Homecoming (15 page)

“Induction ceremony,” Daniela said. “It's a metaphorical mating with the Horned God, and your initiation into our coven.”

“Uh, not so metaphorical,” Lyse said, blushing.

“Looks like it was pretty hot stuff,” Dev said, giggling. “Did you see his face?”

Now Lyse's cheeks were on fire.

“I think she did,” Arrabelle said, raising an eyebrow.

“That's beside the point,” Lyse said. “What I want to know is whose body I was in.”

Eleanora patted her arm.

“It's just a representation of the Mother. You embody her when you mate with the Horned God. It's nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about? How can you say that? This whole thing is insane,” Lyse said, shaking her head.

“Why don't we make a fire, and then we can discuss what needs discussing,” Eleanora said—and at her words, Lizbeth, who'd been sitting in the grass watching their exchange with a worried face, got up and took off into the woods.

“Where's she going?” Lyse asked, thinking about the stray dog she'd encountered out there.

Daniela must've had the same thought, because she said, “I'll go with her,” and disappeared through a gap in the trees.

“Please take this,” Arrabelle said, offering the plastic cup again. “After what you've just been through, I suggest you drink it.”

It wasn't a suggestion.

Lyse sighed and took it, placing its edge to her lips. It smelled of lemon, ginger, and a touch of something loamy—as if some of the ingredients had been freshly dug from the dirt.

Lizbeth and Daniela each returned with an armful of twigs and dead branches, and Lizbeth went to work starting the fire.

“Isn't it illegal to burn stuff outdoors?” Lyse asked.

“We have special dispensation from the fire department,” Eleanora said. “Religious grounds.”

Lyse wasn't sure she believed her great-aunt but decided not to argue.

“I need a cigarette,” Daniela said, patting the pockets of her pants.

“Why can't you just smoke normal cigarettes?” Arrabelle asked, frowning.

“You love the smell of my cloves,” Daniela said to Arrabelle, grinning as she lit up and took a drag.

She caught Lyse watching her intently.

“I see you looking. Want one?” she asked, offering Lyse the pack.

Lyse started to shake her head no, then changed her mind.

Like the embrace of a longtime lover you enjoyed hooking up with but hated making chitchat with after the deed, clove cigarettes were both familiar to Lyse and hard to turn down—even though she knew she'd pay for it later.

“Yes, I do.”

Lyse took the pack and fished out one of the long brown cigarettes.

“That was my last match,” Daniela said, “but you can light yours off mine.”

“Works for me,” Lyse said, taking Daniela's proffered cigarette and using it to light her own.

“Just don't let Eleanora say I'm corrupting you,” Daniela joked.

“Oh, I won't,” Lyse murmured, lighting up.

The cloves were stronger than she remembered and burned her throat. She coughed, the smoke searing her lungs.

“I don't really smoke anymore. Just when I'm super-stressed . . .”

She trailed off as she took another drag, feeling lightheaded.

Lizbeth had the fire going now, and the warmth from the flames licked at the backs of Lyse's legs, shooing away the cold.

“Let's sit,” Daniela said, pinching off the end of her cigarette and returning what hadn't been smoked to the pack.

Lyse, who'd only gotten down a few puffs, did the same. She handed the butt to Daniela.

“Sorry,” Lyse said. “I just needed like two puffs.”

“Totally got it,” Daniela replied, giving Lyse a wink. “Waste not, want not.”

Lyse's butt went back into the pack, too.

She followed Daniela over to the fire and sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest. Eleanora came and sat down on the grass beside her, so close Lyse could feel her great-aunt's body trembling. She reached out a hand and laid it on Eleanora's forearm, her fingers pale white against her great-aunt's poncho.

“I know this is a lot to process,” Eleanora said. “And I appreciate you bearing with me.”

“'S'okay,” Lyse said. “I just want you to explain this to me. Because as much as I don't want to believe the stuff you're saying . . . well, I'm starting to believe it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lyse saw Lizbeth get up from her spot next to Arrabelle and crawl around the edge of the fire. She plopped down beside Lyse and curled up into a little ball, resting her head on Lyse's arm. It was like being cuddled by a giant child.

“I showed you the Dream Journals for a reason,” Eleanora said. “You know where they are and how to access them.”

“Yes, the books with no writing in them,” Lyse said, tapping her temple with a finger. “I remember.”

“Oh, there's writing in them,” Arrabelle said, the firelight casting deep shadows across her face. “Only you can't see it except when you're in a dream state.”

Dev nodded.

“It's true. Only a Dream Keeper can read them in the waking reality, and since there aren't many of those left, well . . .”

“Why? What happened to the Dream Keepers?” Lyse asked, confused.

“No one knows,” Daniela said. “But one hasn't been born in over fifty years. My mother was one of the last.”

“And who was your mother?”

“The great and powerful Marie-Faith Altonelli,” Eleanora said, speaking for Daniela. “I say
great and powerful
because she held the Dream Keeper's seat on the Greater Council for almost a quarter of a century—”

Across from them, Daniela was staring into the flames, her eyes a million miles away.

“—and until her death six months ago, she was also one of my greatest friends.”

It blew Lyse's mind that there was so much about Eleanora she didn't know.

“Are they ever going to fill her seat?” Arrabelle asked.

“I don't know,” Eleanora said thoughtfully.

This turn in the conversation caught Daniela's attention, and she looked up to glare at Arrabelle.

“And who would you have take her place?” Daniela asked, her voice a low growl. “Of the Dream Keepers left, most are senile old bats who can't even remember their own name. You want one of them dictating how the covens are managed?”

“That's not what I'm saying—” Arrabelle snapped back.

“There's already been a huge battle over who should take the seat, and it's created a lot of bad blood between the different factions of our world,” Dev said to Lyse, to clarify.

“And I thought human politics were bad,” Lyse replied.

“Tell me about it.” Dev grinned before continuing. “Every coven used to have a Dream Keeper. They see the future in their dreams—though I don't mean that literally. Their dreams only imply what will be, and even then the interpretation is up to the Dreamer.”

“But their dreams have always influenced how the covens operated, and it gives them a lot of power,” Arrabelle added. “There's been a lot of resentment toward them, and then when the old Dream Keepers started dying off, and no new ones were born to take their place—”

“It's why a lot of people want my mother's seat abolished altogether,” Daniela said. “Because the reign of the Dream Keepers is dead.”

Lyse wasn't sure how all of this pertained to her, other than she was now a member of this strange coven and the others wanted her to understand its inner workings. Right now she was tired and was just enjoying the heat of the firelight and the lulling murmur of conversation.

Beside her, Eleanora sighed, shifting on her hip bones.

“You're exhausted. I'm exhausted,” Lyse said. “Maybe we should call it a night—”

“I think Lyse is right,” Dev said, looking at Eleanora. “You're worn-out, and it's not like we don't have time for the rest of the stuff now that the ritual's been performed—”

“Wait, what other stuff?” Lyse asked—it'd already been a full evening, and she couldn't imagine what else there was left to discuss.

“Oh lord, you didn't tell her, did you?” Arrabelle said with a sigh.

“No, I didn't,” Eleanora snapped. “I didn't want to overwhelm her.”

“Too late for that,” Daniela said, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. “I think Lyse has officially reached her saturation point.”

Eleanora looked over at Daniela gratefully.

“Yes, you're all correct. I am tired, and we can talk again tomorrow.” She turned to Arrabelle. “I think home is the only place I'm going right now. Shall we take a rain check on dinner? We left some wine at your place. Drink up in my honor.”

Arrabelle nodded.

“I just might.”

“Lizbeth?” Lyse said, nudging the sleeping teenager awake. “Time to get up.”

The girl rubbed her eyes and grinned dreamily at Lyse, a secret smile playing on her lips.

“We should close the circle,” Eleanora said, picking up a white candle and lighting it from the flames of the fire.

The others did the same, including Lyse, who figured:
Why the hell not?

“This is a pretty simple one,” Dev whispered. She'd come to stand beside Lyse when they'd each lit their candle. “You won't have any trouble with this stuff when you do it. It's easy peasy.”

Lyse gave her an uncertain smile and nodded.

“Close the circle and put to sleep all that was created by our work here tonight,” Eleanora intoned, and blew out her candle.

“Close the circle,”
the others repeated before blowing out their own candles.

The small campfire had burned down to embers, but they didn't have to worry about putting it out. The heavens chose that moment to open, letting forth a torrent of rain. They left the clearing at a run, trying not to get soaked—and for the entire walk home, Lyse couldn't help but wonder what Lizbeth had been dreaming about.

A
fter getting soaked in the rain, the hot shower was magnificent, waking up her worn-out muscles and making her feel like she was among the living again. She stayed in the bathroom longer then she intended, enjoying the warm prickle of water on her dry skin and the steam that filled the bathroom and fogged the mirror over the sink. But when the cold began to cut into the warm, she knew it was her cue to get out. She dunked her face under the spray one final time, shivering as the last of the hot water filtered through the showerhead. She got out and toweled herself dry, feeling revitalized, even though she'd barely slept in more than twenty-four hours.

“Ow!” she cried when the thick terry-cloth towel brushed against the lump on her head. The one she'd gotten when she'd almost brained herself on her kitchen countertop that morning.

It seemed like all of that had happened decades before, and in another life.

She sat down on the edge of the tub, brushing her wet and tousled bangs out of her eyes, and parted her hair. Then she rubbed away some of the condensation on the mirror with a hand towel and took a look.

She found the red welt easily and probed it with her fingers. There was no blood, so she left it alone.

. . . and she cried out, digging her nails into his back . . .

She was struck by the memory of her imaginary tryst with Weir—or the Horned God; she didn't know which because they were fused together in her mind. She felt his phantom hands all over her body, caressing and kissing her skin, knowing exactly how to touch her in just the right ways. Making it impossible for her to think straight.

Standing there in her towel, she didn't think she'd ever been more attracted to a man in her life. And what made it all the more interesting was they hadn't actually had sex.

She'd slept with him in a drugged-out fantasy, his giant arms wrapping around her middle, hugging her tightly to his chest, but only in her mind—and she'd felt safe there, enveloped in his scent and warmth. Weir was the antithesis of the wussy, metrosexual men she usually dated: masculine, solid, deliberate, knew exactly what he wanted, and didn't seem afraid to take it when he saw it.

She even loved his tattoos . . . loved the indigo octopus tentacles as they pulsed along with the movements of the muscles under his skin—

Stop it. You hardly know this guy. The ritual made you feel close to him, that's all. You'll see him again and he'll be like a stranger to you.

She opened the bathroom cabinet and took out a bottle of lotion, slathering it all over herself, trying not to imagine that they were Weir's hands running up her body, not her own.

She finished drying off and threw on some sweats. Then she left the bathroom door open so the steam could evaporate. As she walked down the hallway, she heard Eleanora talking to herself in the kitchen and decided to check in on her.

Eleanora was standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking confused.

“I thought I put my pot tincture away after I used it, but it's gone,” Eleanora said, throwing up her hands in resignation. “I guess it got up and walked off on its own.”

She waited, her head cocked, as if she were listening to someone, and then she laughed.

“Don't be ridiculous. I did not go through that whole bottle in two days—”

“Maybe you put it in another cabinet?” Lyse asked, deciding not to mention the fact she'd just caught Eleanora talking to herself.

Eleanora looked up, surprised to find Lyse standing in the doorway.

“I suppose I could've put it somewhere else.”

Lyse opened the refrigerator to get a soda.

“This what you're looking for?” She held up a small glass bottle she'd found on the top shelf wedged in between two soda cans.

Eleanora clapped her palms together happily.

“That's it! You're a genius!”

She plucked the bottle from Lyse's hands and ran to the cabinet to grab a glass. Lyse shook her head and went back to scouring the fridge. She remembered she hadn't had any dinner, and she was starving. She pulled out a pie pan with one slice of quiche left in it and carried the whole thing to the kitchen table.

“Good, I'm glad you're eating that. I was gonna throw it out tomorrow,” Eleanora said, turning to face Lyse, who was leaning back in her chair, eating the crumbly quiche with her hands. She wore a blissful expression on her face as she stuffed the last bite into her mouth.

“What?” she said, raising her head, eyes glazed over from too much food, too fast.

Eleanora wore an amused expression.

“Nothing. Just enjoying you being here,” Eleanora said. “That's all.”

“Enjoying me eating all your leftovers, don't you mean?” Lyse said, grinning.

“That's it,” Eleanora agreed. “That's the only reason I like having you here. To eat me out of house and home.”

Lyse rubbed her belly and sighed.

“That was delicious.”

She closed her eyes and felt sleep tickling her brain. She was excited to go to her old room and crawl into bed. Maybe tomorrow she'd wake up and go through her old clothes, the ones she hadn't wanted to take to Georgia when she left for school. They were still hanging up in the closet. She could take a look at them, see if anything still fit or was at all salvageable.

“I wanted you to have something.”

She opened her eyes. Eleanora was sitting across from her, a small leather-bound journal in her hands.

“What is it?” Lyse asked, watching as Eleanora nervously played with the journal's cover.

“It's my personal diary,” she said, an earnest expression on her face.

“Like all your girly teenage hopes and dreams,” Lyse said, grinning.

She expected Eleanora to respond with some pithy rejoinder, but her great-aunt only stared down at her gnarled hands.

“Come on,” Lyse said, sitting up so she could poke Eleanora's hand with her finger. “You're supposed to laugh at that.”

“Nothing to laugh about,” Eleanora said, not looking up. “This is serious business to me.”

Lyse sat back in her chair and sighed.

“Fine, I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to make fun of your diary. I was just teasing you.”

“Why don't you bring your chair around here by me?” Eleanora said, patting the spot beside her.

Lyse did as she was told, dragging her chair around the table until they were sitting side by side.

“That better?” Lyse asked.

Eleanora nodded.

“I want to give you a story,” Eleanora said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It's not a particularly happy story, but it's mine and I want you to have it.”

The sound of Eleanora's voice was like a drumbeat in Lyse's head, the repetition of syllable and sound weaving together like the incantation of a spell. Lyse yawned, her tired mind yearning for the oblivion of sleep, and that was when she felt the lightest of touches on her wrist.

Eleanora leaned in, her words a hush in Lyse's ear:
“My grandmother Mimi knew that no matter what she did, the Devil had my foot, and she was powerless to stop him from taking me . . .”

And then Lyse began to dream.

*   *   *

. . . and because she “loved” me—a word that even now sounds unbelievable to my ears—she did something she thought might save me, unhooking the Devil's claws from my soul once and for all.

Of course, I didn't understand any of this until I was long gone from Massachusetts, far away from everything and everyone I'd ever known, my childhood and adolescence a dusty memory locked up tight inside my mind.

My mama had powers, and so did her mother before her—though Mimi did everything she could to excise that part of herself, while my mama was her opposite. My mama reveled in her special abilities: magical powers that, as a nurse, she used to heal the hopelessly sick and to deliver new life safely into the world, when without her help both the mother and infant would've been lost.

While Mimi hated what she was and stuffed her powers deep down inside her until they were dead and (mostly) buried, my mama embraced her calling. She left home at seventeen to become a nurse, and when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, she joined the Nurse Corps and was stationed in a military field hospital in Italy until she found herself pregnant with me and was discharged.

My existence, you see, was due to pure happenstance:

A wounded young man from Mama's small town in Massachusetts came under her care. He was a year younger than she, but they'd known each other tangentially in school, had friends in common, spent time at the same adolescent haunts. Their shared history, and the intimacy of war, brought them together in a way that could've never happened back home. My mama was poor and my father, James Davenport, was from one of the wealthiest families the town of Duxbury had ever produced.

I was made one frightening night when screaming bombs lit up the sky like the Fourth of July, and everywhere men went off to battle and died like pigs at slaughter. My parents' coupling was quick and unplanned—two terrified human beings clinging to one another in order to remind themselves they were still alive—but it was enough to conceive me. Sadly, my father was sent back to fight shortly thereafter and died never knowing of my existence.

How do I know all this? Did my mama tell me these stories?

Yes and no; in her lifetime she did not get the chance to whisper her stories to me, her only daughter. I did not get to sit at her feet and hear them fall from her lips like precious jewels—because one cold winter morning, on her way back from Mass General after a long overnight shift in the maternity ward, Mama's car skidded on black ice and hit a tree.

For all her magical healing powers, my mama could not heal herself.

Yet I know these things. Know them because of a quirk in my nature, passed down to me through all the Eames women who came before me. I am a blood sister and my gift is clairvoyance. Since I was a small child, I could see ghosts and talk to them. Even visit scenes from their life, experiencing them as if they were my own memories. I was there, observing in spirit, the night my parents created me. And I knelt beside my mama as she lay on the icy road, blood streaming from her mouth as she took her last breath and used it to murmur my name.

This was my crime. Speaking and fraternizing with the dead. This was why Mimi believed the Devil had my foot, and why she enlisted deluded, fanatical men to save my everlasting soul—and it's also the beginning of how I came to live in Echo Park in the bungalow on Curran Street overlooking Elysian Park, and how you came to join me, changing my life forever.

I wanted to tell you this story, Lyse. One I have never told to anyone, at least, in all its parts, because I think it will explain how important the coven is to me, and why I want to ensure it lives on through you, the only other human being, besides my mama, that I have ever truly loved.

*   *   *

It was getting worse. Harder to control. Eleanora didn't have to wish for it anymore. It just sprung itself on her at will—and if she happened to be washing the dishes, well, if there was a dish in her hand it was done for.

“Papa,” Eleanora said, taking the frail old man's hand in her own and giving it a squeeze. “The things I see are getting worse.”

She called her psychic talents “seeing” because it was easier than explaining what they really were.

Papa hardly ever opened his eyes anymore, staying asleep for longer and longer stretches of time until Eleanora was afraid he would just stop waking all together.

Not that she blamed him. Imprisoned in his body, trapped in a dreary existence offering no respite save death, why did he choose to keep going? She didn't understand, but she knew he must have his reasons.

At least his room was nice, and he could listen to the radio whenever he liked. Mimi kept the station turned to the Jesus Hour, but whenever her grandmother was out, Eleanora would change it, turning it to a classical station Papa liked. No one had ever told her what Papa liked to listen to, but sometimes when she was “seeing,” she observed him as a much younger man—and that was how she knew he loved Bach and Beethoven.

“Papa?” She said his name again, and this time he squeezed her hand back. It was so slight a movement anyone else wouldn't have felt it, but Eleanora had been ministering to her papa practically all her life, and she knew what each flicker of his eyelid, each twitch of his hand meant.

“I saw Mama again. She was just beautiful. You must've been so proud of her.”

Another squeeze. This one stronger. Her mama, May, had been Papa's favorite. A real daddy's girl, Mimi said.

“She was as big as a house—with me inside her, and she just glowed.”

This elicited a twitch of his eyelids.

“I visit her a lot in my mind, Papa. She doesn't always know I'm there, but I can see everything.”