Cursed be the Wicked (5 page)

I go with shutting up.

From that point on, I make a concerted effort to stay the course of the article but when our speaker begins comparing the relationships between today’s Wiccans to the gods and goddesses of the early Roman Empire, I can’t help but lean over to my new acquaintance to say something. As I hook a thumb toward the woman on stage, mystery girl stops me.

“Don’t even think about it,” she snaps, and I stop myself, choking in the process.

I lean over and in a low voice ask, “What’s the problem?”

She ignores me.

“Did you write the speech for this crackpot or something?” I chide, after which she takes a nice, long, deep breath and blows it out before narrowing her eyes in on me.

“No, Mr. Stone. I did not write the speech.”

“Then why the attitude?”

She turns to face me.

“The attitude,” she starts, enunciating her words for me. “Is because that crackpot up there?” She points. “Happens to be my grandmother. That’s why.”

“She—” I stop myself because honestly, I’m speechless.

“Sorry,” I say a few minutes later. She eyes me over the apology and I want to kick myself. I want to defend my actions, too, but I’m not up for round two of the history of fake apologies.

Things are awkward now, with her sitting so close to me. She probably hates my guts for making fun of her grandmother. I try to shake it off by getting back to my notepad and recorder while mystery hotel clerk seems to easily go back to ignoring me.

I record the remainder of the lecture while managing to keep my opinions to myself and when it’s finally over, about forty-five minutes later, I make a move to get my bag and things off the floor at the same time my lecture neighbor does, successfully clocking our foreheads against each other’s.

I curse.

She curses.

We both start to laugh over it. I even think there might be something that might be mistaken for friendliness in her eyes but then something changes. Her entire expression seems to go blank, and before I can ask if she’s okay, the moment is over.

She makes to leave pretty quickly but there’s something about her. Aside from the fact that she’s done nothing today but make it clear she’s uninterested, I find her invigorating on some level. I don’t want her to go, so I holler out the first thing that comes to my mind.

“You don’t work there, do you?”

I watch as her eyes peek back at me. She tries to blow me off by mixing into the crowd of people filtering out of the auditorium. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I push past a couple in deep conversation. They’re in the middle of the aisle, blocking everyone and anyone that tries to get by. “At the B&B. Your name’s not Betty.” I mispronounce the name purposefully. “I met Betty this morning.”

She tells me over her shoulder, “It’s Betsy.”

I grin, triumphant. “So I’m right.”

She finally stops walking at that ridiculously fast pace she’s been keeping and turns back to look up at me with those rich brown eyes of hers, seeming a tad frustrated.

“She doesn’t do it that much, it’s just that she’s got a kid, ya know? I step in for her when she can’t find a sitter that late or when the one she
does
find cancels on her. She and Alyssa don’t get along. It started a long time ago when Alyssa used to get called in when Betsy couldn’t make it. Now I do it to keep the peace. It’s nothing you need to turn her in over. She’s a good worker, tries hard every day and I swear to Pete, if you’re planning on starting any trouble over this—”

“Hey, whoa now,” I stop her mid-sentence, amazed at the amount of words this woman can say in one breath. “Who said anything about
saying
anything?”

She pulls her eyebrows together. “So you weren’t gonna turn her in?”

“No.” I laugh a little, surprised
myself
that it isn’t on the top of my priority list. “I was just curious as to why—”

“Sweet cherry pie, I thought those Wiccans would never leave me be up there,” a voice interrupts me, and I look to see it’s the old woman from the lecture. The grandmother.

“Gran, you okay? You look tired.”

Gran
waves at her.

“Oh I’m fine, child, just agitated is all. Who’s this?” she asks when she notices me standing there. My mystery woman does not give me a second glance.

“He’s nobody, let’s get you home.”

She takes her grandmother’s arm to help steady her walk. I put a hand between the two women to introduce myself in an effort to keep her from leaving just yet.

“Cole Stone, ma’am.”

Front Desk girl stops abruptly when Gran turns to shake my hand. I give her a wink and a smile then turn back to Gran to ask her a few questions.

“Have you been giving these lectures long?” I ask figuring I may as well start some interviews for my article.

“Only about the last five years or so,” she tells me sweetly. If I’m not already feeling bad for the digs I made during her speech, I do when she finishes off with, “‘Course when my mind leaves me completely they probably won’t ask me back.”

I’m such an ass.

“Cole Stone, huh?” she says and I’m starting to understand where her granddaughter gets her snarkiness from when Gran lets out a soft chuckle.

“I suppose it makes sense.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You sure you know who you are?” she asks. I shift a little as a shiver runs up my spine at the old woman’s question. Mystery girl snickers behind her hand but I’m not sure any of this is funny.

It’s weird.

I manage a grin for her, though. For both of them. I’m not one to show my weaknesses.

“Absolutely.”

Liar.

I chastise myself for feeling guilty and remind myself that I’m on assignment and it’s okay to lie.

“Hmm,” she says then nods to her granddaughter. I don’t want them to leave yet, I’m not done trying to understand the tattooed woman who very graciously likes to put me in my place, so I find myself calling out to them before they disappear on me.

“Wait!”

Gran
stops and comes back. Her granddaughter does not.

“Yes?” She tilts her head, much in the same way that her kin does.

I clear my throat and give her my best line. “I’m doing a piece on The Festival of the Dead. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“You said you were here on business,” her sarcastic granddaughter informs me, finally joining our small circle again. To which I smirk over at her because she doesn’t get to win this one, despite the fact that I had not planned on giving away my purpose for being here. Not yet, anyway.

“I am,” I tell her. “This
is
my business.”

I pretend to pay no mind to her as I throw my attention back to her gran again.

“You’re
media
,” she continues before I can ask another question.

“I’m not,” I tell her. When she looks like she’s not going to let it go, I add, “Not the kind you’re thinking of, anyway.”

“And you wanna interview the kooky old lady for a bit of humor in your piece then?” the old woman asks.

“No, I just thought, you know, you seem to have a bit of experience in the field,” I tell her, turning on the charm. When it doesn’t look like she’s buying one single ounce of the B.S. that I’m selling, I promise her, “Just a few questions.”

Almost everyone is gone now from the room now and she looks tired. I’m not confident I’m going to get an on the spot interview until she settles into one of the chairs.

“Okay, shoot, you’ve got five minutes before I need to leave for my book club meeting.”

I can’t wipe the delight off of my face in retaliation for the grimace mystery girl is giving me. But on top of that, I’ve decided the old gal is pretty cool. So I sit down with her, turn my recorder on, and ask my basic first question.

“Can I get your full name for the record?”

“Geneva Bishop,” she says. “And this is my granddaughter, Finn Pierce.”

I look over at Finn and smirk. The name suits her much better than Betsy, being that I’ve never heard that name before, and I’ve never met anyone like Finn before.

“It’s short, for Finnley,” she tells me defensively.

“Got it,” I tell her, nodding. Then I force my attention back to Geneva. I feel the need to repeat it, though.

“Finnley.”

“But don’t ever call me that,” she says, noticing that I’m writing it down. I look up at her and she adds, “Ever.”

I scratch Finnley out in my note pad and write
Finn
down. Then underline it and can’t stop staring at the name as I attempt to get back into questioning her grandmother.

I move on to things like, what got her started in witchcraft, what coven was she in, does she practice with spells or potions more, and how long has she been practicing. I avoid asking questions I think might insult her, like, does she really believe for one second that magic works or did she mix potions in a black cauldron? I do get her to tell me where she’s from.

“Salem, Mass, born and raised,” she tells me proudly. Suddenly I’m trying to place her and Finn as I sit and listen to her prattle on about the ins and outs of her version of witchcraft. I figure I don’t have to listen too intently anyway. I can simply play the recorder back, later on.

I can’t place either of their faces and I know I would have remembered Finn’s had she been around when I lived here. I’m just praying to whoever might be listening that the comment Geneva made earlier about me being sure about who I am doesn’t mean she knows who I am.

“Something wrong, Mr. Stone?” Geneva asks and I realize when she says it that I’ve zoned out.

I swallow thickly.

I try not to panic.

I’m fairly confident that even if she knew me as a kid, she won’t know who I am now. Not only have I changed my name but I’ve bulked up and grown a few more inches. Even my hair is different. It would be difficult for my mom to recognize me if she saw me, much less an elderly woman who proclaims to be losing her mind to some extent.

“No, you, um.” I struggle for my next question, despite trying to come off unaffected by her or her granddaughter’s piercing stares.

Then I think of one. “What do you think attracts so many young people to witchcraft these days?”

“That’s a good question,” she tells me thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, I don’t think a lot of them really know
what
they’re gettin’ themselves into, to be honest.”

I think of my mother for an instant. She was pretty young when she got into witchcraft from what little my aunt told me. I wonder if
she
knew what she was getting into.

Geneva goes on to tell me about the naivety of young people but suddenly, I’m distracted. I distinctly smell incense and I look around casually to try and place where it’s coming from.

I could swear it’s sandalwood, or, sage maybe. It’s so familiar. I wonder why I even know the name of the smell. Then it hits me. It’s the same scent my mother used, when I was younger. She burned it at night before bedtime and never missed an opportunity to tell me what she was using.

I’d forgotten all about it until this very moment.

The sound of her voice wafts through my mind, from when she used to tell me stories. Before things turned ugly. I can almost hear her singing to me like she used to, then an angrier voice replaces the gentler one and suddenly, I feel a little off balance.

“Mr. Stone?”

I snap out of my thoughts and it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am. I stop the recorder and try to smile for my interviewee, but feel the need to excuse myself before I lose my composure. “I think that’ll give me a good start, thank you for your time, Ms. Bishop.”

“Oh, call me Geneva,” she says, waving a hand at me as she gets herself up and starts off. “I’ve got to get going anyway, Mr. Stone. Book club doesn’t wait for anyone, not even me.”

I chuckle at how serious she takes her book reading and give her a short wave as she walks through the doors. Then I turn to say goodbye to Finn only, she’s gone.

“Dammit.” I pack up and grab my gear as quickly as I can and go to catch up with Geneva, but she’s already too far away to catch through the crowded lobby.

Foiled again.

“Quick old broad,” I say to myself, wondering how in the world she was able to move that fast when she seemed to need Finn’s help just to stand a while ago.

A different puzzle for another time, I guess.

I hike my bag over my shoulder and slow my pace as I walk back to the car and wonder about Finnley Pierce.

Where did she grew up if it wasn’t Salem?

Is she into witchcraft like her grandmother?

Do they know Aunt Liz?

When I think about my aunt, a debate grows inside of me.

I throw my bag into the back of the rental and try to decide if I should stop by her place or not. She was my caretaker when Dad was declared dead and Mom was put away. She never really liked me, which might explain why I haven’t spoken to her since my high school graduation.

Still . . .

She’s the contact listed in the letter from my mother’s lawyer, though. I know I need to get in touch with her at some point. I just need to build up the motivation for it. Because awkward doesn’t even begin to describe how
that
reunion is going to go.