The Reaper Chronicles, page 8
Anthony’s fingers squeeze my thigh. “Rude much.”
“Sorry.”
“No apology needed.” He shakes his head. “I am able to see in my mind’s eye. There is no need for physical sight.”
“That makes sense.” I scrunch my face at Anthony.
He gives me a not-so-subtle kick under the table as the fortune teller releases my hand.
“What is this world coming to?” The mystic adjusts his man-bun, and the reading begins. I wonder if that helps focus his inner sight when he says, “These witches should realize there are no shortcuts in life.”
“I guess Anthony has filled you in.”
“Yes. A dangerous situation for both of you.” The supernaturally sensitive fortune teller grabs the crystal ball in both hands. “I can see why Death chose you to battle them. It will be hard, but you can do it. You must stop the evil from rising. They want the power of the souls without returning anything to the universe. Nature is a balance that goes both ways. If they succeed, the balance will be lost forever.” He sits the crystal ball back on the table and has no problem finding my face with his hand, taking my chin between his warm fingers. “You need to be a quick study and learn.”
“What do you mean by that?” It’s hard to speak with his hand squishing my cheeks.
“You must understand the witches and their practices. Find out what they want and how they plan to get it, and then stop the three of them. You’re related in ways you will soon come to understand. Use that gift. That is why Death chose you.”
“What about Anthony here? He must have a role in all this.”
“He does.” Soothsayer says no more.
I huff. “Why me?”
“There’s always a reason.”
I pull my chin from his grasp and push my chair back. “What reason? I’m one of many people Death could have called upon. I’m not that special.”
“You are.” He leans over the table, closing the distance between us. “Throughout history, many struggled to attain the same power the three vie for now. If they get all the souls, the witches’ power will be unimaginable and terrible. If humans could see into my crystal ball, they’d do anything to stop them. You can! You’re one of the few special souls.”
“Okey-Dokey.” I study the figure seated across from me. Dressed in his traditional fortuneteller costume with a glitzy gold robe and crystal ball that was clearly purchased on Amazon, the room screams tourist trap. How can he actually know all this information?
“I offer my help to all those who want a glimpse of the bigger universe.” He scrutinizes me. “Is this your first time having a reading?”
“Yes.” I study him back, trying to learn anything that might help me make sense of what is happening because Anthony, for once, is silent. I’m not sure if that or the mystic scares me more. The reading must not be finished because the freakish fortuneteller presses his fingers into my arm, moving down until he reaches my hand again.
Chills hike up my spine. “How long have you been doing this?” The question distracts me from the feeling of his fingers tracing my palm. He grabs my wrist, his iron grip burning my skin. “I’ve been at this location for many years. Time has little meaning anymore since my mind can travel beyond this plane of reality. I have been shown the deeper levels of existence, and they are not bound by the hours.”
“Right.” I pull away. “What did my palm tell you?”
“Death is near, but you are stubborn. A natural survivor and a witch.” His yellow fingernails slide across the table. “Pray for eternal peace if you fail to find and destroy the witches’ spell. Hopefully, Death will not let you suffer. I can guarantee it will not be painless if the three have their way with you.”
“I’m not a witch.” The edge in my voice highlights my discomfort. “You haven’t told us anything that will help us stop them.”
“You’ll never leave the farm alive,” Mystic Man stands, turning his back on us, “unless you pick the right book.”
“What book?”
He shrugs. “You’re done now.”
Chapter Sixteen
We walk back into the store, and I browse the strangeness. I mean, I’ve seen strange when I go into peoples’ houses and worlds prior to their death, but I’ve never been in a Wiccan shop. There’s a vast array of daggers and knives alongside jars of herbs, weeds, bugs, concoctions, and other bizarre stuff. I cannot pronounce the names of at least half the items stocked around the store. Amulets line shelves. They lead into more ledges stacked with candles and crystals. A dark crevice along the back wall is covered with animal fur, bones, and skulls.
I breathe deep to hold it together. “What did the mystic man mean when he said pick the right book? Is that anything like Let the Right One In?”
“Good movie.” Anthony nods in approval.
“Get serious. If I pick the wrong one, am I doomed to an eternity of misery or something worse?” I point to shelves full of scrolls and books. “Here they are.”
“He said you need to pick the right book. I don’t have any additional information. You were sitting next to me.”
“You two seemed to have a brotherly bond. Did your bromance bud tell you anything extra in your conversation prior to the reading? Color, size, shape, or title of said book?”
“Sorry. The world's fate is resting on your choice of reading material.”
“I’m beginning not to like the supernatural speaker of beyond space and time.”
“That’s a little derogatory, don’t you think?”
“He didn’t tell me his name. What do you want me to call him?”
“Psychic, medium, or clairvoyant would work, but his name is Sam.”
“I’ll remember for next time, which I hope will never happen.” I pull a book from the shelf, flip through the pages, and put it back. I do the same thing to a few more. “I’m not feeling anything. They’re just books. This is an impossible task.”
“Give it time. The book might not even be here. There are plenty of other stores in Salem.”
I groan. “One store is more than enough unless it’s for a new wardrobe or food. We can always shop for food, but no more scary stores. It’s got to be here.” I peel one book off the shelf after another. I get nothing. The worn leather covers range from stiff and cracked to soft and broken. Pages smell of musty paper. Some have writing, others are blank. Old-time journals sit aside almanacs and children’s stories from the 1800s.
I grab a heavy, clunky book, and my fingers tingle. It’s got a slick, dark brown leather cover with a burnt orange amber stone in the center. Moons and stars decorate each corner. There’s writing, but it shifts in front of my eyes, so I cannot read the title.
“What is this?”
“It’s used as a grimoire. A book of spells.”
A kaleidoscope of strange letters and symbols weave and shift in front of my eyes. I reach to touch one of the symbols, but it darts away, appearing to hide behind the amber stone wedged into the smooth leather. “What does the cover say? I can’t read it. The letters keep moving. Crazy, right? I wonder how the printer did that?”
“What are you talking about?” Anthony reaches down and takes the book from me. His hand touches the stone on the cover and traces one of the illustrations of a moon etched into the corner. “There aren’t any words on the cover.”
“Right there.” My finger touches the spot under the flaming orange stone. Heat radiates from it. “Ouch. That burns. Why is the universe out to get me today?”
Anthony touches the amber and then runs his fingers all over the cover. “Nothing. This must be the right one. It’s calling you.”
“It burned me. That doesn’t sound like it wants to make friends.”
“Didn’t you notice that the gem matches the one in your amulet? They must be linked somehow.”
I pull out my amulet and study the two stones. The colors are surprisingly similar. “My amulet isn’t evil, but the book is. It has a bad temper, to be sure. Maybe the book and Goose are distant cousins? I wonder if I should introduce them? They’ve probably already met somehow in the great beyond.”
“Are you talking about the book as if it were a person?”
“No, but it could house a demonic relative of my nuckelavee. I did say it was bad-tempered.”
“This is it.” His expression is unreadable. “I’m sure about it.”
Anthony walks the book to the checkout and hands it to the woman behind the counter. Her hair is dyed black, her eyes cloaked in black eyeshadow and liner, and her costume (I mean clothing) consists of a black, long-sleeve shirt, leggings, and matching tutu.
“We’ll take it.” Anthony smiles at the woman, and her cheeks turn pink, a nice contrast to her somber outfit.
“You understand I have no idea how to use it.” I lean against the counter and fiddle with the Harry Potter wands.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“That’s asking a lot from me. We’ve only been working together for two days now. You don’t know what I’m capable or not capable of accomplishing.”
The girl at the counter looks the book over, opens the cover, and flips through the pages.
“These make great journals. I’m using mine to write my romance novel. It’s almost done. Enemies to lovers.”
“Where do you write stuff?” I ask.
She gives me an odd look. “On the pages.”
“But they’re already full of writing.”
The saleswoman narrows her eyes at me, takes the credit card from Anthony, processes the sale, and hands him the grimoire. “Enjoy.”
On the way out, he whispers, “She can’t see the spells and probably thinks you’re nuts.”
“Great. Someone has it out for me today. Do you think the witches put a curse on me?”
“Never say never.”
We’re back in his Porsche, and I settle in with the book as he drives back to Middleton.
“I’d offer you a ride on Goose, but he’s kind of a one-woman demon.”
“I bet.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. He doesn’t even like me much, but we tolerate each other’s eccentricities.” I flip through the book and study some of the spells, not daring to read them aloud. I’m kind of scared to say any of the words in the grimoire, especially those not in English, having no idea what will happen.
What if I blow us both up?
Anthony glances away from the road. “What did you find?”
“Spells.” Now that the book isn’t trying to take me out, I’ve come across a flying spell, a cleanse, a child-birth pain reduction spell, and a rain spell. That’s on my first flip through, but none of those seem likely to help us with the witches. I wouldn’t mind flying, but I’d be scared to fall out of the sky. I’ll tackle that one once I get my witchcraft wings.
“Keep reading and take these.” He hands me zip ties.
The way my day is going, I don’t even question his gift when I stuff them in the pockets of my cargo shorts. “Even if I find the perfect spell, it’s not like I know how to cast it. What if we need ingredients or something? What if I say it wrong and turn myself into a toad? This is dangerous.”
“We’re on the way back to the farm. Figure it out.”
I stare out the window and watch Salem fade away in the rearview mirror. A police car with a witch emblem wizzes by a double-decker bus proclaiming ghost tours. The busy streets full of people, cars, and buses, slowly morph into the suburbs, and then nature takes over.
I’m ecstatic for the air conditioning as the temperature gauge in Tony’s car reads ninety-eight degrees. Even the leaves on the trees we fly by look a little heat-oppressed and saggy. As we head along the road cruising at speeds well above the limit, the greens and browns blur into waves.
I return my gaze to the book, and the spells mimic the outside: all waves and ripples. It’s hard to make out individual words, let alone full incantations.
“Maybe, I’m getting car sick, but the book’s not playing nice. Couldn’t we get guns or machetes or some other type of lethal weapon instead of relying on my spell skills? A flame thrower might be nice. Isn’t that how they kill zombies on all the shows?”
“The zombies aren’t the problem. The witches and their dastardly plan is the problem.”
“I don’t know. The walking corpses were pretty scary. Plus, my necklace hasn’t lit up since then. I can’t help but notice your ring is quiet too.”
“Death has them set only for souls that the witches target. I don’t know how he did it, but he’s Death.”
“Better not to question.” I take in this new piece of information and vow to start reading the emails. “But why are we going back exactly?”
“Surprise attack. Catch them unaware. We’re being stealthy.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re being stupid.”
Chapter Seventeen
We’re back at the farm and head down the muddy path in the woods surrounding it. Any other day, this might be pleasant. The over-ripe, humid air is tempered by the slight breeze and the tall foliage. Old stone walls crisscross some deer paths we use as a guide. But today, slime creeps through my only pair of boots, and gnats sing a discordant song in my ears. I’m really beginning to dislike these witches and silently plot even more dark and dirty revenge if our plan fails.
There is only one problem with our current strategy: we don’t really have one. I’ve got a spell book, and Tony’s got muscle, but everything else reeks of spur-of-the-moment decision-making. I’ve always wanted to be a spontaneous person, but admittedly, I see the downside.
We head opposite where we met Lulu yesterday, which I take as a good sign. I follow Anthony, who appears knowledgeable about the landscape. That, on the flip side, is a little concerning.
Has he been here before? Is he in league with the witches rather than Death but has us all fooled? Did I even get a memo about working with Anthony?
Reaching for my phone, I have a moment of self-doubt but then remember my initial phone call with Death. Tony must be legit, but so much has happened in the last forty-eight hours I’m beginning to forget the details. Maybe I’m suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. I mean, who really knows what living in purgatory does to a person?
I revisit the call. Actually, Death said he was sending help but never supplied a name. Anthony showed up at the door, but he could be a ninja assassin who took out the real help that Death sent.
Alder and Ash bark in the distance, and I shake my distrust away. “Do they know we’re here?” I’m concerned for all my appendages. Overthinking my situation is hard work. I put it aside for later and promise to tackle this quandary if I survive the dogs and whatever else awaits. If Anthony helps me do that, I’ll assume he’s on my side. If he turns me over to the witches, spell book and all, I’ll learn an important lesson about trust.
“I’ve scouted the area. They’re far enough away to just be doing their dog thing.”
A stream races to our right leading to a larger waterway. It’s been a rainy spring, and the water is creeping up the bank's side. There’s a small rowboat at the end of a rickety wooden dock. I wonder if I can ride it back to Daxon. I really miss him when facing death by witches. I begin to question if I can die. Technically, I’m already deceased, but I’m sure the evil trio could do something I wouldn’t appreciate with my soul.
“Get in. I’ll row.” Tony throws a small duffle bag into the bottom of the boat.
“How do I even know where we’re going?”
“This is the Ipswich River. We’re trying for a surprise attack. They won’t expect us from the water or the house's rear. Hopefully, the dogs won’t sense us until it’s too late.”
“Are you sure this boat is seaworthy?”
“We’re on a river, not the Long Island Sound or the ocean. You’ll be fine.”
“What if I can’t swim? Did you even ask? What if there’s a monster in the water that upends us? Or a magic storm rises, and we’re pelted by wind and rain?”
“It’s not like the tunnel scene in Willie Wonka.”
“That’s a doozy.” I jump in the boat. “The entire movie terrified me as a kid. My parents thought it was hilarious. Maybe it led my way to a career in death. Too much damage as a child.”
“I can tell.” Anthony unties the skiff, and off we go down the river. It’s not so bad. Woods line both sides, but nothing is out of the ordinary. The dog howls remain distant, but birds trill from the foliage. This would be scenic and rather pleasant in another life, but not today. I consider grabbing an oar and helping, but I’m not in a giving mood.
“Do you prefer Anthony or Tony? I personally feel you are more of a Staten Island Anthony. Tony’s too Bronx, New York deli.”
“I don’t have a preference. Call me whatever you want if we survive today.”
With that bit of positivity, I consider using one of the oars as a weapon. Other than the stupid book I carry, I’ve got nothing. Though the tome is rather weighty, it seems like a foolish decision to face three evil witches empty-handed. Maybe Anthony is hiding a weapon in those tight jeans he’s wearing.
I don’t see any of the pockets bulging, not that I’m looking.
Again, I second guess Anthony’s allegiance or intelligence level if he failed to bring a weapon. Unfortunately, that would reflect on me too. I did just follow him into the situation without question. If I make it out of here, I vow to curb my trusting and impulsive nature. I also need to be able to defend myself. I want something big, so everyone will see when I’m coming. I can’t imitate Death with his scythe, and a flamethrower seems a little messy, but maybe one of those big guns from Die Hard, the best Christmas movie ever.
“Do we have anything for protection?” I ask.
He glances down. “In the duffle. Don’t worry, I have us covered in that department.”
My thoughts careen like the boat in the river. We travel for about fifteen minutes listening to the mournful howling that erupts on the hill. If I survive this little field trip, I plan to send the dogs back to hell where they must have come from, or at least find them a decent trainer. We come to a bridge, and Tony pushes the boat up on the bank and grabs the duffle. I follow him out and onto semi-dry land.
