Descendant (Secrets of the Makai) (18 page)

"Don't worry about the smoke, dear. Tea is on the counter." The woman rocked in the chair with her hands folded on an apron. Her intense eyes watched him closely, making him nervous.

He turned to face the counter, quickly scanning for items that might be tea. "Sorry, but I just don't—"

"In that large container." She pointed to a row of glass containers along the back wall, next to the sink. Tristan studied the largest, but none of the canisters contained anything resembling tea. He changed tactics and searched for a colorful box of tagged packets, thinking she might be confused after all the commotion. He noticed a stack of bowls exactly like the one he'd awakened to on his first day.

"Oh, never mind." The woman practically leapt to her feet and retrieved a teacup from a wooden rack in the sink. "I've never been one to be tended." The container she chose held something resembling chunks of purple and pink dirt.

Speechless and utterly out of place, he didn't know what to say and stepped out of her way. He'd feared meeting the natives, and here she was, wearing an apron stitched with blue-eyed kittens chasing balls of yarn. It was almost comical. "Would you mind…uh—"

"Spit it out, child." The woman smiled, appearing to enjoy his uncertainty.

"What just happened in there? Where did they all go?"

"Didn't you just witness the entire incident?"

"Well, yeah. Sorta. Sorry. The door was open and I just—" Tristan scratched his head, unsure what would have motivated him to enter the cottage. He noticed black smudges of soot on his arms and quickly tucked his hands behind his back. "Sorry for walking in. This isn't your home, is it?"

"No. This is my place of business."

Tristan nodded, glad he hadn't broken into her house. "Where did those people go?"

"Home, presumably. You must be the one staying at the cliff house?"

Captain Alex crossed Tristan's mind again. He probably got his fear of the island from meeting the laser-light dude. Although.... Tristan shivered. Maybe the man wasn't the murderer, if he lived here, but he did seem extremely familiar. "If you mean above the lake, yes."

"It's not very accommodating, but better than the beach?"

Maybe they preferred him on the beach? Tristan watched as the woman stirred her tea with a carved wooden spoon. She sure didn't seem very upset over total destruction to her place of business. She took a sip from her cup.

"I'm not," she agreed.

And those guys….

"Just a bunch of thugs. Unfortunately, clients."

It finally came to him that she'd responded to his thoughts. "How do you do that?"

"It's quite simple, really. You
lift
your cup, being careful not to spill, and simply…." Her eyes twinkled as she made a loud slurping sip.

Tristan clenched his jaw, unsure if she was joking or serious. "You can hear me?"

"Well, of course." She smiled and set her cup aside, seeming amused by the entire situation. "I'm old, but not that old."

He shoved his annoyance aside, desperately wanting to give the woman the benefit of doubt. After all, most of her wrinkles were smile lines, and if there was a way to control hearing thoughts, he was all ears. "What I mean is, how do you know what I'm thinking?"

The woman smiled sweetly. "The same way you knew what I was thinking."

"I—" He certainly couldn't hear her thoughts now.

She sighed. "I've been a guide for over a hundred years. It's second nature to know what a student wants to ask."

Tristan tried unraveling her answer, thinking she looked nowhere near a hundred. Seventy at most. She laughed.

"I'm not your student, am I?" He'd certainly be willing if she could teach him the secrets of staying sane in large crowds. He could finish school and hold a job.

"Hmmm." She circled the workstation in the middle of the room, studying Tristan more carefully. "I hadn't considered taking any more students."

It was probably for the best; he had no intention of staying on this god-forsaken island in the first place. Not to mention he had an emerald to track down.

The woman nodded and turned toward the front of the store to take in the full extent of the damage. Her sudden indifference hurt more than he would have thought. What if she
could
correct a lifetime of mental anguish? Maybe it was wishful thinking to begin with.

"It's fine to want to leave," she continued. "You don't belong here either."

Despair digressed to defensiveness; he certainly had no desire to belong here.

"It's why you ran away, isn't it?"

She glanced his way and anger leapt from his throat. "You don't know me," he said, trying not to yell at her. But she seemed to know way too much without his telling. "I ran because I couldn't trust the po—" he stopped himself and quickly buried the thought.

She raised an eyebrow and collected cleaning supplies into a large pot.

"What did he do?" Tristan asked, changing the subject.

"Who, Sabbatini?" She waved off the destructive event with a free hand. "He's just a big bully. Too bad he heard about Dorian."

The name Sabbatini struck him as familiar. "But the stick thing and those burning holes. Was it a laser? And why did you—" He had no idea what would possess her to fall against the wall and choke herself, especially at her age.

The woman snickered, cracking half a smile, making him feel even more stupid. Though, she did take the question seriously when he considered choking her himself. "It was a wand. And the mind can be a powerful tool if one knows how to focus one's own, or how to manipulate another's."

'Focus' brought an image of the cards with the silly Focus Pocus written across the top. Was the woman being serious?

"Now, if you don't mind," she continued, "I'd like to get started with this mess."

Tristan followed the tiny woman to the front part of the store, grabbing the broom on his way. "I can help."

"Sure, why not."

The smoke and inky fog had settled into the cracks on the floor. Bouquets of dried and wilting plants hung from the beams of a thatched ceiling. Planks of shelving lined all the walls, surrounding each doorway, and a jumble of unidentifiable things leaned haphazard in all directions. Tristan wondered what sort of business this woman ran.

"We sell medicinal notions and potions to people all over the world," she answered. "Other venders around the village sell other things."

Frustrated that the woman could hear his every thought, he wondered how many people in the world dealt with the same mental disorder. And why he could never find proof of similar cases. He cursed himself for thinking at all and concentrated on keeping his mind blank, sweeping specks of glass into a pile.

"You know, dear," she said, dumping everything from the shelves along the wall into a large pot, "it's much easier if you think of a shield around your mind, rather than trying to trick yourself into being interested in things you're clearly not."

An image of medieval armor shields popped into his head, circling like cartoon stars around someone who'd just been whacked by something hard.

She laughed aloud. "Not that kind of shield, child."

Tristan resented being called 'child' and 'dear'. He had no idea what she was talking about and started to regret picking her for his first contact. "Why are you throwing everything away?"
What a waste.
He wished he could take back the thought while hopes of getting her help faded. He sighed and shut his eyes.

"You're very sweet," she said, "and clearly quite innocent."

His involvement with Gwenna's murder came to mind. Tristan cursed himself. Maybe he should walk out now, before he made things worse.

The woman's smile vanished as she continued clearing shelves. "It's the smoke. Everything is contaminated. Three quarters of the store…completely ruined. Dorian will have plenty of work to do, which will not make her very happy."

"She's the caretaker?"

"And the potionarian. I've taught her everything I know and I'm very proud of her."

Tristan nodded, disappointed that she apparently wasn't the type of teacher he needed. "What's a potionarian?" Tristan wished he hadn't asked and noticed the pot being used for garbage could easily be a witch's cauldron.

The woman smiled and Tristan mentally kicked himself.

"Dorian is an herbalist—an extremely good one. That's probably why Sabbatini sought her out."

Where had he seen the man before? Maybe in Seattle, in the group of people surrounding him when the white-haired grump offered him a job. No, that wasn't it.

"She makes medicines from the plants on this island," continued the woman, "though some things are brought in for her."

"So, there is a ferry? An airport?" Tristan's eyes widened. "There was a plane! What happened to it?"

The woman froze, holding a cracked vial of something dark blue. "The plane went down. The pilot glided as long as he could, but they didn't make it to the lake. It's about a quarter mile off shore."

Tristan stared at the woman with his mouth half open. "How do you know all that?"

She tapped the side of her head and chuckled.

Of course. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize." She smiled and her eyes twinkled again. "Everyone but the plane survived."

Tristan's heart sank. Maybe it wasn't the only plane they used for transportation. "Am I stuck here then?"

"What for? You want to be an herbalist all of a sudden?"

"No." His entire journey seemed a wasted, meaningless ordeal. He didn't care about plants, he wanted to learn about his mind and how to keep it from driving him insane. He hoped she understood so he wouldn't have to put it in words.

She began humming to herself.

Tristan eyed the door, torn between wanting to sulk by himself and dropping to his knees to beg for help. She had to teach him something. Anything. "I want to know what it is that I can do, and learn how to control it." The words sounded silly and he didn't dare look at her, in case she felt compelled to start laughing again. "Is there a cure?"

"A cure?" She laughed so hard she had to support herself against one of the unstable shelves.

"It's not funny." Completely humiliated, Tristan threw the broom to the pile of debris and headed for the door with his throat constricting. She was just as mean as the laser-dude and there was absolutely no point in staying. The thought of ripping the shack apart and using the wood to build a raft and oars came to mind. He was amazed he hadn't thought of it sooner.

She pulled back her laughter and stopped him at the back door. "My sincerest apologies, but, do you honestly mean you have no idea at all? You don't know anything?"

"I'm not a complete idiot, if that's what you're saying." Though lately, plenty of things made no sense.

"No one's ever helped you?"

"I've been through a few shrinks. Counseling sessions." Tristan's pulse quickened with panic at the thought of legal paperwork that could've had him committed at the age of six. "I'm sure I could have paid more attention. I should've showed more respect, but I—"
hated every minute.
"I'm doing the best I can."

"Shrinks? Hasn't there been anyone to think with?"

For a brief second, his mind froze and he remembered something. A group of people. But it was gone.

"I need to sit," said the woman.

Tristan followed her to the rocking chair, afraid to hear her diagnosis. She sat in silence with her teacup, her face serious.

"That man, Sabbatini. Maybe he followed me here?"

"No…he's having potion troubles, nothing to do with you."

Tristan walked to the door to look over the lake, certain someone had been following him. "There were two kids at my school, I think they could hear people's thoughts. But I could never hear theirs." They might have been with the murderer, since they were in the woman's house. "I was...."

What could he say? He couldn't remember actually being arrested. For all he knew, the police were still after him.

"There was a woman." Tristan debated how much truth to tell, then realized he couldn't hide it, even if he wanted to. He mentally ran through the list of things he'd done before trying to kill himself, too ashamed to admit it all aloud. "She found me, probably saved my life. And then she was murdered. Gwenna Winters."

The woman's teacup shattered on the floor. Her hand shook and she seemed more distraught than when her entire shop got destroyed.

"I am so sorry." Tristan grabbed the nearest towel and dropped to his knees to sop up the spill.

"It's, uh…what were you saying?"

"She was murdered, but I didn't do it. I really, seriously, didn't do it."

"I know."

Tristan continued, relieved the woman appeared to believe him. "Things get hazy after that. She gave me a piece of paper and told me about an emerald. I think it was that man, Sabbatini, who came to her house and took the emerald. He did something and she just...melted. So did the floor." Tristan shut his eyes, remembering only pieces of the rest. "The police came and I ran. My shoes had dissolved and my feet were bloody." He opened his eyes. "No, that's not right. My shoes were fine. The police arrested me, then drove me home when my alibi checked out."