Beautiful Creatures (35 page)

Amma took Thanksgiving really seriously, which meant two things. My dad would finally come out of his study, although technically
it was after dark so that wasn’t a big exception, and he would eat at the table with us. No Shredded Wheat. That was the absolute
minimum Amma would allow. So in honor of my dad’s pilgrimage into the world the rest of us inhabited every day, Amma cooked
up a storm. Turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, butter beans and creamed corn, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, honey ham
and biscuits, pumpkin and lemon meringue pie, which, after my evening in the swamp, I was pretty sure she was making more
for Uncle Abner than the rest of us.

I stopped for a second on the porch, remembering how I felt standing on the veranda at Ravenwood the first night I showed
up there. Now it was Lena’s turn. She had pulled her dark hair away from her face, and I touched the place where it managed
to escape, curling around her chin.

You ready?

She pulled her black dress loose from her tights. She was nervous.

I’m not.

You should be.

I grinned and pushed open the door. “Ready or not.” The house smelled like my childhood. Like mashed potatoes and hard work.

“Ethan Wate, is that you?” Amma called from the kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You have that girl with you? Bring her in here so we can get a look at her.”

The kitchen was sizzling. Amma was standing in front of the stove, in her apron, a wooden spoon in each hand. Aunt Prue was
puttering around, sticking her fingers in the mixing bowls on the counter. Aunt Mercy and Aunt Grace were playing Scrabble
at the kitchen table; neither one of them seemed to notice they weren’t actually making any words.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Bring her on in here.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. There was no way to predict what Amma, or the Sisters, were going to say. I still had no idea
why Amma had insisted I invite Lena in the first place.

Lena stepped forward. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Amma looked Lena up and down, wiping her hands on her apron. “So you’re the one keepin’ my boy so busy. Postman was right.
Pretty as a picture.” I wondered if Carlton Eaton had mentioned that on their ride to Wader’s Creek.

Lena blushed. “Thank you.”

“Heard you’ve shaken things up at that school.” Aunt Grace smiled. “A good thing, too. I don’t know what they’re teachin’
you kids over there.”

Aunt Mercy put down her tiles, one at a time. I-T-C-H-I-N.

Aunt Grace leaned closer to the board, squinting. “Mercy Lynne, you’re cheatin’ again! What kinda word is that? Use it in
a sentence.”

“I’m itchin’ ta have some a that white cake.”

“That’s not how you spell it.” At least one of them could spell. Aunt Grace pulled one of the tiles off the board. “There’s
no T in itchin’.” Or not.

You weren’t exaggerating.

I told you.

“Is that Ethan I hear?” Aunt Caroline walked into the kitchen just in time, her arms open wide. “Come on over here and give
your aunt a hug.” It always caught me off guard for a second, just how much she looked like my mother. The same long brown
hair, always pulled back, the same dark brown eyes. But my mom had always preferred bare feet and jeans, while Aunt Caroline
was more of a Southern Belle in sundresses and little sweaters. I think my aunt liked to see the expression on people’s faces
when they found out she was curator of the Savannah History Museum and not some aging debutante.

“How’re things up North?” Aunt Caroline always referred to Gatlin as “up North” since it was north of Savannah.

“All right. Did you bring me some pralines?”

“Don’t I always?”

I took Lena’s hand, pulling her toward us. “Lena, this is my Aunt Caroline and my great-aunts, Prudence, Mercy, and Grace.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Lena reached out her hand, but my Aunt Caroline pulled her in for a hug instead.

The front door slammed.

“Happy Thanksgiving.” Marian came in carrying a casserole dish and a pie plate stacked on top of one another. “What did I
miss?”

“Squirrels.” Aunt Prue shuffled over and looped her arm through Marian’s. “What do you know about ’em?”

“All right, every one a you, clear on outta my kitchen. I need some space to work my magic, and Mercy Statham, I see you eatin’
my Red Hots.” Aunt Mercy stopped crunching for a second. Lena looked over at me, trying not to smile.

I could call Kitchen.

Trust me, Amma doesn’t need any help when it comes to cooking. She’s got some magic of her own.

Everyone crowded into the living room. Aunt Caroline and Aunt Prue were discussing how to grow persimmons on a sun porch and
Aunt Grace and Aunt Mercy were still fighting over how to spell “itchin’,” while Marian refereed. It was enough to make anyone
crazy, but when I saw Lena wedged between the Sisters, she looked happy, even content.

This is nice.

Are you kidding?

Was this her idea of a family holiday? Casseroles and Scrabble and old ladies bickering? I wasn’t sure, but I knew this was
about as far from the Gathering as you could get.

At least no one is trying to kill anyone.

Give them about fifteen minutes, L.

I caught Amma’s eye through the kitchen doorway, but it wasn’t me she was looking at. It was Lena.

She was definitely up to something.

Thanksgiving dinner unfolded as it had every year. Except nothing was the same. My father was in pajamas, my mom’s chair was
empty, and I was holding hands with a Caster girl under the table. For a second, it was overwhelming—feeling happy and sad
at the same time—as if they were tied together somehow. But I only had a second to think about it; we had barely said “amen”
before the Sisters started swiping biscuits, Amma was spooning heaping mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy on our plates,
and Aunt Caroline started with the small talk.

I knew what was going on. If there was enough work, enough talk, enough pie, maybe nobody would notice the empty chair. There
wasn’t enough pie in the world for that, not even in Amma’s kitchen.

Either way, Aunt Caroline was determined to keep me talking. “Ethan, do you need to borrow anything for the reenactment? I’ve
got some remarkably authentic-looking shell jackets in the attic.”

“Don’t remind me.” I’d almost forgotten I had to dress up as a Confederate soldier for the Reenactment of the Battle of Honey
Hill if I wanted to pass history this year. Every February, there was a Civil War reenactment in Gatlin; it was the only reason
tourists ever showed up here.

Lena reached for a biscuit. “I don’t really understand why the reenactment is such a big deal. It seems like a lot of work
to re-create a battle that happened over a hundred years ago, considering we can just read about it in our history books.”

Uh-oh.

Aunt Prue gasped; that was blasphemy as far as she was concerned. “They should burn that school a yours ta the ground! They’re
not teachin’ any kind a his’try over there. You can’t learn ’bout the War for Southern Independence in any textbook. You have
ta see it for yourself, and every one a you kids should, because the same country that fought together in the American Revolution
for independence, turned clear against itself in the War.”

Ethan, say something. Change the subject.

Too late. She’s going to break into the “Star Spangled Banner” any second now.

Marian split a biscuit and filled it with ham. “Miss Statham is right. The Civil War turned this country against itself, oftentimes
brother against brother. It was a tragic chapter in American history. Over half a million men died, although more of them
died from sickness than battle.”

“A tragic chapter, that’s what it was.” Aunt Prue nodded.

“Now don’t get all worked up, Prudence Jane.” Aunt Grace patted her sister’s arm.

Aunt Prue swatted her hand away. “Don’t tell me when I’m worked up. I’m just tryin’ ta make sure they know the pig’s head
from its tail. I’m the only one doin’ any teachin’. That school should be payin’ me.”

I should have warned you not to get them started.

Now you tell me.

Lena shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’ve just never known anyone who was so
knowledgeable about the War.”

Nice one. If by knowledgeable you mean obsessed.

“Now don’t you feel bad, sweetheart. Prudence Jane just gets her britches in a twist every now and again.” Aunt Grace elbowed
Aunt Prue.

That’s why we put whiskey in her tea.

“It’s all that peanut brittle Carlton brought by.” Aunt Prue looked at Lena apologetically. “I have a hard time with too much
sugar.”

A hard time staying away from it.

My dad coughed and absentmindedly pushed his mashed potatoes around his plate. Lena saw an opportunity to change the subject.
“So Ethan says you’re a writer, Mr. Wate. What kind of books do you write?”

My dad looked up at her, but didn’t say anything. He probably didn’t even realize Lena was talking to him.

“Mitchell’s workin’ on a new book. It’s a big one. Maybe the most important one he’s ever written. And Mitchell’s written
a mess a books. How many is it now, Mitchell?” Amma asked, like she was talking to a child. She knew how many books my dad
had published.

“Thirteen,” he mumbled.

Lena wasn’t discouraged by my dad’s frightening social skills, even though I was. I looked at him, hair uncombed, black circles
under his eyes. When had it gotten this bad?

Lena pressed on. “What’s your book about?”

My dad came back to life, animated for the first time this evening. “It’s a love story. It’s really been a journey, this book.
The great American novel. Some might say
The Sound and the Fury
of my career, but I can’t really talk about the plot. Not really. Not at this point. Not when I’m so close… to…” He was rambling.
Then he just stopped talking, like someone had flipped a switch in his back. He stared at my mom’s empty chair as he drifted
away.

Amma looked anxious. Aunt Caroline tried to distract everyone from what was quickly becoming the most embarrassing night of
my life. “Lena, where did you say you moved here from?”

But I couldn’t hear her answer. I couldn’t hear anything. Instead, all I could see was everything moving in slow motion. Blurring,
expanding and contracting, like the way heat waves look as they move through the air.

Then—

The room was frozen, except it wasn’t. I was frozen. My father was frozen. His eyes were narrow, his lips rounded to form
sounds that hadn’t had a chance to escape his lips. Still staring at the plateful of mashed potatoes, untouched. The Sisters,
Aunt Caroline, and Marian were like statues. Even the air was perfectly still. The pendulum of the grandfather clock had stopped
in mid-swing.

Ethan? Are you all right?

I tried to answer her, but I couldn’t. When Ridley had me in her death grip, I had been sure I was going to freeze to death.
Now I was frozen, except I wasn’t cold and I wasn’t dead.

“Did I do this?” Lena asked aloud.

Only Amma could answer. “Cast a Time Bind? You? About as likely as this turkey hatchin’ a gator.” She snorted. “No, you didn’t
do this, child. This is bigger than you. The Greats figured it was time we had ourselves a talk, woman to woman. Nobody can
hear us now.”

Except me. I can hear you.

But the words didn’t come out. I could hear them talking, but I couldn’t make a sound.

Amma looked up at the ceiling, “Thank you, Aunt Delilah. ’Preciate the help.” She walked over to the buffet and cut a piece
of pumpkin pie. She put it on a fancy china plate and laid the plate in the center of the table. “Now I’m gonna leave this
piece for you and the Greats, and you be sure to remember I did.”

“What’s going on? What did you do to them?”

“Didn’t do anything to
them
. Just bought us some time, I reckon.”

“Are you a Caster?”

“No, I’m just a Seer. I see what needs to be seen, what no one else can see, or wants to.”

“Did you stop time?” Casters could do that, stop time. Lena had told me. But only incredibly powerful ones.

“I didn’t do a thing. I only asked the Greats for some
assistance
and Aunt Delilah obliged.”

Lena looked confused, or frightened. “Who are the Greats?”

“The Greats are my family from the Otherworld. They give me some help every now and again, and they’re not alone. They’ve
got others with them.” Amma leaned across the table, looking Lena in the eye. “Why aren’t you wearin’ the bracelet?”

“What?”

“Didn’t Melchizedek give it to you? I told him you needed to wear it.”

“He gave it to me, but I took it off.”

“Now why would you go and do a thing like that?”

“We figured out it was blocking the visions.”

“It was blockin’ somethin’ all right. Until you stopped wearin’ it.”

“What was it blocking?”

Amma reached out and took Lena’s hand in her own, turning it over to reveal her palm. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell
you this, child. But Melchizedek, your family, they aren’t gonna tell you, not one a them. And you need to be told. You need
to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

Amma looked at the ceiling, mumbling under her breath. “She’s comin’, child. She’s comin’ for you, and she’s a force to be
reckoned with. As Dark as night.”

“Who? Who’s coming for me?”

“I wish they’d told you themselves. I didn’t want to be the one. But the Greats, they say somebody has to tell you before
it’s too late.”

“Tell me what? Who’s coming, Amma?”

Amma pulled a small pouch that was dangling from a leather cord around her neck out of her shirt and clutched it, lowering
her voice like she was afraid someone might hear her. “Sarafine. The Dark One.”

“Who’s Sarafine?”

Amma hesitated, clutching the pouch even tighter.