CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A more ramshackle operation I’ve never seen. We’re driving in a nervous little caravan, stuffed into beat-up cars that leave dark exhaust trails, wondering if we’re ready to do whatever it is that we’re going to do. I haven’t explained the rope-a-dope yet. But I think that Morfran and Thomas at least suspect what it is.
The light is starting to get golden, coming at us sideways and getting ready to turn sunset colored. Getting everything into the cars took forever — we have half of the occult merchandise from the shop packed into Thomas’s Tempo and Morfran’s Chevy pickup. I keep thinking of nomadic native tribes, and how they could pack up an entire civilization in an hour to follow some buffalo. When did human beings start acquiring so much crap?
When we get to Anna’s house, we start to unload, lugging as much as we can. This is where I meant when I said “our own turf.” My own house feels tainted, and the shop is too close to the rest of the populace. I mentioned the restless spirits to Morfran, but he seems to think they’ll scuttle off into a dark corner at the presence of so many witches. I’ll take his word for it.
Carmel gets into her Audi, which has been sitting here the whole time, and dumps out her schoolbag, emptying it so she can fit bunches of herbs and bottles of oil inside. I feel okay, so far. I still remember what Morfran said, about the Obeah getting worse. There’s an ache forming in my head, right between my eyes, but that might be from impacting against the wall. If we’re lucky, we’re accelerating the timeline enough so the battle will be over before his curse even becomes a factor. I don’t know how much use I’ll be, if I’m writhing around in agony.
I’m trying to stay positive, which is strange, as I tend to brood. It must be this whole leader of the pack thing I’m trying on. I have to look well. I have to appear confident. Because my mother is worried to the point of prematurely graying, and Carmel and Thomas look way too pale, even for Canadian kids.
“Do you think he’ll find us here?” Thomas asks as we pull a sack of candles out of his Tempo.
“I think he’s always known exactly where I am,” I say. “Or, at least he always knows where the knife is.”
He looks back over his shoulder at Carmel, still gently packing bottles of oil and things floating in jars.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have brought them,” he says. “Carmel and your mom, I mean. Maybe we should send them somewhere safe.”
“I don’t think there is such a place,” I say. “But you could take them, Thomas. You and Morfran could take them and hole up somewhere. Between the two of you, you could put up some kind of fight.”
“What about you? What about Anna?”
“Well, we seem to be the ones he wants.” I shrug.
Thomas scrunches his nose up in order to push his glasses higher on his face. He shakes his head.
“I’m not going anywhere. Besides, they’re probably as safe here as anyplace else. They might get some crossfire but at least they’re not alone, sitting ducks.”
I look at him fondly. The expression he wears is sheer determination. Thomas is absolutely not naturally brave. Which makes his bravery all the more impressive.
“You’re a good friend, Thomas.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, thanks. Now do you want to let me in on this plan that’s supposed to keep us from getting eaten?”
I grin and look back at the cars, where Anna is helping my mother with one arm and carrying a six-pack of Dasani water in the other.
“All I need from you and Morfran is a binding when he gets here,” I say while I continue to watch. “And if there’s anything you can do to bait the trap, that would help too.”
“Should be easy enough,” he replies. “There are tons of summoning spells used to call energies, or to call a lover. Your mom must know dozens. We’ll just alter them. And we can charge some cord for binding. We could modify your mom’s barrier oil too.” He’s got his brows knit as he rambles off requirements and methods.
“Should work,” I say, though for the most part I have not a clue what he’s going on about.
“Yeah,” he says skeptically. “Now if you can just get me one point twenty-one gigawatts and a flux capacitor, we’ll be in business.”
I laugh. “Doubting Thomas. Don’t be so negative. This is going to work.”
“How do you know?” he asks.
“Because it has to.” I try to keep my eyes wide open as my head really starts to pound.
Two fronts are set up in the house, which hasn’t seen this much movement since … possibly ever. On the upper level, Thomas and Morfran are shaking a line of powdered incense along the top of the stairs. Morfran’s got his own athame out, cutting the sign of the pentagram in the air. It’s nowhere near as cool as mine, which I’ve got in its strung leather sheath, slung over my shoulder and across my chest. I’ve been trying not to think too much about what Morfran and Thomas said about it. It’s just a thing; it’s not some inherently good or inherently evil artifact. It has no will of its own. I haven’t been hopping around and calling it my Precious all these years. And as for the link between it and the Obeahman, it’ll sure as hell get severed tonight.
Upstairs, Morfran is whispering and turning slowly in a counterclockwise circle. Thomas takes up something that looks like a wooden hand with stretched-out fingers, and sweeps along the top of the steps with it, then lays it down. Morfran has finished his chant; he nods to Thomas, who lights a match and drops it. A line of blue flame surges up along the top floor and then smokes out.
“Smells like a Bob Marley concert in here,” I say as Thomas comes downstairs.
“That’s the patchouli,” he replies.
“What about the wooden finger broom?”
“Comfrey root. For a safe house.” He looks around. I can see the mental checklist running behind his stare.
“What were you guys doing up there, anyway?”
“That’s where we’ll do the binding from,” he says, nodding toward the second level. “And it’s our line of defense. We’re going to seal the entire upper floor. Worse comes to worst, we regroup there. He won’t be able to get near us.” He sighs. “So I suppose I’d better go start pentagram-ing windows.”
The second front is making a clatter in the kitchen. That would be my mom, Carmel, and Anna. Anna’s helping Mom find her way around a wood stove as she tries to brew protection potions. I also catch a whiff of rosemary and lavender healing waters. My mother is a “prepare for the worst, hope for the best” type person. It’s up to her to cast something to lure him here — aside from my rope-a-dope, that is.
I don’t know why I’m thinking in code. All of this “rope-a-dope” business. Even I’m starting to wonder what I’m referring to. A rope-a-dope is a fake-out. It’s a boxing strategy made famous by Ali. Make them think you’re losing. Get them where you want them. And take them out.
So what’s my rope-a-dope? Killing Anna.
I suppose I should go tell her.
In the kitchen, my mother is chopping some kind of leafy herb. There’s an open jar of green liquid on the counter that smells like a mixture of pickles and tree bark. Anna is stirring a pot on the stove. Carmel is poking around near the basement door.
“What’s down here?” she asks, and opens it up.
Anna tenses and looks at me. What would Carmel find down there, if she went? Confused, shuffling corpses?
Probably not. The haunting seems to be a manifestation of Anna’s own guilt. If Carmel encountered anything, it would probably be some weak cold spots and the occasional mysterious door shutting.
“Nothing we need to worry about,” I say, walking over to close it. “Things are going pretty well upstairs. How are they in here?”
Carmel shrugs. “I’m not much use. It’s sort of like cooking, and I can’t cook. But they seem to be doing okay.” She crinkles her nose. “It’s kinda slow.”
“Never rush a good potion.” My mother smiles. “It’ll go all wonky on you. And you’ve been a big help, Carmel. She cleaned the crystals.”
