Low Red Moon (36 page)

“How much longer you got till the happy day?” he asks her directly and grins a little wider.

“Oh, almost any time now,” Narcissa answers quickly, before Chance can. Not that she’s forgotten what the werewolf told her, not a single word, so she only nods for the man and keeps smiling.

“Well then, congratulations,” the man says. “You hoping it’s a boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” Chance replies, and Narcissa hurries her through the door into the warm and greasy diner air.

“Thank you,” Narcissa says to the man in the camouflage jacket. “We sure do appreciate it.”

“No problem, any time at all,” and then to Chance, “Good luck, ma’am.”

There’s an empty booth, sickly avocado-green upholstery and the stuffing poking out in a couple of places, but not too far from the door, and Chance points at it and asks the werewolf if they can please sit there.

“Why not,” it growls very softly. “But I don’t want to hear another goddamn word out of you. I
mean
it.”

“You’re not being very smart, you know,” Chance tells her, trying hard not to slur, to pull her thoughts together, and she taps an index finger against her left temple as Narcissa helps her into the booth. The werewolf stands there, staring down at her a moment or two with those false, unreadable blue, blue eyes, and then she takes the seat facing the diner door.

“Is that a fact?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to tell me
why,
or are we playing twenty fucking questions now?”

Chance takes a laminated menu covered with gaudy color photographs of food from a metal stand behind the salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of ketchup.

“You’re trying so hard not to attract attention,” she says, squinting at the menu, “but you want to do
all
the talking. That guy asked me a simple, harmless question. The only way he would’ve thought there was something funky going on is if I
hadn’t
answered him. Keep this up and, at the very least, you’re gonna have these people thinking we’re a couple of dykes,” and then she’s distracted by two large crows that have lighted near the front bumper of the old Ford and are pecking about at the tarmac.

“Just do what I told you,” Narcissa says. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll order for you.”

“Yeah, that won’t look the least bit suspicious,” Chance says, wanting to laugh but somehow managing not to, not taking her eyes off the glass and the crows. The pair has been joined by a third, and she’s pretty sure they’re the biggest crows she’s ever seen. “You gonna tell the waitress I’m mute or what?”

“Just fucking do what I said,” the werewolf growls. “Decide what you want and stop staring out the goddamn window.”

“Those are three very big crows, aren’t they?” Chance asks, and when Narcissa doesn’t answer, she turns to see what’s wrong, and the werewolf is watching the birds, too, and has one palm pressed flat against the glass. Her eyes are wide and her lips are moving very quickly, shaping words, but there’s no sound coming from her mouth.

“They’re just crows, Narcissa,” Chance says. “I don’t think there are ravens this far south.”

And then a fat woman in a yellow Opryland sweatshirt and hot pink sweatpants is standing beside the booth, a stubby pencil and a pad clutched in her hands, waiting to take their order.

“I want scrambled eggs and toast, please,” Chance says, “and sausage—link sausage—and some—”

“We only have sausage patties,” the fat woman says, scribbling on her pad. Narcissa is still staring out the window and doesn’t even seem to have noticed that Chance is talking to the waitress.

“Patties will be fine. And grits. Do you have grits?”

“No, we don’t,” the fat woman says.

Disappointed, Chance glances at the menu again.

“We got Quaker oatmeal,” the waitress says, “and Cream of Wheat, but we ain’t got grits.”

“No, that’s okay. But I want some orange juice. And a great big glass of milk.”

“Whole or skim?”

“Whole, definitely,” Chance says, and when she returns the menu to its place behind the ketchup bottle, Narcissa’s head snaps suddenly around, fixing her with the fake blue eyes.

“What did you just say to her?” the werewolf growls.

“Whole,” Chance replies. “I asked for whole milk.”

“Is that y’all’s car sitting out there at the pumps?” the waitress asks, and “Yes,” Narcissa replies without bothering to look away from Chance.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to move it. You can’t leave it sitting there while you eat. We might have other customers wanting to buy gas.”

“Yeah. Fine,” Narcissa says, and she reaches across the table for Chance’s hand. “We’ll move it.”

“Oh, no, there ain’t no need for both of you to have to get up,” the waitress says, and then, to Chance, “I mean, not in your condition.”

“And my feet hurt,” Chance says and looks back out the window at the three crows, not particularly surprised to see that they have been joined by a fourth.
Four for a birth,
she thinks. “I can wait here,” she tells the werewolf.

“Sure, you just go ahead and give me your order, ma’am, and then you can pull the car up front here while the food’s cooking.”

“Are you coming?” the werewolf growls, a low rumble building down deep in its throat, like hearing thunder coming from somewhere far away.

“I’ll be fine,” Chance says, feeling sleepy again, wondering lazily if there will be more crows. “I’ll just sit here and wait on you. My feet hurt.”

“Maybe we should just leave.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine, Narcissa.”

The waitress scribbles something else on her pad and then clicks her tongue once, loudly, against the roof of her mouth. “That certainly is an unusual name,” she says. “Narcissa. I don’t think I’ve ever once met anyone named Narcissa before.”

“It’s Greek,” Chance tells her, watching the four crows, and she pulls her hand away before the werewolf can touch her again. “Like Narcissus.”

“Well, I can’t say I ever met anyone named Narcissus before, either.”

“It’s a very old name,” Chance says sleepily, “from a Greek myth. Narcissus was a beautiful young boy who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool of water.”

The waitress clicks her tongue again, but not so loudly as before. “Is that so?” she asks. “Guess I should’ve paid more attention in school,” and Chance nods her head. A fifth crow lands in front of the car, and
Five for rich,
she thinks. The other birds flap their wings and make room for the newcomer.

“Well, anyway, you’ll still have to move your car,” the fat woman says.

“I’ll be fine, Narcissa, I promise. I’m just going to sit right here and wait for my breakfast.”

Narcissa turns back to the window, just in time to see two more crows light on the hood of the Ford.

“Seven for a witch,” Chance says out loud and laughs before she can stop herself.

“Excuse me,” Narcissa growls, sliding quickly out of the booth, pushing her way roughly past the fat waitress. “I’m going to move the goddamn car,” and then to Chance, “I meant what I said. You just remember that.”

“I know,” Chance replies. “I’ll watch from here.”

“You do that,” the werewolf snarls. The cowbell over the door jingles again, and Chance is left alone with the waitress.

“She your sister or something?” the fat woman asks.

“No, I don’t think she has a sister. I think she’s an only child.”

“I only ask ’cause she seems so protective and all. I’m sorry, about the car I mean, but Burt—he’s the owner—he rides my ass about shit like that.”

“No problem. We shouldn’t have left it there. We just forgot to move it.”

“Well, I hope she’s seeing a doctor, your friend, about those burns she’s got. You can’t be too careful about a thing like that.”

“Oh, we’re fine,” Chance replies, and then the black birds all take to the air at once, scattering noisily as Narcissa walks quickly across the parking lot towards them. Chance can hear their wings and taunting, cawing voices, even through the glass.

“Damn dirty crows,” the waitress sneers. “They shit on everything and get in the trash, strew it all around, you know. Someone ought to just kill all the dirty old things and be done with it.”

“Give her time,” Chance whispers, and the fat woman goes away, muttering and clicking her tongue; Chance takes a deep breath, leans her face against the window, and waits for Narcissa to come back.

The murder of crows shatters before her like a living sheet of black glass, each ebony shard an eager, shrieking spy hurrying back to its master’s ears. Feathers and bone and bird flesh to give up all her secrets, and Narcissa stands in the silent space they’ve left and watches as they all shrink down to pinprick stains against the pale mountain sky.

“What the hell are you doing now, child?” Aldous asks. “You never should have stopped here.” Narcissa looks around, but doesn’t see him anywhere. Maybe he’s crouched behind one of the cars or trucks, peering out at her with his dead man’s eyes, but she decides not to try to find him, that she won’t give him the satisfaction.

“
You
saw them,” she says. “The crows. Were you the one who told them where to find me?”

“You left her in there
alone,
Narcissa.”

“Yeah, I did. Now why don’t you leave
me
alone.”

“That fat cunt of a waitress, she knows your name now, and your face. By the time you get back in there, she’ll probably know it all.”

“Did you call the crows down on me, old man?”

“You better forget the damned crows. They were just birds. But those people sitting in that restaurant, they’re all watching you right this moment, and do you know what
they
see?”

Narcissa turns and stares anxiously at the long plate-glass window, the neon
GOOD HOMECOOKING
sign, Chance’s sleepy face gazing back at her.

“I’ll tell you,” Aldous whispers. “They see a madwoman standing in a parking lot, talking to herself. That’s what they see,” and he’s so close now that she can smell the faint scent, like dried sage and mildew, that clings to the flimsy shadows of ghosts.

“At this very moment, I expect that fat cunt is picking up the phone to call the police.”

“No, she isn’t,” Narcissa says and forces herself to turn towards the Ford again, so no one inside can see her lips move. There’s a big gray-white smear of crow shit on the windshield, and she thinks about getting something to wipe it off before it dries.

“She’ll describe you and that pregnant woman. She’ll tell them about your burns. Someone will connect the dots—”

“Get in the car,” another of her voices mutters urgently, one of her killings and it doesn’t much matter which one anymore, far too many for her to count or keep track of, too many faces and everyone’s blood is the same ten thousand shades of red. “Get in the car and drive. If you go right now, right this minute, you might make it. They might not catch you.”

“Oh, they’ll catch her,” Aldous snickers in her ear. “One way or the other, you can bet on it. They’ll catch her and shoot her down like a rabid dog. They’ll catch her and stick her in some jail somewhere to rot until it’s time for her turn in the electric chair.”

“Go to Hell,” Narcissa whispers.

“Been there, child. Been there these past fifteen years, just waiting on you to join me.”

“It won’t be long now,” another of the voices chimes in.

“They’ll have a big ol’ party in that yellow house on Benefit Street,” Aldous says. “Soon as the news gets back, they’ll throw a soirée fit to wake the dead.”

Narcissa takes a hesitant step towards the Ford, and then she sees the child sitting in the backseat, watching her with its deep green eyes that are not quite male and not quite female.

“Everywhere you turn, girl,” her grandfather laughs, “everywhere you’ll ever go, there’s something got its eyes on you.”

“Get in the car and drive. Drive fast.”

“No,” Aldous says mockingly. “She ain’t gonna run, not this one. Not when she’s
so
damn close, not when she’s got Mother Hydra watching her ass and such a fine, plump offering for the hounds.”

The child in the backseat is pointing a finger towards the diner now, and when Narcissa turns around to see, the fat waitress is standing in the open door, hands on her wide pink hips, shouting something Narcissa doesn’t understand. Something she doesn’t hear, because now so many of the voices are talking all at once, crammed in behind her throbbing eyes and squabbling for her attention. But Aldous Snow’s papery voice rises clear above the din.

“I count seven heads,” he says. “But you can’t be sure how many might be hiding in the kitchen. Better get started, girl.”

“Yeah,” Narcissa whispers, as she draws the Browning 9mm from her jacket, pulls back the slide, and aims at the fat woman’s head. “Now shut the fuck up, old man, and let me do this.”

And for an instant, the time it takes to squeeze a trigger, Narcissa sees the world through the eyes of seven crows, looking down on the world from their privileged places in the sky, and through the glassy titan eyes of something ancient and unthinkable, half-buried at the bottom of the sea. She sees herself through the widening eyes of the fat waitress in the doorway, and Chance, and the eyes of the unborn child still watching Narcissa from the backseat of the Thunderbird. And finally, her grandfather’s ghost, her
father’s
ghost, grinning triumphant from the scabby hole he’s dug in her soul. All these things, and more, rolling faster than starlight through her head, damning slide-show blur before the pistol roars and kicks, and the waitress drops like a broken doll.