Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
I stand with my back against the alleyway wall, staring down at the scroll and dagger branded into my palm. One of my premonitions has never stayed with me in such a tangible way before, unless you count the piece of paper that Hot Yoga Grandma scribbled the symbol on. But there’s no denying this. My hand is alive with pain, as if I pressed it against a hot burner.
What is happening to me?
I’m not usually a crier, I swear. But the past few days have proven me wrong. Tears well in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. Since I’m staring down at my palm, they also splash onto the brand, which stings and makes me cry harder.
The monster is dead. I found a sweet, smart, sexy man who wants to be with me. Charlotte and Jess are willing to help me find my parents. And yet, everything is so incredibly, indelibly screwed up. Why can’t I just have a normal life, with normal problems? Why me ?
My pity party of one is interrupted by a soft voice. “Rune?”
I jerk my head up. Mrs. Fontaine is standing at the mouth of the alley, peering in at me, her blue eyes filled with concern. “I thought I heard somebody crying. Whatever is the matter, dear?”
I have no idea if Mrs. Fontaine can see the symbol on my hand, but I’m not inclined to find out. That would open the door to a whole bunch of questions that I have no idea how to answer. I don’t even know how to answer the one she already asked me. “Oh, I’m f-fine,” I say, dashing away my tears with the back of my unwounded hand. “Just too much funnel cake.”
“Uh huh.” She bustles down the alley toward me, clearly not buying it. “Was it that handsome man of yours, the one who’s so fond of computers? Because you’re one of us, Rune, and if he said something to hurt you…”
Despite the fact that she’s about half a foot shorter than me, saying those last words seems to have blown her up to twice her size, like an enraged puffer fish. I can’t help but smile through my tears. “Donovan didn’t say anything. Or do anything, either. It’s not him. I’m fine. Really.”
“Sure you are.” She has hold of my arm now and is towing me out of the alley, so determined that it doesn’t occur to me to resist. “Was it Ella, then? Did she tell you something untoward? I’m always saying she needs to be more careful, that she can’t just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind when she reads those cards. ‘You can do real damage!’ I always tell her. And now look.” She tugs me down the street, then up the steps of a whitewashed Cape Cod. “This is all my fault, really. I told you to go see her. Oh, I feel just terrible.”
“Mrs. Fontaine,” I say, trying to reclaim my arm and the remnants of my dignity, “it’s not her fault either. I just need to go home and um, have a nap.” Or a margarita, heavy on the tequila.
“Nonsense,” she says, opening the bright yellow door and pushing me through. She comes in after me and shuts the door behind her, locking it with a snick.
I blink into the gloom. The whole street must’ve lost power when Charlotte and Jess did, because there are no lights on in here. Objects take vague form in the dimness: what I’m guessing is a coat rack in the corner, the sinuous curve of a staircase off to the right, the gaping maw of a doorway. A savory, spicy scent fills the air—some kind of baked casserole, maybe. “Where am I?”
“My house, of course.” Mrs. Fontaine chuckles. “What, did you think I kidnapped you and dragged you off to some dreadful lair? You always did love to read those fantasy books, Rune. Of course, I have to admit it looks a little odd in here, what with the power being off and all. Just come on through into the other room. We have candles, and Drusilla’s made her famous enchilada casserole. It’ll be just the thing to perk you up. Come, come.”
She hooks her arm through mine again, like the world’s most cheerful tugboat, and pulls me through the doorway into the room beyond. And there, seated on cushions on the floor around a circle of candles, are Mrs. Grant, Mrs. Hernandez, and the Seer of Sapphire Springs herself, Ella Campbell.
At the sight of us, Ella raises those perfectly drawn eyebrows. “Found a stray, Louise?”
“Oh, you.” Mrs. Fontaine waves a dismissive hand in her direction, then gestures toward one of two empty cushions. “I told you I heard someone crying, Ella. And here she is. Do have a seat, Rune. I’ll fetch you some of Dru’s enchiladas; lucky they finished cooking before the power went out. Just the thing for what ails you. Ella, don’t you say one word to that girl while I’m gone. You’ve done enough damage.”
“I’m not—” I begin, but it’s too late. She’s already gone, leaving me alone at a Sinster Convention.
This day just keeps getting better and better.
“Um, hi,” I say, waving at each of them with my non-branded hand. The other one’s clenched tight into a fist, even though it hurts badly to do so. More than anything, I want to run the burn under cold water, plaster it with aloe, and hope it goes away. But that’s not happening anytime soon. Not while I’m stuck in Mrs. Fontaine’s house, victim of her superhuman hearing.
She means well. I know she does. But her timing couldn’t be worse.
“Why, hello, Rune,” Mrs. Hernandez says, her tone every bit as stern as when I mis-programmed my robot and made Sapphire Springs lose at Regionals. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Oh, geez. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever this is, really.” I gesture at the cushions and the candles. “I didn’t ask to come in, I promise. In fact, I really should be going?—”
“Don’t be silly. We’re just having a Sinning Spinsters meeting, to pick our titles for the next six months,” Mrs. Grant says. “It’s our little ritual, after the BBB festival every year. Unfortunately, we’re having some difficulty agreeing on our next pick. Dru here”—she points at Mrs. Hernandez—“wants Lord of Scoundrels, which the rest of us have already had the tremendous pleasure of reading several times over. I vote for the first book in the Bootleg Springs series. And Louise thinks we simply must read Book Lovers, but I think it’s much too on the nose. There’s some sex-in-a-lake scene that she just won’t stop talking about. Won’t you be a dear and cast the tie-breaking vote?”
She holds up a small item that’s little more than a blur in the candlelit room. I step closer, and realize what it is: a cutout of Chris Pine’s face, glued to a popsicle stick. In front of each of the cushions is another popsicle-stick-impaled hottie: Chris Evans, Idris Elba, Keanu Reeves, Antonio Banderas in his prime.
Oh. My. God. “I, well—I really don’t…” She looks so hopeful, I hate to disappoint her. “I, um, mainly read urban fantasy. Mrs. Fontaine could tell you. So I don’t think I’m the best judge.” My palm throbs, reminding me that I need to get home and do something about it. Here’s hoping aloe works on supernatural burns. “Like I said, I really need to?—”
“Sit.” The command comes from Ella Campbell, commonly known as Hot Yoga Grandma. But she doesn’t look remotely grandmotherly at the moment. In the light of the candles, her face looks angular, severe. Her eyes are dark hollows. “And open your hand.”
Crap, crap, crap. “My…hand?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, girl! After what I read in your cards today, we don’t have the luxury. Your hand. Open it, right now!”
I could disobey her. But instead I find myself sinking down onto the cushion Mrs. Fontaine indicated, cross-legged, my purse in my lap. In front of me, a candle flickers in the nonexistent breeze. Slowly, carefully, I unfold my hand from its fist and raise my palm.
Ella sucks in a breath, and the temperature in the room seems to drop a degree. “That symbol. It’s the same one I saw before, the one I drew for you. How did it come to be burned onto your palm?”
Her eyes are fixed on mine, those dark hollows drawing me in. “I don’t know,” I tell her, trembling. “Right after the power went out, I…I saw it. In the air. On the walls and the door of the room I was in. When I tried to get out, it…it marked me.”
“This is bad,” Mrs. Hernandez says in a monotone. “They have risen.”
What in the everlasting hell? “You recognize this symbol?” Ella and I say at the same time.
Mrs. Hernandez doesn’t answer. Instead, she yells, “Louise!”
There’s a scuffle in the other room, and then Mrs. Fontaine comes skidding into the room, enchiladas in hand. “Honestly, Dru,” she scolds, “there’s no need to yell. I almost tripped and spilled the whole plate. The whole enchilada, one might say. If you could just be patient?—”
“Forget the enchiladas!” Mrs. Hernandez barks. “Look.” She grabs my wrist, her grip an iron fetter, and yanks my palm toward the firelight. The brand of the scroll and dagger stands out, an angry red against my pale flesh.
The plate of enchiladas falls to the floor, sauce and filling splashing everywhere. Mrs. Fontaine falls to her knees beside me, peering so closely at my hand that her silver-streaked hair falls forward, brushing the burn. “It’s happening,” she whispers.
I pull my hand back, clutching it to my chest. “ What’s happening? Tell me what this symbol is! Why am I seeing it everywhere? Why is it on my hand? And how the hell can I get it off?”
Normally, I wouldn’t dream of cursing in front of Mrs. Fontaine. She’d probably smack me over the head with a ruler. But this time, she doesn’t react. “It’s the mark of the Blood Witches,” she says. “It hasn’t been seen in many a moon.”
Many a moon? What are we, in the 1800s? “The mark of…excuse me? What is a…a blood witch?” My voice cracks. Is that what Cooper really is? Is he responsible for this? I knew I was right not to trust him.
“Yes,” Ella says, glaring at Mrs. Fontaine. “What is a blood witch, Louise? And why is my body tingling all over? Don’t you dare say it’s because of your graphic description of that lake scene, or the next plate of enchiladas is going on your head.”
Mrs. Fontaine straightens, regarding the wreckage with disgust, as if she’s just realized what a mess she’s made. “First, I’ll clean this up,” she says. “And then, Rune and Ella…we need to talk.”