The Atheist's Daughter Page 11

  She would dress as a gypsy, that was a given. Mrs. Norton insisted upon it. Not that this was anything like real gypsy garb. If she’d dressed like a real gypsy, wearing slacks and a JCPenneys’ blouse, her patrons wouldn’t have been impressed. They’d have questioned whether she could read the future.

  People are so stupid, she thought. Was I ever so foolish?

  Once upon a time, perhaps. When I was young and this body was still foreign to me. When I was my hungriest.

  It was then I agreed to serve Mrs. Norton.

  She shrugged the gown over her head, letting its coarse linen scratch over her breasts and belly as its hem tumbled to the floor. Reaching for the closet’s upper shelf, she found an assortment of scarves to complete her outfit.

  From the landing below, Mrs. Norton said, “Up the stairs, it’s the first room on your left. Miss Sweet is waiting for you.”

  “It’s so dark,” a voice replied.

  “Miss Sweet likes the dark.”

  Oh, yes, Miss Sweet acknowledged, that much is true. I love the dark and the secrets it hides. I love the anonymity it offers.

  The only thing I love more is the feeding.

  Grasping the sides of an old cigar box, she took it from the shelf. The box itself was a worthless thing, its wood scarred from age and ill-use. Lines were cut through the original manufacturer’s name, leaving only a single word – TUCKETT – still legible.

  Even the most hard-pressed thief would ignore this sad, worn receptacle. It was no one’s idea of a collector’s item.

  She raised the lid gingerly, not wanting to break its remaining hinge. Inside the box, wrapped inside a satin cloth, was the blackest stone she’d ever seen. This miracle, this wonder, nearly filled the interior space.

  Sliding her fingers under the stone, she lifted it up. At this moment, the rock was mute and blind. But given a taste of life, that would change.

  She placed it between the burning candles. As perfect as a star, the seer stone shone with the reflected light of the flames floating above it. Miss Sweet blessed the day it had called to her.

  She didn’t know why she was chosen. The others were envious, she knew, but there was nothing they could do about it. They didn’t have the gift. For all of her years, for all of her abilities, not even Mrs. Norton could bring the seer stone to life. She couldn’t make it tell her the one thing she most needed to know: Who has five years to give us?

  Miss Sweet opened a bronze pillbox. Removing a straight pin from its velvet center, she dragged the pin’s tip across the floor.

  She hoped the sharpened end would collect a bit of bacteria, some tiny harbinger of disease. She liked the thought of infection finding the needle’s tip and waiting to be shared with the guest coming up the stairs.

  In her years with the seer stone, a fouled pin had spoiled only one potential victim. Only one. She kept this knowledge to herself; oh, yes, this secret was hers and hers alone. There would be punishment if Mrs. Norton ever discovered her little game.

  But she never would, would she? She didn’t have the second sight.

  She set the pin on the table in front of her, closing the pillbox as her patron appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you Miss Sweet?”

  “Welcome.” She gestured for the woman to sit at the opposite end of the table. “Tell me your name.”

  “Shouldn’t you know that already?” She gave a nervous laugh. “I’m Mary Ellen Stark.”

  She was nicely dressed, this Mary Ellen Stark, an expensive purse dangling from her shoulder. Despite the wedding ring on her right hand, there was an air of loneliness about her.

  “Have you been doing this for very long?” Mary Ellen asked, sinking to the floor.

  Miss Sweet pulled the straight pin between her thumb and index finger. “That’s not what you’ve come to ask.”

  “I...guess not.”

  She waited.

  “I want to know about my children,” Mary Ellen said.

  “Please. The truth.”

  “That is the truth.”

  “Later, you may want to know about your children,” Miss Sweet said. “Some other time, perhaps, we’ll enjoy such a discussion. Not this evening. Tonight, you want to know about yourself. On the first visit, your kind wants to know about their future, not the future of others.”

  “My kind?” Under the candles’ yellow light, Mary Ellen frowned.

  Miss Sweet took her hand, and said, soothingly, “It’s only natural.”

  “I want to know about Jackson,” Mary Ellen said. “Jackson Lawrence. Does he still care about me?”

  Miss Sweet tightened her fingers over the woman’s hand. Twisting her wrist, she stabbed the stickpin into the ball of her client’s thumb.

  “Owww!” Instinctively, Mary Ellen tried to yank away from her.

  Miss Sweet kept the hand imprisoned. “You want to know about love? In all of the hand, only the Mount of Venus holds those answers.”

  She brought the woman’s hand closer as a bubble of blood rolled from the skin’s surface. The crimson drop melted onto the seer stone, flattening as it hit the obsidian surface.

  “That’s blood,” Mary Ellen said. “My blood on your...your rock.”

  “Did you think the future came without a price?”

  “I hope the pin was sterile!”

  “Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me to reach into your future and I’ll do that, instead.”

  “It’s done now.” Mary Ellen stuck her injured thumb inside her mouth. “Do it. Do…whatever.”

  Miss Sweet put an index finger at each side of the seer stone’s apex. She rested her thumbs at opposite ends of its base. “You wanted to know about Jackson Lawrence.”

  Dropping the injured hand from her mouth, Mary Ellen peered into the rock.

  They all gazed at the stone, those who came to her. What did they hope to see? Did they think the stone would talk to them?

  How could it? They were already blind to the world around them. What made them think they could see magicks?

  Held in Miss Sweet’s fingers, the rock opened itself to her. Across its face, dots of color appeared. Shimmering, the dots spun, faster and faster, becoming an unrecognizable swirl.

  Inside the swirl, an image formed. It was a middle-aged man of average height, his body starting to soften. He sat alone in his house, the light of a television set shining onto him and his overstuffed chair.

  Miss Sweet said, “He waits in solitude. He has no one.” The swirl swept over him, a wave of red. “His heart aches.”

  “For who? I mean, is there someone he wants? Someone he needs?”

  Miss Sweet gave thought to her question and the answer appeared. A silver-haired woman stood inside a small fenced yard. A hedge trimmer in hand, she shaped the branches of a small green bush.

  The woman was not Mary Ellen Stark.

  “There is,” Miss Sweet said. The view of the woman wavered before her then froze. It became a still picture, its color disappearing. Like a picture, it curled at the edges then blackened, crumbled, and disappeared. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “She died.”

  Mary Ellen’s eyes brightened. “Then there’s a chance – ?”

  Miss Sweet shook her head. “I don’t see you with him.”

  “Jack has always had a thing for me. Even before he met Diana.”

  “All I can offer is the truth.”

  “What you say is the truth!”

  Someone came up the stairway, taking the stairs with a heavy step. Raising her eyes, Miss Sweet gazed past Mary Ellen and into the hallway.

  No one was there.

  Undoubtedly, the candlelight had let the others know she was at work. Whoever this new visitor was, they were staying out of sight. Eavesdropping on her words. Listening for whatever she might say next to her new client.

  Which meant it had to be Mr. Locke. If Alice Poe was true to form, she was standing next to him, her fingers locked in his.

  Not b
ecause she wished to know of this woman’s future. Only because she was oblivious to her own.

  “Enough of what isn’t to be,” Miss Sweet said. “Instead, let me consider the life you have yet to live.”

  Inside the stone, the dots turned to mist. Through the mist, Mary Ellen slept on her bed. A new vision of Mary Ellen formed, still sleeping, but slightly thinner.

  Again –

  Again –

  Again, she appeared. Growing older with each new appearance. “You have five years ahead of you.”

  “Only five?”

  “The next five years is all I’m given. All I’m allowed to see.” The mist blew across the center of the stone. Inside, Mary Ellen held a letter, weeping onto the page in front of her.

  “The first year will be marred by sorrow.”

  Her sentence stirred the lurkers in the hallway. The corridor creaked unhappily as Mr. Locke went down the hall. Alice Poe followed after him, mewing words of weak comfort.

  Unseen winds shifted inside the seer stone, sending a cloud of dots swirling around the woman inside. When Miss Sweet saw Mary Ellen’s image, she was on a hospital stretcher, her eyes closed as she was pushed forward.

  “The second year is marred by disease.”

  The fog covered the vision of the woman. When it lifted, it showed her in the embrace of a gray-haired man. The man was a stranger to Miss Sweet. Short and rotund, he wasn’t Jackson Lawrence.

  The tiny image of Mary Ellen beamed as the stranger leaned in to kiss her.

  “In the third year, you’ll find joy.” She raised her hands from the stone.

  “What kind of joy?”

  “It’s vague, uncertain.” Her lips tingled, threatening to melt. Reluctantly, she said, “I saw a man, well-dressed, with short, gray hair. He was holding you.”

  “I don’t know anyone like that.”

  “In three years, you will.”

  Clearly doubtful, Mary Ellen stood from the table. “What else?”

  “Let some time pass and we can talk again.”

  “You talked about five years.”

  “That’s what I seek for my clients. Five years of strength and good health. Five years of happiness. Five perfect years.” Miss Sweet puffed at the flame of the closest candle. “Do you know how hard that is to find?”

  Mary Ellen shifted the strap of her purse. “Are you really a gypsy?”

  “I never said I was a gypsy.”

  “So you’re not.”

  “My people came before the gypsies. Before the Travelers. Our people have ever been.”

  The second candle’s light passed over the folds in her sour face. She blew on its wick and the candle vanished into darkness. With pride, Miss Sweet said, “We will ever be. We are the Unending.”

  Mary Ellen shivered, as if she felt a chill run down her spine. “I’d better go.”

  * * *

  Tall and slim and perfect, he waited at her bedroom window. When she’d seen him the first time, his skin was the color of caramel. His hair was straight and black, his eyes warm and brown. The first time, he seemed more beautiful than one of the Gods.

  Now, nearly empty, he still made her heart race. A translucent statue, he scowled at the street below them.

  “There she goes,” Mr. Locke said. “Flawed. Useless.”

  “You have to be patient.”

  “Because she says we have to be patient, right? It’s the only reason, isn’t it? We do as she tells us.”

  Yes, Alice Poe thought, but there’s wisdom in what Mrs. Norton says. It never hurts to be patient. Patience can feed our family. A rash act can send us all running.

  I’m so tired of running.

  On the street, a car engine purred to life. Watching as its headlights illuminated an empty sidewalk, Mr. Locke said, “Miss Sweet wastes her time with these old ones. She should focus on the young. They have the years we need. Most of them have five times the years we need!”

  “They have to be of age.”

  “You don’t think I know?” Releasing the window curtain, he turned to her. “You’ve told me often enough. Everyone here treats me as if I’m fresh from the Void. It’s been a year.”

  “Nearly a year.”

  “If we took the meat at seventeen years old, eighteen years old, we’d have more than enough for our needs. We could all feed tomorrow.”

  “There’s too much turmoil at that age. Upheaval, uncertainty, change. Such things are hard on us. To avoid it, Miss Sweet would have to see a hundred –”

  “Then bring her a hundred! There’s no shortage of them!”

  Not responding, Alice Poe knitted her fingers together.

  Mr. Locke rubbed his hand across his eyes. “How many of their kind did she see this week?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “To find one. One we can use.”

  “She’ll find others.”

  “Not soon enough.” He pushed her and she fell upon the bed frame’s bare mattress. He towered over her. Even this depleted, he appeared so powerful. So ready to act.

  She felt frightened.

  She felt aroused.

  “Did the Dark Ones give me this body,” he said, sweeping his hands down his bare chest, “only to have me starve?”

  He waited above her, posing. Alice Poe wanted him and she knew he sensed it. She knew, too, how little he wanted her.

  It should have mattered and it did – but not enough. She’d never desired anyone more. “You’ll feed. Just not yet.”

  Contempt filled his eyes. When he spoke, his words were so deep as to have come from the Void itself. “I’m hunnnnnnnngry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mr. Locke’s growl came to her from the adjoining room. His words were lost behind the walls but Mrs. Norton knew what he wanted. What they all wanted, even her.

  Everything in due time.

  She scratched a wooden match across the face of the ceramic table. The match flared to life, smelling pleasantly of phosphorus, and she touched its head to the wick of a squat, turquoise candle. A bead of flame caught hold, grew larger, and licked at the air beneath her hand.

  At a push of her fingers, the bedroom door slid closed. Its latch caught so quietly she barely heard it.

  Its walls painted gray, its only window painted over, the room was nearly as black as a tomb, with only the wavering finger of the candle’s flame providing any light. In the middle of the room, barely visible in the gloom, was a large, raised platform. Invisible in the shadows, a black cabinet filled the chamber’s furthest corner.

  This was her space. The others knew they were not welcome here, especially during her time of worship. For safety’s safe, she’d arranged for Miss Sweet to be occupied and given Alice Poe and Mr. Locke new chores.

  While Alice Poe worked, Mr. Locke would hide himself away. Neither one would come to her door. She didn’t concern herself with Mr. Brass. Unless she called him, he wouldn’t dare interrupt her.

  Years ago, shortly after he’d entered her service, he’d been punished for his curiosity. He never wanted to be punished again.

  Tonight, she couldn’t indulge in her usual communion. She wouldn’t chant from the Book of Forgotten Lies; she wouldn’t drink from the Cup of Misery; there would be no animal sacrifices. The canary she’d purchased would remain caged in the café’s storage unit, trilling in terror.

  Maybe I’ll let it starve, she thought mildly.

  This particular bird acted less stupidly than most of its kind. If she let it die, no one would notice. Besides, pet stores kept a flock of the yellow things. The clerks never questioned why she wanted a new one every seven days.

  She’d always been comforted by her weekly rituals but dared not enjoy herself tonight. She had a question to ask her gods and an interruption at an inopportune time could have dire consequences for them all. It was best if she acted quickly.

  Carrying the candle’s silver holder to the cabinet, Mrs. Norton watched as the box’s intricate carvings danced below the yellow
light. When she rested the base of the holder on top of the container, the carvings hissed at her.

  “Foul mood, my little Wunderkammer?”

  The engraved images shifted and flowed, circling the candle holder and reaching for it. Trapped in ebony, they writhed unhappily, forming and reforming, but forever unable to escape their lacquered prison.

  Grasping a pair of ivory handles, Mrs. Norton opened the cabinet doors. Pulling out the first of the container’s four drawers, she considered the offerings there.

  Not many left. I’ll have to tell Mr. Brass.

  Pinching a thin rectangle between her forefinger and thumb, she laid it onto the palm of her opposite hand. Soon, eight tiny strips had been collected. Two of the rectangles were nearly as dark as the box itself. Two were brown in color and the remaining four were in varying shades of peach.

  All were marked with letters and a number, the symbols inked by her hand. Other than the markings upon them, there was nothing distinctive about the rectangles. Each piece was more common than a blister beetle, more fragile than paper. Each specimen had come from an individual donor but only one of these sections had been donated willingly.

  At her command, Mr. Brass would walk the streets, seeking more of the wards, but even he had grown tired of the chore. It would be less challenging if people weren’t so possessive about their skin.

  She circled the room, placing each telesma. Soon, the walls, the doorway and the black window were locked. Only the ceiling remained unsealed and available as a portal to other dimensions.

  From this point on, Mrs. Norton would have to suffer. At one time, she’d have gloried in the pain, stimulated by the heat of her discomfort. Now, there was only the knowledge of the danger ahead.

  To her surprise, she felt a whisper of... something... drumming quietly inside of her. Was it fear?

  If so, there was reason. Once released into the world, few of the Unending dared scratch at the Void’s door. One errant note, one misplaced sound, and the wrong deity might answer. Summoned without cause, an angry god might choose to return a careless supplicant to the fold.

  How long had it been since she was afraid? Decades?