Page 28 of Wicche Hunt

“I have an idea.” I flicked my fingers, locking the windows and doors and closing the shutters. I hadn’t forgotten that vision during the Council meeting of a demon lurking around my gallery. Fricking Calliope. “How about if you stay here tonight. Maybe being in a different environment will help you sleep.”

“Oh, no. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

When she started to get up, I motioned her back down. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it. I usually end up sleeping on this couch, anyway. The bed in the loft is ridiculously comfortable. And in the morning, you can have a muffin and tea before you head back.”

She glanced up the stairs to my loft. “You’re sure?”

“I absolutely am. Someone should sleep in that bed, as I never seem to.” I pointed up again. “There’s a bathroom up there and extra blankets if you get cold.”

Looking completely wrung out, she stood and took her empty cup and napkin to the kitchen before trudging up the stairs.

I saw movement in the skylight and had a mini heart attack. Three sets of eyes stared back at me. Otis had brought friends. Pointing to the back porch, I flicked my fingers, making the glass opaque. Hester needed sleep, not furry voyeurs.

Grabbing three muffins, I quietly went out onto the deck. The empty deck. “Otis,” I whisper-called. Three little raccoon heads popped out from the roofline. I held up the muffins and heard claws scrabbling on the roof.

Sitting on a bench, I considered how they might get down and decided the scaffolding was probably the safest route. I turned that way, to watch them come around the corner. After what felt like too long, something touched my leg. Otis and his siblings sat in a semicircle around me.

“How’d you do that?” The roof of the cannery was about forty feet high. If they didn’t use the scaffolding, how had they done it? Tricky little scamps.

I placed a muffin in front of each raccoon and then sat back, assuming they’d grab them and scamper off. Nope. Each one picked up the muffin and then plopped their butt down and began to eat.

Letting out a breath, I watched my new friends and eventually shook off the day. I had a lot to do tomorrow, so I waved goodbye and went in to sleep. Unfortunately, the day wasn’t done with me yet.

TWELVE

Why Do Epiphanies Always Happen in the Middle of the Night?

Indistinct whispering. A busy hallway. Dark, carved wood, expensive, sound-muting carpet. Children and teens in navy blazers, backpacks on their shoulders, two lanes of traffic, shoulders bumping in the middle. Insults are muttered out of earshot of the teachers who stand expressionless at their classroom doors. That one checks his watch. This one smiles sharply, her eyes distant.

One boy nudges his friend before shooting his foot into the oncoming stream of students, tripping a girl. She cries out, pitching forward, falling on the students in front of her. Now one side of the hall is a jumble of bent legs and arms, spilled backpacks. Others halt as though at a precipice while the students passing on the other half of the hall continue on, heads twisted to gaze back on the carnage.

The boys smile secretly, the tripper feeling overwhelmingly pleased. He did that. The girl had shown him up in English class, knowing an answer he hadn’t. As if anyone cares about poetry. She isn’t feeling too good now, is she? He entertains himself, playing the moment over and over again.

The friend finally lets out a giggle and then nods toward a boy they’re about to pass. The tripper shakes his head. It’s too soon, and he knows it. The teachers will be alert, the other students too.

A long, dark corridor. Where have the students gone? Same dark wood and expensive rug, but this hall isn’t filled with teenagers bustling to class. Whispering. Soft voices conspiring behind one of the many closed doors along this dimly lit corridor. Plans are being made. For next time.

The image jumps.

Delicate hands work the mortar and pestle. Murky light sways, always in motion. Torchlight. Her hand twists, a ring glinting on her finger. A familiar peridot ring. Calliope. Chanting fills the dark stone room, two voices twined. Blood drips on the open page of a grimoire.

The image jumps.

Someone is looking through a narrow slit in the shutters, into the studio where she sees herself sleeping on the couch. A finger with a long, sharp claw taps on the glass. She sleeps through it, but someone else has woken. Someone else is walking quietly down the loft stairs, head swiveling, trying to find the source of the tapping. She pauses at the sleeping figure, pulling up the blanket to cover her shoulder.

The taloned finger taps once more and then drags the claw down the glass. The woman turns to the door, thinking about seals and tennis balls, not the darkness that beckons. She reaches for the door—

“Arwyn? Honey, are you okay?”

I startle awake, my gaze flying to the back door. “Did you hear tapping on the glass? Is that what woke you?”

“No.” Hester follows my lead and glances toward the door before focusing on me again. “I heard you whimpering in your sleep. You’d said you have nightmares every night, so I came down to check on you. That’s all.”

That’s all, she said, as though it was nothing. I couldn’t remember the last time my own mother comforted me when I cried in the night. And then I did. I remembered exactly the last time and felt sick with it. I’d been six or seven years old, sleeping in the room next to hers. I’d woken from a horrible dream, one that hadn’t just scared me but had me crying inconsolably.

My mother was there, asking me what I’d seen. I’d told her Auntie Sylvia had a shadow following her around, one that sat on her chest, took her breath, and killed her. Mom stood abruptly and left the room. She never came back and shortly after that, I moved to the turret bedroom that I’d been asking for. Mom had been saying I was too young to sleep so far away from her. After that nightmare, I couldn’t be far enough away.

“You’re wearing gloves,” I said, staring at Hester’s hands.

---