When he wasn’t getting to know Chrysabelle better, that was.
Doc missed the growl and hum of the old airboats, but there was something to be said for the silent running of the carbon fiber blades and electric engines of the newer environmentally mandated boats. He notched the throttle back as he swung around an island of trees. The boat lost its plane, the air beneath it disappearing as the boat slowed and made contact with the water again. Ever since the run that had gotten him cursed, he hated the Glades. Hadn’t been out here since. There were mostly two kinds of people who lived in the Glades: those with a rightful claim to the land, like the Seminoles, and those looking to hide. His business was with the latter.
The cluster of houses, glass and steel boxes on stilts, broke the horizon line like jagged teeth. Strong morning sun glinted off the buildings. He adjusted his sunglasses. Even with his pupils narrowed to slits, the combination of glare off the water and unfiltered daylight was murder on shifter eyes this early in the a.m.
He approached the houses and grudgingly gave the witches props for living out here. Hard to sneak up on someone who had an unadulterated view in every direction. Not to mention the local inhabitants who did a damn fine job of keeping most people out to begin with. One of those inhabitants, a fifteen-foot gator named Chewie, lounged on the dock of the house he was headed toward, soaking up the morning sun like a teenager on spring break.
Doc’s back teeth ground against each other. Hated the Glades. He eased the boat toward the dock and got to his feet. Aliza’s air-boat sat beneath the house, out of the elements. He wouldn’t be getting that close yet. He reached into the bag at his feet, pulled out the chickens he’d brought, and dangled them in Chewie’s direction.
‘Come and get it, you overgrown suitcase.’
Chewie’s lids cracked open. Doc tossed the chickens in the opposite direction of the boat, and the gator slipped off the dock with a splash and disappeared into the black water.
The sound of a pump-action shotgun being cocked froze Doc where he stood. He lifted his hands. ‘I’ve got good reason for being here.’
‘Then start talking,’ Aliza spat. ‘My finger itches. And there better not be anything untoward in those chickens.’
He looked up. Aliza stood on the second-level porch, glaring down at him from the shadows of the eaves. Her lack of pigment made her look like a ghost, reminding him again why he’d come to see her. ‘The chickens aren’t drugged. I’m here because I want to fix things with Evie.’
‘Hard to talk to stone.’
He sighed. ‘I mean I want to help make things right.’
The shotgun came down half an inch. ‘How?’
‘There’s got to be a way to turn her back, right? I want to help.’ With hands still lifted, he splayed his fingers. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘Why now? Why after all these years?’
He’d been hoping to explain things in a calmer, more rational manner. Not that that had ever been Aliza’s style. ‘I have a friend who’s in trouble and you’re the only one I know who might be able to help her.’
Aliza snorted. ‘Figures you’d want something in return. Why should I help you?’
‘You shouldn’t.’
She was quiet a moment. Hard to argue with truth, apparently. ‘What did you do this time?’
‘Nothing.’ Something splashed in the water to his left. He almost didn’t stop a wave of revulsion from rippling through him.
‘Then why does she need help?’ She peered at him. ‘What are you cooking?’
‘Nothing. My friend is … dead. Kind of.’
Aliza lowered the shotgun and pursed her mouth to one side. She narrowed her pale gray eyes in thought. Finally she nodded. ‘You can come in. Your behavior determines how you leave.’
Lunatic. He tied up the airboat, stepped onto the dock, and climbed the steps. Chewie was still out of sight. Aliza looked the same as the last time he’d seen her. Maybe her yellowy-white dreads were a little longer, but other than that, she was the same albino crackpot she’d always been.
She motioned with the gun for him to go in. He pushed through the door and walked to the center of the kitchen. The house smelled like swamp and women. In Aliza’s case, that was probably the same smell. How she’d ever turned out a daughter like Evie, he had no idea. That girl was beautiful. Or had been, before Dominic’s drugs had turned her to stone.
And there she was. In front of the wall of sliding glass, facing out toward the Glades, the statue that had once been Aliza’s daughter stared blindly into the vast swamp. Her hands clutched at her throat just like they had that night. He swallowed and rubbed a hand over his scalp as if there weren’t anything unusual about such a thing.
The screen door slammed shut behind Aliza. She pointed toward the kitchen table. ‘Sit.’
He took a chair that let him keep his back to the wall and twisted slightly so Evie’s statue stayed out of his peripheral vision.
Aliza tucked the shotgun under one arm and poured a cup of coffee, then brought it to the table and sat opposite him. ‘Talk.’
He explained everything he could about Fi, how she had come to be a ghost through Mal’s curse, how she’d gotten killed again, how she’d started coming back, reliving the past … everything he could think of, except that he was in love with her. No need to give the old witch any further ammunition.
‘Your friend’s not a ghost anymore.’
‘Yes, she is. I saw her with my own—’
‘No, she’s a shade now. It’s different.’ Aliza sipped her coffee, wrinkling her brow. ‘She’s caught in a time loop and will stay that way, dying again and again every night.’ She shuddered. ‘Shade’s a horrible thing to be.’
‘Then help her.’
