53 Birdie
BIRDIE
We make our way through the forest (downhill the whole way) and back to the Jeep to find Pickles waiting in the front seat.
For once, he doesn’t growl or hiss at Dáinn.
With a haughty sniff, he just hops up onto the dash.
Both the front doors are still open, the alarm softly pinging.
My god, we just left it here in the middle of the gravel road, which makes the whole thing feel a bit like a crime scene.
At least the cat thought to turn the hazards on.
“I’ll drive,” says Jasper, stepping in behind me.
“You can’t,” I reply. “You’re dead, remember?”
His expression has me rolling my eyes. I can only imagine what I must look like right now.
I just took off all my clothes and let him fuck me in the middle of the woods while the wraith watched.
My ruined panties are stuffed in his pocket and his cum is sticky between my legs under this dress.
It was messy, and hot, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
“I’m not a china doll, remember? You didn’t fuck the ability to drive out of me.”
He smirks. “Then I’ll have to try harder next time.”
“I could drive,” Dáinn offers, his whiskey eyes alight with interest.
Jasper narrows his eyes at the wraith. “Do you even know how to drive?”
He shrugs. “What’s to know? Turn the key. Press the pedals.”
I laugh, sliding into the front seat. “Yeah, no. I’m driving. Wraiths sit in the back.”
He climbs in the back without complaint, his big body comically oversized. Jasper gets in the passenger side. Pickles immediately hops from the dash into his lap.
“Are we still doing this?” I say, peering down the gravel road.
“We need the journal,” Jasper replies.
Cranking the Jeep out of park, I coast us down the gravel drive, windows down. Dáinn leans up between the seats. “Hopefully this won’t take too long. We have plans for you tonight.”
“Plans?”
“A date,” he chimes.
My arms stiffen as I hold the wheel. “A date? With . . . both of you? At the same time?”
“It’s not a date,” says Jasper.
“I believe there will be dinner,” Dáinn counters. “Is that not a date?”
“Eating dinner doesn’t constitute a date,” Jasper counters. “Besides, you don’t even eat.”
“I could if you’d let me—”
“No,” Jasper and I say at the same time.
Dáinn sits back, arms crossed, pouting.
“It’s not a date,” Jasper says again. “You said you want to know why you’re able to stop wraiths.”
“Of course, I do.” My stomach flips. “Wait—did you find out something?”
“Not quite. But Dáinn has a sort of . . . friend. Apparently, he’s an expert in wraith matters—”
“He’s a mage who specializes in the necromantic arts,” Dáinn says over him, leaning up between the seats. “And he’s been helping me dig into the mystery of who and what you are. But he can’t move forward without meeting you.”
“You’re taking me to meet a mage?”
“Yes,” the wraith replies, while Jasper says, “Only if you consent.”
I glance between them, using the rearview mirror to look back at Dáinn. “Well, can I ask first . . . what’s a mage?”
The wraith just chuckles as Jasper groans. “We’ll get into that later.”
I suppose we’ll have to because we’re pulling up to Dent Farms. It’s like something out of a story book. The trees give way to sweeping corn fields. The gravel road curves up a rolling hill. Atop the hill rests a quaint New England farmhouse. A large red barn looms behind.
“Pull up to the barn,” says Jasper.
I follow his directions, weaving the Jeep past the row of fruit stands and up to the small parking lot that sits before the big red barn. I have to take it slow because chickens peck at the ground, roaming free range.
Ruby Dent watches us drive up. She stands before the closed doors of the barn in a pair of workman’s overalls and a hot pink T-shirt.
Her frizzy hair sticks out under the sides of her Dent Farms ball cap.
She smiles wide, bouncing on the balls of her feet as the Jeep pulls in.
She’s like the anti-Mercy. It’s odd to think of them as cousins.
The three of us get out. Well, four, including Pickles. He hops out of the Jeep on my side and immediately starts chasing after a frog that leaps into a butterfly bush.
“Hey, Jas,” Ruby calls. “Hey, Birdie. Mercy said you’d be coming by. You’re lucky I got the message. I was out in the east field. We’ve started detasseling the corn and—whoa—” She looks at me, eyes wide. “Honeybee, what happened to you?”
I stiffen. “What?”
Reaching out, she plucks a few pine needles from my hair. “You get attacked by a bear or something?”
“No.” Heat blooms in my cheeks. “I . . . tripped.”
Ruby chuckles. “Uh-huh. Right into Jasper’s arms, I reckon.” She turns to Dáinn. “Who’s the hot potato?”
Jasper thumbs at him. “Ruby, this is the wraith.”
Dáinn steps forward, offering her his hand. “Daniel in this body. Charmed, Farmer Dent.”
Ruby shakes his hand. “Well, hot diggity. You should look like this all the time, sugar snap.”
He drops her hand, beaming at her praise.
Ruby turns back to me. “I hear you’re coven now.”
“She is,” Jasper says for me. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Ruby just chuckles again. “Psh, you know my vibe, Jassy. I let Mercy bring the heavy.” Looking to me, she adds in a fake whisper, “I bring the fudge!”
Now I’m laughing.
Dáinn leans in at Jasper’s shoulder. “Can I—”
“No,” Jasper growls.
“But she calls you Jassy—”
Jasper rounds on him. “The first time you call me Jassy will be the last time that body has ears.”
Dáinn slaps his hands over his ears, stepping back.
Ruby’s eyes dance with mirth. “Just wait and see how red he gets when I tell you his nickname as a kiddo was Pumpkin Head.”
Dáinn looks like Christmas just came early but Jasper levels a finger in his face. “No ears and no eyebrows.”
Smile falling, Dáinn grabs me by the shoulders and places me between them.
Great, now I’m a human shield twice over.
Still chuckling, Ruby looks to Jasper. “So, what’s up, boss? What do you need?”
“We need the journals Mercy gave you,” he replies. “The ones from William’s office.”
“Yeah, sure thing. I think I put them in the barn. You may need to dig for them a bit. You know how stuff tends to pile up.” Turning on her heel, she leads the way inside.
I step through the door, and my senses are hit with the musty smell of hay. It’s stacked up to the rafters in great towers. It’s dark in here, the only light coming through the cracks in the barn slats. Lazy motes of dust swirl in the shafts of golden light peeking through the cracks.
Pickles goes racing past, chasing another cat, nearly tripping me.
“This way,” Ruby calls. She turns right at a narrow break in the hay towers. Then she opens a creaky door, leading us into a dark room. Stepping into the middle of the room, she reaches up, waving her hand until she tugs on a little chain. A single light bulb sparks to life.
I blink in the harsh light, glancing around.
We’re standing in what looks like an old tack room.
There are stands for saddles and a wall of hooks for bridles and harnesses.
Most of the leather looks stiff and faded, unused for decades.
A series of boxes rest on the floor beneath each saddle rack.
A few of the boxes along the far wall are more the size of steamer trunks.
The middle one is large enough for Jasper to comfortably fit inside.
“We moved all the livestock down to the south barn, oh, twenty years ago,” Ruby explains. “And we haven’t used a horse-pulled plow since World War II. Gotta remember to trash all these old harnesses.”
I glance around again, confused. These are not prime conditions for rare document storage.
In fact, this place looks like a mousey paradise.
Between the musty heat and the threat of animals, any seventeenth-century journals we find in here are likely to be in a serious state of disrepair.
Hope dwindling, I look to Ruby. “Are the journals in one of these boxes?”
“Something like that.” Reaching inside the collar of her hot pink T-shirt, she tugs out a little key on a chain.
Looping the chain off her neck, she holds the key in her palm.
It’s small, sized to fit a jewelry box. But then Ruby whispers something to the key, and it starts to grow.
I watch, eyes wide, as the key enlarges into something big enough to fit one of the old steamer trunks.
“Neat trick,” says Dáinn.
“Thanks,” Ruby chimes. “Just gimme a sec here to get her open.” She steps over to the largest steamer trunk and fits the key into the lock.
Turning it, we all listen for the soft click.
Then Ruby cranks the old lid open to reveal that the interior is sleek stainless steel.
A soft white light glows from within the box.
“Well?” She waves us forward. “Don’t be shy.”
I step in, peering over the edge of the box. But it’s not a box at all. It’s the opening to a set of stairs that leads down below the barn.
Ruby stands back. “After you, boss.”
Without hesitation, Jasper steps on the lower box, using it as a stool to climb inside the big steamer trunk. Then he just walks right down the steps, ducking his head as he disappears.
“You next, honeybee.”
I follow Jasper inside the steamer trunk.
The stairs are metal and narrow, lit from below to show each tread.
All trappings of the musty, mousey barn fade away as I descend.
Reaching the bottom, my eyes are likely to pop right out of my head.
There’s a wall of glass, not unlike the archives below the historical society.
Jasper already stands in the room beyond the glass.
It’s much smaller than the archive, but the same principle applies.
I step up to the wall and the glass splits, doors swooshing open. Dáinn and Ruby follow me down the steps, crowding in behind me. Together, the rest of us file in.