Homecoming (11 page)

“Sure, I mean, yes, there was someone else. A guy from school,” Dev said, beginning to fidget. “That was why I thought it might not be Freddy. That I'd do the ritual and see this other guy's face instead.”

Arrabelle stopped what she was doing and looked over at Dev. Dev was a notorious story repeater, telling the same stories over and over again, ad infinitum, until you could barely stand to be around her, but Arrabelle had never heard this particular one before. And since it obviously made her uncomfortable, it garnered Arrabelle's undivided attention.

“You thought this guy was your true love?”

Arrabelle could tell Dev was nervous, her skirt swishing from side to side as she rocked back and forth on her feet.

“I didn't know. Maybe,” Dev said. “I thought maybe he was. But he wasn't. Thank God.”

“Who was this guy?” Arrabelle asked, teasing her. “You obviously still carry a little torch for him—”

“I really don't—”

“I think you do,” Arrabelle shot back.

“I'm happy with things as they are with Freddy. I love him and he loves me. We have two great girls, we're happy—”

“Happy about what?”

Arrabelle and Dev turned to find Daniela stepping into the clearing. She shrugged off her leather jacket, dropping it onto the grass before continuing over to them.

“God, that walk makes me sweat. What did I interrupt?”

“Nothing,” Dev said, shaking her head. “Just talking.”

Arrabelle thought Dev was happy to have an excuse to end the conversation.

“Well, some fucked-up shit happened today, ladies,” Daniela said, sitting down in the grass and leaning back on her elbows.

“What happened?” Dev asked.

“I touched Eleanora.
With my gloves on
”—she'd caught Arrabelle's disapproving look—“and had an episode, or whatever you want to call it.”

Dev gasped, covering her mouth with a dainty hand, but Arrabelle remained silent.

“That's not supposed to happen,” Dev said, dropping her hand.

“What can I tell you?” Daniela replied, shrugging her shoulders and sitting up. “But the fucked-up part is that it wasn't normal. I didn't just sense Eleanora's feelings—it was like someone else was using me, my body, to communicate.”

“Who was it?”

Daniela glanced over at Arrabelle and shrugged again.

“No idea,” she said. “But whoever it was said some eerie shit about two sisters and Saint Anne.”

She stopped talking and stared down at her gloved hands. Arrabelle got the impression there was more to the story, but Daniela was keeping her mouth shut.

“That's so weird,” Dev said. “And so not good for you. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Daniela said—with a shake of her head for emphasis.

“What else?” Arrabelle asked, her tone even but forceful. She knew Daniela was being squirrelly, and since she'd only joined the coven a few months earlier—when Arrabelle's mentor, Dezzie, died—Arrabelle didn't one hundred percent trust this blood sister yet.

“I don't like the tone of your voice,” Daniela said, crawling onto her knees.

“What tone?” Arrabelle asked, lightly, trying not to set Daniela off.

At just over five feet tall, Daniela was by far the smallest member of the coven, but she had a temper that made her unpredictable.

“Don't think you can fuck with me, Arrabelle. I don't intimidate easy,” Daniela said, calm and rational—for now.

Forever the peacemaker, Dev waded into the argument.

“Please, let's not—”

But she was interrupted by another of those awful howls, a sibling to the ones Arrabelle and Dev had heard earlier.

“I think someone just walked over my grave,” Dev said, looking out into the darkness as her whole body shivered involuntarily.

“That was no fenced-in mutt,” Arrabelle said.

“I don't know what the hell that was,” Daniela said, “but I'm glad we're here in this circle and it's not.”

No sooner were the words out of Daniela's mouth than a belligerent squawking echoed throughout the glen.

“Oh my God,” Dev cried, as three large crows dive-bombed them like shiny-feathered black torpedoes.

The women scrambled out of the way, trying not to get hit by the bodies.

After the siege had ended and they had a moment to collect themselves, Arrabelle reached out with the toe of her sneaker and poked at one of the bodies. The crow didn't move.

“Dead,” she said.

She looked heavenward, but there was nothing to see.

Not even a cloud in the sky.

“H
elp me,” the girl with the dark hair and striking blue eyes almost yelled at Lizbeth from the doorway.

It was Lyse, Eleanora's grandniece. The girl she'd embarrassed herself in front of at the coffee bar. The lady from her dreams had promised her that Lyse would be her friend, but things had not at all gone according to plan during their first encounter.

“Please,” Lyse said through gritted teeth.

Eleanora was heavier than she appeared, and it was obvious Lyse couldn't hold up the limp body on her own. If Lizbeth didn't help her soon, Lyse was going to lose her grip—and, to make matters worse, she had a canvas bag of wine over one shoulder, weighing her down.

“Thank God,” Lyse said as Lizbeth reached out and slid her arms around Eleanora's slender waist, taking most of the weight for herself. Which wasn't a big deal since she was much bigger than Lyse, and probably a whole lot stronger.

Together, they dragged Eleanora inside. As they struggled, Lizbeth kept her gaze on Lyse, watching as the other woman stepped across the threshold into the house, her neck straining from the physical effort of lifting the deadweight. They carried Eleanora through the dark living room, the glass bottles of wine in Lyse's bag slamming against each other in earnest. When they stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, the light seemed to rouse Eleanora from her stupor, and her eyelids fluttered open.

“What're . . . you . . .” Eleanora murmured, looking around wildly.
“Put me . . . down.”

Eleanora's voice was weak, but she was getting her strength back. She fought them as they settled her onto one of the kitchen table benches, pushing roughly at their hands, and generally behaving like a grumpy old monster with sharp claws and teeth.

Now that Eleanora appeared to be all right, Lizbeth wanted to disappear. She could feel the prickly sensation, the one she got whenever she was upset. That reminded her so much of the times
before
—no, she wasn't going to think about it. Too easy for the prickly feeling to take over, if she let her mind go there. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying the bad mojo would go away.

She knew Lyse could handle things with Eleanora. Maybe she should go back to the living room, grab her coat and bag, sneak home. Weir would be annoyed with her—he thought he was getting the house to himself for the night—but she didn't care.

She just wanted to escape.

“Hey, you know I can still see you when you're closing your eyes,” Lyse said. “I really appreciate your help. Thank you.”

Lizbeth cracked open an eye and caught Lyse's apologetic smile—and the smile changed everything. After that, Lizbeth was perfectly happy to stay exactly where she was.

*   *   *

There was a bump and then the sound of claws skittering on porcelain as Arrabelle's adorable gray Cornish Rex kitten, Curiosity, fell into the empty kitchen sink, drenching herself under the running tap. Lizbeth grinned and picked up the kitten, setting her down on the rustic clay tile floor. The kitten stared up at her with saucer eyes and meowed—a tiny little pipsqueak of a sound—and then she began to lick her wet front paws. After a moment, she sauntered off, probably looking for a place to hide out while she dried off.

Curiosity was obsessed with the kitchen faucet, and she'd been sitting on the countertop watching and waiting for Lizbeth to turn her back so she could stick her white-stockinged paw into the cold stream of water. Only this time she'd gotten more than she'd bargained for.

“Poor little guy,” Lyse said, resting her hand under her chin. “He's all wet.”

Lizbeth wanted to correct her:
He
was actually a
she
.

“Lizbeth is an apprentice herbalist, Lyse,” Eleanora said, turning to her grandniece and smiling. “And I think she spends more time with that kitten than Arrabelle does.”

Lizbeth smiled because it was the truth. Sometimes she
did
feel like Curiosity was more her cat than Arrabelle's.

“So you're an apprentice,” Lyse said from her seat beside Eleanora at the kitchen table. “You didn't write anything about that at the coffee place.”

Lizbeth blushed, embarrassed by the way she'd behaved that afternoon. All she'd wanted to do at the coffee bar was reassure Lyse that everything was going to be okay, that the giant lady from their dreams was one of the good guys. Instead, she'd botched it, freaking Lyse out and making a big fat mess out of the whole thing.

“You went to Burn?” Eleanora asked Lyse, surprised.

“That little coffee place on Echo Park? Yeah. But I didn't go in,” Lyse said. “I just met Lizbeth outside on my walk to the bodega.”

“Hmm,” Eleanora said, picking up the mug of pumpkin soup Lizbeth had heated up for her and taking a sip.

“I liked the look of the place,” Lyse said to Lizbeth. “You'll have to take me back there sometime.”

She likes me,
Lizbeth thought.
She thinks I'm weird, too, but that's okay.

“I'm so sorry I've held us up,” Eleanora said, frowning into her mug. “I think it's just the valerian root Arrabelle's been giving me. It makes me dizzy—but we should go now—”

Eleanora started to stand up, but Lyse touched her arm.

“Hey, we're not going anywhere until you finish what's in that cup,” Lyse said, frowning at her great-aunt—although the color was already starting to come back to Eleanora's cheeks. “So you'd better get to it.”

Lizbeth was sorry Eleanora had gotten woozy, but she didn't mind the respite she'd gotten because of it. It'd given her time to finish the kale, avocado, and pumpkin salad they were supposed to have after the ceremony. She was behind in making dinner because Arrabelle had had her grinding turmeric and ginger all afternoon for a tincture.

As Arrabelle liked to say, their kitchen was more than just the hearth of the home where dinner was made. It was a magical place where the plants and herbs of the Earth were distilled into special tonics and brews that lifted spirits and healed bodies.

“So what's being an apprentice like?” Lyse began, then caught herself. “I mean do you like it?”

Yes-or-no questions were always best for Lizbeth, and she appreciated Lyse's polite rephrasing of the question. She nodded, her eyes roving across the room as if to say,
How can anyone not like working in this place?

What she
didn't
say was that sometimes she felt like Arrabelle's maid. She cooked some of Arrabelle's meals (so Arrabelle would remember to eat), did laundry on occasion, and tried to keep the place clean (Arrabelle picked up after herself, but she
never
dusted)—all while
also
helping with the preparations for the herbal tinctures, pills, and tonics they made. Making the herbal remedies could be tedious and difficult at times, but she really loved learning about the different plants and their uses—it was just doing the grunt work around the house that bored her.

Lyse raised an eyebrow, and Lizbeth thought the other woman might've intuited that there was a little bit of job dissatisfaction behind the simple nod.

“Was that hearth original to the house?” Lyse asked, looking around the room.

Lizbeth shook her head.

Arrabelle had put in the sandstone hearth—which took up the entirety of the back wall—and the clay tile flooring when she'd bought the house.

“The place was a teardown when Arrabelle got ahold of it,” Eleanora said, answering for Lizbeth. “She redid it from the ground up.”

“Wow,” Lyse said.

“I was with her when she bought this thing,” Eleanora said, thumping the top of the long, rectangular pine table where she and Lyse were sitting, its golden wood scored with innumerable gashes and burns—collateral damage from years of Arrabelle mixing potions and preparing poultices on it. “And those guys.”

Eleanora pointed to the two huge antique Chinese apothecary cabinets standing sentry on either side of the walk-in hearth.

“Boy, did they cost her a fortune,” Eleanora added.

There was an insistent
meow
at Lyse's feet.

“Little lovey thing,” Lyse whispered, picking up the kitten and setting it in her lap to ruffle the short, curly fur on top of its head.

Curiosity was in kitten heaven with all the attention. Lizbeth could hear her purring from across the room.

While Eleanora and Lyse were distracted, Lizbeth went to the nearest apothecary cabinet and collected an opaque brown bottle from one of its many drawers. It was a nettle and milk thistle concoction that Arrabelle called Energize. She took the bottle of Energize with her to the sink and retrieved a glass from the drying rack, filling it with cold water. She used the dropper to extract a few drops of the tincture and added them to the glass of water. Then she placed it on the table in front of Eleanora.

“I don't want to drink this—” Eleanora protested.

“Drink it,” Lyse said.

Eleanora sighed, resigned to her fate, and did as she was told, her throat working as she gulped it down in one swallow.

“Nasty,” she said, making a face as she let out a massive burp. “Excuse me.”

Lizbeth grinned.

“God, that burp smelled like piss,” Lyse said, wrinkling her nose.

“That's because that concoction tasted like piss,” Eleanora said, standing up. “Okay, I think I'm ready to go now.”

“Shouldn't we just stay here and forget this thing?” Lyse asked, trying to catch Lizbeth's eye. “Don't you think that's a good idea?”

Lizbeth knew better than to get into a battle of wills with Eleanora—besides, she didn't think anything Lyse could say would stop her great-aunt from dragging them to Elysian Park.

“Nope,” Eleanora said, slipping on her poncho. “Terrible idea. Sitting here playing with that cat is not on the agenda for tonight.”

Lyse sighed, picked up her shawl, and draped it over her shoulders. She moved to grab the canvas bag of wine they'd brought with them, but Eleanora shook her head.

“Leave them here,” Eleanora said. “We're coming back for dinner after.”

“You're the boss,” Lyse said, rolling her eyes—mostly for Lizbeth's benefit—before setting the wine down on the table.

Eleanora was already heading for the back door, but Lyse held up a hand.

“If we're going to go traipsing off into the woods, I think I need a bathroom first.”

Eleanora pointed toward the living room. “It's in there somewhere.”

“Uh, thanks for being so specific with your directions,” Lyse said dryly.

Lizbeth curled her index finger, gesturing for Lyse to follow her. She could feel Lyse's gaze on her back as they rounded the corner and passed the plate-glass wall of windows overlooking the city, the squeak of their rubber-soled shoes echoing off the living room's soaring post-and-beam ceiling. She suddenly remembered the lights being off when she'd opened the front door, and decided it would be neat to show her new friend all the nifty things in Arrabelle's collection.

Lyse blinked as the overhead lights came on.

“Whoa,” she said, eyes wide as she caught sight of Arrabelle's museum-quality art collection. “This is incredible.”

Lizbeth nodded and flashed Lyse a quick smile—she really wanted Lyse to know she liked her. It was an important thing to get across.

At least, it was important to the lady in her dreams, who said Lyse was the one she could trust, that Lyse would look after Lizbeth once Eleanora was gone. Lizbeth really wanted to talk to Lyse about the lady, but how did you write something like that out in words?

It was tough not being able to open your mouth and just tell someone how you felt. And as much as she was grateful for her sketch pad, it wasn't enough.

“This place is like an art gallery,” Lyse said, coming to stand beside Lizbeth so that together they could stare at the walls, every inch festooned with West African ceremonial masks.

Lizbeth remembered the first time she'd come to Arrabelle's house, how awestruck she'd been by the masks. The round, beseeching eyes that begged you to take them down from the wall and slip them over your own face. Some of them were less friendly or actually radiated an evilness that frightened Lizbeth. Those bore horrific scowls, slitted eyes, jagged teeth, and pointed tongues, and they wanted only to be left alone. Others were more animal than human: predator cats, hyenas, antelope—and all of them, like preening birds, jockeyed for your attention.

The masks were handmade spirit totems, hewn from the earth and then fashioned by human hands into physical representations of grief, joy, anger, fear, and more. They were a rainbow of human emotion, trapped in wood and displayed for all to see, their jewel tones offset by the twinkling lights of downtown Los Angeles.

It was an impressive room, but impossible to take in all at once—even if you were prepared for it.