by Amy Lane
“A jury,” Bartholomew said definitively. “A jury of turkeys.”
“And the squirrels?” Lachlan’s voice squeaked, and Bartholomew wondered if that lovely, amazing, truly life-changing afternoon of sexual awakening was going to give way to his new boyfriend roaring out of his life for good as he peeled away from the cul-de-sac from hell.
“They would be a… a parade?” They were still marching, single file, in a giant loop in front of the four houses. The entire cul-de-sac looked like circus of the motherfucking damned.
“And a protective squadron of housecats,” Lachlan managed through an obviously tight throat. “Okay, I’m saying it. You’re right. This is fucking weird.”
The cats were sitting in a chevron formation on the small strip of sidewalk outside the cottage, as though keeping an eye on the other creatures in the cul-de-sac. In the street gutter before them was a truly horrifying collection of small rats, mice, voles and other prey animals who had obviously stepped over the line. As Bartholomew watched, a six-foot snake lying with a broken back twitched, and a battered bruiser of a ginger tom howled, leaped forward, and ripped a claw through its throat, leaving it to finish bleeding out before he sauntered back to his place in line.
“Well,” Lachlan said, voice steady, “this is terrifying.”
“You think?” Bartholomew asked, his own voice anything but steady. “Did you notice the topiaries on the street we just turned off?”
“No.”
“Well, I could swear I saw a tree getting decapitated by an azalea bush. This is getting out of hand!” He pulled out his phone and called Alex.
“Hey, Barty, is that you out front?” Alex peered through the kitchen window, and Bartholomew waved from the front seat of the truck.
“Do they do anything but look scary?” Bartholomew asked hopefully.
“Uh, we had three of the cats on the fence when I let Glinda out last. I think they were making sure the crows didn’t carry her off.”
“Jesus fuck me with a letter opener.”
Lachlan gave him a look of horrified fascination, and Alex snorted.
“And on that visual, do we have any ideas?”
“Do we still have all that colored electrical tape from that time you made those wallets?” Bartholomew asked.
“Yeah….” Alex had wanted to be part of the crafting group too, but much like Dante, he couldn’t seem to find his groove. “Wait. Why?”
“And we have white, black, and red thread—spools of it,” Bartholomew said. “At least Cully does.”
Alex whimpered. “God, Barty, don’t make me go in there.”
“Cully and Dante’s place? What in the hell—”
“They’re there, Barty, but they’re not. It’s fucking weird. I can hear Cully sewing and Dante watching sports in the living room, and I swear to God, stuff moved. Like, when I walked in, the kitchen table was clear, but I checked for the two of them, and when I came back, it was full of fabric and shit. Just like if Cully was there, but he wasn’t. And a beer bottle appeared on the end table—empty—like if Dante really was watching football. I… it’s….” Alex’s voice broke a little, sending a shaft of guilt through Bartholomew’s chest. He was the least comfortable with the coven’s magic, and he’d been dealing with the weird shit all alone.
“Okay, we’ll come inside, and you can give me the keys. I’ve got a plan.”
“Listen to you, all assertive,” Alex half laughed. Then, as realization hit, “We—who’s we?”
“Me and Lachlan. Are you sure the… the prison yard of animals isn’t going to attack?”
“No,” Alex said shortly. “But I can bring you guys umbrellas. They helped me. Hang on.”
He disappeared from the kitchen window, and Bartholomew hung up. As he shoved his phone into his pocket, he fingered the amulet at his throat and looked at Lachlan. When he’d awakened that afternoon, Lachlan had been draping it over his neck and had made Bartholomew do the same before he was quite fully awake. “For protection,” he’d said, looking troubled. “And because I want your friends to see I’m your sidekick, okay?”
Bartholomew had nodded and kissed him, feeling bold, and they’d both been surprised as a small glow emanated from the discs at their necks, fading as the kiss faded.
Well, apparently the magic approved, which was really reassuring.
“Where’s the velvet bag with the other discs?” he asked. “I think we should give Alex his immediately. He’s gonna lose it completely if we don’t calm him down.”
Lachlan nodded and pointed to the front door. “Here, let’s get out and meet him halfway.”
As Alex ran under the cover of the umbrella, a small squadron of starlings dropped from their perches and went gunning for him. Bartholomew squawked and grabbed the velvet bag from Lachlan’s hand, then ran for his friend in panic as Lachlan called helplessly after him.
Alex flapped the umbrella and the starlings bounced off, and Bartholomew hugged the car to evade the snakes hanging from the apple tree, none of whom looked poisonous but all of whom were hissing.
“Here,” Bartholomew said in desperation. “Here….” He reached into the velvet bag, looked around reflexively, and then blinked.
The late afternoon sun was coming in from behind the houses, casting a shadow that stretched nearly to the street.
Except for the glow that surrounded Bartholomew as he stood in his driveway. As Alex approached, still looking at the sky, Bartholomew’s aura surrounded Alex too. As they got closer, Alex’s shoulders actually squared, and some of the bone-white tension eased up around his eyes and mouth.
“Lookit you,” he said faintly. “You got your own umbrella.”
“Here.” Bartholomew had twisted the different colors of cord together into a neat hank. “Choose your color.”
“Green,” Alex said, his lips doing that twist thing he did when he was laughing at himself. He rode a bike, right? And he had green eyes?
“It works.” Bartholomew separated the green cord from the others and put them back into the bag. “Here.” He looped the cord over Alex’s head, saying, “My friend of the good heart, with the logical mind, may you stay safe from chaos, from pain, from bad decisions. Know you are loved. So may it be.”
“So may it be,” Alex echoed dutifully, that self-conscious twist of his mouth disappearing. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out, and when he opened his eyes, his usual humor and pragmatism showed again. “Okay, so are we under attack?”
“Nope,” Lachlan said, jogging out from the car. “Look, I’m glowing too. We did good, Tolly. You and me make good magic.”
Alex raised normally skeptical eyebrows. “You. Made magic.”
Lachlan gave him a steady look. “Tolly’s my magic,” he said, and Alex nodded.
“Okay, that I believe. I always thought Dante was our strongest next to Jordan, but maybe not. And since the sky isn’t dropping asshole animals on our heads anymore, here, Barty, take the keys and go get the thread. I’ll go get the tape. Are we going to put pentagrams around the cul-de-sac?”
Alex really was very clever—he just had trouble being creative. They’d had long conversations, talking about books and music and magic, and Alex had loved all of it.
He’d hated that he couldn’t follow, was all.
“I was thinking a big one at the intersection, with thread running to our threshold. Maybe when Jordan and the others get here, we raise a cone of power and bless the neighborhood?” Bartholomew really needed to consult Jordan about all of this. Jordan read the books at night—he slept in the witch’s cottage filled with familiars who would let nobody but Jordan touch them.
“Yeah. We can work on the rest of this tomorrow.”
Bartholomew grimaced. “I was sort of thinking of baking up some more stock so I could go back tomorrow.”
Alex tilted his head skeptically. “Are you sure you want to go back to the con tomorrow? Can’t you bail?”
Bartholomew shrugged, determi
ned even though he wasn’t sure why. “I… think I need to make sure there’s no long-term effects,” he said. “And I’d love to be able to see if the stock I make tonight is different in any way. And….” He blew out a breath. “I’ve got nothing, except I feel like there’s a reason for me to be there, you know?”
Alex’s almost transparent eyebrows lifted elegantly. “Have you seen our front yard?” he said, gesturing to all of the weirdness encapsulated therein. “If you got a feeling you should do something, I say go for it! Do it! Wiggle your nose and light a candle, Barty—it’s all we got.”
Bartholomew wrinkled and unwrinkled his nose, and Alex hid a smile behind his hand.
Lachlan laughed out loud. “Now it just looks like you smelled something,” he said, then looked around nervously. “But maybe we should get our stuff and go inside. You can show me your etchings.”
Bartholomew’s eyes got big. “I need to check my stores!” he said, talking about the big shelves in the garage filled with baking supplies. “If any of these asshole animals got in my flour, I’m grabbing my Ren Faire sword and going medieval on them. Dammit!” He took the key from Alex’s outstretched hand and grabbed Lachlan, then headed for Dante and Cully’s house.
They avoided the paving stones across the lawn and around the tree and stuck to the concrete because there was less chance of snakes, and it was easier to step over the squirrels that way. As they did, both Bartholomew and Lachlan gave a shudder as a cold iron thread seemed to pluck at their vitals.
“Geez, Tolly, whatever you guys did, you need to apologize,” Lachlan said, and Bartholomew nodded.
“I really am sorry,” he said. “I—I should have had the courage to at least admit I wanted you.”
Almost in answer, the squirrels picked up pace and the cats began a merciless yowling.
“Jesus, Tolly, what did you say?”
“I was telling the truth!” Bartholomew burst out, hurrying toward Dante and Cully’s porch. “I’m sorry! I suck! Some of this is my fault!” And with that, he unlocked the door and fell over the threshold.
And immediately knew why Alex was so unnerved.
Dante! Come here and try this on! It’s gonna look fabulous!
Sure. Fine. But I’m telling you, I don’t have the boobs for this dress.
Oh ha-ha. You like it, right? It’ll look good, right?
Yeah, yeah. You’re super talented, you know it. See these? The gathering things? I’ve never seen them anywhere else.
Thanks, Dante. You’re going to come to this next one, right?
Have I missed an opening night? Ever?
No. Thanks. I need you there. You’re my good luck charm.
Yeah. That’s what I am. A good luck charm.
Bartholomew stood in their entryway and absorbed the conversation, not sure how he could hear it but knowing it had happened.
“Tolly?” Lachlan said behind him. “Are we going in?”
Bartholomew took a few more steps and closed the door behind Lachlan and then stood in the entryway again. “Stand here,” he said, too unnerved to worry about giving orders. “And close your eyes. Tell me what you hear.”
Dante!
Yeah, C—coming. Coming, baby. Don’t worry. I’m here.
Sorry, Dante. Another dream.
Yeah—that was a bad one. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here.
Wandering. I was wandering in fog, and I couldn’t find you.
Right here, C. Don’t worry. Have I ever let anything happen to you?
No. Never.
I’ll be here as long as you need me. I promised.
Yeah. Thanks, Dante. Don’t… don’t go back yet, okay?
Yeah, C. I’m here.
Bartholomew’s eyes snapped open, and he grunted in a sort of pain.
“What?” Lachlan asked. “It… it sounded like a TV, like it was playing in the garage.”
“What show did you hear?” Bartholomew asked.
“A romance?” Lachlan shrugged. “I don’t know. It was like music and murmuring but no words. What did you hear?”
“A conversation between my friends,” Bartholomew said unhappily. “A private one.”
Lachlan leaned back. “Like, uh, private-private?” There was no mistaking his meaning, and Bartholomew, with his new knowledge, had to laugh and blush at the same time.
But he also had this new knowledge, and he could say with certainty that the things he’d heard, while everyday and not naked at all, had been almost more private than what he and Lachlan had spent their afternoon doing. “Not… they weren’t making love,” Bartholomew said, not returning his leer. “But they were… were falling in love, I think. That’s what it sounded like, anyway. It sounded like… like they’d been in love forever and had missed it somehow.”
And then, right in front of him, as though he’d walked out of a door from the thin air, Dante appeared.
“Barty!” he said in frustration. “Have you seen Cully? I keep tripping over his latest project, but it’s like he’s buried under all the damned clothes and I can’t find him!”
“No,” Bartholomew said, his voice threatening to go out entirely. Dante looked like he always did—tall, broad-shouldered, Italian, with big brown eyes and shockingly black hair. He had a nose, a serious nose, although not overly serious, not for his face, and Bartholomew had always thought it made him even handsomer. “Dante, where were you, right now? Before you were talking to me?”
“I… I don’t know,” Dante said, and suddenly he whipped around. “Cully! Cully, can you hear me? Man, I don’t know where the dog is!”
And then, just like he’d walked through another door, he was gone.
Bartholomew swallowed so loudly, he thought it rocked the floorboards.
“Did you see that?” he said, his voice almost inaudible. He was sort of hoping Lachlan hadn’t. That would mean it wasn’t really happening and Bartholomew was merely hallucinating magic.
“Yes,” Lachlan said, his own voice thin. “Yes, your friend walked out of a hole in nowhere and went back to a hole in nowhen. Yes. That happened. Why are we here, again? Because I am afraid that will happen to us.”
Bartholomew reached behind him and grabbled Lachlan’s hand.
“If we get separated,” he said, “grab your amulet and say my name. Bartholomew Crosby Baker. And I’ll say yours. Lachlan… Lachlan Stephens.” He almost hyperventilated. “Fuck! Lachlan! What’s your middle name! I don’t know your middle name! Jesus!”
“Tobias,” Lachlan said soothingly. “Lachlan Tobias Stephens. My mom wanted it to be Patrick, ’cause she’s the Irish one. Dad’s… I don’t know. Europeanish.”
Bartholomew snorted, but it worked to calm him down. “Well, that’s my family. Sorry. Nothing to see here, folks. We’re a plain white people, the cheapest of bread.”
Lachlan’s snort made him laugh, which was how he made it down the average, everyday, haunted hallway of a house he’d been in thousands of times.
Dante and Cully had made the house their own, of course. Cully was a genius with fabrics, so they weren’t walking on oatmeal-colored Berber—they were walking on a purple-and-fuchsia silk-wool area rug runner that usually required bare feet and reverence. There were textured paintings on the walls, and a giant tapestry in the living room that matched the area rug there, all of them done in bold purples, greens, pinks, and grays.
And Dante’s beloved sports pop-ups—he favored football heroes—were on the walls not covered by fabric.
It was a sort of glaring hodge-podge of two distinct personalities, and without the men who filled the space, it felt empty and garish instead of warm and loud and welcoming.
“Wait,” Bartholomew said. “Sh….” He closed his eyes again. “Can you hear that?”
“Yeah, it sounds like my sister’s sewing mach—”
At that moment, a dress? Probably a dress. Something in resplendent red and purple silk went flying across the hallway from Cully’s room and right through the wall, d
isappearing as though there was no wall there.
Bartholomew heard the distinct sound of Cully swearing. “Dammit, Donnie, I’m sorry. I was trying to keep this organized, and I lost my temper. I didn’t mean to. I know you say it’s not a problem, but you’re usually so neat—oh! Hey, Bartholomew.”
Bartholomew poked his head into the room and smiled a little greenly. Cully was tiny—about five foot five or so, with wild blond-brown hair and elfin cheekbones. He had super pale skin that always seemed to carry a blush of surprise, and his blue eyes were always wide like he’d just seen something that shocked him. He turned that gaze to Bartholomew like it was an ordinary day.
“Hey, Cully. Can we, uh, use some of your thread for—”
“Spell thread is in the little white craft lunch box, by that wall, do you see?” Sure enough, Cully’s room consisted of a single bed with a stunning homemade quilt in what Cully called a Bargello pattern. He’d tried to explain how to make the progression of color-saturated squares that marched across the surface, but Bartholomew’s brain had been swimming with what Cully had told him was over fifty different rainbow colors, and all he remembered was something called “strip piecing” and a tube of fabric. Besides the bed with that quilt, there was a sewing table, a cutting table, an ergonomic chair, and an ironing board.
Cully was sitting at the sewing table, which sat flush against the wall facing the door. He moodily rested his chin on his hands. “Did you see that piece of crap I threw across the hall?” he asked. “Seriously, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to sew.”
Bartholomew shook his head at Lachlan to stay at the doorway, not sure what Cully could and could not see at this juncture. Carefully, skirting the cutting table and sucking his stomach and balls to his spine to not touch the ironing board, he slid in past the bed and to the corner, where Cully’s white box sat.
Because he was Cully, he’d decorated the top by using some of Alex’s colored duct tape to make a rainbow pentagram, which was sort of where Bartholomew got the idea.
“Thanks, Cully.” Bartholomew picked up the craft box and turned, thinking he’d offer Cully one of the necklaces and maybe ask him if he saw Dante whenever he faded from view, but Cully was gone.
