by Dia Reeves
“Sounds good.” I put on a happy face. After all, I couldn’t expect miracles. Touching aside, things were great between us, especially compared to the way things had been when we’d first met.
She’d stop flinching from my touch one day.
I continued to work after she left, running on adrenaline and happiness, much more potent than caffeine. I finished her black dress and then got to work on the red church dress. I had the perfect fabric—scarlet silk chiffon, which I’d bought in the days before I’d gone all purple.
I’d just meant to start the dress, but when I finally looked up from the sewing machine, I realized I’d finished it.
I hopped up and put the red dress on the rack, neck sore, fingers sore, eyes tired, but I wasn’t tired. I could have made ten more dresses, but I was beyond starving. Where were those corn dogs?
I checked the time and then rechecked it. It was midnight. More than six hours had passed.
Forget the corn dogs; where the hell was Rosalee?
She might have come up to eat with me, but then hadn’t been able to get my attention. Sometimes when I was working on something, I didn’t connect with what was going on around me.
I went downstairs and switched on the stair light. Two bags from Smiley’s lay abandoned by the front door. Even cold they smelled good, and my stomach rumbled, but my hunger had been superseded by growing fear.
“Momma?” I found her once again in the hallway before the carved-up linen closet, kneeling before it as if in prayer. Only she wasn’t praying or carving; she was whimpering.
I turned on the hall light and knelt beside her. “What happened?”
Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying—even though her hands were wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.
“What happened?”
“I don’t remember.” Her face was a study in pained bewilderment. “I went to get the food … and then I was holding this door knocker. Only it’s not really a door knocker—”
“It’s a Key,” I said, understanding then what must have happened to her hands. “Wyatt’s Key.”
She looked surprised. “You know about the Ortiga Key?”
I nodded and left it at that. “What did you try to wish for?”
“Not me. Him. All I wanted was food. He wanted the Key. Wants it. He says it’s his. That it’s the only thing that’ll get him into Calloway.”
“Into where?”
She paused, head cocked in a listening pose. Listening to him. I tried not to shiver. “He says he thinks that’s the world his little girl disappeared into.”
“I thought he was over that. What happened to his ‘love is a trap’ philosophy?”
“That was for me, not him. It’s too late for him.”
“But you said he couldn’t control you.”
“He’s not controlling me, just my body.”
“Just?” I looked at her bloody hands and decided not to split hairs. “What did the Ortigas say when they saw you?”
“They didn’t see me. I don’t even think they were home. I had to pull and pull to get free.” She studied her mangled hands as though they’d let her down.
“The Ortigas have some kind of paste that’ll fix your hands,” I told her. “Just tell them—”
“I ain’t going back there! You think I want them to know what I tried to do? God, how fucking humiliating.”
“Then I’ll get the paste for you.”
“How?”
I looked at my perfectly healed hand and made a fist. “I’ll figure something out.”
I was sitting in the same yellow chair as before, only facing Sera instead of Asher. I felt like I was facing the firing squad I’d wished on Wyatt.
For Sera, Christmas had come early. She scooped the paste from the brown jar and spread it ungently into my burnt palm, wallowing in my every wince of pain. At least I’d played it smart and used my left hand this time around.
“What did we say about trying to make wishes?”
“Not to.”
“Did you try to be clever and wish for an infinity of wishes?” Her eyes never left my face, not just listening for a lie, but looking for one too. “So you could come back here and make wishes at your leisure? I guess you found out the hard way that old trick don’t work.”
“Busted,” I said, glad she was doing the work of making excuses for me.
“You’re not the first one to try,” she said grimly. “Won’t be the last, either. Some idiot was here earlier getting scorched. He was gone by the time I got to the door, but he’d left half the skin of his hands behind. At least you had the sense to wait and be released, so I hope you have sense enough to listen.”
She leaned into my face so I could see her contempt of me right up close. “This is the second time you tried to wish on our Key without permission. You do it a third time, you don’t get your hand back. Understand?”
I nodded. Tried to swallow. “Can I have a glass of water, please?”
She leaned back, amused to have intimidated all the spit from my mouth. When she went into the kitchen, I hurriedly removed the small jelly jar from the roomy pocket of my apron dress and transferred a substantial amount of the popcorn-colored paste into it. By the time Sera came back with my water, the jelly jar was filled and once again stashed away.
In order to account for the amount missing from the brown jar, I was slathering what was left of the paste onto my sore hand like butter.
“That’s enough.” She snatched the jar away.
“It hurts.” That was the honest truth.
She sat across from me. “Using up the whole jar ain’t gone make your hand not hurt faster.” She handed me the glass of water and watched me drink. “And I hope you don’t think you can hang around here drinking water while you dream up a way to con me out of a wish the way you did Asher.”
I sputtered. “I didn’t con Asher!”
“The hell you didn’t. It’s all over town that you’re some kind of head case, but if you wanna plead insanity, you came to the wrong person. I know a user when I see one.”
“I saved your husband’s life. How is that a con?”
“You refused to help him until he gave you what you wanted.”
“That was a negotiation. There’s a difference.”
“You ever try ‘negotiating’ like that with my son’s life, I’ll cut up your face.” She said it so calmly that I believed her. “I have a score to settle with your mother anyway; taking it out on you’d work just as well. We understand each other?”
First Poppa and now Sera. Why did everyone think I was going to hurt Wyatt?
“Perfectly,” I told her, setting the water on the coffee table, looking her dead in her eyes. “But if you think that physical pain is the worst kind of pain, I envy you.”
Sera opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t; I’d surprised all the words from her mouth.
I thanked her for the first aid and left; I wasn’t afraid of pain, but I was still happy to leave with both hands intact.
When I got home, Rosalee was full of questions, but I only told her that I’d had to improvise a little.
“Improvise my ass,” she exclaimed, as I covered her hands with the paste. “You burned your hand for me. How do I even say thanks for that?”
She kissed my cheek. Her lips were cold. Her kiss burned. Her smile was like starlight.
Who needed thanks?
Chapter Twenty-seven
The following Sunday, Rosalee and I were sitting on the steps of St. Teresa Cathedral overlooking Fountain Square, waiting for the service to finally be over.
At school that Friday, I had explained to Wyatt that Rosalee wanted to come with me, but not into the church itself. I told him she was having a crisis of faith, when really Rosalee was afraid that since she was possessed, she might drop dead on the spot if she tried to enter a church.
Wyatt had been understanding about how I’d burned my hand for a second time on his Key—even about the confrontation with his m
other. “I know you wouldn’t’ve just let my dad die that day, and Ma knows it too. She’s just overprotective.”
It pleased me that he had so much faith in my integrity. Strange, though. He hadn’t asked me what I’d tried to wish for this time around. Maybe he was scared to ask. The last time he’d asked, he’d found out I was mental—he probably wanted to quit while he was ahead.
I patted the shiny green gift-wrapped present I’d brought for him. He deserved a truckload of presents for putting up with a girl like me. I decided to kiss him when he came out, to give him a big wet one in front of God and everybody, but especially in front of his mom.
I hoped she choked on it.
Rosalee nudged me with her elbow, grinning at me. “What’s with you and that smile?”
“What smile?” I asked, smiling. I let my head fall back and watched a flock of blue jays fly across the low, overcast sky, wishing the birds were closer so their wings would fan me.
“It’s that boy of yours, right?” Rosalee persisted. She took me by the chin and made me look at her. “You could be in there with him, you know? God ain’t gone throw any lightning at you.”
“You’re my God.” I wrapped my arms around her, breathed her sweet, clean scent. “‘Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of children.’”
She wriggled out of my grasp. “Don’t lean against me. It’s too hot for that.” Before I could feel hurt, she grabbed my chin again. “Look at me.”
“Why?”
“Your eyes remind me of winter. Like two clouds full of snow. I could sure go for some snow right now.” She touched her forehead briefly to mine. “Poor little Nordic girl. I’m surprised you ain’t melted yet.”
I tried to hug her again when she called me her little girl, but she wouldn’t let me. Ever since she’d kissed me, she’d been less shy about touching me, but she still didn’t like to be touched—the heat was just an excuse. There was always an excuse.
When the church bells rang, Rosalee shot up and pulled me down the stairs, barely giving me time to scoop up Wyatt’s present.
“What is it?” I asked, as she led me down the steps, the skirt of her red dress swishing pertly around her tawny legs.
“Standing in front of the doors of a Catholic church when service is over,” she told me, “is a good way to die young.”
Before the noon bells had even finished ringing, a rush of brightly dressed people poured from the heavy double doors. For once, my purple dress no longer stood out—every color was represented. Except green.
I was so busy looking through the crowd for Wyatt that I didn’t notice Asher until he was right in my face.
“Oh, hi!” I said.
“Hi.” But he wasn’t looking at me. I was used to it by now; whenever I was with Rosalee I became Invisible Girl.
Rosalee shook his proffered hand. “Hey. Andy, right?”
“His name is Asher,” Sera said, coming up beside him, Paulie in tow. Her bright yellow dress made her seem washed-out. But to be fair, with Rosalee standing next to her, Sera would have looked washed-out no matter what she’d worn. “Must be hard to keep all the names straight,” she added.
Rosalee ignored her but kept hold of Asher’s hand. When Sera started to turn purple, I took Asher’s hand from Rosalee—the last thing I needed was a Jerry Springer–style situation. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“He couldn’t be here,” Sera said while Asher gawked at Rosalee—right in front of her!—like he was insane … or fascinated.
Rosalee hadn’t been joking.
“He had to train.” Sera seemed more than happy to give me the bad news.
My eyes dropped to the present. I hadn’t realized until now how much I’d been looking forward to Wyatt’s public declaration of affection.
Rosalee said, “Don’t feel bad. That’s how it is with the Mortmaine—they’re always on call.” She turned to Sera. “I’m Rosalee Price, by the way. Hanna’s mother.”
“I know who you are.”
“My daughter’s your son’s girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“He been telling everybody,” Paulie said, peeking around Sera’s arm. “He called our grandpa in Argentina and told him. He called our cousins in California and told them. He even told the mailman.”
“That’s enough, Paulie,” said Sera.
It was enough, all right. Enough to boost my spirits and send a big smile stretching across my face. “Could you give this to Wyatt?” I handed the present to Asher, since he was closest. “And tell him I’m sorry I missed him?”
“Anything you say.”
“Thank you,” Rosalee told him, since his declaration had been addressed to her.
Sera grabbed his arm none too gently and dragged him off.
“Did you sleep with him before or after he was married?” I asked, watching the Ortigas disappear into the crowd.
Rosalee scrunched her nose in this really cute way that I immediately decided to practice in the mirror. “Both, I think. That was a long time ago.”
“Hey, Hanna.”
Lecy, wearing blue poppies in her hair that matched her dress, descended the cathedral steps with her group of friends: Petra in pink, Petra’s mountainous boyfriend Frankie in a dark blue suit, Casey of the orange braces and formerly see-through skull, and a bunch of other kids from school all in their church finery.
None of whom were looking at me.
“Hey, Miz Rosalee,” they exclaimed in unison.
“Hey,” said Rosalee, before turning her back on them to ask me, “Wanna go sit by the fountain?”
Before I could open my mouth to reply, Lecy said, “Hey, guys, come on! Miz Rosalee asked us to sit with her!”
In no time Rosalee and I were sitting near the bottom tier of the sunken amphitheater, near enough for the clear fountain water to splash us, surrounded by Rosalee’s adoring fans.
“Miz Rosalee,” said Lecy, “lemme get you something to drink.”
“No, I’ll get it,” said Casey.
“Let the girl get me a drink if she wants,” Rosalee told Casey, the spray from the fountain sparkling in her hair like diamonds. “In the meantime, you can rub my feet.”
“Cool!”
Everyone fell over laughing, watching Casey fumble with the complicated straps of Rosalee’s lipstick red stilettos.
“I was just kidding!” she said, exasperated, shooing him away from her feet.
“I don’t mind,” said Casey, who refused to be shooed. “Believe me. I always wanted to—”
The rest of the sentence was drowned out by loud, pained moaning.
Petra was moaning.
She’d doubled over on the tier above us, arms wrapped around her stomach. My first thought was that she was jealous of the attention being lavished on Rosalee and wanted some for herself, but she was making such horrible, plaintive sounds, such an ugly face, that I knew she couldn’t be faking it.
Everyone quieted as Frankie rubbed her back with his huge hand, worried. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Stomach,” she gasped, eyes squeezed shut. “My stomach—”
“Holy hell, y’all,” someone screamed, “look at the fountain!”
We looked. The formerly clear pool had become a thick red soup. All the people dangling their feet in the water jerked them out at once. The smell that arose from the fountain was unmistakable, as though a vein had opened beneath us and the Earth was spewing its heart’s blood.
Hardly anyone screamed or panicked. No one spoke, and yet the Porterenes rose as one and fled Fountain Square in a rainbow-colored exodus. There was something Animal Planet about it, like a herd of zebra fleeing the presence of a hungry lion.
“They’re well-trained, aren’t they?” said Rosalee, only it wasn’t her voice.
I sidled away from Runyon, from his blue eyes blazing from her face. “Are you doing this?”
“Me?” He removed Rosalee’s complicated shoes and waded into the ankle-high pool that had turned the same c
olor as Rosalee’s dress. “If memory serves,” he said sardonically, “turning water to blood was God’s specialty.”
I stood, the fountain spray staining my dress. “Shouldn’t we go too?”
“And miss all the fun?” He put out Rosalee’s tongue to catch the bloody droplets spewing from the fountain, like a kid trying to catch snowflakes.
I couldn’t stand the intrusion. Couldn’t stand it. “Momma?”
She blinked those blue eyes away. “I’m here.” She was herself again, but for a person up to her ankles in blood, her cheerful expression was disconcerting. That and the fact that she continued to hold out her tongue.
“It’s okay,” she said, noting the look on my face. “It’s not really blood, despite what it looks and smells”—she finally caught a fat splash of blood in her mouth—“and tastes like. Blech!” She spat out the blood. “Runyon says it’s a sign.”
“Of what? The apocalypse?”
“No.” She looked up at the cloudy sky. “A breeder’s coming.”
“Breeder?”
She nodded. “Breeders track other breeders by scent. If any of their kind is near water or any liquid, really, the liquid takes on the appearance and scent of that breeder’s blood. The more liquid there is, the better the scent given off. This fountain, for instance? A breeder could smell all this from miles away.”
“Is Runyon a breeder?”
“Not Runyon,” she said, exasperated. “Him.”
She pointed at Frankie, sitting behind us with Petra, the only people left in the square besides Rosalee and me. Petra didn’t look fit enough to go anywhere, chalky and sweaty as she was. Frankie was cradling her in his lap, cooing to her. All the while he watched the sky. Just like Rosalee.
I looked up and saw why.
A huge flying man dived out of the gray clouds, zooming directly toward us. As he approached, the flap of his transparent wings beat the air, blowing my dress against my legs.
Rosalee grabbed my arm and dragged me up the amphitheater, leaving bloody footprints on the pale gray tiers. I thought we were finally leaving, but she only led me halfway up and then pulled me down to sit beside her.
“What are you doing?”
“Runyon wants to watch. Besides, that breeder ain’t after us.”
