Action Figures - Issue Two: Black Magic Women (19 page)

“...No.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said no,” I say, but I’m operating on auto-pilot. There’s no conscious thought guiding me, nothing but reckless instinct. “I’m not telling you where I was.”

Mom shuts the door. This is going to get loud.

“Yes, Caroline Dakota Hauser,
you are
.”

“No, Mother, I am not. I’m done reporting my every move to you,” I say, my body sliding off the bed of its own volition. Apparently, I’m going to meet my untimely demise standing up. “I can’t leave this house without telling you where I’m going to be every single minute of every single day, and it’s not because I did something to deserve getting stuck under your microscope. That I could understand — but that’s not it, is it?

“No, you’re still scared that something bad is going to happen to me. You’ve been this way ever since that mess in town last year, and you don’t get that you’re basically punishing me for something I didn’t do. It needs to stop, Mom, because wringing detailed itineraries out of me isn’t going to protect me from whatever random crap life is going to throw my way.”

Not among the world’s great speeches, but it may have done the job: Mom’s face softens. She sets her fists on her hips and ponders my sage, if defiant words.

“That may be,” she says, “but that doesn’t excuse the fact that you broke your curfew and lied about why. You’re my daughter, and a minor, and that makes you my responsibility. Now: tell me where you were last night. I’m not asking again.”

Crap. Now what?

For a moment, I seriously consider telling Mom the truth.
Mom, I’m a super-hero. I’m Lightstorm. I fight bad guys.
Simple as that, all secrets laid bare. I mean, I hate lying to her, a lot, and letting her in on my, shall we say, extracurricular activities would —

Would what, Carrie? Make life easier?
Pft
. That’s highly unlikely. I tell Mom I spend my free time fighting giant mechs and international mercenaries and demons, she’d chain me up in the basement trying to keep me safe. I’d only trade one massive headache for another.

A new idea hits me. It’s bold. No, not bold: crazy, maybe even stupid — the kind of idea that, if it fails, will blow up in my face so spectacularly there’d be no way to recover.

Screw it. Fortune favors the stupid.

“All right, Mom, tell you what,” I say. “I’ll tell you where I was, if you tell me where
you
really were last Friday night.”

Mom makes a startled choking noise. “Where
I
was —? Excuse me?”

“When you came home the morning after, you couldn’t look at me. You didn’t make eye contact with me once,” I say, recalling the scene with perfect clarity. “That tells me, you didn’t simply have a little too much to drink. I’ve seen you drunk a few times, and you’ve never been embarrassed by it, so why would you act embarrassed this time around — unless what I in fact witnessed was the Walk of Shame?”

Mom goes slack-jawed. My pulse thunders in my neck, in my ears. Nervous sweat gathers on my scalp and prepares to jump. I predict a closed-casket funeral.

Her mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. She can’t decide what to do with her hands, and it strikes me that Mom is suddenly unable to look me in the eye. Again.

“I can’t believe...” she mutters before darting out of my room.

That’s when the last of my self-control gives out. I collapse to my knees, panting, sweating, dizzy, nauseated. Holy crap. Dodging bullets, energy blasts, dark magic — none of that compares to the rush of staring down my mother and winning.

The thrill of my dubious victory vanishes almost instantly, and is replaced by a crushing depression as I realize that Mom never disputed me.

Matt was right: my mom was with another man.

She was with someone who wasn’t my father.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

Bliss Fellows grimaces at the beer selection offered by this so-called “British-style pub”: the usual line-up of flavorless, watery domestics; a handful of decent microbrews; a token offering of Americanized brews from the homeland. She settles for the least offensive option.

“Pint o’ Guinness,” she says.

The bartender grabs a glass. “Is that a real accent, or are you playing with me?”

“I’m speaking the Queen’s English, love. I don’t have an accent; you do.”

“Well, your non-accent is awesome.”

“Ta.”

His clumsy effort to boost his tip fails; she leaves six dollars, and lets him keep the extra fifty cents — which she considers taking back after taking her first sip; the beer is ice-cold.

Bloody Americans. My soul for a proper pint.

Bliss tucks herself into a corner booth for privacy, but it’s an unnecessary precaution; it’s mid-afternoon, in the downtime between the lunch and after-work crowds, and her presence nudges the pub’s total body count into double-digits.

She’s halfway through her second cold Guinness (
bloody Americans
) when Black Betty walks in, drawing stares from man and woman alike as she struts across the pub, all skintight black leather and attitude.

“Black Betty,” Bliss says, raising her glass in a toast.

“Bam-a-lam,” Black Betty says, sliding into the booth.

“God, you still say that?”

“You know me. I’m all about showmanship.”

“You’re showing, all right,” Bliss says, gesturing at Black Betty’s ensemble. “Where you going after this? Biker rally, or’re you teaching a pole dancing class down at the Y?”

“I was thinking of going to the library to read to the kids. Black Betty’s Story Hour.”

Bliss laughs at the mental picture that forms. “Y’know, you’re putting on quite the show for someone who’s allegedly trying to keep a low profile.”

“I am a walking paradox. Ready to order here,” she says, flagging down a passing waitress. “Hello, darling. A glass of white wine for me, another beer for her, and tell me, what is your best single-malt scotch?”

“We have, um...oh, I never get the name right,” she says, searching her memory. “Laga-something?”

“Lagavulin?” Bliss offers.

“Yes, that’s the one. Twenty-one years old. It’s pricey, though.”

“As fine scotch should be,” Black Betty says. “Keep it on-deck, darling. If our little meeting here goes well, we’ll be sealing the deal with two glasses of that.”

“You do know how to incentivize a woman,” Bliss says.

Black Betty waits for the waitress to return with their drinks, then presents Bliss with a sealed manila envelope.

“And what is this?”

Black Betty sips her wine, leaving on the glass a lipstick stain the color of dried blood. “One piece of a masterful jigsaw puzzle I am putting together, with the assistance of an all-star team of sorcerers,” she says. “Zaina le Blaq. Holocaust Bob. Mad Hector Jones.”

“Mad Hector Jones? Ain’t he the one who still lives at home with his mom?”

“Why do you think he’s so mad? Now, I assume you heard about the incident in Newburyport?”

“Hard not to. And I’d appreciate fair warning next time,” Bliss says. “I was with a gentleman caller that evening. I don’t think he’ll be calling me again. Spontaneous hurling tends to ruin the romantic atmosphere, yeah?”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Ain’t the same.”

“No, I suppose not. Back to business, yes?”

“Sure. You can start by telling me what’s in the envelope. I’m not one for mysteries.”

“You, my dear, now hold in your hot little hands two pages from the
Libris Infernalis
.” Bliss chokes on a mouthful of stout. “Specifically, you hold one of the book’s many delicious summoning rituals, such as the one I gave to Zaina for the Newburyport ruckus.”

“Get out.”

“Really.”

“Lying witch.”

“Witch, yes, guilty as charged. Lying?” Black Betty smiles. “Not this time.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“I always suspected Astrid had it. The trick, if you will, was getting to it, but a distraction here, a distraction there, a little assistance from another interested party...”

Bliss runs a finger along the edge of the envelope, along the sealed flap, curious and excited and, yes, more than a little scared. “What’s this one do?”

“Oh, you’ll love him. I chose him specifically for you.”

“And what do I do with him?”

“I have two conditions. One,” Black Betty says, counting off on her fingers, “you perform the summoning within the next three days. Two, you perform the ritual in Gloucester, in a very specific location. After that? Dealer’s choice. You can cut the demon loose right away, let him stew a few days to whip up his fury — hell, let him sit in his summoning circle until his host burns out, if that’s your preference.”

Bliss squints at Black Betty. “What’s the play here, love? You said this was part of a puzzle. What’s the endgame?” Bliss leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “You’re not out to end the world, are you?”

“That, dear, is insulting. You really think I’d be interested in something so predictable? Besides, I like the world. It’s where I keep all my stuff.”

“What, then?”

“Need to know information, Bliss, need to know...and you haven’t yet earned the privilege. You want to see what’s going on behind the scenes? Then swear your service to me, and follow my instructions like a good girl.”

The cordial mood darkens. “I’m not your dog, Betty.”

“No. What you are is an anarchist, like me, and I am offering you a chance to unleash some righteous chaos,” Black Betty says, tapping the envelope. “With that comes the benefit of possessing an utterly unique summoning ritual, and, if you play ball, power like you’ve never known.”

Bliss considers the pitch. “You playing me straight, Betty?”

“Ah, a wise question, but — let’s be honest — one I could never answer to your satisfaction. You’ll have to take me at my word, and let the chips fall where they may.” Black Betty extends a hand, imperially, like a queen expecting her subject to kiss her royal ring. “Do we have a deal?”

“I ain’t shaking that hand,” Bliss says. “But I am drinking that top-shelf scotch.”

Black Betty grins. “Then let me tell you about the glory days that lie ahead for the likes of you and me...”

TWENTY

“How stupid is that?” I say to Sara on our way to school the next morning. “Mom and Dad split, like, six months ago. I know they’re divorced, I know they’re never getting back together, but when I realized that Mom...you know...it hit me all over again. I should be past this.”

“Mourning’s a funny thing,” Sara says. “My grandmother died, like, three years ago, and to this day, Mom will have these weird...I don’t know what you’d call them. Flashbacks, maybe? Relapses? Anyway, she’ll be making dinner, or working on stuff she brought home from the office, or sitting watching TV, and all of a sudden she starts crying. I ask her what’s wrong, and she says, ‘Oh, I was thinking about your Grandmama.’”

“I thought time was supposed to heal all wounds.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like there’s a formula for these kinds of things. Plus, it’s only been six months for you.”

“I guess.”

“On the bright side, it sounds like your plan worked.”

True. Mom hasn’t said anything else about...well, she hasn’t said anything, period. I didn’t go downstairs all day, except to collect my dinner, which Mom served to me without comment. She was equally silent this morning as I passed through the kitchen to snag a travel mug of coffee, without so much as a perfunctory
good morning
passing between us.

This is what one would call a Pyrrhic victory: sure, I achieved my goal, but the cost was so high, it barely qualifies as a win.

A light snow kicks up as we reach the edge of school grounds — not enough to warrant a cancelation, which is just as well; it’s not like I’d get to hang out with anyone I’d like to spend time with.

Such as (hello, ironic timing) one Mr. Malcolm Forth, who catches my eye and —

Oh. Oh, crap.

“Hey,” he says coolly.

“Hey,” I say, and I brace myself as best as I can. I know what’s coming.

“I was talking with your grandfather at church yesterday. He said your mom never called you Saturday night. She never made you go home.”

“Malcolm, I can explain,” I say automatically, but I don’t have an explanation, or a cover story, or a bluff, or any justification for throwing myself on the mercy of the Malcolm. I’ve got nothing.

“I’m waiting,” Malcolm says, folding his arms.

That’s when Sara pushes past me and says, “Malcolm, it was my fault.”

“Your fault?” Malcolm says.

“Sara, what are you doing?” I say, but Sara waves me quiet.

“Carrie, I can’t let you take the heat for this,” she says with an implied wink and nod. “Look, a few years ago, I had a, um...I had a breakdown,” she says to Malcolm, as if in confidence.

“A breakdown?”

“Yeah. I’m still working through it, and I sometimes have these anxiety attacks. Saturday night, I had a real bad one. It was a pointless freak-out over nothing, but I locked myself in my room, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone but Carrie,” she says, tossing an affected grateful smile my way. “She came over and talked me down. Took her all night.”