn’t want cantatrope and watermelon for snack.”

  “Did you tell Miss Marjorie you didn’t want cantatrope?”

  “No,” she said, her voice trembling the way it always did when she was fighting her damnedest to stay her ground but inside, it was killing her.

  “So you zapped yourself up here in the middle of one of the hottest days in history instead of just telling Miss Marjorie? Wouldn’t it have been easier to speak your mind? We’ve talked about this, right? Talking things out instead of taking them out on everyone around you. So what’s really the trouble?”

  “Freddy made me put a frog in my mouth. He was making fun of me at recess.”

  Uh-huh. He knew his Lola well enough to know no one made her do anything. “Did he dare you to do it?”

  She cast her eyes downward. “Yes.”

  “And instead of walking away, you did what?”

  A tear slipped from her eye. “Put the frog in my mouth.”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah. Put the frog in your mouth. Okay, so the real problem is you’re embarrassed, and you didn’t want the other kids to laugh at you for not taking the dare, right?” He’d learned a lot from his Aunt Yaga and the counsel she’d sought for Lola.

  Lola nodded, her crooked pigtails bouncing. “It was dipsgusting.”

  “Disgusting,” he corrected. “And I’ll bet it was. Listen, Lola-Bell, you’re going to have to go back to school sometime. You can’t stay up here forever.”

  “How come?” she asked, even as her bangs bunched up from perspiration against her forehead.

  “Because forever’s a long time.”

  “Mommy and Daddy are gonna be gone forever,” she said, her voice hitching.

  Ben ran a finger down her pert nose, one so much like Moira’s, while a stab of pain almost physical in its appearance, speared his heart. “Yeah, honey. They are. But you have me, and I promise, no matter what, I’m always going to be here. Me and Yaga.”

  “Always?” she whispered, her eyes capturing his, her request wedging into his soul.

  Ben grinned to mask the anguish, to hide the agony her pain caused him. “Always,” he whispered back, holding out his hand.

  Lola stuck her smaller one in his and he tucked her to his side before swinging her over his shoulders and onto his back. “You’re gonna have to apologize to Miss Marjorie, you know.”

  Lola wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “I know.”

  His ears pricked. There was remorse in those two little words. Progress. That meant progress. “So, Superman or Ironman?”

  Lola giggled in his ear, soft and delighted, making his heart shift in his chest. “You don’t have the red tablecloth, Uncle Ben.”

  “Then Ironman it is.” He held out his fist and shot forward toward Miss Marjorie’s with Lola snuggled against his back, and wondered what he was going to do about having to see the woman every day who’d blown up his warehouse.

  Or what he was going to do about the fact that even in prison garb, smelling like a roomful of end game football players, her lush hair tangled and greasy, he was still nuts about Winnie Foster.

  Winnie knocked on BIC’s office door, poking her head in when she bellowed the command, “Enter!”

  “I’m done for the day.” She really was done for the day. After the chaos of her entry to Miss Marjorie’s, coupled with seeing Ben and finding out Lola was his niece, she just wanted to know where she had to go to take a shower and close her eyes and forget this day had happened.

  BIC’s head shot upward when she entered her office, her sharp eyes critical. “Volcanos, parolee? Really?”

  Winnie let her gaze fall to the floor in remorse even though she didn’t feel terribly remorseful. It had gotten the job done and if she had to, she could wipe the little bugger’s memory clean of the encounter with a quick spell—for his mental health, of course. “I was honest when I told you I’m not very good with kids.”

  “No truer words,” she said with a frown, writing something with a flourishy scrawl on her clipboard.

  “Is that my evaluation?” Shit. This wouldn’t go well, if all that furious scribbling was any indication.

  “Is that your business?”

  “Sorry. So where to now? I’m your willing slave.” Please, wherever it is, let it have a shower and a bed.

  BIC ripped a sticky note off a pink pad and scribbled something. “Go here. This is where you’ll stay until your time is served.”

  Winnie took the note and stuffed it into her pocket. “Does it have a shower?”

  “I don’t know, but from the way you smell, I’d start with the hose outside and work your way in.”

  She’d had enough of the jokes about how she smelled. Try driving halfway across the country on Red Bull and pork rinds with no sleep and a talking Cabbage Patch doll without using any magic, was what she wanted to say. But she didn’t. Because Winnie Foster was turning over a new leaf.

  “You’re a laugh riot. Can I go now?”

  “Yep, but don’t forget. Tomorrow, be here bright and early. And find some shoes.”

  “Wild stab in the dark here, but I bet Pradas are out of the question?”

  “You think there’s a store in Paris that sells ’em?”

  Winnie actually laughed on her way out the door. “I get it, but it was worth a shot. Night, BIC.”

  “Night. Oh, and Winnifred?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not a bad job with Lola today. She’s a troubled little munchkin, and you were pretty impressive for
a first-timer. Kudos,” she said before directing her eyes back to her clipboard.

  As Winnie made her way out into the blazing sun again, for the first time in a long time, she smiled. BIC had approved, and suddenly approval mattered to her.

  Then she frowned, wondering again what troubled Lola. Why was Ben here taking care of his niece and not back in Salem, running his newly rebuilt software development company? And what hurt a little girl so small and made her so full of rage?

  Whatever it was, it would be okay.

  She would try to make it okay.

  “Make ze left on Longhorn Road, Weenie!”

  Her eyes felt like grainy, hot orbs in her head, her mouth was dry and she really did smell like a herd of water buffalos.

  “Left, Weenie! Make ze left! Do you not speak ze English? How many times must I say zis to you?”

  Slamming on the brakes, she stopped right there in the middle of Baby Back Ridge and gripped the steering wheel, praying to the universe for patience.

  “Why have we stopped, Weenie? You must drive! Make ze left on Longhorn Road!”

  “For the love of all that’s holy, Weenie, make a damn left on Longhorn Road or I’m going to punch Jacques in his escargot,” Icabod whined.

  “There is no Longhorn Road!” Scooping up Icabod, she held him up to the windshield, righting his head so he could see. “Do you see a Longhorn Road anywhere, creepy doll? Jacques is wrong!”

  Dropping him back to the seat, she let him slump over, tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

  “Um, Weenie?” Jacques chirped.

  While she fought the impulse to zap herself out of here, and damn her immortality, she gritted her teeth. ““What? What? What? What?”

  “I make ze mistake. I meant ze Foghorn Road. So sorry for ze error. Sometimes my accent gets in ze way.”

  As though the universe just might be rooting for her, she looked up and her eyes fixated on a street sign.

  Foghorn Road.

  Breathing in and out, she asked, “Where to now, Jacques?”

  “3422 Foghorn Road, Weenie!”

  Without saying a word, she pushed the pedal to the floorboard and took off, knocking Icabod under the dashboard. Keeping her eyes on the road, she leaned over and felt for his stuffed arm, dragging him back to the passenger seat—just in time to catch the top of a dark head of hair before slamming on her brakes.

  The tires squealed to a halt as her chest smacked into the steering wheel, jolting her back into the seat. Her heart crashed against her ribs in panic. The Pacer grumbled, coughing and sputtering before the engine completely turned off.

  “Miss Winnie?” A small face, like one of those suction-cupped stuffed animals, appeared in her driver’s side window, making her jump out of her skin.

  “Lola?”

  “Why are you at my house?” she asked, a pink ball in her hand.

  “Why are you running out in the middle of the road?” She fought not to scream the words.

  Lola pouted as Winnie rolled down the window. “I was chasing my ball.”

  Her heart rate began to slow as she fought for breath. “Lola, you have to be careful! I almost mowed you down. Did you look both ways before you chased the ball?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you to look both ways before you cross the road?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Uh-huh.”

  More defiance. Of course someone had. Maybe even her Uncle Ben. As her fear dissipated, she softened her approach. “Okay, but please, don’t ever do that again. Now, where do you live? Get in and I’ll take you home.”

  “Uncle Ben said I should never get in the car with strangers.”

  “Suddenly you’re a rule follower?”

  “Lola!” someone yelled. “Lola, where are you?” A large figure appeared from behind a line of tall oak trees. Tall and dark and…Ben.

  Damn.

  Winnie ran a hand over her temples, giving the throbbing surface a good squeeze.

  “Weenie! We have arrived!” Jacques chirped just as Ben jogged over to the car and scooped Lola up.

  “Look, Uncle Ben, it’s Miss Winnie from school. She almost ran me over.”

  Winnie’s sigh rasped on its way out of her mouth. “No. That’s not true. I absolutely did not almost run you over. You ran out in front of my car, Lola.”

  Ben looked to Lola, his expression full of disapproval. “Is that true, Lola?”

  Lola shrugged, her crooked pigtails grazing her shoulders, her eyes riddled with guilt.

  “Didn’t I say you couldn’t come out and play ball until you’d finished your chores?”

  Wait. Why was Ben responsible for keeping her on task with her chores?

  “Lola?” Ben’s whiskey-tinged voice prompted as he tilted her chin upward and gazed into her sweet face.

  “Yes.”

  “Weenie! You must listen. We have arrived at your destination!” Jacques insisted.

  “Shut up,” she hissed at the GPS system before looking up at Ben. “Sorry. I don’t know how to turn it off. Another of Yaga’s awesome ways to torment me.”

  Ben set Lola on the ground with a stern order. “Chickens. Feed them now, please.”

  Lola’s shoulders sagged and her chin stuck out. “But I wanna stay here with you and hear you tell Miss Winnie what you told Aunt Yaga,” she moaned.

  “Yeah, me too. So what did you tell Aunt Yaga, Uncle Ben?” Winnie asked, her question sweet with sarcasm.

  Lola put her hands on her hips. “He said,” she lowered her voice, frowning comically just like Ben, “‘She’s a psychocic hapzard to society.’ He looked really mad when he said it, too.”

  Ben’s hard face grew harder—cuter, too, if that were at all possible.

  But fair was fair. “That’s hazard with a Z and psychotic with a T, and your uncle’s probably right,” Winnie offered honestly. “I’ve done some things I’m not very proud of. Which is why I’m wearing orange and you’re wearing cute light-up sneakers.”

  Ben lifted a finger and pointed up the long driveway Winnie was stopped in front of. Lola’s driveway, apparently. “Chores, little lady. Now, please. No ball, no TV, nothing until you feed the chickens and put your clothes away.”

  Lola lifted her small hands in the air, and it was clear she was going to use her magic to zap herself out of the situation, but Winnie was quicker. She could smell a disappearing spell from a mile away, and she didn’t need to see the blue spark to do it, either.

  Leaning out the window, Winnie clapped her hands before snatching the spark up between her fingertips, successfully nipping Lola’s spell in the bud. She gave Lola a semi-stern look. “No selfish magic, Lola. You know better. Besides, walking is good exercise.”

  Lola stomped her sneakered feet, kicking up dust and making a face, but she trotted up the long driveway in spite of being put out.

  And then there was silence.

  Still as the hot Texas day. Awkward and lasting what felt like forever.

  “Why are you here, Winnie?” he finally asked, his voice sounding weary to her ears. Yet, when he looked at Lola, there was so much love, even in between the scolding, he was like a different person altogether.

  “Because your aunt is a sadistic, spiteful pain in my ass?” Why was she here? Not just in Paris, but right back with Benjamin Yagamawitz in her face?

  “No. I mean in front of my sister’s house in a car with an ad for a feminine product plastered all over it.”

  “We have arrived at your destination, Weenie!” Jacques interrupted again, his voice rising.

  Winnie finally looked at the navigation system, squinting at it in the last of the day’s harsh sun.

  Huh. She had arrived at her destination. 3422 Foghorn Road. Then she looked at the mailbox at the end of the long driveway. That’s when a deep dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

  No. No way. Not even Baba Yaga was that vicious—that cruel.

  Oh, Winnifred. Of course I am.

  Simultan
eously, Ben’s phone beeped a text, making him reach for his back pocket to pull out his cell. As he scrolled the text, Winnie rechecked the information Jacques’ screen displayed.

  Yep. It read 3422 Foghorn Road.

  Ben grunted, his jaw clenching. “I’ll kill her.”

  “Who?”

  “Yaga.”

  More dread swirled in her stomach. “She didn’t.”

  He nodded his head, his eyes icy chips of blue. “Oh, she damn well did. This,” he pointed up the driveway, “is where you’ll be staying until your parole is up on Halloween.”

  Her once-rumbling-with-hunger stomach became a boiling vat of acid. “At Lola’s? Maybe it’s just me, and maybe it’s because I haven’t slept in what feels like a hundred years. And yeah, yeah, I know I smell like a horse farm, but why would Yaga put me in the same town, let alone the same house as you? I blew your warehouse up. Is she crazy? Why are you everywhere I am in this damn town?”

  “Because, Winnie Foster, I’m your babysitter.”

  Well, abracadabra.

  Chapter Seven

  She was astounded, like someone had punched her in the gut. “My babysitter? As in, keep tabs on me. I thought that was what BIC was for?”

  “You mean Greta?”

  “Is that her name? Short lady, wears clothes that should be on someone’s kitchen window, worst haircut this side of the Mason Dixon, barks orders like a seal, has Nazi-ish properties?”

  Ben actually smiled, and she hated when he did that—because he’d once smiled at her that way, and it was all just bullshit. None of it was sincere. “Yeah, that sounds like Greta.”

  “I thought she was the bitch in charge?”

  “She’s in charge of you during the day. I’m the night watch.”

  “I’m a little lost. Why are you at Lola’s?”

  “This was my sister and her husband’s house. She ran a halfway house for witches much like yourself. You know, the ones who are certifiable and blow things up?”

  Suck it up, Foster. Take the beating you deserve and be quiet. She gripped the frame of the window of the Pacer to keep from zapping his delicious mouth shut. “And?”

  “And the house is empty of witches with issues right now. Has been since my sister and her husband were killed. But Yaga just informed me, in the way Yaga does, that you’re my first case.”