Wrong Turn

by Catie Rhodes

  "What’s the password?" My head swam with the new knowledge.

  Two years ago, I’d had no idea anything more otherworldly than me being a medium and a few people being telepaths existed. Now I learned about something new every time I turned around. My world had broadened along with my own growing gifts. In times like this one, I felt like a lost child in a big forest full of predators, endlessly seeking a place to hide. The problem? There was nowhere to hide.

  Tanner, with no idea of my inner vertigo, smiled and said, "The password is Santa Claus."

  We both laughed, and it swept away a little of my tension. I turned up the radio, found a station playing redneck rock and roll, and sat watching the miles pass. The DJ broke in after a stretch of songs by the Allman Brothers and said he had breaking news. Something inside me twisted. I turned up the radio even more.

  "From Devil’s Rest, Texas. A convoy of tankers carrying fuel exploded sometime last night and burned down the majority of the town. At least two gas stations exploded after catching fire." The DJ, who’d been speaking excitedly, stopped and sighed. "So far, no survivors have been found. Authorities have closed off the area and declared it unsafe. If you have friends or family in Devil’s Rest, authorities ask you to not go rushing out there…"

  I spun the dial and turned off the radio. As promised, Mohawk had cleansed the town of Devil’s Rest, hidden the horror that had happened there. Authorities and cleanup crews wouldn’t find a single living soul. They’d be left to wonder exactly what had happened and to spend a bunch of money cleaning up the mess.

  How many deaths had I made possible just by going to Devil’s Rest? Too many. Jeb and Cheryl Pugh came to mind. So did Roderick and Mandy. Shame heated my skin and made my stomach feel full of poison. I took out my antacids and crunched one.

  "Stop beating yourself up." Tanner put a hand on my thigh.

  I didn’t bother to answer, just sat with my head down. This was living out loud. This was choosing me. Many innocent people had paid the price for my selfishness. Could I live with it? I'd have to. I wanted my life too bad to do otherwise.

  China Grove turned out to be a lot less exotic than the name. The address for the auction had a gated entry. Tanner pulled up next to an intercom box and pressed the button.

  A creaky expressionless voice came back almost immediately. "Password."

  "Santa Claus." Though we’d laughed about it earlier, it was no longer funny at all. Nothing was.

  The voice came back, still devoid of emotion. "Mr. Letts, please park to the right of the house. Someone will be out to see you and Ms. Mace inside. Please wait for your escort."

  I froze. Whatever was on the other end of the intercom knew my name. I turned to ask Tanner if he’d told them, but his gray skin and tight lips gave me the answer.

  The gates slowly swung open. Tanner drove us inside the property. The driveway wound through beautifully landscaped grounds and opened to a tennis court-sized parking lot. A huge manor loomed over it, so big it looked like it belonged in a movie about rich people in the English countryside.

  I immediately understood why we’d been told to park in the lot to the right. The left side had nothing but paneled trucks. To the right sat rows of vehicles way fancier than Tanner’s and my stolen ride. Tanner pulled into a parking space and cut the engine. A stiff-postured man wearing a dusty black suit rushed around the side of the house and hurried toward the convertible.

  Tanner made no effort to get out. "Dave—my friend from California—said not to react, no matter what we see."

  The man reached the car, and I had to hold back a gasp. His skin had a decidedly greenish cast, and a jagged scar ran across his throat. He bent to stare into Tanner’s face.

  "Your contribution to today’s auction belongs to the Serpent God, yes?" His voice was the one we’d spoken to on the intercom.

  I leaned forward to answer. The man’s eyes found me, the whitish-gray corneas locking on my face. My skin prickled, and the words died in my throat. I gave a short nod and leaned back in my seat, heart pounding as though I’d narrowly missed some horrible fate.

  "Where is the book, please? I must verify the authenticity."

  Tanner, staring straight ahead, said, "It’s in the trunk. The tote."

  The man turned and walked to the back of the car. Tanner used a lever on the floor to open the trunk. The man rustled around. Then silence. Tanner and I exchanged a glance. Sweat stood out on his upper lip, and his chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

  The man returned to the front of the car, the tote bag tucked under one arm. "Follow me inside. Mr. Silas is waiting."

  Tanner got out, came around to my side of the car, and held open the door for me. He hadn’t been raised to play doorman, so I could only assume he didn’t want me far from him. I had no problem with that. I let him take my arm as I slid out of the car. We joined hands and followed the man to the house’s front door. It swung open as we approached.

  A woman wearing a short black and white maid’s uniform stepped aside to let us enter. She had the same greenish skin and a faded, round scar at her temple. Her grayish-white eyes never settled on us. She stared at the sky behind us. We went inside, and the door closed behind us with a final sounding clunk.

  Our feet rang on gleaming marble floors. A chandelier as big as my RV’s kitchen twinkled from a cathedral ceiling. A tall, slim man stood from a maroon, satin-covered sofa with dark wood trim. His pencil-thin mustache and slicked back hair reminded me again of old movies where people lived in impossibly big houses.

  "I’m Black Silas. Welcome to my home and to the auction." He held out a hand to me. "Peri Jean Gregg?"

  He had the first two names right, but why Gregg instead of Mace? The freak outside had called me Mace. Something to puzzle over later. I took his hand and shook it, relieved the skin was pink and warm—hot, in fact—instead of the greenish cast of the two servants.

  He smiled, revealing a row of straight white teeth. "Tanner Letts, correct?"

  Tanner nodded and shook Mr. Silas’s hand.

  "I knew your grandfather, Jackson, quite well. Great man." Silas held Tanner’s hand an extra second. "You returned to Texas after the accident that claimed your family?"

  Fear pumped through my heart. Maybe Tanner’s friend, Dave, had told Black Silas our names, though that still didn’t explain him calling me Gregg instead of Mace. But there was no reason for Silas to know about what happened to Tanner’s wife and daughters.

  "Yes, sir." Tanner’s face had gone shiny with sweat.

  Silas stepped between Tanner and me, pressing a hot hand to each of our backs, and pushed us toward a set of double doors across the room. "The auction is already in progress, of course. The Serpent God’s book will be up after the current bid closes."

  When we got within a few feet of the doors, they swung open, seemingly on their own. A blast of chilly air met us. Silas pressed us inside. I stared in awe.

  This one room was at least as large as the house I’d shared with Memaw back in Gaslight City and filled with people. The auctions I’d been to were usually noisy. This one was stone quiet, except for the auctioneer’s soft words.

  The auctioneer, tall with a fringe of white hair around the lower half of his scalp, stood on a slightly raised stage centered at the far end of the room.

  "Now taking bids on the knife used by the killer known as the Baytown John." He held up a dark-bladed fillet knife with a wooden handle. "For those who’ve never heard of him, Dennis Neil killed twenty prostitutes before he was caught. This is the knife he used to dissect them in his home. It was made by Dennis himself."

  Rows and rows of chairs, not a one empty, stretched to the back of the room where Tanner, Black Silas, and I stood. Near the middle of the room, a hand holding a red marker raised.

  Silas ushered us around the perimeter of the room. Some of the bidders turned to stare, but most were intent on the Baytown John’s knife. A man about my age wearing all black and a grim expression on his
face continued to hold up the marker.

  The auctioneer nodded. "Bidder number seventy-five starts the bid at red, which is tier three. Any others?”

  Silas parted a black curtain to the left of the stage and pointed to a short row of theater style seats. "You’ll be able to watch from in here."

  He gestured to the opening in the curtain. Though it had appeared opaque before we crossed through, it was sheer on this side. I had a perfect view of a sweating guy wearing an ill-fitting suit holding up a black marker on the front row.

  "Bidder number thirty raises the bid to black, tier seven." The auctioneer’s voice, perfectly audible behind the curtain, sounded just as calm as it had at the sight of the red marker.

  Black Silas’s eyes widened. He took out his phone, pressed a button, and spoke into it. "Bidder number thirty has live cargo?" His eyes grew as he heard the answer. He hung up, leaned forward, and spoke into my ear. His breath was ice cold. "You’re free to leave once the book has been sold. Your payment…"

  I shook my head. "Keep the money. Donate it. I don’t care."

  Black Silas moved away from me and stared at my face. He cocked his head. "Your wish is our command." He held out a black business card. "If you ever need my services again, contact me directly. No need for intermediaries for you, Miss Gregg."

  I took the card, and Silas swept away. We watched the bid markers raise to yellow. The auctioneer pointed out that yellow was tier eight.

  A couple who couldn’t be far out of their teens won the knife. The girl, with mad eyes and who wore a short skirt with no underwear, jumped around and squealed. The other bidders watched with straight faces and little interest.

  The auctioneer set the knife aside and picked up Mohawk’s book. The key had been cut off the twine and stuck in the keyhole.

  "This tome is one of three created by ancient worshipers of the Serpent God. This cult made sacrifices in exchange for favor from the god. The followers of the god of the serpent have risen and fallen several times over the history of civilization. This particular book was last owned by Loretta Nell Grimes of the Messengers." He held the book over his head, turning slightly left and right so everybody got a chance to see it.

  A slight rumble went through the room.

  The auctioneer set the book down on a tall table next to him. "The authenticity of the book is guaranteed by Black Silas himself. Shall we start the bidding?"

  Mohawk’s book garnered much more excitement than Baytown John’s knife. Mouth dry, I watched as it received a total of thirteen bids. The final marker, a gold one, was held up by a silver-haired man wearing an expensive suit.

  The auctioneer acknowledged the bid with a sober nod. "Let the record note that bidder number six has bid gold, tier thirteen. Because bidder number six is the only person in this room who has gold tier standing, he has won the book."

  Something in me, the little bit of Loretta Nell that remained undigested, spasmed at the loss of the book. I took that as my sign to get the hell out of this creepy place. I stood and held out my hand to Tanner. His hand, when it closed around mine, was slick with sweat. We walked the perimeter of the room, still attracting little notice, and left through the door we’d come in.

  The huge entry hall was empty and silent. But the feeling of someone watching crawled up my back and gave me chill bumps. I quickened my pace. By the time Tanner and I reached the door outside, we were running.

  We raced to the car, slammed open the doors, and clambered inside. Tanner gunned the engine and peeled out. He raced toward the gate. I twisted in the seat, watching behind us, as though we were being followed by a mob carrying pitchforks and torches. We both breathed a sigh of relief when the gates opened to let us out.

  Tanner drove fast away from Black Silas’s mansion, not speaking until he pulled into a convenience store. "To Austin to get your truck and get rid of this thing?"

  "I hate driving this car even to Austin. Seems like we're just asking to get pulled over." I took out my cigarettes.

  "The car's owners are dead. Nobody's looking for it yet." Tanner played with the keychain, metal cut in a feather shape and painted bright colors.

  I tried to imagine the person who'd bought that keychain, shying away from thoughts about how they'd likely died. Instead I focused on my boyfriend, thankful for surviving to have this moment with him.

  "Let's do it." I made myself smile.

  Tanner sped out of the parking lot and cut into traffic like a stunt car driver.

  The eighty-mile drive between China Grove and Austin passed with me making phone calls.

  I first talked to Cecil. He barely reacted to my story about what happened to the citizens of Devil's Rest and what I'd had to do to beat Loretta Nell.

  "What did you do with the book?" he asked instead.

  "Auctioned it at a place in China Grove," I said.

  "You got into Black Silas’s auction?" Cecil's voice rose with surprise.

  "Tanner arranged it." As much as I hadn’t wanted Tanner to join me on this trip, he’d saved my ass in more ways than one.

  Cecil grunted at that. "Didn’t I tell you he’d be a good addition to Sanctuary?"

  Shelly, Cecil’s wife, spoke up. "And a good match for you?"

  I hated being on speakerphone, and Cecil loved using the feature. But I made sure to keep my voice polite. "You were both right." I glanced at Tanner. "About everything."

  "Get him to take on the mark of the raven.” Cecil lowered his voice. “Ask him to stay."

  I wasn’t ready for that yet. But I said, "I’ll do it. Talk to you in a few days?"

  We hung up, and I called Hannah. She answered right away. "Peri Jean? Is it really you?"

  "Yep. The book’s gone. My debt to Mohawk is paid." Just saying the words made relief flood through me again.

  A male voice, one I thought belonged to Leon Blackfox, spoke in the background.

  Hannah’s voice trembled. "Leon and I heard the news about Devil’s Rest and were sure you were gone."

  "No, but I lost your gun." Truth was, I hadn’t tried very hard to get it back. Things got too weird to worry about it.

  "To hell with it. All that matters is you're alive." Her voice had that overly bright sound it used to get when she was with a man. It was one of the best sounds I’d heard in a long time.

  As soon as I hung up from Hannah, my phone buzzed with a text message. "This is Queenie from Natchitoches. The Wanderer says congratulations. He'll be watching you."

  At least one good thing had come of all the bad. I had a chance at meeting the person, or thing, that could help me shed the scar tissue spell once and for all. I thanked her and spent the rest of the drive watching white clouds pollute the perfect blue sky and thinking about what I’d done.

  Tanner had been right about the adult conundrum. Good and evil danced cheek to cheek. They coupled in honky-tonk parking lots under the blink of neon signs. They broke up the next morning over their tequila hangovers. Then they got back together the next weekend. It wasn't pretty, but it was the way the real world worked.

  The good guys—Tanner and me—had won this particular joust between good and evil. As much as we could anyway. That mattered more than some misguided self-immolation. There were times to fight for the underdog, the way I had for Hannah, which put me in Mohawk's crosshairs, but there came a time when every heroine had to fight for herself.

  Victory came with sacrifices, heartbreaking ones. But sacrificing myself meant the good I added to the universe would be gone forever.

  I, Peri Jean Mace, was worth saving. I was a loyal friend. A talented witch with untapped power that frightened even me. A fierce warrior.

  Maybe a little evil had to be allowed in order for there to be good in the world. And maybe this was all some massive justification for being selfish, for choosing my own life and Tanner's. In which case, I would call the black mark on my conscience the cost of survival.

  Then I need to make it count. No point in surviving if I couldn't let it
go. Quit living like a ghost in my own life.

  We found the parking garage and left the convertible a few blocks away with that metal feather keychain swinging from the ignition. Time to say goodbye to Devil's Rest and all that had occurred there. But, like Lott’s wife in the Bible as she and her family fled Sodom and Gomorrah, I turned back for one final look.

  The shiny paint threw my reflection back at me. A skinny woman with long black hair, holding on to the hand of a man with powerful shoulders. Tanner tugged my heartstrings in a million ways, for a million different reasons. After kissing a mountain’s worth of frogs, I’d finally found the right man. I smiled.

  Something moved behind us, coming so fast it was a blur. My heart jumped. I twisted to face the threat. The sidewalk was empty except for normal people rushing around, phones plastered to the sides of their faces. I turned back to the car.

  The reflection in the paint, again, was different from what was really there. A dark, cloudy sky roiled in the reflection. Lighting zagged across the sky. A horde of shapes on horseback followed the lightning, a pack of dogs with fiery eyes running alongside them. They raced closer. One horseman pulled ahead. As he sped toward us, his face came into focus.

  Oscar Rivera. The Coachman.

  My nerves spasmed. Adrenaline flooded my bloodstream. I let out a yelp, jerked my hand out of Tanner’s, and spun around. Again, the sidewalk was empty.

  “What is it?” Tanner scanned the street, body tense and alert.

  “I don’t know.” I opened my third eye and scanned for magic or supernatural baddies. But Tanner and I were truly alone on this random street. My heart slowed, as did my panicked breaths. It was okay. For now. Tanner put his hand on my hip.

  “Do you see something?” Tanner, brow furrowed, stared into my eyes, searching for what was wrong.

  “We’re okay for now. Maybe a little supernatural indigestion?” I forced a smile and let him take my hand again.