by R. L. Naquin
“Can’t reschedule. She’s dead.” I could hear my voice hitch a little, but it also sounded strangely cold. I wrapped my hands around the cup and tried to absorb the warmth.
Maurice widened his already enormous eyes. “She’s dead?”
I was fighting a battle with my tea. I wanted it to go down, but it wanted to come up.
“He got her.” There. It was out. I’d said it and now Maurice could tell me I was crazy and this whole thing would be tragic rather than terrifying.
“Oh, Zoey, no. How could he know her? That’s insane.”
But it wasn’t insane. I had known from the moment I’d pulled up behind the cop cars what had happened.
Tremors attacked my body full force, and I had to put my tea down in case I dropped it. The tears I was holding in spilled over, making fresh tracks on my sticky face.
“Don’t you see? He had no intention of coming after me yesterday. He was trying to scare me.” My voice was becoming more shrill and panicked. “He wasn’t walking away from me. He was following Helen.”
I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. Maurice was up in seconds with his skinny arms wrapped around my heaving shoulders. I snuffled into his shoulder and made a wet spot on his blue and yellow paisley shirt. My words were hardly more than a whisper. “I got her killed.”
I cried it out and he let me. Nothing he could say right then could stop the flood of guilt and sorrow, and he knew it. After a few minutes, I started to regain my composure enough to think how ridiculous it was to be sobbing on the shoulder of my greatest childhood nightmare.
My life was nothing if not interesting.
I pulled away and wiped my face. I don’t know where he got it, but Maurice handed me a handful of tissues. The guy moved fast sometimes.
I took a gulp of tea and forced it down my constricted throat.
“This can’t go on,” I said. “I can’t hide from him forever, and I won’t let him kill any more women.”
“Women?” Maurice’s non-existent eyebrows lifted. With such big eyes, I wondered why nature had failed to provide him with eyebrows to protect them from dust and stray cat hair. “Zoey, have there been other deaths?”
“The clerk from the grocery store a few days ago. I don’t have any proof, but I know it. He showed me in my dream. I thought it was part of the crap dream, all some meaningless nightmare, but now I’m sure he was showing me how he killed her.”
“Zoey, you can’t blame yourself.”
“Maybe not for Selma, but I should have seen what was coming for Helen.” I stood up and walked around the kitchen, pacing with my cup held between my palms. Grief and self-pity time were over. I was pissed again.
“What were you going to do to stop it? You can’t do anything, Zoey.”
“Well, I’m not going to hide from the son of a bitch, and I’m not letting anyone else get killed.”
“I can’t protect you out there. You can’t exactly walk into work with a skunk-ape trailing behind you.”
“I have to protect myself, Maurice. And I’m tired of being on the defense.”
“He’s so dangerous, Zoey. Have I mentioned he’s a demon?”
“I don’t give a shit if he’s Satan himself. I’m going to learn everything I can about his kind. And then I’m going to hunt the bastard down and kick his ass. “
Chapter Thirteen
I needed information, and I needed better control of my power. But the need for rest was more immediate. After I calmed down in the kitchen, Maurice went to check on our brownie family, and I went back to bed.
The tea had helped, but it couldn’t fix everything.
As exhausted as I was, it took time for me to settle in. The curtains in my room let in too much light, the humming of bugs and the clanging of my wind chime collection were too loud. I flipped my pillow over twice. The sheet was too heavy. I was cold without it. I got up and shut the window. The room became stuffy.
I gave up and decided to watch some television.
My body wouldn’t move to reach for the remote. Somewhere in the tossing and turning, I’d fallen asleep, and my brain hadn’t caught up yet.
After a moment or two, bright lights flashed around my bed. I tried to blink my eyes, but I was paralyzed. I wasn’t afraid. There was a logical part of me that understood I was dreaming and that fighting to move would wake me up. That awareness began to fade, and I smiled at the dancing lights. They were pretty.
My paralysis faded with my lucidity and I sat up. The lights circled around me and zipped out the door. I followed them through the hallway, into the living room and out into the yard.
Sebastian waited for me against the oak tree at the end of my driveway.
For a moment, fear shot through me. I felt for the amulet around my neck and found it hanging under my shirt, warm and soothing. At first, I thought it wasn’t working. I scrutinized the dark, velvet-clad man. No. It was working fine. He couldn’t hurt me here.
Okay, so I’m asleep. He was here to taunt me, harass me and make me feel like my heart was being ripped from my body. But he could only bring illusions to my dreams, not realities.
I remembered something else: I was seriously pissed off.
With the sureness that only comes in dreams when the dreamer knows she’s in control, I marched myself across the grass, stepped over the invisible fairy ring and looked him squarely in his disturbing emerald eyes.
“Fuck you,” I said. That felt pretty good.
He looked startled. His gaze became more intense and I could feel it licking at the edges of me, trying to find a way in.
“No,” I said, as if he were a dog trying to hump my leg. If I’d had a newspaper, I’d have rolled it up and whacked him on the nose.
Beyond all logic, he tilted his head back and laughed at me. The sound was hideous, deep and throaty like a wounded buffalo. “Well done, Dream Girl,” he said. “Now we can really start having fun.”
From the trees that separated my house from the beach, I heard a long, anguished scream.
I ran.
I was at the tree line in seconds and broke through into the brush and branches. The twigs and brush prodded and pulled at my clothing, slowing my progress. I shoved them aside and kept going. The deeper I went, the more difficulty I had. The train of my flowing black dress snagged and I yanked it free.
I stopped.
No, no, no. I was not wearing this thing again. What kind of twisted psycho was he to keep throwing this monstrous black wedding gown on me?
It’s a dream, Zoey. Take it back.
I closed my eyes and made the dress go away, replacing it with the sweats and tee I’d pulled on for my nap. The idea that I didn’t have to play out the dream—that I could wake myself up—didn’t cross my mind.
I reached the clearing in time to see Sebastian bending over Helen’s body.
She was naked, writhing and floating three feet above the ground. He turned to me, smiled and gave a wave of his velvet-and-lace-clad wrist. He turned to Helen and stroked his hand down the length of her body. She threw her head back and moaned in fear that had a disturbing dose of ecstasy mixed in.
He walked around her prone figure, trailing his fingers across her skin, and settled on the other side of her where he could watch me while he worked.
“Helen was a feisty one, my dear. No clandestine meeting in the dirty back room of a store for her. She had so much more to give me.” He bent low and kissed her lips. Her legs spasmed. “It took hours to drain her. She thanked me for it.”
I had never been so angry in my life. I threw myself across the clearing to get him off of her.
And fell through him onto my face.
He waved his finger at me, grinning like a badly carved jack-o-lantern. “Ah, ah, my darling Dream Girl. If I can’t touc
h you, you can’t touch me.” He made a sick parody of a child’s pouty face. “It’s only fair, you know.”
“Get away from her,” I said. The words felt stupid in my mouth. The damage was done. He was replaying the highlights of a game he’d already played and won. I couldn’t save her.
“She was an insatiable little slut, my Helen. Took it right there next to her man while he slept like an infant. It made her that much tastier, to be honest.”
“That’s twisted and sick.” My throat was dry.
He looked smug. “She invited me in, Zoey. They always do.”
At the sound of my name, I felt gut-punched.
“That’s right. She gave you up right along with herself. She wanted to please me in every way she could.” He bent forward and darted his tongue across her exposed nipple. She bucked and buried her hands in his tacky coat. “It’s a simple thing, a name. It’s a part of you that you give out every day to strangers without a thought. Yet it holds so much power.”
He nuzzled her neck, nipping at it. She sighed, shivering, her knuckles white from clutching the cheap velvet so tightly.
“You have nothing of me,” I said. I walked straight through him, knowing now he wasn’t solid. I stalked across the clearing toward home.
“How long will you hold out, my love?” he called after me. “When I’m hungry enough, I’ll call for you. And you will come.”
The double entendre gave me a case of the screaming willies.
I turned to face him and fixed him with my best bad-ass-chick look. “No. I most certainly will not. But I will find you, and I will carve my name in your chest so you can see how much power it has.”
He bit down on the earlobe he was teasing with his tongue, and Helen arched violently, then went limp and still. He snickered. “Dream Girl has her brave-panties on today. I bet they’re way too tight. I’ll get them off. Don’t worry.”
I turned my back on him, walked out of the woods and woke up.
I lay in bed for some time, staring at the bumpy things on my ceiling. As a child, I used to connect the dots in my mind to form faces and animal shapes. I was not looking for foxes and koalas this time. I was making a list.
Number one: gather information. You can’t fight something you don’t understand.
I padded through the house and found it empty. Laughter poured in through the front door. I poked my head out.
Maurice ran in a serpentine pattern in the grass, three pieces of string held aloft in his hand. All three brownie kids were tied to the other ends, a swatch of fabric fisted over each of their heads.
Maurice had made them into kites. Or tiny parasailors. Or something. It looked dangerous.
“Maurice, are you insane?” I strode down the front steps, my hands on my hips. “You’re going to get them killed!”
Abby squealed with laughter.
“No I’m not, Zoey. They’re safe, honest.” He made a motorboat sound with his lips and tore back the other way.
The kids squealed as they changed direction, whipped around and followed in the air behind him. Maurice jerked his wrist and the kids dropped a few feet, their high-pitched screams sounding like they were flying down a steep hill on a roller coaster.
I glared.
Maurice slowed and the kids fell to the earth in a gentle motion like dandelion seeds caught in the wind. It didn’t look like they’d been in danger at all.
“See?” he said, walking up the steps. “They can’t fall. It’s part of their nature.”
I should have known he’d never risk their safety. “I guess I’m a little on edge,” I said. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You need some lunch anyway.”
I followed him into the house. “I can make my own lunch, you know.”
“I know. But I do it better.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
He stuffed me full of sandwiches and homemade potato chips while I explained what I wanted.
“Can you make more of those muffins?” I asked.
“If I can go get the ingredients.”
I thought about the risks and the moral repercussions of stealing a few strawberries and oranges from my neighbors. “I don’t have time to argue about it. Go ahead.”
I was about to add something else, but he was gone. I still hadn’t figured out if he could turn invisible, translocate, or was just so damn fast my eyes couldn’t follow him.
I was betting on speed. Within ten minutes he was back and already putting the muffins in the oven.
After a quick shower, I pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and the plainest sweater in my closet. I went out the door with precise directions and a basket of warm heaven and trudged through the woods behind my house.
My skunk-ape bodyguard crackled through the brush nearby, keeping pace. I caught a glimpse every so often, but he kept out of my way.
I had my ideas of what to expect of Aggie’s house. Small, dark, probably an overgrown garden. Aggie herself would be hunched over and would cackle a lot. I shifted the basket to my other hand and kept walking.
What I found on the other side of the trees was a yellow two-story with black shutters and a white picket fence. The garden was alive with flowers and butterflies. Hummingbirds zipped between three feeders. Aggie stood at the gate, as if waiting for me.
She was neither hunched nor cackling. Her hair was that peculiar blue older women sometimes get when their hair turns white and they use a rinse. Her smile was so bright, it outshone the garden, and when she laughed, it sounded like a tiny bird chirping. I didn’t know what to make of her.
I stopped short of her gate and stood there, confused. How could I never have seen this house or this woman? I’d lived here all my life, with the exception of college. Still, if Maurice hadn’t told me where to go, I never would have found it.
While I stood confused, she flew out of the gate and threw her arms around me.
“Oh, my! You turned out so beautiful! I knew you would. You were such a beautiful child.”
I returned the hug, though I felt awkward about it.
“I was?” When had she ever seen me before? Why did I not remember?
She ignored the question and pulled me through the garden and into a side door that led into her kitchen. It was as yellow inside as it was outside. I wanted to be polite, but I couldn’t think of any words. Every surface was covered in ticking clocks.
“Do you have something for me, sweetheart?” she asked.
Fairy tales flitted through my head and I started to panic. A gift. You don’t walk into the heart of a witch’s home to ask a boon without some sort of gift. I was frantic. I could give her my earrings. All I had on me besides earrings was my dragon amulet, and she couldn’t have that. Oh God, she was going to take my first born.
She smiled kindly at me. “What’s in the basket, dear?”
I felt like an idiot. This was not a new feeling for me, especially lately. I relaxed.
“Maurice made some muffins for you,” I said, handing her the basket.
She clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, I do love that boy’s cooking. How thoughtful.”
She pulled out a muffin and took an enormous bite. After a long, thoughtful chew, she swallowed and smiled. “Wonderful. I was wondering where my strawberries went.”
I was mortified.
“I am so sorry. I only found out recently he was doing that. I’ve asked him to stop.” This was not entirely true, of course, since I’d told him to go ahead for the emergency muffins. Had I known the strawberries were from her garden, I’d have asked him to make something else.
“Nonsense, dear. They’ll only go to waste anyway. Sit down.”
I sat.
“You tell that boy he can help himself to whatever I have in my garden.”
; “You’re very kind,” I said. “And thank you for the protection-bag-thingy for my car.”
She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Of course, of course. When that sweet boy came over and told me Clara’s girl was in trouble, well, I couldn’t just sit here enjoying the garden, now could I?”
Hearing my mother’s name gave me a start. “You really knew her?”
She blinked at me. “She was here all the time. And so were you. You don’t remember? You used to play here while she and I visited.”
I shook my head. “I barely remember her at all.”
Aggie frowned. “You were eight when she left, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that you don’t remember the first eight years of your life?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I guess that is odd.”
“Odd indeed. And perhaps even odder that you never thought to question it.”
“I don’t remember anything about her leaving. I remember missing her, months after the fact, but every time I try to think about the time surrounding her leaving, the memory feels cold and slippery, like a block of wet ice. I can’t focus on it. I figured it was too painful to think about. But now, I’m beginning to wonder. Were you there when she left? Did she say anything to you?”
Aggie smiled. “Of course I remember. We had tea every morning together, sometimes here, sometimes in her kitchen. That day, I was…” Aggie’s pleasant smile drooped into a frown. “Well, I was…you know, I can’t remember it either.” Her voice faded out at the end of the sentence, and she looked out the window at the garden, a little dazed.
I touched her sleeve, and she pulled back from wherever she’d gone. “Do you remember what happened after? Were the police looking for her? Surely, they would have come to question you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t recall there being any police. There must have been an investigation, but I don’t recall it. How odd. It’s as if I remember spending every morning with her, then I remember missing her, as if she’d been gone for months.”
