Opal Fire (11 page)

The caption read:
In a 42-14 sweep, the Amethyst Eagles beat the Briertown Bucks. Shown here is Matthew Huckleberry, homecoming king, and his date, Kathy Sims, of Culver City.

Culver City. Clever Costumes. Bingo.

Cin was reading over my shoulder and I heard a small gasp leave her lips. My eyes were glued to the page and I read the caption again.

“What are you thinking, Stacy?” she asked softly.

Matt Huckleberry was Huck’s son from his second marriage. The paper indicated he was a senior in 1989 and although I didn’t really know him since he was much older than me, he was a celebrity of sorts having carried the team to the state championship for four consecutive years.

I looked over my shoulder at Cinnamon. “We have a name.”

Cin groaned. “Huckleberry.”

I traced the photo with my fingers. “No, cuz, I mean Sims.” I picked up the newspaper, studying the girl’s face. “Kathy Sims.”

CHAPTER 13

It was that time of year when the sky darkens so early you can’t tell if it’s dinnertime or bedtime, but I was sure it was getting late and Thor was probably turning blue. Cinnamon agreed to drive me home but she had to pick up Mario first at Angelica’s request.

An only child myself, I supposed the bonds of sibling love were loosely tied.

Cin led the way up the steps and I followed her. Aunt Angelica would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t at least pop in and say ‘hello’, so I did, against my better judgment.

She was tinkering in her workshop, a rich marinara piping out the essential oils of basil and parsley. Pavarotti floated from the CD player.

“Hi Aunt Angelica,” I said leaning in to kiss her cheek. She hugged me with one arm, concentrating on the sauce.

“Stacy, my little cannoli, you stay for supper?”

“Sorry, just tagging along for a ride,” I said.

“Well, I fix a plate for you to take.” She reached for a ceramic bowl with pasta in it just as Mario walked into the kitchen.

“
Che curve,
” he said. This was directed at me, although I had no idea what he said.

Angelica heard it too and smacked her brother upside the head with a wooden spoon, so I assumed it wasn’t exactly an appropriate comment.

Cinnamon’s annoyance quota for the day had been met, which she made clear by announcing, “Uncle Mario, we go. NOW.”

“
Un momento,
Cinnamon,” Mario said, winking. He bent over the kitchen table, which I noticed was swathed in a black velvet cloth, and began extracting gold watches from his pocket, lining them alongside one another on top of the cloth. Then he pulled out a few gold nugget rings and placed them next to the watches. He stopped and looked at me, holding out a pinky ring. “Stacy, for your boyfriend, hah?”

Although Leo could pass for a key member of the Greek Mafia, I wasn’t about to encourage that look.

“No, thanks, Mario,” I said.

“Eh, too bad,” he told my cleavage.

A few minutes later, we pulled up to the inn and I thanked Cin and sprinted around the side to the door of my cottage, hoping Thor hadn’t destroyed the couch. The lock hardly clicked over when the dog rushed out, claiming the nearest tree as his own.

Moonlight was sprawled across my desk. He stretched, yawned and meowed at the same time, then hopped on my shoulder and rode me to the kitchen.

I was preparing dinner for the three of us, making a mental note to call Gladys and request a rain check, when the text alarm sounded on my phone. I put Moonlight’s dish on the counter, opened the door to call Thor, and placed his food on the floor. The pasta circled the microwave as I sat down with a glass of milk to read the message.

FROM: Birdie 7:12PM. Home tomorrow. Danger lurks. Feathers, a bow, a warning. Careful. Keep reading the book.

I thought about the rock crashing through my back door window. Then I thought about Monique in her stupid cupid costume with the bow and arrow and heart shaped feathers. Then I deleted the message. Next, I gave Gladys a ring and asked if we could have dinner another time.

The sauce was thick, rich with layers of garlic and oregano that danced perfectly together. I wondered what Kathy’s last meal was. Her thoughts, before she took her last breath. And what role, if any, had Mr. Huckleberry played in her life.

My stomach full of Angelica’s food, I showered, slipped into flannel PJs, then spent about an hour surfing the internet for Kathy Sims’ parents last known address. It seemed they still lived in Culver City after all this time, if I had the right family. Hopefully they’d be up for company in the morning.

The information printed and my fur kids soundly sleeping, I settled on the couch and cracked open the elusive book of my family theology, apprehensive and eager at the same time to discover its secrets.

The pages were thick, the binding in surprisingly good shape. The first fifty or so were penned in a sharp, decisive script that I knew belonged to my great grandmother, Maegan Geraghty. There was a hand-sketched map of Ireland, labeled with landmarks, rivers and cities. A tree outlined my familial descendents, whose history reached back to the Druids. The Celtic tribe they founded settled near County Kildare, Ireland.

Maegan wove tales around wise women, like Birdie, who healed the sick through medicine grown and cultivated with their own hands. There were recipes for tonics, potions, and poultices, with specific details for applying each one.

She spoke of mediators, like Fiona, who calmed tempers and settled disputes. The triads were spelled out there too, Celtic laws of three regarding everything from land ownership to family quarrels. Truth, honor, respect and diplomacy were the words that repeated over and over.

There were also stories about women of the hearth like Lolly, who stoked the fires and cooked the meals. Enchantments were splashed across the margins of every page, from protecting the home, to safe travel, to mending a broken heart, showcased in step-by-step detail.

Maegan also wrote of high priestesses singing the dying to sleep, of elderly prophets and courageous warriors. There was an intricate drawing of the Wheel of the Year, explaining the eight Sabbats of the pagan religion, and discussions on the Roman Invasion, the Burning Times, and the Salem Witch Trials.

I was mesmerized by the melody of her words, the rhythm of her ink strokes. Her stories entranced and inspired me, both in the language she used to relay them and the moral woven into each one. The tales filled me with an admiration for the men and women who have gone before me, and a pride in the Geraghty name, that I never quite felt before. Now, I felt a little ashamed of that.

Hours passed before I finally looked at the clock. When I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I closed the book, stretched, yawned, and shuffled to the bathroom. It was getting late and tomorrow would be a long day. Birdie was coming home, which meant I might be obligated to console Gramps. I usually ate breakfast at the inn on Sundays, if I wasn’t helping out, which meant I could run into Smalls. Plus there was the visit to the Sims’, a good thirty-minute drive with church traffic. I brushed my teeth, gulped some water, and flipped off the light.

When I returned to the living room, the book was upside down on the floor, open. I glanced at Thor sprawled across the carpet, one brown eye following me.

“Were you on the couch?” I asked. He sneezed in response.

I wagged a finger at him and knelt to pick up the book. My hands grazed the binding when something gripped my shoulder and I froze.

Nails, long ones, lightly fingering my sleep shirt.

Had I not just relieved myself, another shower would have been in order.

I glanced at Thor again. He was still watching me. Surely, if someone were touching me, he’d growl, bark or attack, right?

Thor lifted his huge head, perked his ears, and cocked his snout, sniffing the air. He stared at something just over my head.

I still couldn’t move.

And then, warmth hugged me, like being wrapped in an afghan delivered straight from the dryer. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.

Just your imagination, Stacy. Deep breaths, happy thoughts.

That’s when the voice came. Soft and fluid, like a birdsong.

As the surviving matriarch, it is my duty to pass knowledge to my children and to my children’s children. Throughout the ages, our histories have been sung around bonfires, whispered near hollyhocks, gasped from deathbeds. But with a New World comes new traditions. And so, my purpose for putting ink to paper is twofold. The first–to keep the spirit of our ancestors alive. The second—and most important—so the next Seer in the Geraghty clan will know she will not walk the path alone. There are few of us. Your challenge is great, my child. Let your dreams guide you, your strength carry you, and the truth light the way.

I sat back on my heels after the voice faded, wondering if that was a hallucination or if Angelica had spiked the pasta sauce.

The book still within reach, I feathered the binding with my thumb, yearning to flip it over, but afraid there’d be a message like, “Yes, Stacy there is a Seer.”

I turned it over anyway and the text was there in black and white. Every word I just heard in my mind, there on the page. I didn’t remember reading it, but I must have before I closed it shut.

That was the only reasonable explanation.

I ignored the part of me that knew very well there was no such thing as reasonable when it came to the Geraghty Girls. But more importantly, was Maegan referring to me? Did Birdie think I was a Seer? Because if that was the case, then I sucked at it. Besides, she told me I was The Seeker of Justice. So how can one be both?

Unless...was she referring to my mother? Was she the Seer? Was it too much to bear?

Or was it someone else entirely?

A loud thump rattled my thoughts as Thor surfed the countertop. I yelled at him to get down and he did. Then he came over to me, sat and pawed at the air, whining loudly.

“What?” I asked. He rested on his haunches and I caught both paws in my arms for a second as he reared up. Then he jumped down, grunted and trotted back to the counter, now pacing.

“What? There’s no food on the counter,” I told him.

He threw me a disgusted look, curled his teeth around something near the toaster, and tossed it at my feet.

I recognized the purple protection sachet that Fiona made for me and scratched Thor behind the ears. “Good Boy!” I couldn’t believe I forgot to hang that thing after she scolded me once already.

I carried the book to my bedroom, flipping through pages of spells, ritual recipes, and crystal enchantments, marking the last page I read before setting it on the dresser. Then went back and scooped up the herbal pouch, untying the ribbon as I approached the threshold. I hung it from the entryway light. That done, I hit the lights and crawled into bed.

He’s here. I’ve been waiting so long for this. Tonight I tell him. It’s dark. Cold. He leans in and whispers, “Kathy,” as my supple face shrinks into a leathery shell and life slips from my body.

I woke up gasping for air and accidentally launched Moonlight off the bed. Bright sunlight penetrated the shade, casting a colorful prism on the far wall of my room.

Just a dream. That’s all. A vivid, disgusting dream.

I threw the covers off the bed and climbed into a robe and slippers. Eyes at half-mast, the kitchen was the first stop because that’s where the coffee was. Thor darted for the front door, so after the pot was set to brew, I opened it for him. He galloped out, but then forgot he had to pee as his nose coaxed him to my wicker rocker. There, a chicken sat with my name on it. Literally.

I shook my head. “Gladys.”

The note was taped to a red cellophane bag tied with a bow. My hands trembled from the cold as I read it.
Made especially for you, Stacy.

For some reason, Gladys thinks I can’t cook. Maybe it’s because Cinnamon can operate a drive-through window better than her own stove, and that reflected on me, but the truth was, I loved to cook and I was pretty good at it. It’s just not that fun cooking for one and I’ve eaten enough cold dinners waiting for Leo to finish working that it wasn’t worth the effort.

My stomach rumbled as I tucked the chicken into the fridge, searching for nourishment. I decided on a yogurt. Mmm. Blueberry. My favorite. I shut the refrigerator door, flipped the top off the yogurt and was just about to dip in when I stopped.

Something about that chicken was odd. Aside from the fact that it was left on my front porch, I mean.

I peaked in the fridge. Without my jolt of coffee, my mind was jogging to catch up with my eyes.

There was string tied around the legs of the bird. Sure, that was normal. People tie the legs together before they roast a chicken.

Wow. Was I paranoid.

I shut the fridge and leaned against it.

A familiar feeling crept into my stomach and this time, I recognized it.

Uh-oh. Harmful intent. My eyes jumped to attention.

Moonlight snaked through my legs as I opened the fridge for the third time.

String on the legs. Normal.

Wire sticking out of its ass? Not so much.

I slammed the fridge shut, grabbed my cat by the scruff, and dove out the front door just before the explosion.