Chapter Thirteen
The tension between the two became so palpable, I swear it felt like a third person standing beside me.
In the end, I threw up my hands, spun on my heel, and left them to swing their dicks around. I stomped into the house, muttering about giant penises and peeing in circles, when I felt that familiar tingle once more.
“Jesus, what now?”
I turn to head back out the front door, but experience a tug in my gut to go the other way. Frowning, I let the feeling guide me as the tingle intensifies, like hail hitting my skin during an ice storm.
I shove the back door open and run down the steps, looking out across the land.
I can’t see anything, but now that my feet are touching the soil, I can feel footsteps as if someone were walking over my grave.
Closing my eyes, I tap into the land. To some degree, it works, but I’m too new at this to do it without practicing.
I might not be able to pinpoint exactly where the issue is, but I can sense which direction it’s coming from.
I turn toward it. Before I can take off, Riggs and Shepard bear down on me. Dammit.
“Calliope? Everything okay?” Riggs asks first, jogging over to me.
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, and apparently doing a really shit job.
“I feel like someone’s out there watching me.”
This makes Shepard go alert. He pulls his gun and stalks down the steps, heading out farther before stopping and listening.
He turns slowly, trying to spot what might have spooked me.
After a few minutes, he turns back to me with an anxious question in his eyes.
I can still feel the presence at the edge of my property, but I can’t tell them that.
I play dumb. “I guess I got spooked, that’s all.”
“Not surprising after last night,” Shepard says as he puts his gun away.
“You’re gonna be alright out here? I can do a drive by, make sure things are fine if you need.” He’s talking to me but looking at Riggs, his eyes focused on the gang tattoos he’s found hidden amongst the others.
The threat is apparent in his voice. Though I sense it’s only out of worry for me, I don’t take kindly to his interference.
“We’ll be fine, but thanks for your concern. Anyway, I still have things to do before I crash. I’ll walk you out, Sheriff.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but with a frustrated huff, he nods and moves to follow me as I turn and head back inside.
I walk through the house to the front door that swings open at my approach.
I roll my eyes and give the house a mental nudge.
The last thing I want is Shepard thinking something is off about this place.
Having the sheriff drop in all the damn time will really put a kink in my plans.
I hurry outside, jog down the steps, and walk over to the cruiser, opening the door and ushering him to climb inside with a flourish.
“Why, Miss Hart, if I didn’t know better, I’d worry you were trying to get rid of me.”
“How do you not trip over that giant ego of yours?”
“I’m used to carrying around big things.” He winks, grabbing the top of the door and effectively pinning me against the car.
“This could be classed as police harassment,” I tell him, annoyed that I sound flustered.
He dips his head, his eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to extract all my secrets. “Tell me, Poppy, do you feel harassed?”
“Poppy?”
“Calliope is a mouthful. I like Poppy. It suits you.”
I shake my head. “You’re taking liberties, Sheriff. Some see poppies as a symbol of death. Is that how you see me?”
“They’re also a sign of rebirth, of peace.” He leans closer, his lips hovering over mine but not touching. “You’re also quite addictive. Yes, I think Poppy suits you.” He presses his lips to my cheek before pulling back and nudging me aside so he can climb into his car.
I press my hand to my cheek as he closes his door and lowers the window. I move out of the way, needing to put some distance between us.
His eyes rove over me, heat blazing under his watchful gaze, leaving me shaking in response. They pause on my wrist for a moment, and I feel my birthmark throb in response as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Nice tattoo.”
I swallow, crossing my arms. I don’t correct him. The past and present are warring for my attention as my brain flips to another time and another man’s attention to my birthmark.
“What do you know about your friend’s tattoos in there?”
“Enough to know they’re part of his history, not his future.”
“Every story has a villain, Poppy. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Every story has a hero, too, Sheriff. But I don’t need saving anymore. I can save my damn self.” I shake my head, taking another step back. “You see a path he once took, but you don’t see how far he walked to escape that life.”
“And you do?”
“More than you’ll ever know.” I turn to walk away, but pause when he calls my name. I look at him over my shoulder.
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“Why does that sound like a threat?”
He grins and tips his hat at me. I stay still as he pulls away, feeling like a fool courting trouble, but there is something about that man that calls to me.
I head back to the house, stopping when I find Riggs at the table, reading through the forms I asked him to.
He lifts his head, his gaze moving over me in a way that feels protective. “You good?”
I nod and take my seat once more.
“So that’s the sheriff,” he states.
I nod again, pretending to read the form in my hand. Riggs tugs it free before flipping it the right way up. Busted.
“You know he has a hard-on for you, right?”
I sigh and lean down, banging my head on the table until a hand slips between my head and the wood.
“Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”
I lift my head and groan. “He’s a cop. I’m an ex-con.”
He leans closer. “But you’re not just an ex-con. And something tells me he’s more than just a cop.”
“I know, Riggs. That’s what worries me.”
Ilie in bed later that night, staring up at the dark ceiling as the shadows dance across the room like ghostly specters. Rolling over, I try to get comfortable, but I toss and turn for the next hour as sleep evades me. After last night, I should be exhausted, but my brain refuses to switch off.
Unable to lie here any longer, I get up and move to the dresser.
One of the loads delivered, courtesy of Jen, was clothes, more than I’ll likely ever need.
I’m grateful, nonetheless. I rummage through and pull out a pair of black sweatpants and a black tank top, then find a deep mulberry-colored sweatshirt.
I get dressed, and pull on some socks and my beat-up sneakers before I braid my hair to keep it off my face.
Humming a melody to a song I don’t know the words of, I grab the set of keys from the hook next to the back door and head out to my old barn.
I locate the key to the padlock and, after a couple of tries, manage to open the slightly rusted lock.
The air inside smells damp, but underneath is the faint hint of lavender and lilacs that I dried before I went away.
Much like the house, the barn looks like nobody has been in here for years, though probably not for the same reason.
My father felt uncomfortable in this place, and now I wonder if it’s because he could sense magic here.
He might not have any of his own, but he was definitely attuned to it.
He seemed intent on converting me and condemning me for having it, and in the end, self-preservation won out.
Part of me wishes I could ask him what the hell happened.
Why would he do this, given all the risks involved?
But my father always did think he was invincible.
The only thing he might have been afraid of was me.
Maybe that’s all it was. Fear that my powers coming in meant I wouldn’t take his shit anymore. I don’t know. It’s impossible to think like a madman because he easily made choices that are abhorrent to me.
Picking up a bottle, I pop out the cork and take a sniff.
The scent has faded over time, but I can just about detect the floral notes of wild roses and the astringent tang of nettles.
Acne cream. I swore by it as a teenager and often found it going missing from my backpack at school.
I figure other kids liked it too, even if they were dicks to me.
That meant something. It brought a little kick to my twisted heart that if these people who loathed me so much liked my products, then they must be good.
Of course, most people would rather be set on fire than admit to that.
I go through the space, taking in all the little bottles and labels I painstakingly wrote in my neatest handwriting, half hoping I’d make something that would cure my loneliness.
A wonder cream that would dazzle a pretty and cool teenage girl with my abilities.
We’d become fast friends, gossiping about stupid teenage shit that now seems both trivial and sad.
Realistically, it wouldn’t have mattered if I found a cure for cancer in this little barn of mine. People would still have shunned me. Sometimes I wonder how the human race has survived all this time without stunting its ability to learn and adapt, given its fear of anything new and different.
Reaching up onto one of the shelves, I pull down a little wooden box and flip open the lid, finding little bags of seeds I’d placed in here for safekeeping. Most people would throw them away, but I wasn’t most people.
I tuck the box under my arm and grab the gardening belt from the countertop as if it’s been lying there for fifteen years just waiting for my return.
I move around to the other side of the barn, where the bags of soil lean against the wall next to haphazardly stacked miniature terracotta pots.
Dragging what I need closer, I get to my hands and knees and slice across the bag of soil, my senses instantly invaded with the soothing smell of earth.
For the next few hours, I lose myself, slipping into a peaceful trance as I lovingly pot the seeds that had been held captive as long as I have.
By the time I’m done, my back is stiff, and I ache all over, but my mind feels a sense of peace I’ve been craving for so long.
I didn’t realize how much until the pull became too much for me to resist. My connection with this place has always been one-sided, taking from me more than it ever gave back.
Any pleasure I found was tempered with pain and fear.
A child’s mind can only process so much before it shuts parts down to protect itself.
Now, after everything I’ve lived through and survived, I can feel what was taken from me slowly start to eek back in, fortifying my bones, pushing air into my lungs, and closing the loop that was twisted with knots.
I may have left as a broken girl, but the woman in me cannot help but wonder if being here might just make me whole again.