Page 32 of The Bane Witch

32

Rabbit

I am afraid to be alone with her. I nearly reach out for Emil Reyes when he politely excuses himself before remembering that my touch could destroy the very life I once saved. But his lingering gaze tells me he doesn’t intend to leave the area. Not until he ensures my safety. I follow him to the door and point to the ring of spare cabin keys Myrtle keeps hanging on the rack. “Pick one. They’re all clean. You can stay on-site as long as you promise to keep away from me.” It might be a foolish, split-second decision, but this way I can keep him close, instead of worrying when he’ll turn up unannounced. His presence might at least keep Henry at bay, if he finds his way up here.

He slides one off the ring— three. Holding it up, he tells me, “Think about what I said.” Then he steps out the door.

“You do the same,” I reply, watching him go.

I turn to stare at the glamorous figure so elegantly out of place in Myrtle’s rustic kitchen. The Barcelona venery must be doing quite well for itself. Somehow, her presence is more unnerving to me than the Saranac Strangler’s. She carries herself like a panther, sleek and self-assured, the world parting as she passes. And her beauty, however undeniable, is like that of an ice sculpture—as unforgiving and inhospitable as deep space. But it is the secrets I must keep from her that leave me breathless in her presence. I wasn’t ready to confront the venery— any venery—yet. My work is still undone.

“How old are you?” I ask her.

“How old do you think I am?” she returns. This is something she’s good at, this game of questions. The flirtation, the coy dance. They are likely part of her specialty.

“Thirty-five? Forty at the most,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. “But you made it sound like your acting career happened a long time ago.”

She smiles and moves slowly through the kitchen to the living room, looking at the odd decorative item, picking up the old photo of Myrtle and the other bane witches, taking in the view from the windows. “I have lived more years than my face has recorded,” she says with a laugh. “And acting careers are very short for women.” She turns to face me, the sun beaming in around her silhouette. “I age exceptionally well. It’s in the genes.”

“You’re the contact from the venery in Barcelona, the one they wanted to carry in a delivery?”

“You can call me Emilia.” A small purse on a gold chain hangs from one shoulder. She slides it off and opens the clasp, pulling out a brown paper bag that’s been rolled closed.

“Not Daisy or Rose or some other flower?” I ask flatly.

She grins. “Americans are so strange. We don’t hold to such traditions where I’m from. Our venery is older, less bothered by such details.” She passes the bag to me. It’s then I notice the black gloves on her hands.

“You’ve been feeding,” I note as I take it from her.

Her smile is wicked. “I am always feeding.”

I unroll the bag and glance inside. A spate of red berries greets me, glowing orange in the light. “How did you get these on the plane?”

Her eyes follow my every gesture, independent of the rest of her. “I have my ways.”

I bet she does.

She stalks around the room and takes a seat on the sofa. I don’t correct her, even though everything in me is screaming for her to get up. I make a vow to take that sofa out and burn it in the woods. Myrtle would understand.

I lower myself into the armchair across from her. “They let you act in your venery? Have a career in the public eye?”

She draws a breath. “I told you, we are less paranoid. Besides, do you think I was going to keep this face hidden for long? My venery has made my career work for them. It has served us well.”

I open my mouth to ask another question, but she cuts me off.

“No. Now you will answer a question for me. Where is your aunt?”

I see a glint in her eye that tells me lying will be futile. “She’s gone,” I whisper, the emotions rushing up my throat so that the words come out shaky and faint.

Her brows lower like thunderclouds hovering over her eyes. “Gone?”

I dash at the tears as they fall. “My mark. He came for me, but I wasn’t here. He killed her instead.”

“He came for you ?” Even riddled with confusion and concern, she is stunning.

I nod briskly. “I hunt killers,” I tell her. “Serial killers. It’s my class.”

Her lips tighten around a muttered string of words in Spanish that I don’t recognize but sound an awful lot like curses. “We will drink to your aunt in the Barri Gòtic, beneath the spires of the Holy Cross. I promise you that. Please give my condolences to your hermanas oscuras, your dark sisters. ”

I should tell her that they don’t know yet, but I’m afraid of what she will do. Her face is as fresh as a peony in spring, but her spirit is older than the city she calls home, gnarled by what it’s seen. And her alliance is with them, not with me. Should they stand against me, it’s not my side she would choose.

“I must go,” she says. She rises and I do, too.

“Wait.” I duck into the kitchen, pilfering through cabinets and canisters until I find the browning remains of a couple of yellow warts and a third mushroom I don’t recognize. Walking back into the living room, I hand them to her. “An exchange,” I say. “You came all this way. I’d hate for you to go home empty-handed.”

She cups them in the buttery lambskin of her designer gloves, eyes glinting with interest. “Gracias.” Without hesitation, she pops one into her mouth and quickly swallows it. Noting my surprise, she says, “I told you. I am always feeding.”

“Your class must keep you very busy,” I remark, thinking it must be something far less specialized than mine. Date rapists maybe. Child abusers. The cavalier way these terms now flit through my mind should sicken me with cognitive dissonance, but it leaves only a residue of disturbance.

She laughs as if I have said something spectacularly clever. “My dear girl, they are all my class.”

“All?”

Her eyes narrow in an instant, like slivers of glass. “If history has taught us anything, it is this—powerful men never tire of abusing their positions. There is much work to do still.” She relaxes, smiles languidly, her shoulders sloping gently down her back. “And you know what they say— a very little poison can do a world of good, ” she adds with a wink.

Myrtle’s voice that day in our garden comes slamming into me at her words, Myrtle’s long twist of hair, her towering presence, her knowing gaze. It hurts so much I have to fight the urge to cry out. But beneath the pain, a current of family and advocacy and magic. Beneath the pain, Myrtle is there. In the words. In the room. She is guiding me still, I realize. She is on my side.

Her hand tightens around mine holding the bag. When she speaks again, her top lip curls. “Black bryony,” she says. “From Majorca. Enough to take down ten strong men and sicken a couple of arrogant bastards in need of a lesson. A little Spanish flavor for your conejo. ”

I make a face, unfamiliar with the word.

“It means ‘rabbit,’” she tells me, grinning. “When you find him, give him a kiss from me.”

I SIT ON the sofa where Myrtle died and stare into the paper bag long after Emilia is gone. I want to press the berries into my mouth and chew, tasting the high Spanish sun and the breezes of the coast in their tart skin. But I don’t need them. Not with so many amatoxins already coursing through my system. I just didn’t want to tell Emilia her travel was in vain.

When Bart yowls at the door, I roll the bag tightly up and set it on the table, to let him in.

We should return to the bunker, huddle there in the darkness and wait. But I can’t bring myself to leave the cabin yet. One night, I think. I will stay one night. For Myrtle. For me. For the dog. I will take a shower and rest my bones on the soft padding of a real bed. I’ll cook on a stove, eat a legitimate dinner, hydrate without rationing. By now, I’m sure the regulars have seen the CLOSED FOR TRAVEL sign in the door of the café. A couple of brave ones maybe even skulked back here, hollered her name for good measure before straggling back to town, contented for the time being. They’ll let it rest for now. But in another week or so, when they circle back around and nothing has changed, that’s when they’ll call someone. The sheriff’s department will descend on this place like a swarm of locusts. Maybe they’ll find Myrtle’s body in the forest. Maybe they won’t. I won’t be able to say because I won’t be here by then. If Emil Reyes is to be believed, I may not be alive at all. Between the Saranac Strangler, Henry, and the venery, I have too many enemies willing to finish the job Henry started.

So, one night, this night, shouldn’t matter.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

T HE WATER IS so hot I feel like my muscles are melting beneath it when I hear the bang. I quickly turn the faucet off and stand there, dripping, the shower head still steaming above me as I listen. It was difficult to hear over the rush of the water, not loud like a gunshot but softer, like a door closing or a drawer being slammed. I strain to hear if Bart is making any noise—his presence in the house with me my only comfort. But silence echoes back, the hush of the gloaming.

My fingers curl stiffly around the edge of the shower curtain, tugging it back as I cringe at the sound of the rings scraping against the rod. I step out and pull Myrtle’s Southwestern robe on, not bothering to tie it. My hair drips a fountain of water down the back, causing the fabric to stick to my skin.

I pause with my hand on the doorknob and set my ear to the crack. Nothing.

There are so many people after me that I have no idea who I might find on the other side. It was a mistake staying here. I should have returned to the shelter. But the Strangler knows where the shelter is now anyway. Still, the odds against one are considerably better than they are against three or more.

I turn the knob so carefully; it scarcely makes a sound. Pulling the door back, I poke my head into the hallway. The light from the living room filters in, enough to see the corners are empty of moving shadows.

I step out and inch toward the living room. Bart is lying at the foot of Myrtle’s chair, his head on his paws. He looks at me as I enter, tracking my movements with his eyes. Then, they slide eerily toward the kitchen.

I follow his gaze, gliding around the furniture with the quiet of a ghost. When I finally have a view of the kitchen, I find it empty. I turn to the dog, “Hey, buddy. Everything okay in here?”

He lifts his head, curious, and I sigh. I check all the doors and windows meticulously before turning out every light in the house, pulling on some clean underwear and a tank top, and climbing into bed. My imagination must be getting the better of me, with good reason. But I need to keep my head. The next few days, next few hours, are too important to lose my focus. Even the smallest miscalculation could have deadly consequences. I’ve already witnessed that.

An hour later, I decide I’ve done such a good job battening down the hatches that I’ve shut sleep out as well. I flop from one side to the other on the springy mattress and soft cotton sheets. I should be enjoying this, but I can’t settle. Bart is curled on the floor, attempting to ignore me.

And then I hear a rustle from the next room— her room.

I bolt upright in bed and slip from the blankets. This time, I move so slowly, so soundlessly, that my own breathing roars by comparison. The door to her room is open a crack, and soft light spills out. I am certain it was closed when I went to bed. As certain as I am of what I heard in the shower. My throat tightens as the fear creeps higher.

When I reach her door, I nudge it open, every muscle bunching inside me, ready to spring into action. It squeals on its hinges as it swings. The room is empty, the window closed. But the lamp on her bedside table is on.

I did not leave that lamp on.

“Myrtle?” I feel instantly foolish but can’t help myself. When she doesn’t answer, I open her closet door. Inside her flannels and overalls hang side by side, a rustic curtain. But there is no one there, and the space is too small for them to hide from me.

My shoulders sag as tears begin to gather beneath my eyes.

Regardless of how I felt earlier, all I can think now is that she probably hates me for what happened. She’s probably haunting me because I was too stupid to listen. Spinning around, I stalk back to my room and gather my things, tying her robe tight at my waist and pulling on my boots without lacing them. “Come on, buddy,” I tell the dog. “We’re not gonna get any sleep here.”

At the door, I don’t even bother locking up. The cabin has rejected me. It was foolish to expect otherwise. I won’t come back here.

The thought of the shelter cot gives me instant leg cramps, and the long walk in the dark concerns me. Can I even find it like this? What if I get stuck out for the night? A chilly breeze gusts up the hem of the robe in response. I stand on the path under the trees, looking left to right. The futon Myrtle kept in the café loft suddenly rushes to mind. I can make the walk to the shelter tomorrow. For now, the café is closer and a lot more appealing. The dog and I head for it.

At the entrance, I look around, but all is quiet. The two guests we had have presumably left, the parking lot empty save for Emil’s car, a sleek Dodge Charger. They probably felt like they won the lottery when there was no one here to square up with. I let Bart and me into the café and head toward the staircase. The familiar sight of the tables and stacks of chairs, the bar and kitchen at the back where Myrtle always positioned herself, bring fresh tears. This time, I let them fall, let myself feel the hurt and betrayal, the deep, penetrating grief of losing a life I was just starting to love. I climb the spiral stairs with a heavy heart, and pull the futon out, a small, tinny note of gratitude for her constant preparedness ringing through me.

When I lie down, I drift off almost instantly, the firm futon cushion grounding my sorrow as Bart finds his place on the floor at my side. I don’t doze. I don’t dream. I simply fall into a puddle of black, thankful for an hour of reprieve and a warm, safe room, the chance to let go and forget.

It must be the witching hour when I hear it again, the same soft bang, like a cabinet door closing downstairs. I jolt awake, eyes dilating in the dark, and hover at the doorway, looking down the stairs. But I can’t see anything amiss.

Behind me, Bart is on his feet, ears perked, as if he knows something I don’t. But he is quiet, and that gives me some comfort.

“Stay here,” I tell him, closing him into the loft room.

One step at a time, I spiral down to the café floor. The room is dark, except for the moonlight that trickles in the front windows. The tables and chairs loom like giant mushrooms, shadowy heaps sprouting from the floor, the forest creeping in.

I tighten the tie of the robe and walk toward the door. For a moment, I just stand there, staring out at the moon, a half-eaten disk in the sky. It reflects the state of my heart, a cookie with so many bites taken out it’s almost unrecognizable. Somewhere in the far distance, Regis is stretched out under a blanket, waiting for the chance to come home. At least he is safe, I think with some pride. At least I have done that much.

I place my hand on the door handle before turning back, a quick tug to check that it’s locked. But instead of resistance, the door swings toward me, letting in a draft of frigid night air.

It takes a split second for the truth to register—the key from the laundry. He has found it, let himself in. And then I catch his reflection in the glass—the slightest movement, a flash of refracted light on rubber, right behind me.

There is very little time to react. The cord is around my neck before I can even turn my head. My only stroke of luck is that I’ve put a hand up in front of my throat. The nylon bites into my fingers, pressing my knuckles into my larynx. From this angle, I cannot defend myself. All the poison stored inside me will stay there unless I can turn around.

There is a quick yank on the paracord and I realize he is knotting it behind me, and the heavy scent of iron as he slides the rebar in. With one turn, I feel my finger crushing against me. I can still breathe, but only just.

My free hand lashes the air, looking for something to seize. And then I remember the plastic and petroleum jelly I scented earlier that morning and know I will have one small window to save myself, if I stay conscious.

I hear the zipper of his suit slide down and my heart rate kicks up. Typical man, I want to think with a laugh, if only I could find the air. Can’t resist pulling his dick out. I know this game already; I’ve played it before.

In another second, I hear the plastic rustle, and that’s when I swing my arm behind me, before he can get the baggie open, and grasp his naked member with my free hand, squeezing the tender flesh mercilessly, digging my nails into the skin until I feel the blood wetting my quicks.

His cry is agony, but it sounds like victory to me. In a desperate struggle to pull my hand away, he loosens his hold on the tourniquet—the piece of rebar hitting the floor with a metallic clang—and I twist around, but not before he manages to wrench my wrist over, nearly snapping my elbow.

A wail of pain escapes me, and then he is on me again, both hands at my throat as he backs me against the bit of wall between the door and the window. I should be afraid; his fingers are unforgiving as they choke me. But all I feel is rage, magma hot and twice as thick. It pools in my limbs, beneath my tongue, like fire in my cells. I gather it under the roof of my mouth and spit it into his face.

His eyes squeeze shut against the assault of saliva, but he doesn’t let go. A shrieking intake of air begins to sound in the back of his throat. My vision starts to blacken at the corners, and I feel peace. I may not make it long enough to watch him die, but at least I will go knowing he is soon to follow.

And then the blast rips through the glass of the door beside us and knocks him back, his right shoulder flinging to the side as he hits the floor. Emil Reyes pushes through the door, his gun pointed at the Strangler. He turns and sees me holding my throat, gasping for breath. He reaches a hand toward me, but I stumble away.

“No, don’t touch me,” I manage to wheeze out. “Not yet.”

I’ve fed so much that I can still feel the venom mingling with my bloodstream, even though I should have already discharged the magic when I spit into his face. With time, it will ebb away, but I won’t risk Reyes.

A gasp from below sounds, and we turn to see the Strangler sliding back from us, pushing with both feet, trying to turn over, trying to find the strength to run. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

Without thinking, I leap on him, one hand pressing his head against the floor as I lick my other hand from palm to fingertip and dig into the bullet hole at his shoulder, blood gurgling over my fingers as he screams.

The cop’s arms come around my waist, lifting me off and tossing me to the side. I catch myself in a crouch and spin back in time to see the convulsions begin. The Saranac Strangler jerks and flops like a landed fish, vomit erupting from his mouth like lava from a volcano, the latex cap slipping off his head.

The cop goes to kneel beside him, to try and lift him up so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit, but I smack his arm away. “Get up!” I yell, giving him a hard shove, being sure not to touch his skin, though I feel the magic already dissipating within me. “Leave him!”

“He’s choking!” His eyes practically cross with alarm. “He’s going to die!”

“I said, leave him.” I grind the words out through clenched teeth.

A sputter interrupts us, and we look over to see those close-set eyes roll to white, blood vessels bursting across them, before he goes still.

Again, Emil starts toward him, but I step between him and the body.

“I should check his pulse,” he says angrily. “Record the time of death.”

“You should turn around and leave this place,” I tell him. “And never come back. Thank you for saving my life. Consider your debt paid. Go home, Detective.”

He takes a step away from me, the venom in my voice enough of a warning. “Who is he?”

“No one to you,” I say quietly, turning to look down on him. At least now, when the venery comes for me, I can die in peace. “But someone very, very important to me.”

“What happened to him?” he asks now, stepping beside me, but careful not to overstep.

“I did,” I say. “The same as I did to Don.”

He looks at me, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

My eyes meet his—sorrowful, resigned, exhausted. “It’s better that way.”

He moves to the wall and pulls a chair from one of the stacks, sits in it, legs spread and elbows on knees, trying to gather himself. “What now?”

“Now I call the sheriff and report a break-in. You leave before they get here. I’ll probably get arrested. If not tonight, soon. But, then again, I’ve done them a favor. Maybe they won’t investigate too hard.”

“How will you explain the gunshot wound?” he asks, challenging my plan.

I can’t think straight. I lean against one of the tables. “I won’t. It really won’t make a difference anyway.”

He watches me for a moment, sits up. “I’m not leaving.”

I start to argue but he cuts me off. “You can just say I was a customer, someone passing through. And I’ll tell the truth. I’m a cop. I heard a scream. Came out and saw you struggling, shot him through the glass door. He fell and I have no idea what happened after that. Looked like he had some kind of reaction.”

I smile. “They’ve heard that one before.”

His brow gathers like a folded sheet.

“Never mind. Suit yourself, but I’m giving you the chance to clear out of this before things get worse.”

He purses his lips defiantly.

“If you’re worried about Henry, the place will be crawling with cops soon enough. I’ll be safe. And that’s if he’s even managed to figure out where I am, which I doubt. I never told him anything about my family.”

“Make the call,” he says calmly. “I’ll wait.”