Page 11

Her shop was exactly what I had imagined Luc's would be before I had gone inside. In stark contrast from his clean, white, almost clinical shop, this one was garishly bright and colourful, with gaudy shawls draped across every surface and hanging on every wall. The air was thickly perfumed with dollar store incense that irritated my throat so badly I nearly gagged. And what I assumed was once a table was just now a mound of even more scarves, with a crystal ball nestled on top.

And the woman herself? Good Lord.

We had barely stepped through the door before she descended upon us.

She smelled strongly of the repulsive incense, tinged with some other thick and sickly perfume.

"My dears," she moaned in her husky, faux-Romani accent, waving her arms around for dramatic effect.

"You've been abused! Someone seeks to injure you!"

"Ya think?" Polly snapped, her face wincing into a scowl as her cast clunked loudly on the floor. Our wounds were still visible in many places; it was obvious that we had seen some action. So much for her powers of divination.

"Come, come," the woman simpered, ignoring Polly's snark. Her act would've been hilarious if she weren't wasting our precious time. "Sit with me, children. Let Madame Belladonna help you."

"Yeah, not gonna happen," I muttered, quickly turning back towards the door.

She lunged forward, taking hold of Polly's arm, who couldn't dodge fast enough to avoid her. "Please! I fear for your lives. You must take one of my special protection charms! They're even on sale!"

Polly tried to wrench her arm free, to little success. "Look," she snarled. "If you don't let go of my arm, you're going to be the one who fears for her life, get it?"

The lady's eyes went wide; she let go of Polly and backed away slowly.

"Thanks," Polly sang sarcastically, before her voice turned sharp and gravelly again. "For nothing." She stormed out of the nauseating shop, pulling me after her.

The rest of the shops we visited were much the same; maybe not so much in style, but definitely in terms of ridiculousness.

The same things were repeated: the tacky interiors, the overly dramatic people, and the damned insistence to buy something.

The only thing that got better was our ability to say "no" forcefully enough that they would let us exit their stores.

As our fruitless search dragged on, I began to lose sleep.

Though it had been quiet—too quiet, without even a single whisper or growl from the presence—I just couldn't seem to rest. We hadn't suffered a single attack in the three weeks since the throw down at Polly's house, and I couldn't help but feeling like there should be another one just around the corner.

On top of that, our utter lack of progress had begun to wear me down.

But with no other leads and nothing else to do, we just kept at it. Our list of psychics dwindled with each passing day, and with it, my hope. Soon, there were only three left on the list.

All our previous encounters considered, I didn't have too many expectations for the one we were visiting today, but I tried not to think about it as I drove, robotically following the instructions that Polly's GPS system gave me in a stilted British accent.

"Please take a left on North Jackson Ave," chirped the digital Englishman.

We had come to a stop at a red light, when I realized I didn't recognize the name of the street the GPS had given me. I hesitated and looked around, trying to get my bearings. The roads were rough and patched, and the low, one-story buildings that lined the street were dated and shabby. I had never seen this part of town before.

"Have we gone too far?" I asked Polly.

Polly started like she, too, had zoned out.

"Uh..." she began and glanced around.

Her forehead creased, like she was also confused by the surroundings.

She dove into her bag and pulled out the creased list, shifting through the pages for the map we had printed out from Google.

After studying it for a moment, the lines in her forehead eased away.

"No, no, I think we're going in the right direction. This one is just out in the boonies."

All the psychics we had visited before had been located mostly downtown or in the nearby residential areas, set up in little shops and storefronts.

"Please take a left on North Jackson Ave," the Englishman repeated.

The light turned green, and I took the turn as directed, this time paying more attention to where we were going.

As we drove, we left the businesses behind and headed into a suburb; the houses from decades past that had fallen into disrepair, with chipped paint and missing shingles from the roofs.

Some were boarded up and covered with graffiti.

The GPS led us through the snaking streets, urging us to keep on this single road for kilometre after kilometre as it changed, inexplicably, from North Jackson Ave to Bluebelle Ave.

Then, finally, the GPS announced, "In 500m, your destination will be on the right."

Strangely enough, like the day I went to view my fateful apartment, I could point out the house before we even saw the numbers.

From a distance, it looked like all the other houses, with narrow windows and a tiny porch embracing the front door, but for me it shone like a beacon.

Despite its peeling paint and dirty accents, it seemed homey, warm, and.

.

.

safe.

There was something comforting about this structure, like it was some kind of haven.

After all the failure and ridiculousness we had faced in the past week, the good feeling I got about this place was like a shot of adrenaline.

As soon as we parked—right in front, between a rusted out '67 Impala and an ancient-looking powder-blue truck—I leapt out, barely able to contain myself. I shook with excitement as I walked over the path and up the porch's steps.

Polly noticed my shaking and gave me a look of reproach. "Let me handle this one," she said and knocked on the door before I had a chance to disagree.

In immediate response to Polly's knock, there was some shouting on the other side of the door, followed by the rapid sound of footsteps. The door creaked open, and a face appeared in the open crack. There stood a motherly woman, with soft greying hair pulled up into a simple bun, accented by bright warm eyes. Her pale face had deep lines but they were an afterthought to her strong, dominating mouth with a welcoming smile stretching its corners.

The woman surveyed us closely from her view through the opening in the door.

She scanned Polly without a change in expression, but the moment she laid eyes on me, scanning me up and down, her warm face turned cold—much like Luc's had the day he'd done my reading.

She gasped, her hand flying to her throat, like I had just threatened to slit it open.

The wide-eyed look of fear quickly changed, her brow deeply furrowing, casting a shadow over her once bright eyes; it was like I was the last thing she wanted on her doorstep. She glared for another moment and then slammed the door.

It was a good sign. Yes, this was a good sign. Somehow, she had recognized it right away. She knew there was something dangerous about me, she knew something about this.

My heart swelled at the thought.

There was someone who could help me!

I pushed Polly out of the way and pounded on the woman's door, without any hint of shame. I had no dignity left, and even if I had, I would have discarded it for a chance to survive. "Excuse me? Please come back! Please! I need your help!"

Polly stood by and said nothing. She understood.

"Please!" I pleaded. "Please! I know you can help me! I need you to help me! I don't know where else to go!"

Something of the desperation in my voice must've softened her to me, even if just a little. Slowly, quietly, the door reopened—but just a sliver—and her now guarded eyes peered out at me once more. She surveyed my face, her brow still knotted.

A sob involuntarily escaped my throat, and I only then realized that I was crying, tears streaking over my face.

"Please," I choked again. "Let me in. I know you can help me..."

She shook her head, her eyes never leaving mine. "No way. I won't get your mark on my house."

"My... mark?" I asked, though I thought I knew what she meant. The thing could follow me. She didn't want to risk it coming into her house. I heard a child playfully cry out somewhere in the house, and I didn't blame her.

Her lips formed a harsh line. "Your curse, honey. You're cursed."

Curse? I balked. Haunted, sure. But cursed? Somehow that seemed absurd. But who was I to question it, after everything? "How... how do I undo it? What do I do? I don't know what to do!"

But she just closed the door again, not with a final slam but a click.

"No! Please, please, please come back!" I begged, but there was no reply.

Thinking she had abandoned me again, I fell to my knees and wailed on the step, throwing my head back and tearing my fingers through my hair in frustration.

Maybe I had gotten one answer, but I had a thousand more questions, and I was no closer to a solution.

I may not have been crazy at the beginning of this ordeal, but I definitely felt like I was headed that way now.

I slumped forward, defeated.

Polly reached for me, offering me her hand. I took it and staggered to my feet.

"It'll be okay," she cooed as she wrapped her arm around my shoulders, bracing me, and began to lead me back towards the car. "It's something, isn't it? It's a start."

I sniffled. "I guess."

But just as we set foot on the porch's steps, the door opened for the third time. Only a hand emerged, holding out a small, worn book. The hand lingered in the air for a moment before dropping it. It fell to the porch with a soft thud, and the arm was snatched back inside, followed by the final snap of the door, and the clunk of a lock.

We just stood there and stared at the book lying on the porch, not quite sure what to do with it.

Polly patted me on the shoulder, jolting me, and hobbled back up to grab the book.

She dusted off the cover and flipped it over in her hands examining it.

It might have been homemade; it was thin, with a binding that looked like it had been sewn by hand.

It had a simple fabric cover and faded gold embossed letters on it, with a nondescript typeface spelling out the title: PROTECTION.

"Well," Polly said, her smile weary but genuine. "This might help."

??