Down

by Kirsten Weiss

  Karin took in the remains of the chalk circle and his name inside it, the lit candles on the windowsill. Her lips pursed. “Aren’t spirits usually confused at first?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but it’s also unusual for a ghost to manifest so quickly, right after the moment of death. Mike was afraid.”

  Karin cocked her head, her auburn hair loose. “But again, isn’t that... normal? A sudden death can be a jolt.”

  “Not like this.” I collapsed in the desk chair. “He told me to run.”

  “Run?” Karin asked. “Run from what?”

  “His killer?” I asked. “The fairy? Doyle? Pick one.”

  Karin’s brow creased. “But if he’s confused—”

  “If Lenore thinks there’s more to his death,” Jayce said, “then there’s more.”

  I shot her a grateful look. Jayce had always been my defender, the one who understood me best.

  Karin frowned. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, surprising me. “Lately, when one of us finds a body, there always is more, isn’t there?”

  “There’s something else,” I said. “The doctor was there.”

  “When Mike died?” Karin asked.

  “No,” I said. “After we found him.”

  “We?” Jayce asked.

  “Peter and I.” The memory tightened like a noose around my neck. “He’d been out for coffee and just returning. I was in the backroom. I think I heard him fall. I found Mike when I came out, and then Peter showed up. The doctor arrived a minute or two later, asking about a book she’d ordered. She confirmed he was dead.”

  “Oh, my God.” Jayce pressed a hand to her mouth. “That must have been awful for you.”

  “So either of them could have killed Mike,” Karin said.

  Peter could have pretended to have just returned. The doctor could have as well. I’d have to talk to them both about what they’d seen. But I couldn’t imagine approaching Toeller for anything. Not knowing what we did.

  “But Toeller’s never directly attacked anyone,” Jayce said.

  “As far as we know,” Karin said. “Though after what happened to the Bell and Thistle, I’m not sure we can say that anymore.”

  “That’s different,” Jayce said. “That was magic.”

  I didn’t reply. Our family had been entangled with Toeller for over a century, blasted by her fairy curse. Every one of our ancestresses had died at the birth of her first child, and every child was a woman. Their husbands died too, within months of the birth. And now Karin was pregnant, engaged and glowing and doomed. My fists clenched, fear scorching a path from my heart to my throat.

  “Did you contact Mike?” Karin nodded to the chalk circle.

  “No,” I said. “Something went wrong. I kept getting other people, and they weren’t behaving like normal ghosts. It was as if they knew me, or expected to find me, but didn’t expect to be where they were?”

  “Huh?” Jayce asked.

  “I know, it makes no sense,” I said, frustrated. “And then something else came into the circle. An energy.”

  “It was more than energy,” Jayce said. “When I walked in, you were in a trance. You almost walked into the circle before it disappeared.”

  “What did this energy look like?” Karin asked.

  “Sort of pink and gold flashes,” I said.

  “Is that what you saw?” she asked Jayce.

  Jayce nodded.

  Karin rubbed her hand against the swell of her stomach.

  “What are you thinking?” Jayce asked.

  “Well, was it pink?” she asked. “Or was it rose?”

  We stared at each other.

  My stomach lurched, and I tasted something sour.

  “The Rose Rabbit,” we said in unison.

  “But it couldn’t have been, could it?” Jayce asked. “I mean, he’s… it’s never made it into this world.”

  “And whatever it was, it still didn’t,” Karin said. “You said the energy stayed in the circle and vanished, right?”

  I nodded. I didn’t want to think about what might happen if that thing succeeded in becoming fully corporeal in this world. One fairy was a disaster. Two were unthinkable.

  “If the Rabbit works for Toeller like we think…” Karin trailed off. “What did it want?”

  It had wanted me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, I awoke from a dream of dangerous gardens and winding paths of stone. I was looking for someone but couldn’t find him, and my search grew frantic, nightmarish.

  Dressing quickly, I jotted the dream into my notebook. It was the beginnings of a poem, as so many of my recent dreams were. And it was probably about Mike. The memory of that loss hit me again, and I sat on my unmade bed for a moment, mastering my breath.

  Picatrix, the black cat that had adopted Jayce, leapt onto the outside windowsill and peered inside.

  The ghost cat leapt onto my bed and hissed, his back arching.

  Picatrix whipped around and leapt from the sill.

  “Honestly,” I said, glad for the distraction, “you two.”

  Ignoring me, ghost cat (I really needed to choose a name for him) turned once on the white duvet and curled into a satisfied calico ball.

  Still thinking of the dream, because it was easier than thinking about Mike, I walked to the bookstore, unlocked the front door. Peter hadn’t responded to any of the messages I’d left on his phone, but it didn’t seem right to keep the shop closed.

  Besides, I had nowhere else to go.

  Feet dragging, I walked to the spot where I’d found Mike. An iodine-colored stain had set into the thin, gray carpet.

  I could almost hear the bookstore owner’s voice in my ear, chastising me for letting the stain set. A perfectly good carpet – ruined.

  I turned, thinking his spirit had returned, but his voice was just an ordinary psuedo-memory.

  Hanging my head, I sighed. The carpet would need a professional cleaning and fast if we were to salvage it. It might already be too late.

  Something thunked in the back room.

  I straightened.

  Heart banging against my ribs, I cocked my head, listening.

  A soft scrape, metal on metal.

  I crept behind the counter and grabbed the baseball bat Mike kept there. He’d never had to use it on anyone, not even to threaten them in tiny, low-crime Doyle. But Mike had been a careful man from a different era. The sort of man who’d be seriously pissed about that carpet.

  Another soft scrape.

  Clenching the bat in my hands, I tiptoed to the closed storeroom door. I drew a deep breath, flung open the door.

  It bammed against the wall, and I leapt inside. The door ricocheted, hitting me in the shoulder hard enough for me to stagger sideways.

  Gretel shrieked.

  So did I.

  Peter’s wife clutched her chest, her angular face flushed with annoyance. “What the hell?” Her short brown hair stuck up in angry spikes. She was roughly my age – 29 – and she wore tight, jeans and a crop top, exposing her slim waist.

  I lowered the bat. “Sorry. I heard someone in here–”

  “And you didn’t think it might be me?” Her tanned neck corded.

  Since I’d only seen Gretel in the bookshop once before, and Peter had never set foot in the store before noon, I hadn’t. But I should have, and my face warmed. I leaned the bat against the door molding. “I’m sorry. I... I tried calling Peter to find out what the plan was.”

  Her gaze shifted to the desk. “He was busy.”

  Mike’s old-fashioned ledgers lay open on the desk. His precise, narrow handwriting filled the wide volumes of yellow paper. He’d never mastered the computer age. Whenever he’d wanted to type a letter or open a computer file, he’d referred to my step-by-step guides. No wasting time on the Internet for Mike. No texting over dinner with a friend, or checking social media posts while walking down the street, oblivious to the world moving around him. His generation had been perfectly deligh
ted by ordinary reality and imagination.

  “Hello?” Gretel snapped her fingers. “Earth to Lenore.”

  The rear alley door opened, and Peter walked in, his blond hair rumpled. “You won’t believe who made an offer–” He stopped short, two paper coffee cups in his hands, and stared. “What are you doing here? We’re closed.” He wore baggy jeans and a black t-shirt with a comic book character I didn’t recognize.

  “She thought we wanted her here,” Gretel said.

  He looked at me.

  “She said she called you,” Gretel said.

  “I tried,” I said weakly. “I left messages. I didn’t think Mike would have wanted to keep the store closed.”

  “Mike doesn’t want anything,” Gretel said. “He’s dead.”

  “That’s not...” I bit off the last word. It was true he was dead. But it was untrue that the dead didn’t want things. Their desperate needs could be even hungrier than the living’s. I glanced at the ledgers, sprawled open across the metal desk.

  Gretel slammed the top book shut. “I was just trying to figure out where we are financially. I’m not sure if we can afford to keep the shop open while the estate is in probate.”

  Probate. I should have asked my sister Karin for advice. She’d know what had to happen now that Mike was dead. Like many writers, she couldn’t quite live off her romance novels. So she earned a living as a part-time estate attorney. I forced a smile. “Mike taught me his accounting system. If you like–”

  “It’s not hard to understand,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

  I wilted, the dismissal stinging.

  Peter set the coffee on the desk. “Look, there’s nothing you can do here. Go home. If you’re worried about your pay–”

  “My pay?” And then the realization struck. I was out of a job. Maybe whoever bought the bookstore would hire me back, but who knew how long that would take?

  “Consider this a long vacation,” he said. “Gretel and I will let you know if we need you.”

  “Gretel and you?” My brain stuck like drying gum, grasping at the words that made the most sense.

  “We’ll be taking over the bookstore,” Gretel said.

  I stared, thunderstruck. The idea Peter and his wife would run the bookshop hadn’t even crossed my mind. He didn’t care about the books and hadn’t bothered to learn the business. Mike had practically told me he’d hired Peter out of pity. And Gretel and Mike had never got on.

  “Since I’ll be working here now,” Gretel said, “we may not need you. But of course, we’ll have to finish our review of the financials to get a better understanding of the business before making any decisions.”

  “Of course,” I said faintly. I swallowed. They were Mike’s only family. It made sense he’d leave them the store. “Well, let me know if–”

  “We’ll pay you what you’re due,” Gretel said. “As soon as we can.”

  I backed from the storage room. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll lock the front door on the way out.”

  Gretel slammed the storage room door behind me.

  I stood for a long moment, my head spinning. Losing my job wasn’t as bad as losing Mike, but the two disasters coming so thick and fast left me stunned. My eyes teared, and I struggled for control.

  Gretel laughed, her cackle drifting through the storeroom door.

  Anger flared in my skull. I stalked to the front door and onto the sidewalk. I almost didn’t lock the door, as promised, but then I shook myself. Gretel probably hadn’t been laughing at me, and not locking up would just be irresponsible.

  Deflating, I walked through town, past the wounded ghosts of miners and men in fifties hats and women in flappers’ finery. None of the specters approached me, but it was with relief that I stepped across the threshold of my aunt’s house. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even the dead.

  On the blue rag rug in the entry, I kicked off my shoes. “Jayce?”

  No answer.

  She was no doubt supervising the renovation at her coffee shop by now. The building’s owner was paying Jayce to supervise the contractors. Jayce didn’t know anything about architecture or contracting. But the owner was on the east coast, and Jayce knew what she wanted her new coffee shop to look like. I hoped she hadn’t cast a spell on the poor man.

  Anxious, I paced from room to room. I needed to start job searching, figuring out my next steps. All I could think about was Mike and what I’d lost.

  Fortunately, spring in the Sierras is a great place for inducing a zen state of mind. So I stuffed a backpack with a bottle of water, my wallet, and a granola bar, and got into my car, drove east into town. Ghosts paced beside tourists on its sidewalks.

  Turning onto Main Street, I slowed at the bookstore. I should have looked for Mike’s spirit when I’d been there earlier. But I wasn’t about to make a second visit now, not with Gretel and Peter there.

  I cranked down the window. But I owed it to Mike to return, even if I had to face down his relatives, and–

  Movement flashed in the corner of my eye.

  A man sauntered into the road on the opposite side from me and toward my Volvo.

  I slammed on the brakes, rocking forward.

  “CROSSWALK!” he bellowed.

  It was the man from the bookstore, and I stared, shocked. My car was in the crosswalk, and I’d been on auto pilot.

  The stranger had ditched the suit jacket and wore creased gray slacks and a dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Muscular and olive skinned, the man was a lot less handsome with his face distorted by rage.

  He grasped my driver’s side doorframe, his broad fingers coiling through the open window. “Are you blind? You’re supposed to stop for pedestrians.”

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. He’d still been on the opposite side of the divided road when I’d started to drive through. But that was just an excuse. He’d had the right of way, and I’d messed up.

  “Sorry! I could have been killed!”

  That was an exaggeration, but I’d been in the wrong, and my shoulders curved inward with shame. “I’m sorry–”

  “You idiot! Do you even know how to drive?”

  A Jeep honked behind me.

  “I should move the car,” I said, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  “You should get your license revoked.”

  “Look–”

  “Looking is exactly what you didn’t do.”

  “It was a mistake,” I said, “and I’m sorry, and I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

  “Glad I’m not hurt? What’s that supposed to mean? That what you did was okay?”

  “No, I’m just–”

  “Is there a problem here?” Connor Hernandez strolled to the car window. He was in uniform. His partner, Owen, spoke into the radio clipped to his shirt and trailed behind him.

  “The problem is this moron nearly ran me down,” he said.

  Connor turned to me. “What happened?”

  I didn’t like Connor knowing I’d messed up, but there was something about his nearness that unknotted the muscles in my neck. “It was my fault.”

  “She nearly ran me down,” the man repeated.

  “Lenore?” Connor asked.

  “I was in the crosswalk,” he shouted. “I could have been killed.”

  “One moment, sir,” Connor said. “Lenore, what happened?”

  “I told you what happened,” the man said.

  “Yes, sir, and now I’d like to hear from Ms. Bonheim.”

  The stranger blinked.

  I swallowed. “He was on the opposite side of the road and had started through the crosswalk. I didn’t see him.”

  “And your name is?” Connor asked the stranger.

  He blew out his breath. “Maybe I overreacted. I was on the other side of the road.”

  “May I see your license, sir?” Connor asked.

  “My license? I’m not the one with the driving problem.”

  “I already know who she is.” Connor jerked his thumb at me. �
��License?”

  Grimacing, the man pulled a wallet from his back pocket, handed him his license.

  Owen waved the cars backing up behind me around us.

  Connor studied the plastic card. “Well, Mr. Van Oss, I didn’t witness the traffic violation, so I can’t give her a ticket. It seems you’re all right though. Where are you staying?”

  A vein pulsed in the man’s jaw. “The Doyle Inn.”

  “Nice place.” He returned the license. “Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

  Grim-faced, Mr. Van Oss stalked to the raised sidewalk and vanished into a wine tasting room.

  “You all right?” Connor asked.

  “I feel terrible.” I clenched the wheel. “It was my fault.”

  “Technically, yes. But he was on the other side of the street. It’s a big road. He wasn’t in any danger.”

  “Wait, how did you…? You did see what happened.”

  “Owen didn’t.” One corner of his mouth curled upward. “Want me to give you a ticket?”

  “No.”

  “Come on,” he said. “We were on our way to get a cup of coffee. Join us.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “You’re too rattled to drive. The way I see it, getting you off the street is a public service.”

  “I don’t know,” I hedged. All I wanted was to be alone in the woods, and I had a crush on Connor I didn’t want to feed.

  “It’s just coffee.”

  And he’d just diffused an unpleasant situation. I smiled. “Sure. Coffee sounds good.” I pulled to the side of the road and parked, then stepped onto the street. A monarch butterfly flit past, its orange and black wings fluttering erratically.

  His partner, Owen, nodded to a pretty tourist across the street. “I see someone I want to talk to. Meet you there?”

  Connor nodded.

  I hitched my purse over my shoulder. “Where are you getting coffee these days?” Jayce’s coffee shop had been their favorite, but it was under construction after a fire and wouldn’t reopen for months.

  “The cupcake shop. We stay clear of the baked goods, but the coffee’s decent.”

  Pedestrians ambled past, walking dogs, gawking at the 19th century buildings. What was I doing having coffee with the man?

  Unsettled, I strolled beside the deputy. I liked him too much, and for such a simple, pathetic reason. Connor listened, and my desire to be heard was a hungry fox, needful, traitorous, insatiable. Once, when Connor had asked me about shamanism, I’d rambled on about the spirit worlds for a good twenty minutes. Stunned by having an audience, I couldn’t stop my flow of words. But he hadn’t interrupted once, nodding and asking all the right questions at all the right moments.