Homecoming (26 page)

“I don't think you ladies like me very much,” David slurred. “I can't imagine why. You hardly know me.”

“I don't care who you are,” Lyse said, shaking with anger. “I want you to leave!”

David shook his head no, his movements as jerky as a marionette's.

“I assure you,” he bellowed, swaying back and forth, “that I have just as much of a right to be here as you do!”

“And what makes you say that?” Arrabelle yelled back at him.

“I'm Eleanora's son. This was her house, so now it's mine.”

“Nope, I don't think so,” Arrabelle said, almost laughing with the joy of getting to stick it to him. “This house belongs to all of us.”

“So when Lyse tells you to get the hell out of her house,” Daniela said, grinning, “she means it.”

“Then I'll be back for you,” David growled, pointing his finger at Lyse.

“Like hell you will,” Lyse shot back, glaring at him.

“Oh, I will.” He grinned, his eyes wild. “And when I do, none of you
witches
will be able to stop me.”

He turned to go, but Daniela called after him:

“She's already been inducted, asshole.”

He stopped, his shoulders drooping. Then he whirled around, his face twisted with rage.

“Liar,” he hissed, grasping the back of the chair with his hands. “I don't believe you.”

“I assure you that it's the truth,” Dev said, primly. “She consummated her relationship with the Horned God.”

David gripped the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

“These things can be undone—”

“Yeah, have fun with that,” Daniela said, and cackled. “But if you know anything about us, then you know how tricky it is to unbind someone from their coven once they've given themselves freely to the Horned God.”

“You think you're so smart,” he spat at them, slamming the chair down in his anger, causing one of its legs to snap in two. “But The Flood is coming and it will rip you apart.”

He released his hold on the back of the chair, and it tipped over onto the floor.

“See?” he said. “All broken.”

Then he weaved his way toward the back door, fumbled drunkenly with the lock, and let himself out.

The four of them stayed frozen in place until the door slammed shut, and then Daniela sat down at the table and picked up David's empty mug, rolling it between her hands.

“Just FYI, you guys, but Lyse's uncle or not, I'm pretty sure that was the bastard who broke into my house. I didn't get a good look at him until you dosed him—but the eyes . . . they were the same.”

“We should call the police—” Dev started to say, but Daniela shook her head.

“No, there's nothing they can do.” She turned to look at Lyse. “And you, who the hell knew you had it in you?”

Lyse blushed.

“That was genius,” Dev said, hugging first Lyse and then Arrabelle. “What made you think of it?”

“I don't know,” Lyse said. “But what that man said about Eleanora . . . It was wrong. She was abused, was forced to do things she didn't want to do. She gave up the babies for a reason. I know it.”

“Poor Eleanora,” Dev said. “And none of us had any idea.”

Lyse's gaze settled on Daniela.

“You did.”

“Eleanora and my mother were best friends,” Daniela replied. “Of course, I had an inkling that there was more to the story. But all of this is beside the point right now.”

“What do you mean?” Arrabelle asked.

“I'm sorry to be the one to say this . . .” She paused, looking around at the worried faces of her fellow blood sisters. “But no one is safe here.”

L
izbeth sat on the edge of the deck with Marji and Ginny, watching the carp in Eleanora's koi pond break the surface of the water and collect bits of bread the girls threw down for them. She was glad the sunset fell so early in October, enfolding this side of the house in its protective shadow. She'd been unsettled by the arrival of the strange man with the gray hair and green eyes, and she wanted to hide away from him.

That was why she'd volunteered to watch Dev's girls after the reception was over.

To keep them occupied, Lizbeth had stolen some bread from the long table of food in the living room, helping the girls roll tiny bread pellets between their fingers and lob them into the water.

“LB?” Marji said, as she reached for Lizbeth's hand.

Dev's girls were sweethearts, always wanting to hold your hand or tell you a funny little story.

“LB?” Marji said again.

Lizbeth nodded, so Marji would know she'd heard her.

“LB, do you ever talk to ghosts?” Marji asked, their entwined hands swinging over the wooden decking.

Lizbeth picked up her sketch pad and began to write. It was hard to get so many thoughts down at once, but over the years she'd learned to be succinct. When she was done, she let the sketch pad drop onto her lap, so both girls could read it:

There are spirits around us always.

“I know that, silly,” Marji said, playfully slapping at Lizbeth's arm. “But do
you
talk to them?”

Ginny was becoming more interested in the conversation. Ignoring the fish and the hunk of bread in her hand, she got up from her spot next to Marji and came over to Lizbeth, moving the sketch pad so she could plop down in Lizbeth's lap.

“Braid my hair?” she asked, leaning back into Lizbeth's chest.

Lizbeth took a handful of brown hair from the crown of Ginny's head and began to weave it together, twisting the pieces until every last strand had been pulled into a French braid.

“Ginny!” Marji cried, annoyed with her little sister for hogging Lizbeth's hands. “How can she talk when you're making her do that?”

“She can talk to you later,” Ginny said—as if this solved everything.

“Not fair,” Marji said, sulking. “I was talking to her first.”

“She's fast. She's almost done.”

What Ginny said was true. Lizbeth had nimble fingers, and she was already securing the braid in place with a rubber band she kept wound around her wrist for just such occasions.

“But I need to ask her this stuff
now
,” Marji whined, then threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine. I quit.”

Ginny, having won that round, smiled broadly.

“You're faster than Mommy and you don't pull too hard,” she said, and patted Lizbeth's arm.

Lizbeth smiled, pleased such a simple task could make them both happy.

“And you always make it straight—”

They heard the back door slam, and then a moment later the green-eyed stranger was walking toward them, his steps slow and uncertain. He stopped a few feet away from the girls, one foot on the curved arch of the bridge, and gave them a strange, dark smile.

“Be careful, girls,” he said, his slurred speech belying the threat behind his words. “Wouldn't want one of you to fall in. It's an old wives' tale that witches float.”

Ginny stiffened in Lizbeth's lap, her face scrunching up in anger.

“The Flood is coming. Remember that, girls.”

Chilling words, from a chilling man. He made a move to go, but his knees seemed to crumple beneath him. He grabbed the handrail and righted himself. He didn't wait for a reaction. Just continued over the bridge—weaving back and forth with that slow, awkward gait—and then he was gone.

“He was mean, LB,” Ginny said, wrapping her arms around Lizbeth's neck.

Lizbeth looked over at Marji, who sat in silence, chewing at her bottom lip.

“We're not witches,” Marji whispered, and Lizbeth snaked an arm around her thin shoulders, pulling her close.

No, not witches,
Lizbeth thought.
At least, not yet.

*   *   *

Weir's old Volvo station wagon idled on the street in front of Eleanora's house, tailpipe exuding white smoke. Lizbeth was intimidated by the car, and no matter how many times Weir tried to teach her how to drive it, she just couldn't get comfortable behind its wheel.

She didn't have a license—she doubted she ever would—but Weir encouraged her to be self-sufficient, which included at least knowing how to drive, so if there was ever an emergency, she wouldn't be stuck. He'd also made sure she knew how to use the ATM. He wanted her to be able to have access to money if he wasn't around.

She dutifully learned how to make the bank machines work, but that didn't mean she liked them. To her, they were like giant, all-seeing eyes, recording everything she did. She hated that some unknown person might be watching her fidgeting as she entered her passcode, or that they knew she was wearing a particular outfit on a particular date, or that she'd worn her hair down, or brought a purse, or . . . Well, the list was endless.

She'd read in one of Weir's old
National Geographic
s that some native tribes believed that taking a person's picture was tantamount to stealing their soul—and she believed it.

Though she didn't think it was possible to live in a modern world and not be photographed—there were just too many cameras.

“All right, kiddo,” Weir said, as he climbed out of the driver's seat and walked around to open the passenger door for her.

She held up her sketch pad as he approached, and he froze when he saw what she'd written:

Are you dating Lyse now?

“No,” he said, shifting his eyes away—a sure sign he wasn't being completely honest. “Not dating. Just spending time together. Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know.”

She found it very endearing, this need of his to blur the meaning of things and soften the rough edges of the truth.

Lizbeth had heard him and Lyse the other night, in his bedroom, talking and laughing. It made her happy to hear Weir laugh. He didn't do it enough.

“No more third degree. Get in the car,” Weir said, giving her a brotherly push toward her seat.

She grinned back at him and climbed into the car, watching as he shut the door behind her. She wanted him to confide in her, to tell her about him and Lyse—but then she realized he might not want to say anything out loud. Just in case he jinxed it. She understood wanting to keep some things private. There were many special things in her life. Things she didn't share with anyone. Not Weir, not her sketch pad . . . They were for her mind only.

Before her brother could even begin to get around to the driver's side of the car, she was pulling out her pen and writing something new. She held the sketch pad up for him to see:

Take me to the Dragon?

“Right now?” he said, as he fastened his seat belt. “It's gonna be dark soon.”

She knew the night was lying in wait for her, but she wanted to go to the clearing. The tall lady from her dreams had told Lizbeth something was hidden there. She didn't tell Lizbeth what it was, but she encouraged the girl to go soon, before somebody else found it.

Before something really bad happened.

Since Eleanora's death, Lizbeth hadn't felt safe. Dev had told her that Eleanora died because she was sick. That her old heart hadn't been able to take all the chemotherapy and stress—but Lizbeth didn't believe this.

In her dream the night before, she'd tried to ask the tall lady about it, but Lizbeth had woken up before she could give an answer.

Lizbeth wrote a word on the sketch pad and turned it in Weir's direction:

Please?

Her older brother could deny her nothing.

He sighed and put the car in gear.

“We're not going for long,” he said, eyes on the road ahead. “I know you like it in Elysian Park, but there are all kinds of weirdos out there. Dudes who would take advantage of you in a millisecond.”

Lizbeth tried to imagine what kind of a man had the musculature to overpower her. She was a monster, tall and ungainly, and much stronger than she looked. It would take a man her equal to best her—and she hadn't come across many of those.

Her brother was one. Taller than Lizbeth, he could beat her up if he wanted to, but that wasn't his way. Weir was the sweetest, kindest human being she'd ever known, and he wouldn't hurt a fly unless he was protecting someone he loved.

“You're young. You think you're invincible,” Weir was saying. “That's just not true. You have to be smart and keep your eyes open.”

Weir was overprotective, but not usually
this
bad. Lizbeth wondered if the circumstances of Eleanora's death had unsettled him, too.

She wrote something on her sketch pad, but waited until he slowed down for a stop sign to show it to him:

Bad juju in the air.

Weir gave it a cursory glance, then took his foot off the brake.

“Yup,” he said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. “You feel it, too?”

She nodded. Of course, she felt it.

“This thing with Eleanora . . . and Lyse . . . I don't know,” he said. “Something weird is going on.”

Again, Lizbeth nodded. Weir was speaking her language.

“You've always been sensitive. Even as a baby . . .” He trailed off, then stopped speaking completely when he noticed how tense the conversation was making her.

Lizbeth could not talk about the past. Weir understood this about her and was usually vigilant about not saying anything that would set her off.

“I'm sorry,” he said, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. “I wasn't thinking.”

She began to rock back and forth in her seat, the trip to the park forgotten. She closed her eyes, shutting him out as she retreated into her own private world where none of the bad stuff could touch her.

When it happened, it was like she became split into two distinct entities: There was the terrified child, who couldn't speak but could shut Lizbeth down with a snap of its fingers. The cognizant part of Lizbeth was aware, knew the terrified child was hiding, locking them both away inside Lizbeth's brain for protection, but it possessed zero power to stop it once it started.

This was how it went, time and time again, the irrational child in her brain dominating the logical adult part until some arbitrary switch was flipped and the lockdown was rescinded. She hated that she couldn't control it. She didn't want to retreat, didn't want to wall herself up in her own mind. Thankfully, the episodes happened far less frequently than when she was in the institution.

But still, she longed for them to stop altogether.

“Lizbeth?” She heard Weir's voice trying desperately to reach her, but it was no use.

Don't waste your breath, sweet brother,
she thought.
I'm locked up tight in here.

She wished he could hear her.