Circle of Enemies

My ancient garage-sale answering machine was blinking. I played the messages. Two were from reporters, one from a journalist-blogger, and one from a writer. They offered me the chance to tell my side of what happened in Washaway last Christmas. Except for the writer’s, I recognized all the voices—they’d called often over the last few weeks, sometimes several times a day.

I absentmindedly rubbed the tattoos on the back of my hands. They looked like artless jailhouse squiggles, but in reality they were magic spells, and without them I’d be behind bars. None of the survivors in Washaway could pick me out of a lineup, and none of the fingerprint or DNA evidence I’d left behind pointed to me anymore. I was on the twisted path.

I erased the messages. There was no point in calling them back. None of them understood the meaning of the words fuck off.

The sounds of their voices had triggered a low, buzzing anger that made me feel slightly out of control. I showered, then dropped my work clothes into the bottom of the tub, scrubbed them clean, and hung them from the curtain rod. I felt much better after that.

I wiped steam from the bathroom window and looked out. My aunt had not hung a paper angel in her kitchen window. That meant I could order in a sandwich for dinner. I put on my sleeping clothes: a T-shirt and a pair of cutoff sweatpants. I could eat alone, in silence, without someone asking how I was sleeping, how I was eating, and wouldn’t things be better if I went to talk to someone?

I wouldn’t have to say Thank you, but I can’t a half dozen times. My aunt was right; I’d probably sleep better if I could talk about the nightmares—and what I’d done to bring them on—but I’d be bedding down in a padded room.

I opened the bathroom door to dispel the steam, even though an unlocked door felt like a gun at my back. Then I turnesd to the mirror and looked carefully. Damn. I was wasting away.

A voice behind me said: “You look like shit.”

I yelped and spun around. In an instant, my heart was pounding in my chest as my hand fumbled across the sink for something to use as a weapon.

Caramella was standing in the bathroom doorway, and I was so startled to see her that everything went still for a moment. My adrenaline eased, and I could hear my harsh breath in the silence. It had been more than five years, and she’d changed quite a bit. Her skin, which had once been so dark, seemed lighter, as though she spent all her time indoors, and while she still straightened her hair, now she had it up in a bun. She wore orange pants with an elastic waistband and a white halter. She’d gained some weight and she seemed taller somehow.

But she didn’t belong here in Seattle. She belonged down in L.A., hanging at the Bigfoot Room with Arne, Robbie, and the rest.

I almost asked her what she was doing here, but I didn’t want her to think she wasn’t welcome. In truth, I didn’t know how I felt about her. “Welcome to my bathroom,” I said.

“Thanks. I hate it.”

I nodded but didn’t respond right away. Her hands were empty, although she might have stuffed a gun into the back of her waistband. Not that I could imagine why she’d want to kill me, but that was how my mind worked now.

“I’m guessing you’re not here for old times’ sake.”

“We don’t have any old times, Ray.” She turned and walked into the other room.

I followed her, noting that she didn’t have a weapon under her waistband. “Then why are you here?” I kept my tone as neutral as I could, although I had less self-control than I used to.

“I’m paying a debt,” she said, as though it was the most bitter thing in the world. “I have to deliver a message to you. In person.” She stopped beside the efficiency stove.

“Okay. Here I am.”

She looked away. Her lip curled and she blinked several times. Christ, she was about to cry. “You killed me, Ray.”

I gaped at her, astonished. She turned and slapped me on the shoulder. Then she did it again. That still wasn’t enough, so she slapped my face and head four or five times. I didn’t try to stop her.

Finally, she stopped on her own. Hitting me wasn’t bringing her any satisfaction. “You killed me,” she said again. “And you killed Arne, and Lenard, and Ty, and all the others, too. We’re all going to die because we knew you.”

“Melly, what are you talking about?”

“Sorry,” she said with a wet sniffle. I looked for tears on her face, but her cheeks were dry. “That’s the message. That’s all you get.”

She swung at my face again. I flinched, but the blow never struck. When I opened my eyes a moment later, I was alone in the room.

I had been standing between Caramella and the door; she couldn’t have gotten around me and gotten out, not in the time it took me to flinch. I walked around the little studio anyway. She was gone—vanished in the blink of an eye.

Magic. She had magic. Damn.

My cheek and scalp were sticky where she’d slapped me, and the stickiness was starting to burn. I went into the bathroom and washed my face and head. I could feel a smear of acidic goop that was so thin I couldn’t even see it. Plain water washed it away completely. My clean skin was slightly tender, but the pain had eased.

I checked the washrag, but it didn’t have any unusual stains or smells. I hung it over the kitchen faucet.

Crossing the room, I took my ghost knife from its hiding place on my bookshelf. It was only a piece of scrap paper, smaller than the palm of my hand, with a layer of mailing tape over it and some laminate over that. On the paper itself was a sigil I had drawn with a ballpoint pen. It felt alive, and it felt like a part of me, too. The other magic I had, the tattoos on my chest, arms, and neck, were protections that had been cast on me by someone else.