Chapter III
To Mariam’s relief, she does at least see the woman move occasionally through the night, usually accompanied by a soft, pained groan.
Come morning, though, she still hasn’t woken up…
Mariam paces in her living room, chewing her lip, her eyes blankly staring at her cream walls.
She still has no idea what the woman even is.
Earlier in the night, she checked her pupils to rule out any neurological damage, and noticed that her amber eyes shone strangely in the light.
That seemed distinctive enough to get Mariam to consult her old reference tomes.
Apparently, that kind of “ocular reflectance” is characteristic of shapeshifters…
though Mariam doesn’t find anything about the pointed ears.
Again, she considers reaching out to the Reapers…
but then, midthought, a better idea strikes her.
Leandra! Her friend Leandra. She is a far more experienced witch who has been practicing in the supernatural world for nearly twenty years now.
She might be able to tell Mariam what type of supernatural the woman is, and with that, help her figure out how to assist the woman more effectively.
Nodding to herself, Mariam grabs a fresh set of clothes and heads for the bathroom.
A hot shower before she goes out into the foggy coolness of the morning will help her clear her head and wake her up a little.
Mariam strips, noting in the mirror her pale skin is no longer an angry pink, and moves to the shower’s frosted glass door.
She turns on the water, making it as hot as she can stand before stepping in under the cascading droplets.
Just as she suspected, entering the heated, steaming water is exactly what she needs.
The water removes the last bits of dried blood from her arms and hands, and she’s left to scrape the rest from under her fingernails.
The water is refreshing and gives her a new jolt of energy, especially after the night she’s had.
She thinks she might survive the day without a midday nap…
but some caffeine would make it a little more pleasant.
Once her body is clean and her skin a lobster red, Mariam turns the water off and steps out.
She dries, dresses, grabs her keys and wallet, and heads out the door, pausing only to check on the woman again.
Still nothing, she muses, shaking her head.
I hope she’ll be okay. With that sentiment, Mariam locks her front door and exits her porch…
and remembers the ruined groceries in her trunk. “Oh, shoot!”
Cursing the entire way to her car, she unlocks the driver-side door and hits the button to open the trunk.
Hurrying over to it, she finds the milk slightly curdled and the ice cream she had been so looking forward to completely inedible.
With a sad sigh through her nose, Mariam tosses the spoiled stuff into her trash bin at the end of her driveway and runs what’s salvageable inside.
She sets them down in the entryway, before locking the door again and heading back to her car.
Guess we’re making a pitstop before home.
~§~
Leandra’s florist shop is thankfully only about fifteen minutes from Mariam’s neighborhood.
Parking on the street, Mariam gets out and heads into the pastel pink-painted shop, already smelling the floral scents wafting through the air.
As she enters, the strong smell of goldenrod meets her nose from the blooms near the door, and she can’t help but cradle a marigold blossom in her fingertips.
“How pretty,” she murmurs, stroking the petals with her thumb.
“Mariam!” Leandra calls as she comes in from the back of the store, a young, cherry red chrysanthemum clutched in her hands. “Talkin’ to the flowers again?”
“Well yes, but, actually,” Mariam puts her hands on her sides, “I need to talk to you. Can we go to the back room?”
Leandra raises a dark brow, her ebony skin radiant in the rays of sunlight coming in through the glass parts of the roof. “Sure thing, hun. C’mon back.”
Mariam crosses the store quickly, following her to the back room. She glances up at the soda lime glass ceilings. The entire back part of the shop is a vibrant greenhouse, full of various flowers and flowering shrubbery. “Thanks.”
“Sure sure.” Leandra closes the heavy metal door but keeps an eye out through the glass square in the upper half of the door. “So, what’s up? I can see somethin’ is weighin’ on your mind. An ol’ witch can tell these things.”
Mariam explains the situation with the woman, and stresses the specific details that she thinks will help solve what type of supernatural she is: the long, pointed ears; the raw, animalistic magic that was also somehow elegant; and the shifter eyes, which almost seemed to glow in the dark like a nocturnal predator’s.
Leandra listens, nodding her head, her twin afro buns bouncing as she does.
“Where’s this lady now?” Leandra asks casually, playing with some daffodil bulbs on the counter behind her, her nearly sheer shirt riding up on her toned stomach.
“At my house, in my bed, resting,” Mariam responds. She cocks her head. “You know what she is, don’t you, Lea?”
She snorts. “She’s a damned Fae, that’s what she is. I’m sure enough of that, but since you say she’s got those shifter eyes, I’m thinkin’ a Faeral, probably.”
A Fae? Mariam has heard the word, but only in folklore. Of course, a lot of things she thought were just stories before she became a witch have turned out to be real, but…“I thought Fae were European fables,” Mariam says skeptically, narrowing her eyes. “Am I wrong?”
“Oh, ho, sugar, there’s a whole realm of those things we can’t access. The Reapers could testify to that, not that they’d tell you.” She scoffs, shaking her head with a roll of her dark eyes.
“A realm? Like another dimension?”
“That’s right, more or less. A whole world just filled with them things.
But now and then they cross over. Apparently it’s easier to come here from that side than to get there from here.
Only the strongest ones, they call ‘em High Fae, can do a return trip. So your Faeral pal? Probably ain’t gettin’ home.
And from the sounds of the whallopin’ she musta took, she wouldn’t be wanted back there anyway. ”
“Then it sounds like she really needs my help,” Mariam says.
Leandra gently takes Mariam’s wrist. “Listen, hun, Fae are supposed to be dangerous, and the Faerals have a rap for being the worst of ‘em. I’m not saying they’re all bad, but some of ‘em? They’re like wild animals, tearing into anything near ‘em. Now, I can phone a Reaper friend and—”
“What? No! No. I can handle this.” Mariam shakes her head as she speaks. “Someone hurt her, and hurt her badly. I know she might not trust me at first, but I’m sure if I give her time and patience, she’ll see I mean her no harm.”
Leandra looks skeptical and sighs. “You’re too good, Mariam, and I don’t know if that Faeral deserves it. What if she was exiled here for good reason? What if she earned it?”
“And what if she didn’t?” Mariam pushes back, crossing her arms under her full chest.
“I wouldn’t chance it, but I know you, Mari. Your heart’s too big.”
“I like to think it’s the size everyone’s should be.”
“Maybe so.” Leandra rubs the bridge of her nose. “Well, if you’re keeping her there, at least lemme get you some more poultices. You don’t need to run your stock dry this late in the year.”
“Do you have anything more specific for a Faeral?” Mariam asks.
Leandra shakes her head. “Naw, sugar. I don’t have access to stuff like that. Too small time. I can getcha more ‘a what ya already got, though.”
“I’ll take it.”
She nods and enters a side room off the back room and comes back with a small, covered crate. “Here, Mari. I hope things work out.”
“Thanks. Me too.” Mariam takes the crate, whispering to herself. “Me too.”
She carries the surprisingly heavy crate out to her car, careful to not drop it.
She is a little rueful over having to leave the florist’s shop so quickly.
Normally, she’d spend an entire hour or more studying all the blossoming flowers Leandra has to offer, smelling each one in turn to see which she likes the most. She hefts the crate into the rear footwell, then gets in to drive.
The car ride to the grocery store is uneventful and quite sunny.
Mariam decides to roll the windows down to let in some fresh air as she drives.
A downy tuft of milkweed floss glides in on the wind, but she doesn’t mind.
The wind roars in her ears pleasantly, and whips her hair around her head.
Before long, the grocery store comes up on her left, and her joy ride is coming to a close.
As she pulls in, she rolls her windows back up, locks the doors, and heads inside.
It’s a rather busy morning for Caroll’s Grocery, but she’s not bothered…
except by her growing hunger. After grabbing a cart, she heads over to the bakery and pays for a croissant, which she scarfs down before heading further into the store. It’s grocery time.
After reclaiming what she’d lost to the previous night’s hijinks, she packs the groceries into her trunk, returns the cart to its holster, and heads home.
Her eyes roam over the goldening stems of the late summer’s last wildflowers as she drives home, eager to see the fall come faster.
The falling leaves, the wind blowing her windchimes gently, the pumpkin pie…
yes, easily her favorite season. Plus, it has all the best holidays.
Thanksgiving, Halloween, Samhain, yes yes, indeed it is the best season by far.
She arrives home. Opening the gate to the black metal fence, she carries the two bags of groceries in one hand (making a mental note to come back for the crate of poultices later) and opens the door with the other.
Whistling softly to herself, Mariam doesn’t think to check on her ward as she makes her way to the kitchen and begins putting groceries away into their respective places.
She bobs her head to her tune as she does, pulling out eggs, a pack of bacon, and some grits.
Maybe by the time I finish breakfast, she’ll be up.
Eggs crack into a large mixing bowl, six of them to be exact.
Mariam whisks them together until they turn a nice, even yellow color.
She seasons them, then tosses them into the hot skillet.
The bacon crackles in an opposite pan, frying loudly and permeating the air with its delicious smoky scent.
She decides to cook half the pack and make the grits buttery and cheesy.
The heat from the stove has started a slow sweat down the back of her neck, but she doesn’t mind; she loves cooking, even on a dog days’ scorcher.
It’s something she shared with her mother growing up, and something the two of them still share to this day.
Going down nostalgia’s ever-winding little road, Mariam finishes the breakfast spread and places it all in separate bowls, grabs two plates for serving, and puts everything on a tray she can carry. Then, she exits the kitchen and heads for the bedroom.
The woman is gone.
Fearing for her, Mariam runs forward with the food, calling out, “Hey, where’d you— ”
GRRRRRRRRAAAAAARRRRRRRRR.
A loud warning growl slices the air. Mariam stops dead in her tracks as she reaches the bedroom door.
Her eyes dart around in a panicked frenzy.
Her ward is crouched on the dresser at the foot of her bed.
Her amber eyes glint in the sun streaking in through the window behind her.
Her lips are pressed into a hard line, calling attention to a scar on her chin.
Magic thrashes in the air, warning, whispering, threatening. Do not come closer.
She is awake. And she looks pissed.