Maren waved sincerely—she’d counted three of her spiderlings in the woman’s wig.
“May this be the longest night of your life,” Maren said, bowing and turning, only to flatten her nose on Burt’s belt buckle—he was tall, but he wore his pants for high water, too—which, all things considered, was not entirely inappropriate: Burt was as drenched as Maren.
“Got a hose here!” he shouted, as if this explained why he should brush Maren aside, which he did. Maren saw that Burt had picked-up a hitchhiker of his own: an attercop rode on the man’s stiff collar.
“Goodbye, Burt,” Maren said; the doors shuddered in their frame. She popped the top of the largest pumpkin and smothered the false, blinking device with an item that was more traditional—and less benign.
18
Maren admired her handiwork, spreading her attention between the climbing candle and the occasional skittering attercop; she didn’t give her back to any given shadow.
Sucking at buttery chocolate and crunching toffee, she remained vigilant. Her spoons and the seeing stone were agitated and directionless.
“There’s more magic than mine in the air,” she mused, poking another bite into her mouth, peeling the wrapper like a banana. Opportunities to wash her hands had been few, Burt’s erratic hose work had been ineffective, and Maren was convinced the stench of the chupacabra had penetrated to her marrow.
She spun on the toe of her shoe and stopped a closed fist less an inch from Uriah Lee’s face. Uriah’s pupils were smaller than they’d been a short while ago; it helped explain Uriah’s lack of comment at the knuckles tickling her cheek.
That, or Uriah had intuited that Maren would not hit her, and could stop—or perhaps she’d wanted to be hit, as that would let Uriah complain…
“Did you hear the crinkling of wrappers? I thought you had better things to do,” Maren said. “You left without a new phrase. Say the most recent.”
“What? That’s dumb. I could’ve stabbed you just now.”
“You haven’t asked for the rest of my Heath bar. I find that suspicious.”
“Let’s do a riddle.”
“You know all my riddles, and I yours.”
“Duh. Isn’t that the point?”
“Yes, but anyone else could know the answers, too.” Maren looked at Uriah’s constricted pupils. “You think you have something new.”
Uriah smiled brightly. “It’s a good one.”
“No doubt,” Maren said, sighing as she savored a final bite. She set the wrapper free, a crinkly brown leaf to join the drifts in the gutters.
“Okay, so here goes. It’s… are you listening?”
“Mouth’s full,” Maren said sloppily.
“I’m naked but unashamed, one-eyed but blind, quick to draw blood if—”
“—Is this a riddle or a summary of your latest weekend?”
“Bite me.” Uriah flapped her tiny purse in irritation.
“It’s the riddle, then? Continue.”
“I can’t. You made me lose my place.”
“You didn’t get far. A bold, blind nudist, you harm the unwary… and whatever comes next. Cut it short; I know the answer.”
“No you don’t. The last part is: but I’m entrusted to dress the dead and heal the hurt.”
“You’re a needle.”
“And you’re a—ugh, I hate you! How’d you guess?”
“Didn’t. I came across a version of that in Halevi. What’s that been, a thousand years? Few modern Jews write their verse in Arabic.”
“We’re sticking to phrases after this. Halevi? Is this even real life? I can’t tell if you’re teasing.”
“Hence our agreement on the recital of lyrical passages. Weren’t you on urgent business?”
“I found a sagebrush to squat behind, and I found… truthfully? I’ve been stanning you for a while now. Watching you work. You have your own style.”
“Nothing that can’t be done by another.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I just love the attercops. It’s been years since I found one creeping in a drawer. Don’t you need to watch for… no, I’m thinking of a dire weaver. How long has it been since the world saw one of those?”
“You can cause another outbreak whenever you like; your cauldron works as well as mine.” Maren tapped a spoon through her blouse. “I always wanted to try my hand with hammered bronze. I worried I wouldn’t feel my blood boiling the way I do with cast iron.”
Uriah scoffed. “Mine is polished more by cleaning than use—and I don’t clean much. A ceramic tagenon is faster for cosmetics and… it’s a hassle to deal with a tripod and lebes. You’re trying to distract me from praising the spiderlings… may I have one?”
“Certainly not. They are spoken for, each and every.”
“For two measly humans? I told you I was watching. The child you charmed with a ward. Twelve for two is overkill. You always bake a dozen. I only want one.”
“Attercops are not pets,” Maren said, adjusting the bundle of dried twigs at the nape of her neck—the bundle had become more a part of her hair than anything holding it together. “You would grow it into a monstrosity.”
“Duh. Didn’t anyone tell you it’s a holiday? Remind me not to get old—you’re grumpier than a man giving birth. Grant me a climbing candle, then? It’s beautiful.”
“No pets. No toys. Besides, I brought just the one.”
“Damn. I’d kill to take that clubbing. Can you imagine?”
“I can. It’s why I say no to your many mad whims.”
“Hag. So, the owners—man and wife?”
“Acted it, though I did not ask to see a certificate. Why the interest?”
“I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. The attercops put the couple out, tie them to the bed, and so the people awake, immobilized, choking as flames begin licking their feet?”
“That’s the idea. Doesn’t fit the crime, but I hold hope for an afterlife. Either those two have more coming or brimstone’s a lie.”
“Mmm. Don’t take me wrong or anything,” Uriah said, pointing at a squirrel-sized spiderling clambering up the trunk of a nearby elm.
“But?”
“Sure, it’s a good trick, right? What I don’t get is, why this house? You aren’t burning London with that tea candle. I doubt it guts more than half the neighborhood before it sputters out.”
“There is one house that needs cleansed,” Maren said. “Only one that reeks of a false god.”
“But they have full-size Snickers!” Uriah Lee protested.
“Here, get fat,” Maren said, flicking her wrist with a twinge. Uriah Lee was right about one thing: young and vital, her reactions were a mouser’s envy.
Uriah caught the nougat missile, stuffed it into the ridiculously fashionable purse (the Snickers was bent in half by necessity), and prepared to throw a pair of chocolate kisses in reply.
“You probably don’t remember the real thing,” Uriah said, and threw her kisses.
Chest-high as they were, Maren was hard-pressed to catch the foil-covered confections. She cheated by opening her bag, which allowed a margin of error.
“Hey, toss a kiss back to me. I only had two.” Uriah looked at the house. “What’s wrong with a false god?”
“You may abuse the gift however you like, Uriah Lee, but don’t pretend you’ve seen less than I. The treats are safe enough, but there are remnants of children crumbling inside. They were chained, taped, and made to suffer for days. Their bodies were fed to the fireplace.”
Uriah caught the candy Maren threw at her, pulled the paper string as though removing the pin from a grenade, and popped the kiss into her mouth with a frown.
“Burnt offerings?”
“How much they understand, I neither know nor care. They think to become magicians, they’ve stumbled into serious territory, and that is enough. Burning the remains may have been no more than convenience. Disposal.”
“They’re breaking the veil on accident?”
> “It’s the mistake of ignorance. They burned their crimes away and, in doing so, committed one less forgivable. Good that they did. They killed by slabs and strings, cutting with precision, performing the most atrocious… they took them, Uriah. Unmarked children.”
“Fair enough. I’d have caved their heads with a shovel, but you like to make things complicated. I want a Butterfinger.”
“A unicorn got mine.”
“What? Where?”
“It wasn’t… it may have been a child.”
“You gave my Butterfinger to some…? Let me knock on the door before the spiderlings—why didn’t you just tell your detective?”
“Who?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Of course I know. I’m shallow, but I’m jealous, too.”
“He’s half my age.”
“You wish. Why not tip him off? Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do? Detect stuff? Investigate?”
“Banfield wouldn’t have believed me. Not without seeing signs I’m loathe to share with a mortal. And then there is the evidence. The victims are ashy chips of bone, if that. No, he’d… and with winter coming, more would have disappeared. These magicians would have become bold, and either we’d be dealing with demons, or… if they were caught, slayers would see the signs in the paper.”
“Paper? Oh, right. I’m going to knock on the door.”
“Don’t. You’ll interrupt the… Why would I need attercops if I could use cops in cars? Leaving that, why break a few eggs if I have a candle? I’ll tell you: because they go together like sponge and soap.”
“Are you saying your spiderlings will tidy-up whatever doesn’t burn?”
Maren shrugged. “It’s a good batch. They’re versatile.”
“No way! Please, Maren—just one? I’ll get on my knees if you like. I’ll say anything your heart wants to hear. I’ll do anything you could possibly desire…”
“Then restart your studies! Honestly, Uriah, this is… What would you do without drama? I suggest you leave spectacles to those of us who need them to see.”
“I’m not making—you were the coldest witch I knew, but now you’re… it’s not age. What’s come over you?”
Maren set her jaw. “Nothing. You, maybe. Never happy until you make a scene. Do your worst, you Grecian harlot. If you are the center of attraction, a fire will not be.”
“That attercop there didn’t go inside. He’s hunting candy, not… I want him.”
“He’s on overwatch.”
“Like hell he is.” Uriah watched the spiderling strip paper and foil from a package it had hauled from the ground with a well-aimed string of silk. “What’d you use to make this batch? I bet I know it. The top track, anyway.”
“Shannon. Let the Music Play.”
“Liar! That’s one of my faves. Our tastes never matched when it came to… you had to use one of your albums. Just because I don’t make something doesn’t mean I’m oblivious to the basics.”
“I won’t tell you before their work is done. Frankenmuth. There’s your clue. It can claim exceptional fried chicken, but that has no bearing on the answer.”
“That’s not a proper clue. Fine. Was it the Wollstonecraft album? I caught them live in London back in… I think I did. I’m done with acid, by the by.”
“I am never going to grow used to that new nose. You want me to say more. I won’t. You’re off by an ocean.”
“You’ll tell me later. That boy with the… I thought you charmed him, but that wasn’t a regular ward,” Uriah said. “You gave him something. I saw. Was it a giant grub?”
“Who’s this, now?”
“Don’t play stupid. The boy.” Uriah jabbed a thumb at the house. “You let him live. Why?”
Maren exhaled. “Because he is broken. Because he can be fixed. Not by men in coats or rooms of rubber. Not by drugs behind a counter, and not by drugs in the street. I gave him… this isn’t the time or place. We said brunch.”
“Not a grub. Back in the day, you’d have used… no! It can’t be. Those are gone. Extinct. Have been for… did you recreate them?”
“There are times when it is best not to know, Uriah. This is one such. You are aware of the bounty. It may be the reason.”
“I am aware. I know you could be killed, and I know how much the reward… a forbidden creation! They’ll have passed a hat for this. Some will want silence. Some will want the recipe. The one thing they’d have agreed about is to leave your red bones burning.”
“My point exactly. Stay out of it.”
“But… Maren, you must tell me, and tell me now. I can live not seeing one of the… them… but I have to know if they are. I need to know what yours do. If the word is out… and what if you are in error? The stories—”
“—Are wrong. It’s why they’re stories. Conjecture and hyperbole. They are in this case. I won’t tell you, and there’s no use showing you. They’re under a glamour built into their genetic profile. I will not divulge what it takes to create them.”
“Am I scribbling on a pad of paper? Most of a skunk is burned to the bottom of my copper pot. Do you think I can pan-sear a worm to life with a fluffing tagenon?”
“Don’t say their name. We have no sure idea what this bounty is about, and things have moved too fast for… I won’t describe specifics, but I can… I will tell you what they do. They are badly misunderstood.”
“They turn you into—”
“—No, they most certainly do not. Not mine. I will tell you, but you will stop interrupting, and since you have brought it up, you will ward us while I speak.”
“This calls for something stronger than I can—”
“Poppycock. You color yourself lazy, Uriah, but recall how long I have known you. In what ways. This knowledge could be our undoing. Make it a strong one.”
“Oh for… and I’m the one for drama?”
Uriah pinched open her purse nonetheless, removed the Snickers bar—she stuffed it into Maren’s bosom with a wicked grin—opened the false bottom of her scarlet lip gloss, and squeezed at bright pink gum the size of a sweet pea.
She chewed noisily, inhaled as if preparing to launch a sailing vessel with her lungs, and blew a large, transparent bubble that encapsulated both women from the shoulders to the crowns of their heads.
“Talk fast,” Uriah lisped.
Maren poked where she thought the warding sphere might be and jammed the tip of her finger. “Cheese and rice—there’s another bruise.”
“Go!”
“Yes, yes—night worms do affix to the brain stem, but the influence is subtle. Calming. A worm, contrary to the stories, does not simply control a fleshy puppet. Nor does it seek its own ends—not by nature. It shares its reserves of wisdom and experience with the host.”
“Doeth ith hurth?” Uriah managed.
“Implantation? Absolutely. They go by way of nostrils, given their druthers and a mammal. Night worms are not parasites. I don’t know when or why the stories got that wrong, but I suspect it was deliberate misinformation. Or there may have been an ancient strain that was bred to be malignant. Malleable. Beholden.”
“Mmmth,” Uriah said. The ward was strong, but it would hold only for as long as Uriah could keep the gum in her teeth—the chiclet leaped like a well-rested pet launching into a basket of clean socks.
“Night worms aren’t snickerdoodle. The recipe’s… I said I wouldn’t say. There is no single method—I can say that. Nor do all emerge alike. Most do not survive. More are stillborn. It was work, Uriah, and I don’t mean… it took years just to begin to understand. Even now, I go more by ear than spoon.”
“Uth em.”
“Missed that. At any rate, the influence is one of persuasion. The chemical processes, the hormonal exchan—how it works doesn’t matter. The worm does not drive. It isn’t in full control. In a rare instance of preservation it can use such force, but the… The host is provided with a moral compass. A night worm parses the many crises of life, and it lights them for
the minor events and urges that they are, informing by virtue of ancient example.”
“Killth.”
“It can kill, yes. It’d be suicide for the worm to kill its partner. Much as I’ve found with my air miles, worms are non-transferrable. If they warp a weak mind, it would be fatal to both. Now, to the stories: in the wrong hands, a symbiont could become a weapon. At some moment in history, I’m sure this came to pass. It is likely why night worms are extinct. Were.”
“Mmmth.”
“Do you remember this joke? How many world leaders does it take to change a light bulb? The answer being: any number of them, so long as you want a working bulb broken. A leader with a bad worm… the world would plunge into darkness. We have seen it before. It can happen again.”
Tiny muscles twitched on Uriah’s jawline, and she snapped like a hungry dog to regain position on the warding chiclet. “Gift. You muth taketh the gifth.”
“What I must do is be cautious. Do you think the gift does not control us? Is it so natural as it seems? We must have it, and so we want it to be positive. We learn of it from the moment of our initiation, and we revere it for years before that. Covet it. We become blind to it when we are but children in our trade. Think of the gift’s influence. Consider the need of it. The pull. I am less sure of the gift than I am of the worms, Uriah.”
“Uhl die ifth…”
“I’ll grow older. Weaker. I have no proof I’ll die without the gift. And if I should, is that less natural than life everlasting? Everlasting—yet what witch has lived forever? Has anything? I know, I know—the ward will not let you retort.”
“Tocayath.”
“She has yet to prove immortality. She can’t. It would take until the end of time, and even that is… if I get into modus tollens, I may harm myself. I want neither the lady nor the tiger. Speaking of which, I mustn’t go dancing until this is resolved. If I took the gift tonight, still I would not.”
“Why noth? Bountyth?”
“Uriah Lee, you’re… you are my sister and my friend, but you frustrate me like no other. Unless we have been lied to—and we have been—then I alone know of the night worms. How to make them. Keep them. Use them. I am discrete, or I like to pretend I am, yet… have I ever pretended omniscience?”
All Hallows Page 24
