Chapter One: Mail Call
The moon hung full, meaning I would
sleep on the couch to listen for the squeak of my mail slot announcing the
plaintive request for a secret spell.
That was where people who I rarely knew would push a handmade envelope
through the slim space to fall into my home; the letter would slide across the
floor with a swishing rasp before coming to a stop. I would then open each
letter in the moonlight of my kitchen, where I got down to the business of
being a good witch.
In a sense, I grant wishes.
I have growing power. I’m a work in
progress, I guess, and I feel it in my bones that every little bit of effort
must be made to keep the most subtle kinds of evil at bay. Things like
loneliness. Fear. A loss of caring. These are the things that all of my spell
requests are built around; the words change but the pleas are always the same.
I think that because of this ability to use my magic, I understand that there
must be goodness in the world in order to foster even greater kindness. I’m
okay with that. It’s my calling.
My Gran taught me that goodwill
should be freely given. The ability to be kind without strings is the mark of
pure magic; its sole purpose can only be fulfilled when there is no expectation
of reward. In a sense, the envelopes that fall to the wood floor of my foyer
are the closest thing to a physical prayer that I will ever see. I treat each
request with the care it deserves, and I am utterly committed to lessening the
suffering of the people around me. Gran always told me that someday, I’d think
of myself as a priestess who cared for the world around me, and I think I’m
starting to understand.
The moon slides across my kitchen
in a soft pane of light for three nights out of each month, unless it’s cloudy,
or snowing, or rainy. It’s during this transit of light that I wait in a state
somewhere between dreams and reality. If I doze too soundly, Gus will wake me
when an envelope arrives, but for the most part, there’s a part of my mind that
anticipates each quiet plea. To fill the hours between now and then, I went to
the kitchen to graze. It’s a scientific fact that if you eat while standing
over the sink, it is neither a meal nor does it count against your alleged
workout plan. Fortunately for me, the diner keeps me in shape, but that doesn’t
stop me from feeling a twinge of guilt when I eat something that has no
nutritional value whatsoever.
Like right now. I selected a spoon
that is just small enough to fit in my mouth, opened the fridge, and pulled out
a tub of homemade peach ice cream.
“Hello, beautiful,” I murmured.
“We’re about to get uncomfortably close for the next half hour.” I spooned the
first frigid bite of heaven into my mouth and let my eyes close with the kind
of pleasure that only ice cream or a lingering kiss can bring. The spoon rested
on my tongue, cold and brittle, and I was moving to dredge another bite when
the mail flap opened and an envelope slid onto the floor. Gus eyed the ice
cream with a feral speculation; he wasn’t above pilfering licks if I left the
tub unattended, so the ice cream went with me to the foyer.
I bent to pick it up and my hand
stopped in mid-air. The paper was marred by three dark smears, but I knew it
wasn’t ash or ink.
It was blood.
Moonlight has a curious effect on
many things. It can spawn romance, or poems. It can light the water at night
and the snow, too, spangling the frozen crystals with the second-hand sun from
the other side of the world. In the fall, it can turn an innocent night into
something sinister, looming over the harvest like a fat reminder that the veil
between worlds is thin indeed. But for blood, it takes that which is crimson
and makes it black, and I knew this because it’s something I’ve seen before.
I reached for my power and let my
senses drift across the innocuous paper, and I was sorry that I did. Fear, like
blood, can stain things, and this message was fairly soaked with the kind of
terror that can kill. Gus padded over and uttered a low growl from the depths
of his throat; he knew that something bad had made the aura surrounding this
plea for. . . .something.
“I guess I have to open it.” Gus
hunkered down next to me, an expectant look on his broad feline face. I stood
and turned on the hallways light, then plucked the envelope from the floor and
opened it in one smooth motion.
It was a torn piece of paper, yellowed from
sun or weather. The smell hit me first; a mélange of age and the coppery bite
of blood that was still too fresh to be oxidized. The words were clearly
written with a fingertip, and in a hand that shook so badly I wondered if the
author had survived to the end of the message. I read, turned my eyes for a
moment to steady myself, and then read the note once again.
When they find her, you will know.
Please do not forget the rest of us.
My mind screamed at the opaque
meaning, knowing that somewhere in the depths of those few words was a message
that could save lives. I knew intuitively that what I held in my hand had been
written at great cost, and curling fingers of dread hooked around my spine and
began to squeeze, just to let me know that I was powerless in that moment. I sat
down on the floor of my foyer and felt the first hot tears of rage spill down
my cheeks, hating that all I could do was wait.
If you know me at all, there are
certain things I’m not very good at. Reaching things on the third shelf? Not my
thing. Eating butter beans? No way. But the thing that actually galls me is to
wait, yet that’s exactly what I did, resting on my couch with Gus until my gray
eyes were dark hollows in my face. The sun rose as my stomach roiled with
frustration and guilt, but as the light became impossible to ignore, I rose and
went to make coffee.
I stood sipping the first cup, my
eyes gritty and red. I could feel the low simmer of anger percolating within me
even as I stepped into the shower. This was going to be a bad day. I considered
and discarded dozens of possible meanings for the note before walking to work
with my head down and eyes locked firmly on the sidewalk. It was too early to
bother Gran, but I resolved to call her when I could steal a moment away from
the grill at the diner. I knew we’d be slammed, but there was something about
the note that froze the marrow in my bones.
I didn’t know what was coming, but
I could tell it was going to be bad.
