Chapter 17 #2
“Leg would be tough,” he said. “I mean, what if we’re walking along and it just drops off? She’d have to hop on one foot for the entire tour. Hard to be nonchalant, carrying a leg tucked under my arm, yeah?”
I huffed a small laugh. “An arm might be easier. You could just stop by the infirmary and borrow a sling.”
“Very resourceful.” He dipped his head.
“Of course, she could go all Headless Horseman on you.”
He looked at me with wide eyes. “You think she could lose her noggin?”
I shrugged. “Just thought you might want to get ahead of it.”
His laughter was rich and deep and broke through the quiet, causing two birds nearby to take flight.
Olive glanced over her shoulder at us, lowered her sunglasses, and frowned.
Jasper and I immediately stifled our amusement and Olive turned back around, stepping on the mat that activated the automatic doors.
Eloise hurried after her, completely unaware that she’d been the diversion I needed to get through this morning.
As we followed them into the building, Jasper leaned down and said, “Thanks for the heads-up.”
I snorted, not daring to meet his gaze for fear it’d turn into a full-on laugh.
The woman at the reception desk, wearing a name badge that read Marcy , glanced up.
She was middle-aged, with a round face and glasses perched on her nose.
She greeted Olive with a warm smile but was distracted as the phone on her desk rang and another office worker dropped a file on the inbox beside her.
“Welcome to Mystwood Manor, may I help you?” Marcy greeted us.
“Yes, we have a meeting with the director,” Olive said. “If you could just instruct us on how to get to the office?”
“Certainly. You want to go to the third floor. Take the passage to the right and the director’s office is at the end of the hallway.”
“Thank you.” Olive looked at me and tipped her head in the direction of the elevators.
I glanced at Eloise and Jasper and mouthed Good luck before hurrying after Olive.
We rode up to the third floor in silence.
Two health care workers in scrubs joined us on floor two.
They were talking animatedly when they entered, but one look at Olive and they both stopped speaking, scrambling over each other to get out ahead of us on the third floor.
Olive had that effect on people and I supposed it could be considered a sort of superpower.
As we stepped out of the elevator, Olive led the way in the direction Marcy had indicated.
We paused in front of a door with a plaque that read DIRECTOR.
Olive rapped on the wood three times. There was no answer.
She tipped her head as if considering the situation and then turned the handle and pushed the door open.
There was an empty reception station and another office in a room behind it. The door was open and I could see someone seated at the desk in there. I recognized him immediately.
“That’s Mr. Moran, the director,” I whispered to Olive. “He was the one who called me when my mother passed and met Agatha and me when we came and retrieved Mom’s things.”
I steeled myself to talk to him. I had so many questions about my mother’s stay, things I never would have thought to ask before this grimoire appeared in my life.
I patted my coat. I had tucked the grimoire in an inside pocket, having decided to leave my backpack in the SUV.
It felt weird to have it so close to me.
I felt as if some sort of bond was forming between me and my mysterious book, but maybe it was just because I believed it had been sent to me by my mother and I was standing in the place where she’d spent her last days.
Olive nodded and walked past the assistant’s workspace and into the main office. She paused in the doorway and said, “Let me ask the questions.”
“Okay.” I raised my hands as if in surrender, but I was actually relieved not to have to pick at the scab that was my mother’s death in this place.
“Mr. Moran,” Olive greeted him. “We’re here for our appointment.”
The director rose quickly to his feet. He wobbled a bit but steadied himself with a hand on his desk. He smoothed his thinning dark hair back across his head with a nervous hand. “Of course. Please, come in. How can I help you?”
I followed Olive and we took the two seats in front of his desk.
Moran sat and folded his hands on his desktop.
His face was blank, as if he didn’t recall who I was even though we’d seen each other a little over a month ago when I’d collected my mother’s things.
I supposed with so many residents it was difficult to keep up with the family members who came and went.
“We came to talk to you about Juliet Ziakas,” Olive said.
“Right, just so.” Moran fiddled with the stapler on his desk, checking and rechecking its alignment, nudging it a millimeter, and checking it again. I had the urge to slap his hand to get him to glance up, but I suppressed it.
“What can you tell us about Ms. Ziakas’s passing?” Olive asked.
Moran didn’t look up from his desk. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“She was rather young to have died of a cardiac arrest without a preexisting condition, wasn’t she?” Olive asked.
Moran’s gaze darted across his desk as if he was searching for something—anything—to divert his attention. I glanced at Olive and noticed the muscle in her cheek bunching. He was getting on her nerves, too.
“I’m not a doctor.” Moran began checking the tips of the pencils in the holder on the side of his desk. He took out each one without a sufficiently sharp tip and lined them up on the desk. For sharpening, I supposed.
“I didn’t assume you were.” Olive drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “However, you are the director of this facility and when one of your residents dies, I would think you’d be familiar with the situation.”
“I don’t…I’m not sure…” Mr. Moran glanced at the window. “I should go home. My wife will be wondering where I am.”
Olive and I exchanged a look. Olive had been right. There was something off about this situation and about Moran. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he was definitely not all here and he was nothing like the kindly man who had consoled me after the death of my mother.
“Mr. Moran.” I thought if I questioned him, we’d have more luck. Maybe he would be more sympathetic to a relative. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Zoe Ziakas, Juliet’s daughter.”
This seemed to resonate with him. He turned toward me. He didn’t meet my gaze but glanced somewhere behind me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. There was no sincerity in his voice. It was almost as if he was saying something he was preprogrammed to say.
“Thank you.” I leaned forward. “But I have questions.”
“I can’t answer any questions,” Moran protested. He glanced at us and his eyes looked scared. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m d—” He flinched and stopped speaking.
“Where are you supposed to be?” Olive asked.
“Ground—” Again he flinched. “Not here. There. Don’t let them— argh .”
Olive abruptly stood up, knocking her chair back a few feet. Startled, I leaned away from her, afraid of what she might do. It was Olive, after all. She wasn’t one for announcing her intentions and this was no different.
She held her hands up in front of her with her palms facing Moran. In a low voice, she spoke in an ancient language that was guttural and sharp, the sort of language in which words of affection sounded like insults. It suited her.
The temperature dropped in the room to a bone-deep coldness that I knew I wasn’t imagining, as I could see my breath when I exhaled the air I’d been holding in.
I glanced at Olive in equal parts fear and wonder.
Her face had become even paler than usual and her dark eyes looked wild, as if some supernatural force lurked inside her.
One that she kept a tight leash on except for in this moment when she loosened her grasp, allowing a glimpse of it to peek out through her eyes. She was terrifying.
The words were obviously a spell of some sort and now I desperately wanted to know what sort of witch Olive was.
When I’d lived with Agatha as a teen, she had told me about the different types of witches, trying to get me interested in my family history, no doubt.
I suspected Olive was one of the more powerful ones, like a storm witch, a blood witch, or possibly the most elusive of all—a Fae witch.
At this point, nothing would surprise me.
Olive dropped her hands and Moran watched her, unmoving. It took me a moment to realize that he couldn’t move, that whatever she had muttered had rendered him a prisoner in his own body.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Followed a hunch,” she said. “Open the closet door.”
A hunch had created the terrifying power I’d seen in her eyes? What the hell?
Still, I knew better than to ask questions. I pushed up from my seat and approached the door. I didn’t know why I was suddenly so nervous. My fingers shook as I reached for the knob. I glanced back at Olive. She jerked her chin at the door and said, “Do it.”
I took the cold metal in my hand and twisted it. I pulled the door open, and out tumbled a woman with tape over her mouth and her hands secured with zip ties. I ripped the tape off her mouth. But instead of taking a breath and saying thank you, she took one look at Mr. Moran and started screaming.