Halfway Bitten (9 page)

“Season? That sounds tame. But no, I only know about the young ones,” Alex explained.

Gran accepted that and began her discourse on the gross aspects of aging undead. “Well, as you may suspect, a vampire does not freeze in time just because they are afflicted with the curse of eternal hunger. Their bodies continue to morph, albeit slowly, but it is their minds that become truly alien, given enough time to do so. Think of them as a well, filled with humanity. Over time, the well begins to run dry, and that amorality begins to express itself in ever more creative ways. By the end of, say, a thousand years”—she cut her eyes at me in apology—“most vampires are completely incomprehensible to all people, save witches, sorcerers, and the odd crazed necromancer who opts to do business with them.” She shuddered delicately at that; necromancers were nasty business. Simply brushing against their interests was likely to stain your soul for eternity; a fact that many of them disregarded cheerfully in their eternal pursuit of the dark arts.

Gran sipped her tea delicately, then held out a hand, fingers extended. “Think of these vampires as ancient trees. They begin to twist over time, until they are unrecognizable. Oh, to be sure, one might examine them closely and be able to state that they were once a tree, but that would necessitate getting close enough to do such a thing. And believe me, Alex,
nobody
of sound mind wants to be in that proximity to a being of such malignant energy.”

“I see,” Alex said slowly. “So there is something on your land that is keeping other vampires in fear, which means it should be easy to see, right?”

“Not true. The wicked and evil are almost always expert liars. They are capable of anything in the name of their lust. So, it makes sense that this being, if there is indeed only one, could be almost anyone or anything.” She held up one long finger, then wagged it significantly. “But we would be fools not to think that the place to begin is with the ringmaster from that circus. He is almost certainly not human, and I think that underneath his feet we’ll find clues about the nature of what is happening on our lands.”

“Gran, you said that their show was a distraction. Wouldn’t vampires want to divert our attentions away from them harvesting people? I mean, there aren’t exactly tons of dead people being found up and down the chain of lakes,” I said. To our knowledge, there were even less deaths than usual.

“True, but that only means that whatever these vampires are doing, it isn’t simply looking for prey.” Gran said.

That dinged a memory. “The
bloodgift
that Philip spoke about. What if it isn’t blood, or the right to hunt?” I asked.

“That’s the question, isn’t it? That term implies something religious, perhaps even sacred. And that is why I need some assistance from you, Carlie,” Gran said, turning to me.

“Anything, Gran. What is it?” I asked. If she told me to run through traffic blindfolded, I’d have a shirt over my head and feet on the pavement in five seconds. She smiled, then took my hand and squeezed it in the precursor to a dismissal. I was being sent on an errand.

“Go find Wulfric. We need his help in this matter, and I think that the two of you will be much safer together for the next few days,” Gran said.

I flinched. Did she think I couldn’t take care of myself? Before I could reply, she held up a hand, and I fell back, not mollified but wanting an explanation for her assumption of my weakness. Then she said something that made me wonder if she could read my thoughts all day, every day, and I was once again a child in the midst of a reprimand. I really do need to grow into my power.

Gran’s face transformed into a mélange of patient worry. “The protection is not for you, dear. How long do you think competing vampires will tolerate an outside rival while they’re vying for this mysterious prize? The answer is: not long. You must find him, so that we may take care of each other. The shield I must provide isn’t for you, but for Wulfric.”

Alex left me outside Gran’s. He was off to do—well, whatever it is that shifters do when they aren’t making nice with a pair of witches over tea, but not before I extracted a promise of him visiting the diner for breakfast. As I walked to my house, there was a small town convergence of worlds in which Tammy Cincotti and Tristan, the neighbor kid, collided at my doorstep.

Tammy was magnificent in her delivery uniform, the truck idling two doors up in a driveway in order to facilitate her slow saunter to my house with a package tucked under one bare arm. Of course, her makeup was pageant-ready, as was her hair. Her pretty face lit in a smile at the sight of me, and I lifted an arm in greeting just as a roaring engine came to life not ten feet away.

We both jumped, but for different reasons. Tammy was simply startled, but my nerves were jangled raw by the events of the previous days. We turned as one, searing looks of irritation directed at the source of the noise, and the third part of our small-town convergence leaned out of a roaring Camaro and yelled, “Sup, Carlie! Tammy! Like it? Just got it today!”

It was Tristan, the eighteen-year-old male half of two neighbor kids who have victimized me for money and clothes over the past three years. To clarify, they do so at my invitation, since both of them—that would include Tristan’s sister, Julia—have given me rides when I need to leave Halfway proper for shopping. Gran isn’t always in the mood to tromp though stores forty miles away, and I have a reputation for turning cars into glorified paper weights. I’m a good driver, but there’s a kind of universal balancing act that works against me when I’m behind the wheel of a car. After three cars and three separate but hilariously weird accidents, I decided that maybe it was best to avoid driving anything more risky than a bicycle.

Tristan and Julia swept in upon the coattails of my terrible luck and offered to act as my personal chauffeurs—for a price. Julia liked clothes; Tristan, cash. Both of them were cold-blooded hustlers, and maddeningly cheerful about it to boot.

I looked at the growling beast of a car that Tristan was sitting in and felt my eyes flutter upward in the kind of roll that I reserved for middle-aged men on their first motorcycle.

He killed the engine and posed, one arm out of the window in his best bad-boy impersonation, which didn’t really work considering his clear braces appeared to have some sort of green vegetable caught in them. When Tammy began to open her mouth to helpfully point out this offense, I tweaked her arm and winked. She smirked, then directed a brilliant smile at the kid, bathing him in the megawatt look of an actual living, breathing woman. A woman with boobs, I might add, and nice ones that she brought out to play on a regular basis.

“Nice ride. You sure you’re ready for that much horsepower?” Tammy drawled, leaning into the window and offering him a peek at three button’s worth of prime real estate. Her cleavage really was quite impressive, and the effect on Tristan was something like being shot with a rhino dart. His eyes went round, glazed over, and then cleared in a roiling instant that summed up every hormonal tug he’d been subjected to since puberty.

“I, ah. Yeah. I mean, I’m gonna be . . . careful?” he finished, his voice drifting up as he addressed Tammy.

“That’s right. You take good care of that beauty, okay?” Tammy said, her voice light and playful. Tristan blushed to the hairline, fired the engine up, and backed out with the care of a man transporting unsecured dynamite. As he pulled away, she put her manicured hands on her hips and smiled before waving slowly at him. I sincerely hoped he didn’t crash from watching her, then stifled a laugh that was half hysterical. I really was beyond tired, both physically and mentally.

“Men don’t understand hormones. At all. He uses bodyspray like he’s trying to kill horseflies. Phew.” Tammy clicked her tongue thoughtfully and smiled. “He’s had an eye for you since he was fifteen.”

“What?” I didn’t doubt Tammy—this was, after all, her area of expertise, but still. I’m usually a little more observant.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen him watch you walk to the diner. Not like a stalker, just interested. He’s a guy. You’re pretty. It was inevitable.” Tammy pronounced this with an air of conviction.

“I’ve known him since he was born. I babysat him,” I protested, feeling a little off at the knowledge that Tristan was now eying me in that way. Where had the time gone?

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. He’s old enough to know the difference.”

“Between what?” I asked, confused.

She pointed at me, her smile wicked. “Between what he thinks he can have”—her finger curled, then she tapped herself between two mounds of cresting cleavage—“and what he can’t.”

I laughed, snorted, and then wiped my nose in a most ladylike fashion. “I saw you looking at his car. Don’t you mean what he can’t have
yet
?”

Still grinning, she dropped a small package in my hands, shot me her traditional double-barreled finger guns, and sashayed back to her delivery truck. I hefted the little package and resolved that someday, I’d like one tenth of the confidence Tammy carried around with her, then unlocked my door and stepped into the sanctum of my home.

I needed Gus, and sleep, and a bath. Gus announced himself with a running headbutt, and I exhaled contentedly as I went to my bedroom. Sleep first. Clean up later.

The moon was going to rise tonight. My witchmark was inert on my scalp, but I knew that state of quiescence would fade with the lifting of a fat crescent moon. Slipping under my covers, Gus took his position along my leg, a rumbling length of friendly warmth. I closed my eyes, felt the house around me like a warm glove, and slept.

I woke with a luxurious stretch after Gus playfully tapped me on the cheek. He was in fine fettle, purring at me in the darkness while perched on the edge of my pillow. Actually, he sort of covered the pillow, but draped across it to tap my face with an indolent paw. Cats really understand the value of stagecraft. He wanted me to wake up for any incoming spells, but he was too proud to admit that he was hungry. It’s that kind of commitment to saving face that makes me think cats are the incarnation of Samurai warriors, but with a penchant for canned tuna.

Through the trickle of moonlight, his profile was noble. Cats really achieve that whole regal thing without too much effort, although a couple years ago I accidentally torched his whiskers in a scrying spell that went horribly awry. It took him a month to forgive me—or at least until his whiskers were close to their former splendor. While his whiskers regrew, he had the ignoble look of a tattered stuffed animal. I kept that thought to myself, lest he swat me again, but a stifled chuckle that made him cut his eyes at me suspiciously. I made a note to recheck him for psychic abilities, schooled my face into a blank mask, and disentangled from the toasty covers.

It was time to see what had come through the mail slot. There could be no other primary reason for Gus waking me, despite his moderate hunger pangs. I padded downstairs to the foyer and let my eyes adjust, scanning the floor for the envelope.

There was no envelope. There was no tidy, handcrafted shape announcing some wholly reasonable request for the mending of a broken heart, or a location spell, or any of the other helpful magic I perform. There was only a thing, flat and dark and smelling of musk. I told Gus to stay back, but it was unnecessary. He hissed at the object and I flipped the light on, needing to see exactly what had been dropped into my home.

It was a hat—or rather, it had been a hat at some point. It was fabric, white at one time, but now grimy beyond belief and stiff with dirt and age. The metallic tang of blood hung over the rag, and I cautiously reached out with one finger and flipped the rigid oval over. At some point, there had been a harlequin pattern of red and white on the fabric. It looked like the lining of a vintage hat, the kind you might see placed at a jaunty angle on a gentleman walking the streets of Brooklyn over a century earlier.

The writing was in blood, just as before. This time, it was a different hand, but the words were just as hideous.

Don’t let any more be taken. Please.

My heart clenched at the smell and the sentiment, all wrapped together in a call for action that spoke to my duty as a witch in a way that I felt like a physical blow. My breath came in short, hard gasps and I had to close my eyes to brace myself against anger. This plea was evidence that people were being harmed on my watch. I would not stand for it, and I couldn’t imagine what reaction Gran might have when she saw the note, if that’s what you could call something so barbarous.

“Gus, I’d better take this to Gran. Now.”

He uttered a single
mrrt
of agreement, flicked his ears in the direction of the bloodstained plea, and decamped to wait by the window. Having an understanding, if judgmental, cat is one of the benefits that witchcraft can bring. It’s also one of the drawbacks if said cat weighs more than a toddler. I patted Gus, feeling the reassuring bulk of his feline flank. Something ineffable passed through my witchmark, and I was compelled to take a long look at my home before walking toward Gran’s a few minutes later. My boots bumped along the sidewalk in a rhythm that calmed me with each step; I’d made this journey countless times, for reasons from a simple visit, to life and death issues of a magical bent. This fell closer to the latter, I thought, and a shudder passed up the small of my back, ending somewhere near my soul.

Gran answered the door in her nightgown without turning on the porch light. She knew it was me, and thus felt no need to go through the trappings of a surprise visit.

“What is it, dear?” she asked as I stepped inside.

I wordlessly handed her the note, watching with interest as she turned the oval over in her long hands. She didn’t move or speak for several minutes, just moved the fabric to and fro in the dim light of the oven light in her kitchen. Her feet made a small shushing sounds as she moved about to change the angle of the light. Silently, she put the note in a dish on her counter as if loathe to let the blood touch anything of her life. I understood. Between the blood and the words, it was an unholy thing.

With a nod, she reached a decision and moved briskly toward her bedroom. “Let me dress. We’re going for a walk.”

“Where to?” I asked. For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard me, but then her voice drifted back from the darkened hallway.

“To see an old friend.” There was a pause, then she came into view, pulling a thick plaid shirt over her nightgown. She’s added jeans, too, and a walking stick that gave her the decided air of a lumberjack wizard. She cocked her head at me and smiled. “And I think we’ll discuss a little family history on the way, too.”

The night sky was broken with the light of stars alone, so we began our walk at a modest pace, arm in arm. Gran’s pretty spry, but I sensed that she was using this trip to discuss something of importance, so I savored the clean air and took solace in the companionable pressure of her grip. I was on the cusp of morose thoughts about her age when she made a small noise of amusement.

“You needn’t worry about me shuffling off to the Everafter, Carlie.” At my small gasp, Gran added, “Your silence is a bit transparent. I’m long for this life. Do you know that witches live into their second century and beyond?” Her tone was light and informative.

“I’d heard, but—really? Why?” I was stunned. I suspected this would be the first of many such surprises tonight.

“It’s time, Carlie.” The way she said it was a pronouncement, not mere words.

“Time for what, Gran?” I’d stopped, dragged to stillness by the weight of her words.

She smiled at me in the dim light, a motion that I felt more than saw. “You’ve grown. As a woman, and a witch. I saw such wonderful things in you even when you were a girl. Carlie, you’ve made me proud to be your teacher, and my heart is filled to bursting with your purity of spirit. But it’s time for you to unlock the next chapter in your journey.”

She pulled me lightly by one hand, dispelling the air of shock that clung to me like a cloud. “Ok, Gran. I love you. I’m proud to be your granddaughter, but . . . do you think I need to take on something else? I will, you know.” I added this last bit in a hurry, not wanting to seem ungracious.

“I do. You’ve reached a natural point where what lies around the bend of the river is in front of you. The time for new challenges is now, not later, and we begin tonight with some history,” Gran said as we walked.

“Where are we going?” The edge of town wasn’t far away, and I worried about our general safety at night without a light source. As far as protection, well—that was the
least
of my concerns.

“To the upper graveyard.” She spoke this without a hint of care. I’d lived in Halfway all my life, and I only knew of one cemetery. I felt a twinge of the unknown, but it faded because of the woman I stood next to. All would be revealed, I knew, so I merely waited as long as I could stand it.

“Upper?” It was one word, but it meant many things. It revealed my uncertainty at finding that there were aspects of Halfway I didn’t know. For a hometown girl, that came as a cool touch at the back of my neck especially given my line of work.

“It’s better if you see for yourself. My description is biased. Personally, I think it’s one of the most beautiful places in Halfway,” Gran said reverently.

“You also think the pizza parlor is charming,” I teased.

She snorted delicately. “Don’t be cheeky. I said I like the brick oven. The fake plastic grapevines are too kitschy for my palate, but the stonework is rather old world,” she clarified.

“Fair enough. I do like the oven. I like what comes
out
of the oven even more,” I admitted, noting that it was only a couple hours until my usual snack raid. I sent a sternly worded warning to my stomach and hoped that it wouldn’t rumble in the sacred ground of the graveyard. I was giving myself even odds. I don’t do hunger well; it’s one of my charms.

Gran let quiet settle about us and our smiles faded in that place between comfort and curiosity. I knew she would speak when ready, and I honestly had no idea what was going to be said. For the moment, I let the night keep my counsel. We passed a sort of threshold, where the interior of the town became indistinct. Growing up in Halfway, there were three known places. You were in town, or out of town, and then, if you were lucky, you were in the park. That kind of definitive existence is comforting, just like the solid grip Gran had on my arm when our feet began to crunch on the small stones of a cut through that led to the left side of our town cemetery.

I looked at the terraces—four in all, ascending up the hillside, and each one covered in grave markers and sporadic trees. Low sheets of luminous fog drifted lazily near the ground, and somewhere an owl lofted a mournful hoot into the night air. If not for the distant blur of a lonely streetlight, we could have been anywhere in time. Gran stopped and began to speak.

“Your power is like the terraces of this graveyard. It is founded on something sacred, just like mine, and on the witches of our family who stretch behind us into the distant shadows of a lineage that even I do not fully understand,” Gran said in a confessional tone. “Your grimoire is filling with spells. You’ve always been a great student, Carlie, but your power now exceeds your ability to translate those spells into mere words. You need alternative outlets to learn from, as well as places where you can turn to gather information. It is time that you understood how to speak to the dead.”

“The . . . who?” I asked, stunned. I’d always thought of the dead as being unreachable, unless they were in torment. Then, more often than not, they reached out to the living, and the results were horrible. There is no pain like that of a ghost in limbo. It’s eternal, unending, and affixed to a memory that can often drive you mad with agony if you as much as brush up against it. I’d been trained by Gran to
avoid
ghosts, and now she was telling me that they were about to become a resource. I stayed quiet to let her instruct me; it was the right thing to do in that manicured graveyard filled with unquiet voices.

“Witches are not precluded from talking to the dead, especially if that person is
willing
. There’s a difference between wailing because of pain and speaking to the living out of a desire to help. The dead
see
things, and if they’re good people, then they pass that information on to us,” Gran said.

“Us?” I asked. Did she mean just our family?

“Witches of goodness and light. The dead can be our eyes and ears, Carlie. They miss very little during their travels through the places between.” She looked up the hill to the highest terrace, a place that was nearly obscured by the low fog. “Don’t think of the dead as limited by their graves. That only applies to victims of trauma. It’s the singular reason for their insanity and pain, a sort of cabin fever brought on by their imprisonment.” A sad noise drifted from her lips and I knew she thought of someone specific.

“Do you know any ghosts like that, Gran?” I asked. It seemed likely she did.

She nodded slightly, and the stars glistened in her eyes. “I did, but they are at rest now. It was . . . the passing was difficult.” Uninvited tears left her cheeks with a single track on each. She wiped them away with an irritated wave and drew a steadying breath. For my Grandmother to verge on the loss of her composure was a rarity. I leaned toward her to listen even harder. My spirit sensed the truth behind her sadness.

Gran took a decisive step up the central path. To either side of us, a garden of loss and remembrance peeled away into the fog, each stone the declaration of someone’s love. Flowers, wreaths, and other clues about recent visitors dotted the rows, some tattered by sun and rain, others so fresh the blooms were proudly unbowed. It was haunting and elegant, and I found a smile tug at my lips at the thought of loving so deeply that not even death could stop it. We ascended the path gradually, pausing every few steps so Gran could both orient and rest. She was hale, but the walk had already been quite long.