Gretel (35 page)

Petr’s mouth fell open slightly, just parting his lips, and he shook his head in a short rhythmic spasm of disbelief. “That’s my father’s car,” he said, his voice vibrational from fear, as well as the shaking of his head.

“Why yes it is, Petr, and he keeps a lovely picture of the two of you right there on the …hmm…I’m not sure what it’s called! But it’s wonderful at shielding the sun!”

“Where’s my father?” Petr asked, nearly in tears.

The old woman walked back to the front of the car and stood centered in front of the grill. She narrowed her eyes and steeled them on Petr. “Your father is dead. He’s been dead for several hours now.” The tone was aggressive and menacing—nothing less than a dare to the five sets of ears in the range of her voice. “And unless you want to join him—along with your girlfriend and her brother—I suggest you tell me where I can find Anika Morgan.”

“Don’t you dare threaten them!” Odalinde gnarled.

As fast as Gretel’s thoughts could process what was happening, the old woman’s feet had left the ground, effortlessly, and she had flown—literally flown—from the front of the cruiser to the spot where Odalinde had stood only a second before. The cape of her cloak was flattened by the wind as she flew, giving her the appearance of some evil super villain from the pages of any number of comic books. The old woman’s hands were raised above her as she flew, with her fingers pointing to the ground, sharp, spearlike nails protruding from the tips. She looked like a wizard attempting to cast a midair spell on some poor peasant or toad perhaps. As she landed, Gretel could see the woman’s teeth bared to the top of the gumline, wolf-like; except instead of the wide canines and blunt incisors of a dog, the teeth were severe and jagged, like those of a shark.

The event happened in an instant—Gretel hadn’t time even to scream. Instead she stood silently, paralyzed, her mind reflexively beginning to cope with the loss of Odalinde.

But Odalinde was fast too. She’d moved off her spot, two feet or so, just far enough to avoid the slashing fingers and fangs of the flying demon. The old woman’s momentum carried her forward on her landing, and as she stumbled forward, Odalinde clutched both of her hands together and hammered the back of the witch’s head, sending her face-first onto the gravel. “Run! Odalinde commanded. “All of you run!”

“Odalinde, I can…” Gretel began to protest.

“Go Gretel. Now. Take your brother and your friend and go.” It was Gretel’s father this time. He stood tall, clutching his wrist to his chest, a look of sadness and disgust on his face. “Go to the Klahrs. Tell them what’s happened.”

The old woman had returned to her feet, her serene, ghost-like appearance now diminished by dirt and rage. “Heinrich!” she shouted and took several steps backward, trying to keep her enemies in her periphery. She regained her poise. “I’ll find them, Heinrich, no matter what. The only difference is now you’ll be dead too.” The old woman then turned to Odalinde. “But first, you.”

Heinrich Morgan looked at his daughter one last time, the sadness in his eyes was a look Gretel would remember for the rest of her life. “Now,” he repeated.

Gretel grabbed her brother’s hand and barked at Petr to follow, and listened in agony as Hansel screamed, “Father!” while the three children made their way down to the lake.

The old woman hadn’t expected a challenge, not really, not on a physical level anyway. She had arrived cautious of Gretel, of her ostensible intuition and fortitude—particularly being that she was the daughter of the woman who had nearly killed her. But she hadn’t counted on this mystery woman who apparently had her own reservoir of courage. This woman who reminded her of herself in many ways.

“So you’re an Orphist,” she said, as a statement, not a question. “I sensed that in you the moment I looked at you. I could see it in your eyes. It stops the aging, but it does little for the weariness.”

“I will die now, quietly, at your hand if you prefer,” Odalinde replied.

Apparently the woman’s fellow Orphist had no interest in camaraderie.

“I’ve done this life as far as I wish,” Odalinde continued. Then, perhaps overplaying her hand said, “You can use me for blending. Just leave them alone. All of them. Heinrich included.”

Ignoring her compromise, the old woman said, “How long have you lived—’Odalinde’ is it? How long have you lived Odalinde?”

Odalinde stayed quiet, the old woman recognizing her reticence to reveal anything capable of weakening her position.

“It doesn’t matter,” the old woman said, “I’m sure it’s been long enough. Far too long in fact. Certainly you know your body will do me little good at this point. And besides, I’ve found it. I’ve found the treasure. The Prize of Prizes if you will. And I’ll never let it slip away.”

Had it been only a few days earlier, the old woman would have been killed by the stone in Heinrich Morgan’s hand. It would have landed solidly on the back of her skull and sent shards of bone into her brain. At the very least she would have been rendered unconscious, with no chance of a second clemency, as there certainly would have been additional blows that followed.

But her senses were heightened now, and she could “see” the rock at its apex just before beginning its descent. Like a dervish, the old woman took a step to the side and then back, and then spun three hundred and sixty degrees, easily avoiding her assailant while assuming the position of strength. She was now behind Heinrich Morgan, restraining his arms to his sides, her breasts flat against his back and her mouth just inches from the man’s neck.

The woman knew instantly after arriving that it would end this way for the Morgan father. He’d been part of Marcel’s plan after all, a fact she’d uncovered so easily with just a taste of the broth; but as a result of his ongoing poisoning—no doubt being administered by the Orphist woman—he had temporarily forgotten his commitment.

And so it had been a dangerous play for her to strengthen him, allowing him that tiny, delicate taste; the woman knew it the moment she’d touched it to his lips. But it was only done as a temporary measure, an aid to learn what she could from the feeble man. Certainly he’d have some clue as to his wife and daughter’s whereabouts. Besides, whatever strength he regained was meaningless; the amount of brew was trivial and the effects wouldn’t last the day. It was nothing at all compared to what she’d lapped up. And, of course, Mr. Morgan wasn’t a blood relative of his wife. That was the main difference.

The old woman turned her right hand so that her palm faced outward, away from her body, and then she plunged her nails into the side of Heinrich Morgan’s neck, letting them glide naturally through the flesh. She flushed in excitement again at her newfound strength, admiring the ease at which her fingers penetrated the skin and muscle. She let her hand rest for a beat, relishing the sounds of asphyxiation and screams (“NO!” from Odalinde), before flinging her hand violently forward and tearing out the man’s throat. With her other hand, the old woman held up the corpse of Gretel’s father for a few seconds, showing off her strength to her next opponent, and then tossed the body to the dirt. “Are you ready to die?”

“How are they, Papa? Do you even know how your grandchildren have been doing?”

“They’re fine, Anika, but it’s best we not speak about them now. It will only upset you further. Please.” Marcel nodded with a smile and waved a hand toward himself, beckoning his daughter to come and sit.

Anika kept her distance, remaining instead at the back door of the warehouse. Ready. For what, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps when the officer returned—if he returned through the same door from which he left—she could make a run for it. Or maybe ambush him. He and that horrible witch. It was no plan at all really, a wild grasp at survival, but whatever happened, she wasn’t going to surrender again. And she was done obeying her father.

“And how do you know they’re fine?” she asked. “Have you seen them? Or spoken with them?”

“Oliver…” he paused, “Officer Stenson, the man who found you, he has seen them. He tells me they are well.”

Anika bit her upper lip to restrain a scream. The thought of that hideous officer looking at or being anywhere near her children sickened her.

“In fact, if I’m not mistaken, he spoke with Heinrich just a week or so ago. Everything with your children is fine.”

“Spoke with Heinrich? Why?”

Marcel peered at his daughter across the room, squinting her into focus, pausing long enough to give her time to come to the answer to her question.

“No,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, Anika.”

“No!” Anika screamed. “No!” And with that final scream, a foreign rage erupted in Anika, a rage she hadn’t felt even at the moment she’d crushed the skull of the hag. In one fluid motion, Anika gripped the mug of water tightly by the handle, spilling its contents to the warehouse floor, and then, torquing her body violently for leverage, smashed the bottom of the cup against the door’s mirror.

At first the sound was electrical in nature, sharp and piercing, and then it turned heavy and liberating as the shards of silver glass rained to the floor. Instinctively, Anika shielded her eyes from the exploding shrapnel, and then, realizing there was nothing else to do now but keep going, she floated her arm slowly through the new opening in search of the knob on the opposite side. The cup had left a sizable hole where the mirror had been, but jagged shards from every direction of the perimeter still threatened. She would obviously have to hurry, but she needed to avoid shredding her arm if it could be helped.

As she groped for the doorknob, Anika could also see through the opening to a small room which contained an exit door leading to the outside, the unmistakable neon beacon shining red on the wall above.

Her hand found the opposing doorknob and then felt its cruel resistance as she twisted it. That should come as no surprise, she thought, the door
is
locked. She continued her blind search, fine-tuning it, using now the tips of her fingers to locate the locking mechanism. Within seconds, she’d found the dial and unlocked the door, and then pulled her arm back through the opening. She was free.

Having not wasted any precious time worrying about what her father was doing during her escape, Anika turned back now to gauge him. Perhaps he was letting her leave.

As she considered this possibility, she felt the palms of her father’s hands plunge into the middle of her chest, knocking the air from her lungs, the sound like a baseball bat on an old pillow. Her body spun slightly to the right before crashing against the cold metal scaffold behind her. The metal shelving held her upright for a moment, and then she slumped to the floor, dropping slowly before coming to rest on one knee. With her head bowed in a look of prayer, Anika blinked several times at the floor, reflexively taking inventory of her condition. She wasn’t seriously hurt. Luckily, her right arm (which would have a nasty bruise later but wasn’t broken) had taken most of the impact; had her spine taken the brunt, she thought, she may have been finished. Just survive, she thought. Just keep surviving.

“I can’t risk you anymore, Anika,” her father spoke, this time making no pretensions at niceness. “When they arrive, she’ll have to use you as you are.”

Anika turned her eyes to her father, glaring. Any trace of love or sorrow for him was gone. There was only hatred, a searing contempt for the man who’d raised her.

And as this transmutation took place—from sympathy to loathing—everything in front of Anika crystallized. The shard of mirror. The side of her father’s neck. The resolve. She’d felt this before, at the witch’s cabin: a focused rage—a rage unlike the wild fury she’d released on the mirror minutes before.

Anika had known every move before it happened. It almost wasn’t fair, she thought. And as she was walking through the door, pebbles of glass crunching beneath her shoes, she fixed back on the body lying frozen on the floor. As she stared at the corpse, the shard of mirror that protruded neatly from her father’s neck, just below his right ear, caught the light and seemed to wink at Anika. Anika winked back and walked out.

Gretel hauled the canoe toward her, backpedaling up the bank, making certain to keep the boat from drifting, and then raced behind Petr and Hansel through the orchard to the Klahr’s house. Every gram of her body wanted to go back and fight, to help save Odalinde and her father—but she couldn’t risk Hansel and Petr following her. And she wanted to see her mother again.

“What is it, Petr? Gretel?” Mrs. Klahr was on the porch, welcoming the children as she untied her apron at the back and then crumpled it into a ball. It was Amanda Klahr’s version of preparing to fight, Gretel thought absently.

Gretel spoke rapidly, breathing heavily and stuttering. “Mrs. Klahr, it’s my father, and…and Odalinde…and my mother…and a woman…she’s a monster…or…”

“Gretel, slow down.” Mrs. Klahr twisted back toward the house. “Georg!” she called. “Come out here, George! It’s the children!” She turned back to the kids, this time addressing Petr. “Petr, what’s going on?” Mrs. Klahr’s tone sounded almost amused as if suspecting a prank.

“It’s true, Mrs. Klahr. There’s a woman…she…I think my father…” Petr stumbled, not sure how to relay anything that could make sense in only one or two sentences.

“Okay, settle down Petr. My goodness!” Mr. Klahr had arrived on the porch next to his wife. “George,” she said to him, “scamper over to the Morgan house and see what all’s happening there. These children are quite hysterical.”

“No! Mr. Klahr, no!” Gretel’s face twisted in terror. “Don’t go over there! She’s dangerous!”

“But Gretel,” Hansel cried, “someone needs to help them!”

Hansel was right, of course: it was likely her father and Odalinde needed help (the woman had flown!). But the thought of losing Mr. Klahr was too much for her to imagine. Gretel knew her father was gone—dead or alive she couldn’t know—but that he was a man who had passed the post of redemption, about this she was sure. And Odalinde. Odalinde had come here for them, exclusively, almost as a sacrifice—or salvation even—for the horrors she’d brought upon the world. Gretel felt she was meant to die protecting Hansel and her. Perhaps she’s dying right now, she thought.