Page 20 of Wicche Hunt

A darkness hovers over Gran’s house, pacing back and forth across her patio, leering in her windows. It tries to seep under Mom’s doors. It scratches at the gallery walls. It looms over us every day, waiting for a weakening of our defenses. And under it all is the chanting of Calliope and her demon. It’s an auditory arrhythmia. If we listen too long, let it bleed into our souls, our hearts will mimic the rhythm and we, as a family, will seize.

Tourists bump into each other as they ignore the sidewalk, their attention fixed on the contents of shop windows. A man in a dark coat arrows through the throng, fingers gripped around something in his pocket. He pushes open a door and a bell tinkles. Serena stands behind the counter. She nods to the man, asking if he needs help. Ignoring her, he moves to the back of the shop, knocking over a display of packaged loose-leaf tea.

Annoyed, she goes around the counter to pick up the bags. The man unstoppers the vial in his pocket, quietly takes the lid off one of the glass jars Serena keeps behind the counter, and sprinkles the contents of the vial all over the tea leaves. He’s out the door before Serena is done cleaning up his mess. Three customers later, she pulls doctored leaves from the jar, brews them, and hands her customer death in a go-cup.

Uncle John in sitting in his den, a laptop open. Hand over his mouth, he stares in disbelief. Head shaking, he closes his eyes, moving his hand from his mouth to his forehead. “Why? Why would she do this?”

A man stands at the top of a staircase in the foyer of some grand old mansion, dark wood, darker rugs, antiques, low lights. His head is turned, arguing with someone, their voices kept low. Shaking his head, he starts down the stairs and then he’s flying. His body crumples at the bottom, his neck at an unnatural angle.

Aunt Hester sits in the dark, staring into the middle distance, unable to move on, unable to live without her Pearl. The phone rings, but she ignores it. The doorbell chimes, but she’s beyond noticing. A light layer of dust has settled on her as she waits for death to return. This time for herself.

A great fire consumes a building. The inferno is more flame than structure. A moment later, the edifice gives up the struggle and collapses, shooting sparks swirling into the sky. Under the roar of the fire is a growl and tires kicking up rocks.

An older man approaches a cliff, unsure of why he’s there. He feels an obligation but fears he’s misjudged the situation, the person. Uneasy, wishing he was home with his feet up watching the game, he greets the one waiting for him. The other points toward the cliff. The man turns his head and then it all goes black as a heavy object connects with the back of his head. He’s dragged through brush and then rolled off the edge, falling to the jagged rocks and ocean waves far below.

The glass of a greenhouse glows in the twilight, reflecting the pinks and purples of the sky. A dark figure moves like a ghost across the yard. The door isn’t locked. Why should it be? It resides in a spelled garden. The figure goes in, pulls a spray can of industrial lubricant from their pocket, and sprays. They crank the huge silent wheel, opening the windows on the far side of the greenhouse, the ones impossible to see from the house. The figure goes to the heater controls and pushes the power button, turning it off. The figure slips away, content in the knowledge that hundreds of delicate, precious plants will soon die.

A man rides his bike along a narrow road. He knows it like the back of his hand. He’s been riding this route for probably forty years. Most of his early morning ride is along empty roads with dense trees canopying the path. Halfway through, he hits the coastline and watches the waves capsize over huge rocks. Sea spray hits his face and for one brief moment, he closes his eyes, relishing the feel. He doesn’t see the car, doesn’t even hear it because of the podcast in his ears. A silver truck races up behind him and slams into him, sending him sailing onto the bone-crushing roc—

I opened my eyes, head pounding, body feeling too battered to move. I wasn’t sure what happened. My fingers tingled. Did Mom and Gran rip their hands away mid-vision?

Mother ran to the house, a barely audibleNo, no, no, noon her lips.

I stayed where I was, wishing for a morphine drip. “What happened?”

Gran stood quietly, hands clasped, lips moving.

“He’s alive!” Mom called from the back door.

Gran lost all tension in her body and hit the ground beside me. I forced myself into a sitting position to check on her and then saw she had tears running down her face.

“What?” I asked again.

Mom walked down the steps and helped Gran up. “That was your Uncle Andrew on the bike. When I told him what we saw, he agreed to change his route and to keep changing it until Calliope is caught.”

Gran kept murmuringthank youover and over as Mom helped her up the stairs and back into the house. I followed, but more slowly.

NINE

The Line Forms to the Left

How had I not known it was Uncle Andrew? I’d even seen his face, seen him close his eyes. How had I not recognized him? Shaking my head, I followed their voices to the sitting room, opposite the dining room. It was a light and airy room, high windows, off-white walls, with a floral sofa and matching chairs.

Gran and Mom looked shaken, their expressions drawn. Voices hushed, they assured each other that they hadn’t lost another child, another sibling.

“I’ll make tea,” I said and headed back to the kitchen. As I brewed a calming blend, I pulled out the cart and cups while wondering what else I’d missed. This had always been my problem, hadn’t it? I was shit when it came to visions related to Coreys. I couldn’t see myself in visions at all, and I’d missed Abigail and Calliope.

If I’d agreed to join the Corey Council when they’d first asked me at thirteen, maybe Sylvia… How many people had suffered, lost their lives, because I didn’t want it, was afraid of it? No wonder Mom had been pissed off at me most of my life.

Without their perspective, the bicyclist would have been just a guy in one of the thousands of visions swirling in my head. They recognized him and called to prevent his death. I would have started baking and ignorantly let him die.

When I eventually composed myself and rolled in the tea cart, Mom and Gran were looking more themselves. I poured, passed the cups and saucers, and then sat in the far chair, feeling as low as I could remember in quite some time.

“Your Gran and I were discussing the vision.” Mom took a sip and sat back in her chair. “That was Elizabeth’s greenhouse. I called, telling her to check her wards and to put a lock on it. She was very grateful for the warning and will be securing it today.”

“Good,” I said, pretending I wasn’t drowning in a very dark place right now.

“Serena’s shop,” Mom said. “Did you see which jar the poison went in?”

---