Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 (3 page)

 
          
This
time Winter made it all the way to the woodshed, although the open space around
her seemed vast and threatening and she felt as if the sky would fall and crush
her. She ducked into the shed with a tiny cry of triumph, and rested her
forehead for a moment against the BMW's white lacquered roof.

 
          
Maybe Chicken Little was right. It's a
possibility.
Her heart was beating far too fast, and for a moment Winter
considered turning back—she'd done enough for one day; no one could ask her to
do more. . . .

 
          
Except me.
I
can ask me to do more. . . .

 
          
And
she was running out of time.

           
Winter wasn't certain where that
conviction came from, but it was enough to galvanize her into unlocking the car
and settling inside. When she put the key into the ignition, she had one wild
pang of panic—suppose it didn't start? suppose something terrible
happened?—but fought past it. She had to know if she could survive out here in
the real world. If she could not manage as simple a task as going into town for
supplies, then she had better call Fall River and tell them where to find her.

 
          
And
learn to live surrounded by the baffling and terrifying deaths.

 
          
Winter
turned left out of the driveway almost at random—if
Glas-tonbury
wasn't this way then she'd retrace her tracks—-and drove to the bottom of a
hill, where one sign identified the crossroad as Amsterdam County 4 and another
said GLASTONBURY: 6.

 
          
As
she followed the winding two-lane road, Winter got intermittent glimpses of the
river, and more information floated to the surface of her battered memory. The
grandiosely named little town of Glastonbury, New York, dated from the
nineteenth century, and served the local college as well as Amsterdam County
locals such as herself. There was a supermarket, a post office, even a small
movie theater, though most people preferred to drive to the multiplexes in the
malls south of here.

 
          
It
was the sort of thing that anyone might know, particularly anyone who had
rented a farmhouse and come to stay for an extended period, and the ability to
remember such trivia was obscurely comforting. She was dressed, she was driving
a car; if she really were . . . sick . . . she wouldn't be able to do these
things, would she?

 
          
When
Winter reached the town, she found it had a haunting familiarity, as if she'd
been here before, but the memory was elusive. County 4 had turned into Main
Street, and as Winter drove down it, she saw bright posters in the windows of
the business: FREE WILL—AN EVENING OF SHAKESPEARE SCENES AND SONGS BY THE
TAGHKANIC DRAMA DEPARTMENT.

 
          
Students
from the nearby college were everywhere at this time of day, identifiable by
the universal symbols of age and backpack, trendily pierced or equally trendily
grungy, but carefree in a fashion Winter could somehow not associate with
herself. While stopped for a light, she watched one pair wistfully as they
proceeded up the street holding hands. The boy's hair fell to shoulder length
and the girl's was shaved to a spiky buzz; both were dressed identically in
work boots and overalls that seemed about eleven sizes too big, and they were
obliviously in love.

           
Winter watched them until they
rounded the corner, and then forced herself to concentrate on the signal and
the other drivers. This outing was as much to prove she could cope as it was
for anything else. She could not afford to daydream.

 
          
The
supermarket was right on Main Street; and she pulled into the lot and parked
with a sense of relief and growing triumph. She climbed out of the
car—remembering to lock it—and stood in the warm afternoon sunlight, looking
down at the list of errands in her hands.

 
          
Groceries first. And then . . . the butcher,
the baker, the candlestick maker. . .
Winter thought giddily.

 
          
Her
destinations were not quite that archaic, though it hardly made sense to buy
grocery-store bread with an organic bakery right up the block. Half an hour
later, the first part of her self-imposed assignment completed, Winter emptied
her grocery cart into the BMW's trunk: crisp clean brown paper bags containing
cans of soup, fresh fruit and fruit juice, and all the other household
necessities she'd only realized she needed when she'd seen them on the
supermarket shelves. She felt almost jaunty as she locked the trunk again and
headed for the bakery; it was just around the next corner, the cashier had given
her directions, speaking to her as if it were a perfectly normal thing to ask
for such directions. As if everything were all right.

 
          
On
impulse, Winter stopped at a liquor store as she passed it, debating between
Bordeaux and Nouvelle Beaujolais as though such questions could really matter.
She finally settled on a bottle of white
Burgundy
and a trendy California Zinfandel, and
proceeded up the street with her purchases cradled in one arm. She found the
bakery without trouble, and bought a dozen raisin scones and a round loaf of
seven-grain bread that looked as though it contained enough vitamins to nourish
the entire Mighty
Morphin
Power Rangers. Echoes of
her old life—her
self-sufficient
life—rose
up to bolster her determination as she made her purchases. She would be fine.
She would
make
herself be fine.

 
          
As
Winter came out of the bakery, the bright colors of a display across the street
caught her eye, and she went to look. There were three clear-glass
amphorae
in iron cradles, their liquid
contents dyed bright blue, red, and green: It was a drugstore, its window used
to display a collection of antique patent medicines and pharmacy supplies.

           
Winter dawdled by the window,
looking. It was truly amazing what people had been able to buy without a prescription
at the turn of the century: opium and morphine and cocaine, all packaged in
pretty blue and amber glass bottles, or wrapped in boxes with labels written in
serious
Spencerian
script. Extract of cannabis.
Tincture of arsenic.
Asafoetida
. Cyanide.

 
          
Winter
raised her gaze from the quaint display of antiquated medicines to the shelves
behind them filled with their modern descendants. She took a hesitant step
toward the door. Was there something in here that would cure her fears and
dreams—let her sleep soundly at night and return to her New York life?

 
          
No.
Regretfully, Winter shook her head. Nothing she could buy here would help—if
the pretty red-and-black pills that had left her disoriented and numb for days
after she'd stopped taking them had not helped, how could aspirin and
Sominex
?

 
          
Even
Seconal
and
Thorazine
had
not stopped the killing. . . .

 
          
"I don't know how she manages to do
it."
The memory-voice was irritated; one of the Fall River aides
talking to another in the sitting room of Winter's suite. Perhaps they hadn't
known she was there, in the bedroom beyond the open door. Perhaps they simply
hadn't cared.

 
          
"
Foundanother
one, eh?"
The second voice was knowing; resigned.

 
          
"They're all over the place; Dr.
Luty
gives her enough junk to tranquilize a horse and she
still sneaks out at night."

 
          
"Think so?"

 
          
"Has to be. And 1 know she's not
dodging her meds. And we're the ones who have to clean it up,
dammit
, not
Luty
or Atheling.
You'd think the
bitch'd
show a little
consideration."

 
          
"Nah. She's having too much fun."

 
          
The
intrusive memory receded, leaving Winter shaking. Their remembered
contempt—she hadn't even known their names—still made her stomach roil. She'd
done nothing to merit such hatred.

 
          
Nothing
she could remember, at least.

 
          
The
trembling didn't stop; Winter clutched her purchases tighter and realized that
she'd grossly overestimated her stamina and emotional endurance; she'd better
get back to the car and get out of here while she still had the strength to
drive home safely.

 
          
She
looked back the way she'd come, judging the distance. Too far, but if she
turned down that street just up ahead it ought to take her right back to the
supermarket parking lot.

 
          
But
the street ahead only ran half a block before it made an L-shaped turn onto
another street, leaving Winter farther from her car than ever. She felt sick
and light-headed, as though she'd been in the sun too long, but the spring
sunlight wasn't strong enough to cause anyone distress. Winter stared around
herself, hoping to see a familiar landmark or at least a place to stop and rest
for a minute.

 
          
She'd
managed to detour into the heart of the small riverside town, away from Main
Street. Here the streets were narrow and lined with picturesque and
old-fashioned shops; old storefronts intermingled with brightly renovated
Victorian houses converted to commercial space. Everything was brightly
inviting, but all it was to Winter was a hostile labyrinth keeping her from the
safe refuge of her car and her house.

 
          
She
drew a deep breath, forcing calm against the rising tide of sickness and panic.
Maybe the simplest thing to do would be to just ask directions. Anyone along
here ought to be able to tell her how to find Main Street again.

 
          
She
turned toward the nearest shop. The sign over the storefront was carved and
painted wood: a golden full moon riding a skirl of swirling purple clouds
spangled with stars. The words
Inquire
Within
were carved to the left of the moon in old-fashioned letters. There
was also a crescent moon and a swirl of stars painted in gold on the window
itself, and behind them, on the red satin drape of the display window, a
"crystal" ball on an ornate stand, a long acrylic tube filled with
glitter with a shiny holographic star on one end, and a spill of brightly
colored paperbacks with titles like
Teach
Yourself White Witchcraft
and
Mind
Over Matter.
A New Age bookstore.

 
          
Winter
recoiled as if she'd confronted a monster out of her darkest subconscious. The
sick disassociated feeling she'd been fighting grew stronger; she felt beads of
perspiration break out stingingly all over her forehead, and swallowed hard
against a wave of nausea.

 
          
The
signboard overhead began to rock as if a wind were blowing, though the spring
day was sunny and still.

           
Winter jerked spasmodically, staring
up at it in horror, and began to back away—from the sign, from the store—every
muscle trembling uncontrollably.

 
          
A
sandwich sign in front of the antique store next door flung itself to the
sidewalk with the sound of a pistol-crack. Winter cried out—a sound of fear and
anger and despair. The bread and the wine bottles slipped out of her arms,
slamming into the pavement with impossible force.

 
          
The
bottles did not break as much as disintegrate, wine and slivers of glass
spraying fire-hose hard through the tatters of the ruined bag to make a
glittering fan-shape on the paving. The glassware in the antique store's window
began to shiver and hum in sympathy, with a sweet high keening that filled the
street with sound.

 
          
Winter
ran.

 
          
She
did not know how she reached her car again, only that by the time she did, her
body was drenched in icy sweat and she was shaking so hard the keys in her
hands made a staccato rhythm as they danced across the lacquered surface of the
car door. Red and black blobs floated through her sight, and waves of fever and
chill wracked her. Her heart was a fast hard hammering in her chest.