Witch's Bell Book One (23 page)

Ebony struggled, trying to get her key
to work in her lock. She hadn't locked the damn house since she'd
bought it three years ago, and now the thing seemed rusted over.
But she persevered, teeth clenched so hard she was sure she was
about to break her jaw.

Finally she set off to work. Who knew
what the time was, certainly not her. Maybe 9:15 already, maybe
even 9:30?

As Ebony rushed down the
street, she realized with a horrible jolt that she didn't even know
the bus schedule, the train schedule, or any other useful titbit of
information about the public transport system. She didn't even know
where to wait for a bus. While Ebony didn't have a car of her own,
she hardly ever took public transport. It was another thing about
being a witch
– Ebony simply found a way, when she needed one. She would
ask, politely, and the universe would deliver.

But now Ebony was streaking down the
street, her comfortable granny-loafers padding along, while her
giant, paint-accident hippie sleeves streamed behind her in the
wind.

Her mother had always had a
theory about witches and clothing, though Ebony had ignored it up
until now. What a witch wore showed more than her mood, her mother
would warn. What a witch wore showed the condition and expectation
of the mind. The shape, the color, the contour, the pattern
– all revealed the
harmony within. Well, if her mother was right, then Ebony was now
as discordant as a bunch of three-year-olds hammering out a
self-composition on upturned pots and pans.

Finally Ebony found a bus stop. She
tried concertedly to not be bothered by the odd looks she received
from the people around her. One woman stood politely to one side,
seeming to concentrate entirely too hard on keeping her mouth in a
straight line. A young kid just cracked a grin wider than the
Pacific Ocean and pulled his phone from his pocket, pretending to
key in a text message while he took several photos of the
hilariously dressed, temporarily magic-less witch.

Ebony was about ready to
throttle them all, or just go home and return to her sweat pants
and t-shirt, when an old lady drew up beside her. She took one look
at Ebony's fake crocodile skin granny-loafers, and cooed.
“Oooohh, those look
so comfortable, dear.”

At first Ebony looked at the woman
carefully, trying to check that the old-timer wasn't about to crack
a joke.

“
I haven't seen those for
years,” the old woman seemed truly delighted. “They're so stylish,
and yet so comfortable.”

Ebony just took a breath and
released herself into the confusing, irritating, uncontrollable
situation
–
like a person shrugging their shoulders and jumping off the cliff.
“Thanks,” she looked down at her loafers, moving her feet to and
fro, “they are pretty comfortable, actually.”

The kid to Ebony's side just
guffawed with laughter, being more open about taking photos of
Ebony. He even muttered a quiet,
“freak.”

Ebony tried to mumble a curse
back, but then stopped, realizing it had no chance at all of
working. So
... she just stood there. The once proud, saucy, confident
witch simply stood there and took the insult ....

“
You ignore him, dear,” said the
old woman, still admiring the loafers with obvious appreciation
painted over her elderly face. “He's wearing silly shoes that
hardly fit him. In sixty years he's going to have bunions all over
his toes and arthritic joints. Then we'll see whose
laughing.”

Ebony couldn't help but smile.
It was a different smile though, she realized with a strange sense
of detachment. Ebony usually peeled back her lipstick-clad lips to
reveal her teeth gracefully
– thoroughly in control. But now ... it was hard
to explain, but she was smiling for the woman, not at her. She was
smiling because of what the woman had said, for the brief moment of
camaraderie that she'd afforded Ebony on this apocalyptic
morning.

It sent a flicker of something
unrecognizable through Ebony. But before she had time to wonder at
it, the bus pulled up. The bus driver gave Ebony a thorough
look
–
starting from her unkempt hair, lingering at her tight satin skirt,
and ending at her commendable granny-loafers. “Red light district?”
he quipped. “Or you doing the rounds at the nursing homes?” his
face squeezed up with a frankly awful, objectifying
look.

Ebony, once again, opened her
mouth to proudly hex the blighter right in his face
– but stopped. She
didn't have magic – she didn't have magic. All that confidence, all
that power, it was gone.

So she just stood there, looked to the
side a bit, then took her ticket and moved to the furthest end of
the bus. She sat carefully, wrapping her arms around her, and
trying to make as little of herself seen as would be possible,
considering her impossibly colorful get-up.

Why were people so cruel?

It wasn't a question she'd ever
asked herself. Well, she had, but not in the same way. Ebony had
watched the news sometimes, seen the terrible things people can do
to each other. She'd heard stories too, and hell, she'd worked for
the police department. Ebony knew the great potential of man to
hate fellow man
... but never in this way. It seemed so useless, so
pointless. Why objectify someone for the way they looked, why ruin
their day? What were the kid and bus driver thinking they'd get out
of dragging Ebony down? A pat on the back? A sweetie? A feeling of
accomplishment?

Ebony saw her reflection in the glass
of the bus window. She stared at it. Not like she usually did,
though. Now Ebony saw the lines, the marks, the shadows, the
imperfections.

She became increasingly aware
of the bracelets about her wrists and the choker around her neck.
They felt like shackles, like chains securing her in the worst of
prisons. She longed to just rip them off and toss them out the
window. Then she could return to her ordinary life, she assured
herself. There would be none of this self-doubt, none of this
uncertainty and confusion. She would be a witch again
– a cut above the
rest. She would understand, unlike these idiot buffoons, she would
know the ways of the universe in its entirety.

But the thought, which she had
hoped would rally her, soon fell back against the cool mood
swirling inside Ebony. Somehow the knowledge that she was a witch
seemed far more fragile than usual
– was filled with less of the power that
had once enabled Ebony to sing through her life, hair sparkling,
smile twinkling. Because, after all, it wasn't helping her now. She
didn't understand the emotions swelling within her – or the need of
her fellow bus passengers to be so cruel – any the more for being a
witch.

By the time Ebony had reached
her destination, she trundled off the bus with a proper feeling of
dejection settling upon her. It felt like rain clouds descending
from above
–
clouds that were going to signal a heavy and unrelenting downpour
of hideousness for the next month. The sun seemed all but gone from
Ebony's life right now.

The old woman leaned over the
railing just as Ebony was trundling down the stairs, her mind set
on ignoring the bus driver's back-shivering glances.
“Dear, you have a
good day, won't you?”

Ebony looked up. Was that a
question? And if so, how was she to answer?
“I'll try,” she said after a
moment, smiling back at the old woman.

“
With shoes like that,” the old
woman settled back into her seat, handbag clutched before her,
“nothing will get in your way.”

Ebony just laughed gently, finally
stepping off the bus. As it drew away from the curve behind, Ebony
felt even more confused than before. How could this be, she
wondered with a shake of her head, how could her mood change so
quickly, with such little reason? Seconds before she'd been ready
to crawl back to bed and camp under the covers for the next several
weeks. But now Ebony could see the barest crack of light on the
horizon.

As Ebony walked through the great big
doors at the front of the department, she noticed the swelling
uncertainty in her stomach even more. She felt like rubbing her
arms, and cuddling into a jacket. But with nothing to cuddle in
sight, she just walked on.

Several passing officers gave her
curious looks, but they lacked the edge of objectification that
Ebony had just experienced.

Officer Barnes did crack into a
giant grin, waggling his eyebrows at her as she passed.
“That's quite a
statement you're making there, Eb.”

Ebony sucked in her lips, not
sure whether to try to defend herself, ignore it, or tell the
officer to get stuffed. She just shrugged.
“This is how ordinary people dress,
right?”

The officer nodded.
“If they're from an
‘80s b-film about grandmas on crack.”

Ebony felt her heart drop even
further, her usual defenses abandoning her like cats in the
rain.

“
But you know what,” he tipped
his head at her, “if anyone can pull it off, it's you.” He gave her
a final flash of his smile, before disappearing down the
corridor.

Once again, Ebony was left feeling
thoroughly confused. She just couldn't get a handle on this
situation. One moment she was being torn down by what people
thought of her, the next she was being rebuilt anew. How did people
manage it? How did they negotiate the depths of their own identity
while they were constantly being remade in the eyes of
others?

With heavy, melancholic, but
philosophical thoughts whirling in her mind, Ebony took the stairs
up to her floor. Not that it was her floor, not that she even had
an office there, but it was where she had to be.

She walked in to see a room
full of people hard at work. All faces she knew, she assured
herself, and thus, all people she was comfortable with. But whether
it was her peculiar mood or the fact she rarely came into the
office to do anything other than swan about and joke with
people
– she
was starting to pick up details she'd never noticed before. She saw
the photo of Percy's dead wife on his desk – always reverently set
to one side, while the rest of his desk drowned under paperwork.
Ebony saw the coffee cup on Shirley's desk – the one with the crazy
happy face painted on it. Ebony also made out the desktop
background image on Michelle's computer – a photo of a squirrel
holding a nut, looking wide eyed and shocked, as the caption
confidently announced that it was about to get it's nuts
busted.

Little tiny details of personality now
blinked out at Ebony like brightly wrapped Easter eggs hidden in a
familiar room. She'd never seen these things, but now she couldn't
help but notice them.

“
Ebony,” Ben marched up to her,
eyebrows peaking at the sight of her strange clothes, “you mugged
by hippies? Is that why you're so late?” he quickly added, pointing
at his watch.

Ebony didn't have an immediate
response; she just shrugged, tipping her unkempt hair over one
shoulder. It was strange, but she was suddenly noticing how
comfortable her shoes were. Ebony usually wore the most ridiculous,
toe-incarcerating shoes, just because they looked good. But now,
well, she just stood there with nothing to say, but at least with
happy feet.

Ben ground his teeth, narrowing
his eyes slightly.
“How many days since you've brushed your hair – it looks
like rats are living in it?”

Ebony just shrugged.

“
Okay,” Ben looked as though he
was winding down, an odd, careful look starting to crop up on his
face. “So, are you feeling okay?” Ben's voice had an unusual
edge.

“
I guess,” Ebony patted her hair
away from her face with a heavy swipe of her hand. Her hair was
usually as well behaved as a police dog – but now the stuff was as
wild and impossible as silly-string. “They gave me drugs for the
pain,” she shrugged again, starting to realize she must look like a
disaffected youth. That or her shoulders were attached to strings
like a puppet. “The drugs are pretty good,” she added with a
smile.

Ben's eyes widened, but only
slightly.
“Right,” is all he could manage.

Before he could drag Ebony down
to the drug squad, Nate walked up behind him. Nate's expressions
ran the full gamut, just like Ben's had, but did so quicker. It was
like watching a mime in fast forward. Finally the gruff Detective's
face settled on raising an eyebrow and looking unimpressed.
“You trying out for
the police musical?”

Ebony didn't quip back, she just stood
there. Her shoes were comfortable, she reminded herself, very
comfortable.

“
Or did you cut up sheets from a
cocaine party at an art college?” Nate smiled at his own joke, his
chin dropping, and cheeks fattening.

But, once again, Ebony didn't answer.
She just took a little sigh and stood there.

Blinking, Detective Nate narrowed his
eyes.

“
So, Eb,” Ben tried carefully,
“what was your prescription again?”

“
I haven't overdosed on drugs,”
she said simply and just left it at that.