Gretel (32 page)

“And I’m fast, Officer Stenson,” she continued, “that’s how I got in here so fast.” At this remark her eyes flickered. “Now, one more time: What can I do for you?” The old woman’s words had lost their airy edge and were now sardonic and impatient.

“What can you do for me?
Do
for me?” Stenson’s voice rose considerably on the second sentence, and he opened his eyes wide, presenting that slightly crazed look signifying that a punch in the nose for asking such a question wouldn’t be unreasonable. “Perhaps you hadn’t noticed…” Stenson again wanted to address the woman by name but remembered, once again, that he didn’t know it. “The young woman who was sent to you, that was arranged for you to…blend…or whatever it is you call it, is no longer here! So maybe the first thing you can
do for me
is tell me
why
she isn’t here anymore and, instead, is sitting alive in a System holding house. And she’s there, by the way, only because
I
found her lying in the middle of the Interways! That’s what you can do for me!”

The old woman stood motionless for a moment, staring at him, and though he couldn’t see her eyes, Stenson knew it was a look of hate. She then formed her lips into a pleasant smile, while at the same time raising her hands and gripping the flopping edges of the oversized hood. Stenson noted again the smooth unblemished skin, this time on her hands and wrists, as she pulled the hood back slowly, revealing the truth about what the officer had thought may have been just a trick of the shadows and sunlight. She
was
younger. By twenty, even thirty years, he guessed. For a moment he thought he may have been wrong about his initial certainty that this was the same person; but no, it was definitely her, the woman he’d conspired with to murder a young mother in order to use her innards for his own youthful quests. But how? The woman in front of him now looked barely older than a young mother herself. If he was being honest, he would have described her as attractive. Beautiful maybe. Her skin was taut and unblemished, and the dullness of her eyes was replaced by the alert glitter of a schoolgirl’s. And her hair. Her hair erupted from the hood of the cape in a mane of auburn silk, pouring down her shoulders and chest like diluted honey.

Stenson opened his mouth to speak but stopped, not knowing exactly what to say. Then, suddenly, he made the obvious connection. It was the potion. And it was better than what he’d been promised. Younger. It could make him younger!

The woman again stood still, as if showcasing herself for the man. But Stenson stared for only a moment. He knew the woman was studying him, and he’d seen her lips, barely splitting apart, revealing the stark whiteness of her newly polished enamel. The twitch of her mouth was slight, unnoticeable by the average citizen, but to Stenson it was a common tell, and it snatched him back to the moment. He took a breath and gripped his fingers tightly around his firearm, anticipating action. He was in that stage of an encounter—he’d been there dozens of times, he figured—when a perpetrator is weighing the options of whether to flee or attack, and by what means he’ll carry out the decision. In almost every other case, Officer Stenson would have guessed correctly as to which move this perp was going to make. Given the two choices, a child would have guessed the same. First of all this was a
woman
in front of him, and an older woman at that (though not as old as she used to be). And, ostensibly, she was unarmed, as well as uniquely familiar with the environment having lived there for what, a hundred years? This suspect was no threat to him. This suspect was a runner (‘and I’m fast, Officer Stenson, that’s how I got here so fast’). It was System Work 101.

These calculations were processed in the mind of Officer Stenson automatically, only seconds before the witch glided across the room, as if carried from behind by a blast of sudden wind, and slammed against the torso of The System officer.

She’s flying!
he thought,
like a real witch
. It was the last conscious thought of Officer Stenson’s life, just before the enormous fingernails of the woman entered his gut below the ribcage, piercing his stomach and severing his large intestine. With her other hand she gripped the back of his head and pulled it close, like a lover overcome by passion. But instead of a kiss, the woman exposed her fangs, newly filed and razor sharp, and tore out the left side of her victim’s neck with the ease of an African lion. She clung tightly to the man, her mouth open in anticipation of a struggle, but the attack had left the officer instantly paralyzed.

She was stronger now, much stronger, and it would take some time to learn the appropriate effort needed to kill her prey in the future. But she had time now. So much time.

She spat the hunk of flesh toward the sink and discarded the body of Officer Oliver Stenson to the floor with the care of sock tossed to a hamper. His skull popped against the countertop on the way down before joining the rest of his body in a puddle of bodily fluids—a mixture that included both his and those of the woman he’d helped capture. His chest lurched in its last few attempts to get oxygen to his lungs, but his mouth hung agape, frozen, unable to suck any air past the shroud of blood and saliva that had built up on his tongue and in his cheeks. And with his windpipe shredded, the air would have never made it anyway.

“You’re rather lucky,” the old woman said absently, “in another life I would have kept you to die much slower.”

With blood dripping from her chin, the woman walked outside through the back door and looked to the place where she’d been digging. Interruptions! She’d been expecting the officer of course, especially since the girl’s escape, but she had work to do; there was no time for distractions. She needed to recapture her prisoner, somehow keep her alive and remake the potion. It would take time, certainly, and there was no guarantee the prey would survive the ordeal again. But if she didn’t, all was not lost. There were others. Others who were nearby with perfection in their blood. Other Aulwurms.

The cabin, however, was no longer safe. If only she’d sampled the mixture earlier! She’d have her prisoner without this hassle! But she knew that wasn’t completely true either. Even if she still controlled the girl, the old woman knew the extorting thieves would be coming. The mixture was overdue: she could recall the schedule perfectly now in her revived brain. And it was ‘Marcel.’ Yes, that was his name. That was the man who had sent the lovely Source to her, and she reveled in the purity of this truth. But it was she alone who could make the brew. It was she alone with the knowledge of the recipe. Not them!

And things took time. There was no patience in this modern world; everyone needed things now. And this System officer, Stenson, he seemed particularly hasty. She could see in the way he leaped for the spilled potion that he’d grown addicted to the idea of it. To the idea of immortality. It was a pattern she’d seen dozens of times in her past. No temperament to handle the wait. And as she’d also witnessed, the pursuit of the broth had caused his early expiration, an irony never lost on her.

But Stenson’s death was unimportant. Nothing more than a mess to clean. Her aims were different now. She’d found the true serum. The one she’d heard whispered of in the Old Lands by her ancestors. The myth sought by all. She could stay young. Forever. She was strong again, of mind and body. And Life. She would reconnect with It. Control It as she once had when she was young and zealous.

She walked back to the kitchen and stood over the twisted body of Officer Stenson, which now lay still, dead. The witch’s feet were planted irreverently in the remaining mixture on the floor, and she almost chuckled at the locked expression of fear and pain on the officer’s face. She kicked the left side of his body and heard the sound she was listening for—the jingle of keys—in his right pocket. She reached over and pulled the ring of keys free, and then dangled them in front of her face, smiling at the confidence she felt inside of her. It was almost impossible to believe what she was considering—no, not considering, what she was
going
to do. The world now seemed a platter to her, a buffet of opportunity and treasure. Every second in this cabin now seemed a waste of the eternal time she now possessed. If even yesterday she’d been granted this opportunity, the opportunity to drive off in this machine, she would have certainly hidden from it, afraid of the technology she’d shunned for so long. She’d driven a car in the past, in the days before secrecy and privacy had taken over her life, but it had been years, and she’d certainly never controlled anything like the monster parked outside. Yes, her old self would have spent days, weeks maybe, figuring out some method to dispose of the car without ever starting the engine or even getting inside. But now the machine excited her and the thought of driving released a burst of saliva across her tongue. The energy under her. The power and speed at her control. And, most importantly, the utility of the thing. There were more sources to find before this day ended, and the car would help her find them.

It was time to hunt.

“So it was you who arranged for the Klahrs to hire me.”

Gretel’s statement came out sad and robotic, not quite a question. She kept her head still and her eyes forward, watching the pavement pass beneath the truck. They were on their way to Deda’s, and the sickening memory of the trip she and Hansel made with their father on the day her mother disappeared regurgitated in her stomach.

Everything Odalinde had told her in the kitchen was too much to process: that her mother may be alive and that it was likely Deda who stole her away to begin with. That it was Deda who was the villain in this mystery. This possibility was devastating, and Gretel wasn’t ready to explore her true beliefs about the tale just yet. Instead, she circled the issue, attempting to talk her way in from the edges until she reached a point in the middle where everything came together to make sense.

“No, Gretel, that was you,” Odalinde said, “you alone.” Odalinde took her eyes from the road and stared hard at Gretel, searching for a signal of belief that what she’d just said was true. She looked back to the road and frowned. “But I was also wrong. I was wrong to have forced you to that point—the point where you were scared and stealing food. I was just…I just wanted to instill in your heart that you were strong. Stronger than you believed. And that if you were pressed to survive—forced to save yourself and your brother—you would find a way.”

She turned to look at Gretel again, this time giving a look that was softer, sympathetic.

“And you did, Gretel. You found a way. I knew you would. I could tell that resolve was in you the second I met you.” Odalinde paused and then said, “It was like I’d met your grandmother all over again.”

Gretel felt the swell in her throat and she turned quickly toward the window. It wasn’t that she cared about crying in front of Odalinde necessarily, but crying at the mention of her grandmother seemed to negate the strength for which she’d just been commended. Besides, she didn’t want to trust Odalinde completely, and crying at this point would make her vulnerable. And, of course, there was Hansel. She had to stay strong for him.

“I’m sorry, Gretel. For everything.”

Gretel stayed quiet, with her forehead and nose pressed against the side window. She gave a hard blink to wring out the last threat of tears, and when she opened her eyes, she could see in her periphery that Hansel had fallen asleep in the back. She sat straight again, now feeling encouraged to continue questioning Odalinde more directly.

“Petr referred to you as my stepmother.” Gretel paused, setting up the blow. “But I never told him about you and Father getting married. Why would he have said that? How would he have known?”

Odalinde furrowed her brow and smiled, nearly snickering. “I don’t know, Gretel. I told you, I never said anything about marrying your father to anyone. And certainly not to Petr or his father.”

“So how then?”

“Maybe he just made a mistake. Or…” Odalinde paused, “is it possible you
did
tell Petr and just forgot?”

Her tone was delicate, one intended to encourage Gretel to explore this explanation more deeply. But Gretel
had
explored it exhaustively and was positive she’d never mentioned the engagement. The whole affair had weighed on her far too heavily to have one day tossed it out casually and forgotten about it.

“No, it isn’t possible.”

“So you never told anyone then? Not even at school?”

“No,” Gretel hesitated, “except…Well, I told the Klahrs. But no one else.”

Odalinde’s eyebrows flickered up and she cocked her head slightly, her eyes staying focused forward. It was a gesture that said, ‘Perhaps there’s your answer.’

“They wouldn’t have told Petr,” Gretel protested.

“No? And why is that?”

Gretel started in on her defense of the Klahrs, but decided too much time had been wasted already on the ill-fated marriage of Heinrich and Odalinde, and she instead changed the subject entirely. “That figurine-thing, the swan on the mantle, that was my grandmother’s wasn’t it?”

Odalinde smiled and nodded, again fascinated by Gretel’s instincts. “She gave it to me when your mother was born. It’s an old custom for a mother to give a gift to the godparents upon the birth of a child. I’ve treasured it for a long time. And when I came here it seemed proper to bring it along.” She paused. “I’m going to leave it for you, Gretel. It’s yours now.”

Gretel was touched by the gift, and wanted to ask a thousand more questions about and how Odalinde came to the responsibility she now owned. And about her grandmother. And how she died.

But the subjects felt out of place to explore at the moment, as if they were stories from a different book to be read later. So instead Gretel asked, “What will we do if my grandfather is there?”

The sympathy returned to Odalinde’s face, and she reached out and stroked Gretel’s hair. “I’ve thought about that. Obviously we can’t simply walk into his house and accuse him of kidnapping your mother. I do believe he’s involved in this, but I don’t have proof. So, we’ll say we’re there to visit, that’s all.”