by Kater Cheek
“We raised him from the dead on Halloween. He said to tell you ‘I told you so’.”
“Oh, Fred. You got the last word in, didn’t you?” Mary started laughing, but her laughter was strained, and she had to wipe tears out of her eyes. “Goddess, I miss him.”
“Me too, Mary,” John patted her on the back. “Me too.”
The binding ceremony took about twenty minutes. My bindi showed me enough of a weird light show to believe they were doing some impressive witchcraft.
“There,” Mary said, brushing her hands together. “They’re bound tighter than a meat eater’s colon.”
“Good work, ladies,” John said, as if he’d been the one to do it and they’d just handed him scalpels.
Mary rolled her eyes and walked to her car. Elaina’s mom hugged me goodbye and left right after that, asking me to tell Elaina hello (which was dumb as they called each other every day.)
After getting as much gas as the change on the floor would buy, I drove to Cafe Ishmael to hang out with my brother. James wasn’t expecting me, but he let me fill in at the coffee house until my appointment with Mr. Thorn that afternoon, more out of charity than because he needed the help, and I took it, more for the free drinks than because I needed the money. Not having any boughs to work on, and having no money to buy supplies for the next holidays left me time to kill.
Silvara came to Ishmael’s just as I was done with the morning shift.
“Happy New Year,” she said, in a voice as soft and pale as her long white gown. She had pulled her wings in when she walked in the door, and now spread them out four feet on either side of her.
“Ah. Right. November first is New Year for you guys. Happy New Year.”
“I came to give you your money.” She sat down at a vacant seat and laid her hands gently on the table in front of her, as if not sure what to do with them.
“I just clocked out. Are you okay?”
“Samhain is more than just the ending of the year. It’s a time of darkness and death. Last night I was Queen of Hallow Eve.”
I was about to make a snarky comment, but in Silvara’s eyes were a glint of the powers that had recently rested there, powers that the necromancer would know well, powers that called October thirty-first their crowning day. Without thinking, I crossed myself.
She touched my arm. “Today I am merely Silvara Holmes, who owes you money.”
She dug the check out of a leather bag hanging from a cord around her shoulder. It was just a check, just a piece of paper with numbers on it, but it felt warm and comfortable the way that only money can. Finally. All my hard work paid off. I could get my gas tank filled all the way. I could pay rent and not worry where my meals were coming from.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She rose and turned gracefully towards the door.
James had somehow managed to be there in time to open it for her. Silvara murmured something to him and touched him lightly on the brow in a blessing.
The three cups of chai in my bladder were making their presence felt, so I went to use the restroom. Someone was already using it, which meant that I had to wait by the phone and bulletin board, tapping my feet and trying to ignore the sound of liquids being poured. Finally, the door opened.
“Whew. It’s about—” I froze, panicked.
Monica Delcourt stood in front of me, one hand on the door handle, and the other in her jacket pocket. Kishimoto-sensei always said that a good martial artist is aware of his surroundings, but this was the last place I’d expect an ambush. How long had she been hiding in there? Had she slipped past me while I was chatting with Silvara?
Her hand came out of her pocket, and all my muscles tensed to roll on the ground to avoid the bullet, but instead of a gun, she pulled out an Altoids breath strip tin.
“This is yours.”
“What?” I took it from her hand. The tin was smaller than a fifty-cent piece, but rectangular, and rattled as if something were inside.
“It won’t work for me. At first I thought it was because it needed time to get accustomed to me, but now I realize that it’s because it was never meant to be.
“He gave it to you, and now you must know everything I told you was a lie, it was your family that the jewel came from, and I was so angry at him for dying. You know we used to be lovers, and there was a lot of anger that I had to overcome.
“I talked it over with my therapist, because I’ve been having awful dreams from the anxiety. Then I realized I was trying to get back at Freddie, because I was so angry he died without letting me make amends. I thought I was over him but, well—I’m sorry for taking this. I hope you can forgive me.”
The tin came open easily, revealing the replica bindi I had so painstakingly crafted.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Can you forgive me?”
“Sure.” Was it this easy? Was it really going to be this easy? “No blood, no foul, right?”
Monica put her hand on my arm. “Will you come and say that to the U.C.S.?”
“What?”
“They're going to bind my sister,” Monica said. She sounded plaintive, as though she were talking about putting a kitten down instead of keeping a crazy evil witch from casting spells on people. “They found out about the curse she put on you. She didn't mean it; she was just trying to protect me. Will you ask them not to do it?”
“Um …”
“You have to,” Monica said. She was as close to sniveling as I'd seen from a grown woman. “She's so sad when they bind her, and she's had a problem with depression. I don't want to see her go through it again. She didn't mean it, and besides, the curse is gone now that Samhain is over. Please tell them not to put a binding on her.”
You mean the binding that happened just a few hours earlier? The one they did on both of you, you lying bitch?
Since Monica probably still had a gun in her purse, I decided to be diplomatic instead of telling her the four letter words I was thinking.
“Sure, I'll talk to them.”
Monica smiled as if I'd promised to undo it myself, and walked out the door.
I watched her go, still a little stunned that she gave the fake bindi back. It was to save herself from getting a binding put on her, not because of any real pang of conscience, but it still surprised me.
When I finished my business, I pushed open the door and walked out of Ishmael’s, staring at the tin. All this worry, all this anxiety, and it was turning out okay. Monica wasn’t going to try to kill me after all.
I kept staring at it as I walked toward the Old Town and my meeting with Mr. Thorn. It turned out to be a short walk, because he was sitting in his Lincoln Town Car parked just down the street, and called out to me.
“There you are, Miss Melbourne. May I offer you a ride?”
“I was just on my way to see you.” I went around to the passenger side and climbed in. “What are you doing on this side of the river?”
“Waiting for you, of course. You haven’t forgotten our agreement, have you?” His eyes fixed on the tin still clutched in my fingers. “Is that it?”
I slid the lid open to show him. If he didn’t notice the real bindi pasted near my hairline, I wasn’t going to point it out.
Mr. Thorn grinned. “You won’t believe the trouble I went through to find buyers for that silly little jewel. I knew the first moment Beatrice told me of that jewel that it was something special.”
Beatrice? That name sounded familiar.
“It’s rare, you know, quite rare, and with the others firmly in the hands of museums and collectors, having one up for grabs like this is a real treat. Yes, it’s not every day that such a find comes into my life. And at the eleventh hour too.”
“You found buyers?” This news was as welcome as weevils in chocolate. Beatrice Thorn. That name was important.
“Well, of course, Miss Melbourne. That’s what I do. It’s not just the finding either, oh no. You have to start a bidding war. You see, when something rare and valuab
le comes on auction there are certain people who will do anything to add it to their collection.”
Shit. He had already found a buyer. How was I going to break the news to him that I wasn’t going to sell it after all? “Are you a collector too, Mr. Thorn?”
“Why, yes, I am. I myself collect rare belt buckles. I tell you, there is no greater joy than to swoop down and snatch a vintage civil war brass from that pirate Debussy. Of course, they’re getting dearer and dearer all the time. Fifteen years ago I could even find them at estate sales, but now too many ignorant fools have been driving the price up.
“That’s why I need this sale of yours so badly, if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Melbourne. Business has been going downhill for quite some time, and there’s the City Council ruling, I’ll hardly be able to afford my lease once the rate increase takes effect.”
Mr. Thorn prattled on and on about his financial difficulties, which mostly seemed to stem from an over-fondness for buying valuable antiques and a reluctance to part with them. I nodded and pretended to listen, watching the suburban neighborhoods pass by the window.
When he went east to cross the river, I assumed he was making a loop back towards his shop, but instead of veering south towards the Old Town, he turned north along the Old Mill Road.
“Where are we going?”
“Paperwork, Miss Melbourne. Contracts and the like. It won’t do to sell something that isn’t authenticated. Do you realize the sort of trouble I could get in if I sold a fake? Not that I would, mind you. Thorn and Bramble has always stood for quality.
“If only Seabingen were a proper city like Vancouver or Seattle, we’d have better merchandise and the buyers to match. If I had funding, I would have moved ages ago.” He sighed briefly at his misfortune and continued discussing the nuances of the antiques world.
Poor Mr. Thorn with his moldering shop, barely profitable among the Urban Outfitters and Apple Stores that had sprung up in the Old Town these days. He was so cheerful at the prospect of good times ahead. It was going to break his heart to find out he wasn’t going to get a commission after all.
“And then I had to send a fax to London to find out where Mr. Witherton was spending his holiday, but of course when he found out how much Mr. Richards had bid on it, he was quite adamant that he wouldn’t let this go.”
It was kinder to be cruel.
“Mr. Thorn, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have made up my mind. I’m going to keep the bindi after all, in accordance with my uncle’s wishes.”
“What? Miss Melbourne, have I misunderstood you? You can’t mean that you’re going to break our agreement!”
“All I said was that we could meet to discuss this. We’re discussing it now. I’m telling you my final decision.”
“The implication was there, Miss Melbourne. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am.” He stared grimly at the road, hands clenched at ten and two on the steering wheel.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked again. We had passed the last strip mall, and were even now leaving the new housing communities that had sprung up to accommodate those who were willing to trade a long commute for a cheaper house. The road veered right, following along the river.
“I suppose it’s just as well,” he said. “For the better, in fact. Yes, I should have known this wouldn’t be so easy. Well, the sharper the thorns, the sweeter the fruit, as my mother used to say.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked again, with growing alarm. To the left was a steep embankment, almost like a cliff, cut into the earth and held back with chain link fence and cement. To the right of the road was a gentler slope, twenty feet of mud and tall grass grown brown from autumn. Beyond, a long line of trees edged the river.
A car passed us going the opposite direction, notable for its lack of company. There wasn’t much traffic this far north.
“It’s not much farther now, Miss Melbourne.”
I was no stranger to denial. After all, I had known James was a witch for years before admitting what it meant. I had watched Rolf smoke his life away and grow more and more sullen without ever once acknowledging that he would one day try to drag me down with him. I had listened to Dad’s promises to clean up his act, to be a better father, and even when I knew better, it was easier to not believe that it would happen again.
So, I sat there in the passenger seat. I might have sat there watching the scenery in the limbo of a car ride, just waiting for whatever was to come, if three things had not happened.
A goose flew down from the higher ground to the left of the road and swooped close enough to Mr. Thorn’s Town Car that I could see the black feathers on its neck glisten in the light.
Mr. Thorn stepped on the brake, and veered toward the shoulder, slowing us down rapidly enough that we both lurched forward with a snap, caught by our seat belts.
Something clunked on the driver’s side floorboard, and as I turned to see what it was, I caught sight of Mr. Thorn’s shoes. Mr. Thorn’s pants were cuffed up to protect them from mud. A few splatters of oil-stained muck from the streets had managed to spot the khaki, as well as the white and red triangles of his argyle socks.
His shoes were brown leather loafers, polished so shiny that the unmistakable half circle imprint of reptilian teeth smiled at me from his right heel.
He had never meant for me to sell it. He had meant to kill me and take it. He had been trying to kill me all along.
In the five heartbeats before Mr. Thorn’s foot hit the accelerator again, I unbuckled my seat belt, pulled the door handle, and leaped out as far away from the car as possible. I ducked my head in and rolled diagonally from shoulder to hip to shoulder to hip, down the sloping bank towards the river.
Thank God there was no asphalt shoulder here, only calf-deep mud disguised by eighteen inches of brown weeds with dry stalks still clinging to them. At the bottom I scrambled to my feet, bruised but not broken, covered in filth from head to toe.
Up on the road, Mr. Thorn had circled his car around and parked on the other side. Even before the first gunshot, my feet were leaping over the weeds, deer-like, seeking the cover of the trees. The thick mud squelched around my ankles, tugging at my shoes. By the third splorch I let the mud win a partial victory, and loped on toward the leafless trunks with only one shoe.
There was sparse cover here, but the ferns and bracken grew denser towards the water, so I ran on, even as the sound of a second bullet striking a tree near my head told me the race was nearly lost.
Mr. Thorn was stuck in the mud now, and I risked a glance around. He picked his way daintily down the slope, using tufts of grass as stepping stones.
My lopsided thud step thud step as I sprinted towards the stream with one shoe on and one shoe off and my panting were the only sounds in the trees. The birds had grown silent at the first gunshot. Maybe they were amused to see a human hunted for once.
A third shot, and he must have aimed better because a branch cracked not too far to the left. How many shots did he have? What kind of gun was it? Didn’t matter. He only needed one.
My ribs ached and burned, and a momentary dizziness reminded me of the pints of blood so recently lost. Almost there. Dark shapes of undergrowth peered out from behind the gray trees, but not enough to hide me. Mr. Thorn hadn’t fired another shot, though surely he wouldn’t have given up already? I could lose him in the forest, keep running until—
A patch of icy gray water peeked through the trees. The river. Too wide to cross, even this far north. I’d have to turn upstream and run that way. The bank here was a thicket of leafless thorn bushes. I couldn’t pass through here, or even hide well. But was he still behind me? An old guy like that was sure to get lost in the woods. There were trees and brush here ... and deep footprints embedded in the mud. You didn’t have to be a ranger to follow that track. Mr. Thorn didn’t have to be swift, only relentless. He’d come down here, find me pinned by the river, and shoot. Then he’d roll my body in.
They would catch h
im, of course; many people knew I planned to meet him today. I’d still be dead though, and pointing out his poor murder strategy was not likely to make him change his mind about killing me. He’d just choose a more foolproof way.
No more running. No more waiting. It was time to fight.
There had to be somewhere I could ambush him.
Fifteen feet back up the slope was a clump of ferns growing around the root ball of a fallen tree. A flood, or perhaps a storm, had loosened it enough to rip free of its moorings and topple over.
The flat circle of mud-caked roots was only thigh-high, which is why it had escaped my notice on the way down towards the river. As a hiding place, it sucked. He could see me from all but one direction. As a spot to ambush from, it just might do.
I put my feet in the footsteps I had made, and backtracked, then leapt to one side. Using my muddy hands to smooth out my side trail and sprinkle it with leaves, I crouched down.
The birds and forest animals remained silent, watching this drama of hunter and hunted. The river gurgled by, indifferent to the pounding of my heart. I breathed slowly and balled clumps of brown mud between my fingers to keep them from tapping nervously.
He was coming. I could hear his loafers squelching in the mud. Mr. Thorn cared more about killing me than about preserving his natty attire. How nice. His windbreaker swished and whished. His breathing was ragged and loud.
The slope had leveled out here in the trees, but it was still rough enough to make running dangerous and walking tricky. A murmured curse and the rustle of leaves meant that he had slipped, but resumed stalking, ankle un-sprained.
Beatrice Thorn. One of the members of the museum committee. She must have told her husband about the jewel thirty years ago. No wonder he recognized it. He might even have paid Eddie and Jojo off to send Madame R. to the hospital. Harmless old man, yeah, right.
If I lived through this, I’d never let myself be deceived by appearances again. My fingers picked a wad of mud off my jeans and rolled it into a rope, trying to contain my sense of urgency. Was it time to make my move? Too soon, and he would shoot me. Too late, and he would see me, then shoot.
