She dug into her carry-on, a handmade, papoose-like souvenir from South America given to her by a centuries-old shaman, and extracted a Polaroid camera.
The antique camera wasn’t ideal for aerial photography, but she only wanted the link to the memory, not a reproduction. Memories, she had long ago realized, are fluid, and that’s the way they should be.
Her seatmate, a middle-aged businessman named Herve, who had briefly experimented with chatting her up before concluding he was in over his head, raised a magazine over the Polaroid to reduce glare. “Does this help?”
“Let’s try,” she answered.
Passengers in the seats just in front turned around on hearing the camera click, as if annoyed.
Standing six-foot-two, the striking biracial anthropologist was used to being stared at and judged, subtly and less than subtly. Her kinky locks, grown into a foamy afro that naturally parted in the middle from its own weight, made her seem both taller and blacker. It was not an uncommon “compliment” for someone to tell her she must be great at basketball.
Brinke always smiled at commenters and gawkers, wished them well, and sent them silent blessings. They were staring at her, but she was studying them. It was a fair-enough trade.
She took four snaps and fanned them out like playing cards, casting a net of good wishes onto the people and crops below. Her persistent optimism was born of a lifetime of practice and mindfulness. She wondered if Ember Hollow would be its greatest test.
Ysabella had no idea Brinke was on the way, just as Brinke herself had not known until a day and a half ago, when she saw the scrawled message at her motel in Arizona. “We’re going to Ember Hollow…Need you here! Maisie.”
While Brinke was out on a ten-day wilderness excursion with the Cocopah tribe, without phone access, Maisie had diligently tracked her down, learning her location from her landlady in Oklahoma. Like Violina, Brinke found her interest piqued by the name Ember Hollow.
The North Carolina farm town was not far removed from the national news cycle, especially with Halloween approaching. Brinke had already done her own research into its history to try to nail down a theoretical supernatural origin for its strange troubles.
The message from Maisie came at exactly the right moment. The itinerant Brinke hadn’t yet settled on her next destination for study and work.
She placed the Polaroids in the back of her photo album, to be organized later, and settled easily into a light meditation.
* * * *
The Cronus County Sheriff’s Department, like many Ember Hollow institutions, was left shorthanded by the slow exodus. The department’s two female officers had both vamoosed. Zero applicants had queried since.
It was a godsend when Elaine Barcroft had volunteered to help out as needed. Then again, like her sons Dennis and Stuart, Elaine had been toughened by recent hard times. A widow who has nearly lost her sons will either break down or power up—and this farmer’s daughter was already nails-tough long before marrying and burying Jerome Barcroft.
Better, she was strangely nonplussed about coming in to help tend to the vacant-minded ex-werewolf Aura.
“She’s been docile as a…I don’t want to say puppy,” Hudson told her. “You want this, just in case?”
Elaine took the canister of pepper spray from him, blinked at it, then handed it back. “I have a grown son and a teenager, Deputy.”
“Right. I’ll be just outside the cell with my back turned, like a proper gentleman.”
They walked along the corridor between cells in an odd silence. Cronus County’s criminals weren’t generally the dangerous kind, but they were notoriously mouthy.
It was a prolonged whine, the sound of a woman imitating a forlorn canine, that not only made Hudson and Elaine halt, but brought out a low complaint from the cells. “Cain’t you put her somewheres else, Shurf?”
“Yeah,” enjoined frequent customer Bern Addison. “She’s giving us the heebie-jeebies.”
“I’ll book you a suite at the Regis,” deadpanned Hudson. “You want room service?”
The grievances ended there, except for Aura’s. When they arrived at her cell, Hudson and Elaine found the biker chick cowering in the corner with her head held low like an abandoned German shepherd, the blanket they had draped over her bundled around her feet.
Hudson turned his head from her nakedness as he unlocked the cell. “You sure you want to do this?” Hudson handed her the bucket of bathwater he carried. “I can have one of the neighboring counties send a female.”
“She seems harmless enough.” Elaine entered, setting down the bucket of warm water at the door and extending a dish of mashed potatoes and chicken strips, atop a folded, county-issue orange jumpsuit. “Hi, there!” Instinctually mothering, Elaine might have been talking to little Wanda Lott.
Hudson closed the cell door, keeping his eyes averted but listening close, as Elaine went to work earning Aura’s trust.
* * * *
Violina thanked the boys, paid everyone’s tab, tipped ostentatiously, and effortlessly coerced Maisie into taking a walk with her along Main Street.
Beyond the looming smog of its troubles, Ember Hollow still offered beauty and tranquility. Watching poplar leaves breeze by, the witches smiled at the mystery. There was no poplar tree in sight. The recently liberated leaves might have traveled aloft for many miles.
“I’m amazed at how your gift has grown,” flattered Violina. “Ysabella is teaching you so well. Frankly, I’m envious.”
“How can you tell? We haven’t…”
“I can feel it.” Violina stopped and looked intently at the younger girl. “Your energy radiates like a sun.”
“I still have so much to—”
“I do too, dear,” interrupted Violina. “I see how you’ve grown, and it makes me realize…I’ve stunted myself.”
“No! You have so much to offer, Violina. The battle took its toll, but we’ve gained something from it. I hope we’ll all have a chance to grow closer here…”
Violina
