“I want to share in your immortality. You’ll show me how.”
“And…?”
“You’ll help me bring all other witches to heel.”
The spirit’s detail grew sharper than ever, until she could see the very pupils of his stony eyes—and his sinister smile.
“The secret is the fungus,” Conal said. “So long as it grows, the soul of its partakers can travel in and through it.”
“Then we have a problem,” Violina said. “Your fungus is extinct.”
“You’re wrong. There is a scrap that needs but to be nourished.”
“And you know where to find it?”
The edges of the sigil flared, and Violina was stunned to feel a powerful wind suddenly kicking up in the isolated chamber and then focusing around her, becoming a vacuum force.
She was drawn toward Conal’s cruel countenance like steel filings to a magnet. Certain that Maisie’s body and the other items in the room would be sucked by the tide and made to smash into her, Violina glanced behind her. Trying to shield her face with her arms, she raised them, only to have them pulled toward the portal as if lassoed and yanked.
The vortex affected only her.
She saw that Conal’s visage was gone, replaced beyond the boundaries by a dark, modern-looking room.
She lost her footing and fell forward, headfirst, into the opening, only to be abruptly halted by the solid edges of the chamber wall, closed snuggly around her neck.
The room was quiet, spacious, unoccupied. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw shelves, tables, a wall of windows and a tall metal cabinet. From the crack between the cabinet doors, a dim glow shone. To the right was a set of stairs set against a cinderblock wall.
Violina saw a flyer posted on the wall. It read ember hollow library fall book sale!
The pull of the vortex relented, as the edges of the wall began to close. Violina quickly withdrew, stumbling backward until she tripped over Maisie’s corpse.
Conal was back, framed once again by the eldritch opening. “We will wait for you. And anticipate these new bodies.”
* * * *
Yoshida might have stayed unconscious for a much longer time, if not for the pain of his broken ankle.
Lying on the floor of his demolished bedroom, nearly naked and wrapped in chains wasn’t the worst possible outcome he could imagine. He was relieved to see Dennis and Pedro squatting to look at his ankle, both okay other than a few scratches and contusions. “What happened?”
“You wolfed out hard-core, man.” Dennis answered. “Not like the bikers, but you’ll get there next time, or maybe the time after, if we don’t do something.”
Yoshida leaned forward to examine his throbbing foot, flexing it up and down gingerly. “Who cranked my ankle?”
Dennis and Pedro looked at each other with astonishment. “You did. And it was a lot worse just a minute ago.”
“Must be part of the condition. You heal in record time.”
“Did I bite you guys?”
“No, but not for lack of trying,” said Pedro, cupping his hands around Yoshida’s ankle, squeezing lightly. “That don’t hurt?”
“A little.”
“Screw the circus,” said Dennis. “We’re selling you to science.”
“You have to go get those witches,” Yoshida said. “Make them do their thing.”
“They’re not answering at the Blue Moon. Maybe I should try to track ’em down.” He turned to Pedro. “Unless you want the excuse to see your new fan.”
“Nah, you go,” Pedro said. “Not feeling too smooth right now. But we should go to my place, try to get some rest.”
Dennis shook his head grimly. “Another whacked-out Devil’s Night.”
“At least Yoshi smells better than those bikers.”
“Depends on who you ask, I guess.”
“Never thought I’d say this…” Yoshida stood to test his ankle. “Could we just focus on getting me neutered?”
Chapter 18
Beauty of Poison
Violina parked her Cadillac well out of range of the gas station’s security cameras. As she walked, the dense gray sky seemed to query her. Violina nodded as if to say, Not just yet…
Armed with tailored, almost-tight Earnest Sewn jeans, a scent of her own design that called forth trust and lust, a smile emphasized by lipstick a shade lighter than blood and a tiny flask of “treated” whiskey, Violina entered Gas Giant, Ember Hollow’s resident truck stop/gas station/Halloween shop.
She smiled to the new-wave-styled teen girl behind the counter. Engrossed in a Terry Pratchett novel, the girl ignored Violina.
She traipsed between an aisle of chips and crackers, grimacing at the rack of slogan-printed lingerie, and made her way past the eighty-nine-ounce soda fountain and a glass-faced warmer, where glossy hot dogs rolled on metal bars, to the rear dining room.
One man sat alone at the nearest plastic table, his arms crossed, a foam and mesh cap sitting high on his sun spotted head. He stared at his barbecue sandwich and fries as if working up the courage to eat them.
Violina took a seat across from him, beaming like a diva’s spotlight. “Good evening!”
The bleary-eyed trucker gave the merest of nods. Violina was not discouraged in the least. “Is that your truck out in the rear lot?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
Violina’s smile faded to an expression of deep sadness. “Dear Lord. So many memories.”
“Ma’am?”
“My brother drove one that looked just like it. He died in an accident.”
“Oh, my Lord. Condolences, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Violina.”
“Steve.” He took her hand in an indifferent grip.
“I hope you won’t find this too…odd,” Violina began. “I used to ride with him. I would love to just sit in the front for a minute.”
“Well”—Steve shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich, making it bleed brown juice onto his glistening fries—“I don’t see why not.”
“Oh, bless you.” She kept his hand for a moment, letting him feel its softness.
Steve finished his sandwich and fries quickly and stood to dump his tray. “Ready?”
Violina followed him, glad to see the counter girl still ignoring them as they exited and walked around to the rear parking lot, where Steve’s idling rig sat. The only other vehicle was the counter girl’s ’78 Camaro.
Pulling his hat down against the rising wind, he
