“I’ll be right out, Cathy,” I said, pulling the spent matches out of the toilet and tossing them in the trash, then admiring the many dollars of damage I’d just done.
“Just give me a second to clean up.”
5
Moving Day
I ran a towel over my face and put the key in the ignition. The old Mazda hatchback’s engine roared to life and belched out a blast of lukewarm AC that hit me square between the eyes.
Good old Dad Wagon.
“I said I was sorry, kiddo.”
Cathy wasn’t having anything to do with my apologies. The post-bathroom event had been far too traumatizing for my teenager to fathom. At present she was doing her best to remind me just how much she resembled her mother—sitting in the passenger seat and staring out the window with arms and legs crossed.
I dropped the shifter into reverse and backed out of the parking space, wondering who would cool off first—the car or my teenager.
At least she’s got the necklace back on—small victories.
It’d been a heck of a time working up an explanation for the minor cyclone that had destroyed their bathroom. In the end it had taken a promise from me to never come back to allow Cathy to return—that and a considerable advance on the next few months of lessons.
I wasn’t sure I’d get off as cheap with my daughter.
The tiny twister uncrossed her arms and played with the sleeves of her bright red rash guard.
That’s a start, but I’m holding out for eye contact.
The Mazda hadn’t gotten around to blowing cold air yet, but at least it was working. We rolled slowly through the parking lot, giving me an opportunity to put a few things together. While it was true that Florida had a New Dead problem, they didn’t tend to travel far, and they certainly didn’t typically show up with that much power. This wasn’t a random possession. For starters, they don’t just appear out of thin air, they tend to congregate—like pack hunters and labor unions—the good ones organize and work together. Tonight’s lone wolf was an abnormality, but not unheard of. The real question was, where had it come from?
I reached the edge of the parking lot and rolled to a stop. A couple of oversized gentlemen were wrangling an ornate couch out of the back of a truck and across the parking lot. I waved them past and waited for the AC to start blowing something that resembled cool air.
There’s the Veteran’s Cemetery on Kennedy…
While space-time laws didn’t really apply to the recently departed, I was reasonably sure they wouldn’t travel that many miles.
What about that new mega church?
I shook my head and chucked. The mega church had a latte machine, an ATM, and Jesus Pale Ale on draft—nothing that even remotely resembled a cemetery.
The monster couch crawled past, and I made sure to perform the sacred manly-man head-nod back to the movers. I’d started to roll forward, when a second piece of furniture snaked its way past us and forced me to hit the brakes.
It was a brand-new, shiny, state-of-the-art aluminum casket.
It took my New-Dead-rattled brain a few seconds to register it, and by then I’d missed the obligatory return nod for this new set of movers. I followed the casket as it made its way into what appeared to be the newest addition to the home-town renovation scene, the Brighton 8 Movie Theatre.
Never one to miss an auspicious opportunity, the Dad Wagon choose that moment to start blowing icy-cold air.
“I need you to stay in the car,” I said, pulling the Mazda into one of the open spaces.
“Why? Wait, what happened to your arm?” Cathy said, pointing at the tiny burn marks left by the Hell Fleas.
“It’s nothing, just a chemical burn,” I lied, rubbing a hand over the reddened skin. I’d been bitten by Hell Fleas before, but these must have been an industrial-strength variety—they still hurt.
I’ll feel better after a shower.
I rubbed my back against the seat, scratching an itch that had been driving me nuts ever since we’d gotten in the car.
Must have bit my back too—damn it.
Cathy leaned forward and unzipped the gym bag at her feet. She pulled out her phone and aimed it at my arm.
Click!
“What are you doing?” I said, keeping one eye on my daughter and the other on the blinding late-day sun.
“Taking a picture of it,” my daughter said, like she was sizing me up for some science project. “Maybe there’s something on it on the internet. I bet if you put the right stuff on those they’ll go away faster. You know, Tristan got burned the other day and I found just the right thing to help him heal up faster—trust me, Dad.”
Tristan?
I could almost hear my wife’s sigh.
Boyfriend of the month, Gene. You’ve gotta pay attention to these things.
I leaned over her screen. “Find anything?”
‘Cause craft beer comes to mind…
“It takes a second, but a new phone would really—”
“Nice try,” I said, pressing my back against the seat—whatever was itching me was doing a remarkable job of finding that unreachable spot in the middle of my shoulder blades.
“Could be all sorts of things—have you been to a military base?”
“Nope,” I said, dropping the visor down to shade my eyes, then giving my back another vigorous rub.
“Well they look like Tristan’s burns, but his came from sparklers.”
“Huh? It’s November, what’s he doing with sparklers?”
“He said he was just fooling around with them.”
This kid doesn’t sound too bright. Mental note—talk to Mom about Tristan.
“You like this guy?”
I don’t really want to know the answer; I would just prefer you to stop staring at the Hell Flea bites.
My daughter squirmed in her seat, uncrossing her arms, then crossing them again. “Kinda.”
Oh boy.
“What’s he do again?”
“Dad, he’s in high school—he doesn’t do anything… yet. He said he might have a part-time job soon though…”
“So you’re dating someone on the unemployment line?”
That coaxed a smile out of Cathy.
“He’s got good grades and is super smart—like you, Dad.”
Smart move, kiddo. Pulling from your mom’s playbook. Buttering up the old man any chance you get makes it easier to slide things past him in the future.
“Oh yeah? What makes him like me? Is he devilishly handsome with a taste for khakis?”
“Dad!”
“What?”
Cathy fixed her ponytail, and as she did, it was hard not to think of a young Porter. Cathy had a lot of her mom in her. She was a spirit of justice with a passion for life, but heaven help you if you made her angry.
Look out, Tristan.
Cathy’s phone chirped and drew her attention, giving me a chance to put the Mazda in park and give my back one last vigorous rub against the seat. Just when I thought it wouldn’t stop, whatever was itching me disappeared.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, leaving the engine and AC running while I paid a visit to the partially remodeled Brighton 8.
My daughter didn’t respond; my spirit of justice was too busy updating the internet on her father’s latest antics.
6
The Silver Scream
The movers had a second casket at the door by the time I arrived.
“I got you.” I grabbed the entrance door and held it wide so they could maneuver the space-age steel coffin past the ticket counter and into a cramped concession area.
After a perfunctory grunt of thanks, the movers set the coffin down and headed back to the truck. I slipped in behind them to get a look at the latest addition to the neighborhood.
The Brighton 8 was a never-ceasing remodel job that my boss had stayed away from for years. Each new owner seemed to go broke trying to get the theatre back up off the ground. Even I had to admit, bringing in a fe
w coffins was an odd way to start. Years ago, the theatre had been a stalwart fixture in the community, but neglect, streaming services, and good old-fashioned mismanagement had brought it to the brink countless times since.
It was clear the new owners were trying their best to get the projectors rolling—they’d replaced the worn out floor inside the lobby with a deep-red, smooth-cut carpet, that while my firm would have counseled them to stay away from long term, it sure looked good right now. I also counted more than a couple new pieces of furniture still wrapped in the original plastic. It wasn’t hard to imagine how they wanted the pre-movie waiting area to look, but it still had a long way to go. The walls were recently painted, a nice muted gray with a few different gold-leaf framed paintings leaning against them waiting to be hung up. The Brighton 8 had gotten a decent upgrade, at least on the front side of the house. My question was whether that upgrade included an unhealthy dose of New Dead.
The lobby opened up on to a wide concession counter, also in a half-assembled state. Tall popcorn machines sat empty, still positioned on pallets and butting up against coolers, which were dark and suspiciously bereft of sugary soda. I took a deep breath—no New Dead, only the smell of fresh carpet, shipping supplies, and an undercurrent of popcorn oil.
“Pardon me,” an elderly woman’s voice said. “We aren’t open yet, but we plan to run a special for all the neighbors here in the mall. I’m going to bring tickets down myself next week. Are you from the karate school?”
I turned around to find a small, elderly woman, not much larger than Cathy. She wore her hair short, a boyish cut that lay tight against an aging head. Glasses dangled from a thin chain around her neck.
“I’m sorry, I guess I got ahead of myself. I saw those coffins and I just sort of followed them in,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m Eugene Law—with Kinder Construction. I’m a sucker for a good remodel. I held the door for the movers and couldn’t help but get a look at the interior. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come in before you were open.”
It’s easier to attract flies with honey than it is with vinegar—slather it on.
“Oh, sweetheart, that is so nice of you to say. I couldn’t be happier with how it’s come out so far. The coffins are some props one of the kids I hired thought would help sell people on the new ‘Demon High’ remake.”
“Props…” I said, running a hand over the brushed-steel caskets and not picking up a single hint of Magick. “They look pretty real to me.”
“Well they are, but they’re just on loan. I’ve poured enough money into getting the theater open, I hope I don’t need one of these myself when it’s all done.”
“Well you should be proud,” I said, stalling for time. If there had been some Magicking in here, it wasn’t in the lobby, or the concession stand. I needed to go deeper. “How about the individual theaters? I remember coming here before our daughter was born and being very afraid of the pooling mass of soda runoff down near the screen—in hindsight it made the movie that much more frightening, as you were afraid to put your feet down.”
The old woman smiled, showing off a tiny array of near-perfect teeth. “All part of the process—like I said, I’m committed to a better moviegoing experience,” she said, taking my hand and shaking it. Her fingers were soft and well-moisturized, and there wasn’t a hint of Magick on them.
“It’s great to meet you, Mrs…”
“Sorry, it’s Ms. Wilson. Mr. Wilson has moved on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, but he’s been gone a very long time. Please, call me Claudia.”
“Well, I’m sure he’d be impressed with what you’ve done here, Claudia. The theater is really coming together.”
The petite Ms. Wilson nodded, directing me back toward the entrance. “It will be once I’m done fixing it up.”
“Still, you’ve done great work so far,” I said, stalling for an opportunity to get to the back side of the house.
“Yes,” my gracious yet rather direct host agreed, herding me like a lost sheep toward the exit.
“Is there any chance you could get me the remodeler’s phone number? Or email, perhaps? We sometimes have to sub work out and it would be good to know who you used.”
Claudia paused, and while I was sure she wanted me out of her theater, I could also tell those latent southern hospitalities were tugging at her just the same.
“Hm, I believe it is on my desk,” the elderly proprietress said, again waffling between leaving me on my own in the lobby, or bringing me with her to the office.
“I can stay here if you would—”
“No, come with me. They did a very nice job on my office as well.”
Damn.
Claudia’s busy feet shuffled along the carpet and led me to a sliding pocket door off the main entrance I hadn’t noticed before. She slid the door open to reveal a very impressive and ornate oak desk with painstakingly organized papers and a small lamp. Two well-cushioned leather chairs sat opposite the desk, still partially wrapped in plastic.
“Give me just a minute,” my host said, sorting through the papers on her desk.
“Certainly. I appreciate you doing this,” I said, extending my Magickal senses and taking in the room. Unlike the foyer, Claudia’s office had its pictures hung, two beautiful watercolor paintings of the Gulf with sandpipers racing away from the foamy surf, and a multi-colored starfish with long arms radiating out from the center.
Nothing…
Neither the pictures, the chairs, nor even the desk itself held anything even remotely Magickal.
“Here it is,” she said, pulling a business card out from her stack of papers. “I knew I’d find it—Gulf Remodeling and Restoration.”
She paused, then tore the top sheet off a pad on her desk and put it under the stack of papers. “I might need to call them, but I’ll copy the number down for you,” Claudia said, writing the phone number down, then tearing that top sheet off and handing it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting the paper and finally letting Ms. Wilson guide me to the front door.
“Oh, my pleasure, sweetheart.” The genteel woman ushered me out into the parking lot. “It was very nice to meet you Mr. Law; if you come back again before we’re open I’m going to call the police.”
“I—”
Claudia Wilson smiled again, those perfect teeth flashing in the setting sun, then slammed the door shut.
I could have sworn the blast of air that followed held a hint of New Dead, but if so, I’d lost it in the smell of plastic and fresh carpet. I gently folded up the paper she’d given me and placed it in my pocket. Something told me I hadn’t seen the last of Claudia Wilson.
I pushed down on the accelerator and the Dad Wagon’s engine grumbled along the thin ribbon of asphalt toward home.
I didn’t yet know what to make of the newly remodeled Brighton 8, but I did know one thing, I’d been lucky—very lucky—in that martial arts class.
Cathy wasn’t getting any younger. She was sixteen now and while we had driving lessons, a boyfriend-of-the-month with questionable firework hobbies, and all the other things that came with being a high-schooler to worry about, it was the thought of her potentially becoming a Magician that kept me up at night.
Porter didn’t have a lick of it in her blood. God bless my wife and her unwavering normalcy, but Cathy and Kris were a crap-shoot.
At five years old, Kris was still far too little. He still had a decade of blissful ignorance ahead of him, and even after that he might not develop a lick of Magickal talent—he did have his mother’s eyes and all.
Cathy, on the other hand, was too much like me. She had my stupid blue eyes and angled jaw—both looked far better on her—and along with them she’d gotten a solid case of the ‘cares too much.’ If that girl had Magick in her she’d become a magnet for every unspeakable terror in the known and unknown world. The things that dwell in the dark just love succulent, juicy, and caring souls.
I pulled off the main road and noticed the check-engine light had popped on.
And now I have a new task for tomorrow…
At least Cathy hadn’t developed any Magickal senses yet—those came first, and shortly thereafter came the spontaneous bursts of Wild Magick. She could think what she wanted about her old man, but I was happy knowing I didn’t have to explain the horrifying things that prowled the shadows to my baby girl just yet.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you smell something really strange at class tonight?”
Crap.
7
Marital Arts
I pressed my forehead against the shower wall and let the hot water beat down on my back. Each droplet that rolled over the Hell Flea bites was a sobering reminder of just how painful those little buggers could be.
Steam filled the bathroom, covering the glass shower doors and giving me an excellent finger board for writing down my thoughts for tomorrow.
1. Investigate Claudia Wilson.
2. Keep an eye on the daughter.
3…
The bathroom door swung open and slammed shut again before I could mark down ‘take the car in for service.’ After eighteen years of marriage it didn’t take me long to figure out when Porter was angry.
“Magick at karate class, Gene! Really?!”
Yep, angry. I am a master at detecting subtle human emotions.
I slid the shower door open enough to flip the vent on. A loud fan hummed above our heads, taking away some of the precious steam I’d built up, but also assuring us of a little privacy.
“It’s jiu-jitsu, and I didn’t have a choice,” I said, working up a lather with the soap.
Porter slammed the toilet lid down and took a seat. She had her rail-straight brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, which was good, cause with the steam I’d built up in here she’d go full frizz in seconds and be even more angry.
Dead Set Page 3
