Night Tide

by Kory M. Shrum

  She stood when she saw him pulling into the drive and slung the sack over her shoulder.

  He hadn’t even fully come to a stop before she threw the passenger side door open and climbed inside.

  “My mom’s shift ends in ten minutes so you better step on it if you want to miss her,” she said, and pulled the seatbelt across her chest.

  He was back on Ruby Road moments later.

  He was struck with the smell of her. Her hair looked damp and freshly washed. Her clothes reeked of fabric softener.

  “So what do you know?” she asked, adjusting the pack between her legs.

  “About the Western Woods?”

  “No,” she said then she cocked her head. “Well yeah, that too. But I meant Landon. You said you had a book about how to bring him back from the dead?”

  “Not exactly,” he admitted.

  He could see her looking at him from the corner of his eye.

  “I read a story about Vendetta and The Crone Tree. Have you heard of it?”

  “No.”

  He recounted the story for her, from Vendetta’s hard life until she was turned into a demon and took on the ruthless queen.

  “What does this have to do with Landon?” she asked, when he was done.

  His thighs had begun to stick to his seat. He leaned forward and adjusted the A/C. “According to the story and my mother, The Crone Tree will bring him back to life if we make a sacrifice.”

  “Is there a dead body in the trunk?” she asked. “Because I don’t see a sacrifice.”

  “I was hoping my blood would be enough.”

  “You expect to cut your hand and resurrect Landon?” she asked. “Grayson, you didn’t think this through. Which is...really unlike you.”

  Was he that obvious? Of course, he hadn’t told her the truth. He couldn’t tell her that he’d intended to cut himself—really cut himself. That he’d hoped his own blood would attract a dryad or some other monster and that he would kill it beneath the tree—offering that in exchange for Landon’s life.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

  He shifted in his seat.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. He turned and looked at her, trying to gauge how angry she was. She was irritated, but not furious. He didn’t want to see how far she would push him.

  “Don’t you think it would be a good idea that I know what the actual plan is before we go into the big, dark woods?”

  He sighed. “I was going to cut myself.”

  “Again, I don’t think a bit of blood counts as a sacrifice.”

  “I was hoping the blood would attract...something.”

  Her lips pursed in question. “Any particular something? Or will any monster work for you?”

  “First come, first served,” he said.

  “What if it is a dryad?”

  His heart faltered. “What if it is?”

  “Dryads are supposed to be sacred to The Crone. If you kill one maybe you’ll piss her off and she’ll smite you.”

  “Or we spare it in exchange for what we want.”

  “Or we get swarmed and eaten by a dozen of them. Or maybe she won’t be impressed at all and tears us apart herself.”

  “Vendetta—” he began.

  “Vendetta was turned into a demon so she could murder someone.” Abigail spoke the words as if it answered everything. “That’s some dark shit. I don’t think the tree is into oh-please-save-my-best-friend type of requests. And all the things I’ve ever heard about The Crone Tree or She Who Sleeps is about her loyalty to her creations—demons, sirens, dryads. I don’t think slaughtering one of her children is going to win her over.”

  He understood what she was saying. They had no proof that this would work. And the idea that they were going to walk over eight miles into the most dangerous woods on just a hope seemed...

  It’ll be fine, he thought.

  Grayson pulled to a stop at the four-way in front of Crossroads.

  “You’d have better odds going in there,” Abby said. She pointed at the demon bar across the street.

  Even though it was the middle of the day, several cars sat in the gravel lot outside the old timey saloon. The Crossroads bar was a demon bar. Every long-time resident of Castle Cove knew that. One only went in there to make dangerous deals.

  Abby gestured to the slouching porch and batwing doors. “At least you know what you’re getting when dealing with those guys.”

  Grayson sat at the four-way stop, considering his options. “You don’t have to come. You can wait in the car.”

  “Because you’re going in there no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

  South Beach bloomed on his left, revealing sandy beaches and blue-grey water today. On his right was the open fields known as Vendetta Heights. Grayson drove until he thought he was about parallel to the place known as Druid’s Hollow.

  “Christ,” Abby swore. “This is really happening.”

  “Then don’t come!” he said. “I don’t know why I even brought you!”

  Her face reddened as if slapped. She remained silent for the remainder of the drive, all the way to Vendetta Heights.

  “I’m coming,” she announced. “Now give me a kiss. For good luck.”

  She licked her lips.

  He pulled off the road and parked the car, the nose pointing at the looming woods ahead of them.

  “No, you’re just trying to distract me.”

  “Come on,” she said, leaning over the console. “We might die in here.”

  Heart hammering in his chest, he leaned across the console toward her. She met him halfway. Her lips were warm and sticky as they slid against his. She threaded her fingers through his hair, sending shivers down the back of his neck. A strange prickling raised the hairs along his skin.

  Just when he thought he might burst with the desire building in his chest—because god, if it was her plan to make out with him in this car to prevent him from going, it just might work—she pulled back, frowning.

  “What are you wearing?” she asked. She was looking him over as if she’d never seen him before.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are you wearing? Do you have any oils on or maybe jewelry or a rock in your pocket?”

  He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the onyx. “You mean this? How did you—”

  She took it between her fingers, frowning at the black stone. “At least I’m not losing my mind.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Why not? It’s a good a time as any.” She sighed and searched his eyes. “I’m a witch.”

  For a moment, he sat there looking at her. It sounded like a punchline to an incomplete joke. Like someone had told it poorly, skipping important information.

  Finally he managed, “What?”

  “I’m a witch. I joined the Castle Cove coven when I turned eighteen. I’d wanted to join since junior year but you have to be of age. Then it’s a ten-year apprenticeship until you’re a full member.”

  “And they just let you join?” he asked. It sounded like a stupid question once it left his lips. It was funny how some questions sounded very smart inside his head, but less so once spoken.

  “I have an aptitude for magic.”

  “Wait,” he said, straightening and running a hand over his face. “What does this have to do with the onyx?”

  But then he remembered Ms. Monroe’s words.

  “Were you trying to cast a spell on me?”

  “A protection spell before we go in there half-cocked. But to be honest, I don’t even know if it’s going to work. There’s a saying in the coven: There’s not enough magic in the world to protect against stupidity.”

  “Is this why you wanted to come?” he asked her. “You thought you could protect me?”

  “I’m trying,” she said. She bit her lip, her anxiety showing. “I wanted to cast protection spells and stealth spells on us both. I was hoping that it wo
uld get us further into the woods without being detected. Or if we run into something, we’ll have a bit of luck on our sides. But Grayson—”

  He snapped himself out of the mental spiral that was sucking him down.

  Abby is a witch. Abby is a witch. Abby—

  “Grayson—the Western Woods is old magic. Old as Hell itself, do you understand? I have zero belief that my wimpy spells are going to get us through this alive. That’s why I called Miriam.”

  “Who?” Every time his heart slowed down, Abby said something to send it kicking again.

  “My coven leader. I told her where we are. I asked for her help.”

  Grayson dragged his hands down his face. “What if they stop us?”

  Abby snorted. “If only we were so lucky. Do you really want to go in there?”

  She pointed at the woods.

  He looked at the darkness pooling beneath the trees. “Yes.”

  “And if you don’t go now, you’ll just sneak in by yourself some other time, won’t you?”

  “How did you—”

  “Right. So I’m going in with you then.” Abby pinched the bridge of her nose. “And I’m doing what I can to keep us safe, but I can’t cast any spells on us if you have that necklace on.”

  He looked down at the onyx pendant resting against his chest. He lifted it, gazing into its black face. He saw his own, puzzled reflection staring back at him.

  Grayson Choice 13

  Trust Abby and take off the necklace

  Leave the onyx on

  Reese: Interview the witnesses

  Reese decided the best use of her time would be to interview the kids that were at the beach on the night of the attack. Perhaps they had seen or heard something that could be of use, anything that might crack the mystery.

  Reese drove her rattling red truck through town. First she would—on Ethan’s authority—talk to the detective who’d first arrived at the scene. She needed the contact information if she hoped to find the witnesses.

  The precinct was quiet when she swung her truck into the nearby vacant lot. Reese frowned, wondering if there was some public holiday she didn’t know about. Only two cars, two dark sedans, sat in the lot. The adjacent park was also deserted. An empty park swing swung lightly in the breeze.

  Reese climbed out of the truck onto the hot June pavement.

  She could feel the heat through her boots as she crossed the blacktop and marched up the sidewalk into the building. A wall of welcomed air conditioning hit her full in the face.

  A man behind the desk answering phones cast her a look as she walked in. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Detective O’Reilly,” she said. From what she could see, this officer was the only one in the building.

  “Detective O’Reilly is very—”

  “Ethan Benedict sent me,” Reese said, crossing her arms over her chest. “So if she isn’t here, please tell me where she is.”

  Ethan’s name sent red rushing into the officer’s face. “O’Reilly!”

  The name was thrown over his shoulder the way one might throw a ball.

  A head popped out of an adjacent office. Reese could see the woman’s other ear was pressed to a phone.

  “She said Benedict sent her,” the officer said with an arched brow. Then he muttered something under his breath that sounded to Reese like better you than me.

  O’Reilly’s face crumpled from irritation to resignation. She waved Reese forward. “Come on in.”

  Reese snaked around the desks and moved toward the glass office. O’Reilly, a tall woman with auburn hair and large nose held the door open for her until she entered. Then she closed it quietly behind her with a click.

  She held up her hand, asking for a moment to finish her call. “Yes, I understand that. That’s correct. All right, well, call me back when you figure out what’s been taken.”

  She ended the call with a huff.

  “Hello, detective.” Reese extended her hand. She hadn’t always felt comfortable around cops. A plain-clothes detective was apparently cop enough to make her palms sweat. “I’m Reese Cook.”

  O’Reilly, who’d been heading to her desk, faltered. “Any relationship to Dr. Cook?”

  “She’s my aunt,” Reese said with a gentle smile.

  O’Reilly arched her brows appreciatively. “If you’re like your aunt, then that explains why Benedict has recruited you.”

  Reese knew just what the detective meant by like her. Not brilliant, educated, adventurous, or rich. But a shark shifter. She decided to neither confirm nor deny her condition. Instead, she kept her smile bright and friendly. One benefit of being a bartender was such a smile was usually within reach.

  “Ethan asked me to interview the kids that were at the beach during the attack.” Reese sat in the stiff chair opposite the detective’s desk. “I was hoping you could give me their contact information.”

  The detective made a big show of moving papers around on her desk. “They’re both eighteen—Grayson and Abigail. I couldn’t rightfully stop you unless they complain about harassment.” She finally looked up, frowning. “Benedict is trying to solve this?”

  “He is.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Good. Because I’ll be honest, I’m not making much progress. We don’t have a means for communicating with the sirens. And we can’t simply go out there—” Here the detective gestured suggestively toward the ocean. “—and euthanize them the way we might a rogue wildcat or a bear who’s attacked someone.”

  “I know,” Reese said, companionably. She was trying to settle into the chair but it was a stiff, unwelcoming sort of chair with a rigid plastic back. Reese wondered it was uncomfortable on purpose, to discourage anyone from lingering in the office and wasting the detective’s precious time.

  “But you must understand I have reservations about you speaking to her.”

  Reese felt like she’d missed something. She frowned. “Who?”

  “Abigail. She’s my daughter.”

  “I have no intention of harassing your kid. I know you want to protect them but I’m just asking questions.” She held up her hand in a three-finger salute. “I promise.”

  Detective O’Reilly looked out her office window in contemplation. Reese followed her gaze instinctively. There was nothing out there but a cluster of maple trees and a row of trimmed bushes.

  “I’ll give you both addresses and their cell phones,” the detective said finally. She reached across her desk and grabbed a stack of neon orange sticky notes.

  The detective fixed her with a hard gaze. “Surely you realize it’s not you I’m worried about.”

  Reese frowned.

  “What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t want to keep as much distance as possible between Abigail and Ethan Benedict?” the detective asked with arched brows. There was a hard edge to her voice that Reese had a hard time placing.

  “I agreed to help Ethan because I’m good in the ocean. I’m not beholden to him or anything. I’m not going to kidnap your daughter and deliver her hogtied to Ethan or anything.”

  Detective O’Reilly cracked a smile. “I know your aunt is a good woman. And I’ve heard only good things about you. So I’ll tell you what I think of Benedict.”

  Reese tried to seem only casually interested.

  “A lot of bad things happen around Ethan Benedict. People disappear. Or they change. I know he practically owns this town—no matter what sham of a democracy elected him to mayor—but that shouldn’t make him above the law. If three girls go into his bar—”

  Here Reese knew the detective was referring to the Labyrinth.

  “Then I should be able to search the place.”

  “Of course,” Reese said. She didn’t know how else to punctuate that intense stare.

  O’Reilly continued staring out the window at the greenery bathed in dappled sunlight. “All I’m saying is, keep one eye on that guy at all times. And whatever you do, don’t bring my daughter around him.”

>   Reese spoke reflexively. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All of that goes for Grayson as well,” she added, and finally tore the sticky note off the pad, offering it to Reese across the desk. “He’s a good kid.”

  Reese had no idea how she was supposed to stand between Ethan Benedict and a couple of kids should he want to—what? Eat them? But the intensity in the detective’s eyes left no room to argue.

  “I’ll be careful,” Reese said, glad to be rid of the ruthless plastic chair. “And I’ll call you if I run into trouble.”

  “Please do.”

  Outside night was falling. Reese decided to grab a quick bite to eat before trying Grayson’s place. She ordered a fish filet sandwich with tartar sauce and an extra-large water from the drive-thru. She ate it in silence as she used the GPS on her phone to locate Grayson’s house. It was a charming Victorian in Midtown.

  The lights were on and a small sedan maybe ten years old sat off to one side of the driveway. Reese parked behind it and mounted the wooden steps. The house looked as though it had been painted recently and the wood refinished and stained. Someone liked to take care of the home and Reese could appreciate that. She knocked on the door, then stretched her arms back behind her, trying to get a kink out of her tight shoulders.

  The door opened on a young man holding a box of Chinese food. Wooden chopsticks stuck out of the top of the white carton. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Reese Cook,” she said with short wave. “I’m looking for Grayson.”

  He straightened. “That’s me.”

  “Cool, uh, I came by to ask you some questions about the attack.”

  His face tightened and for a second she thought he might shut the door in his face.

  “I’m not talking to reporters.”

  “I’m not a reporter. You can call the police station and check. I got permission from Detective O’Reilly to talk to you.”

  He looked at his Chinese take-out box and then the open door.

  “I’ll wait here,” she said.

  Relief washed over his features. “Thanks.”

  He closed the door and Reese heard the lock slide back into place. She snorted to herself. Either the kid thought she was a vampire or just a plain crazy person. Either way, if she’d really wanted to get into his house, she could’ve thrown herself through the window.