Indigo Springs (26 page)

The last thing she’d forgotten was the stricken look on her father’s face.

“It’s the Chief, Dad…,” Astrid tried to say now, as pain burned down the side of her head and into the cords of her neck. “Watch out for Chief Lee.”

“Astrid!” Sahara’s shriek broke the reverie.

Astrid blinked, finding her face wet with tears. Her left hand was fisted deep in the urn, clenched around ash and lumps. The palm of her other hand ached, as if something was biting through the meat under her thumb. Her ear throbbed, but her headache was diminishing.

“Are you okay?” Jacks asked, dabbing at the right side of her face with a rag that came away bloody.

“I think so.” She looked at her sore hand and saw the three pieces of her dragon earring. Magic magic, go away…

“You tore it out,” Jacks explained unnecessarily.

Gulping, Astrid dropped the earring.

It fell soundlessly, three interlocked gold pieces slicked with blood, and as they dropped away the gnawing in her hand and the fatigue cleared too. The memories came back cleanly, as if they had never been gone: everything Albert had taught her, everything she had learned from the vitagua, all the time they’d spent together. Hiding it all from Ma, from everyone.

She’d been so impatient with him. He’d spent his life playing it safe, and she’d been sure she knew better, chafing and fighting as he showed her everything in his imperfectly learned bag of sorcerer’s tricks.

She remembered him in the hospital, dying, reaching up to grab at her face. Trying to pull out the dragon.

“Guys,” she whispered. “I remember everything.”

She slid her left hand out of the urn. Her fingers and palm were streaked with black and for a second she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to rinse Albert down the sink, or wipe him off on the increasingly grubby dress.

Finally she let vitagua flow over her skin, washing him into itself. The black-flecked spirit water clung to her hand like a glove.

She scooped up the bloodied bits of the earring with a rag from the counter, wadding them up and pocketing them.

“Astrid, did you learn anything we can use to contain the spill?” Sahara said. “You know, the vitagua coming out of the chimney and dribbling into the downstairs freezer? The big problem?”

“Talk it into flowing back?” Astrid said.

“Don’t joke,” Jacks said.

“No joke.” Astrid returned to the living room, letting her hand drift over the blue-stained carpet. She tugged, and all the vitagua within her body surged to her hand, dense and cold, pulling her fingers down like magnets, magic calling to magic.

“Wait,” Jacks said, still holding the bloody cloth. “You should practice, right?”

“No, this is old hat,” she said, reveling in the sense of control. This was how it had been when she was a kid, before the quake, before she’d scared herself. “Watch.”

She pulled a single drop of vitagua out of the soaked carpet, raising it in midair and letting it fall. She envisioned it getting bigger, like she was rolling a snowball on a warm winter day.

Grow it did.

She heard Jacks’s measured intake of breath as she pulled, hard but carefully, sucking liquid magic out of the rug. A perfectly spherical reservoir formed under her outstretched hand, growing to waist height.

Astrid pulled harder.

Droplets of blue wept through the layers of white paint on the ceiling, leaving pockmarks in the plaster. Vitagua burst from the bricks of the fireplace, rupturing the blue paint as it joined up with the rest. Spirit water threaded up from under the floor, drawn from the spill in the basement. Another miniature river came from the fireplace—the flow from the unreal that was still shoving itself into the house.

Grunting with effort, Astrid forced vitagua out of her body through the punctures the Chief had left in her shoulder and arm. She drove it out, adding to the pool hanging in the living room, and as the level of magic she was carrying dropped, the confusing swirl of knowledge about the future decreased.

The grumbles quieted.

She didn’t purge completely…. You never knew when you might need a little foreknowledge.

“Okay, you’ve gathered it up. But how about getting it back into the unreal?” Jacks said.

“That’s easy too,” she said. Skirting the Chief’s corpse, she set her hands on the hearth. The globe of liquid followed her, rolling onto the mantel as if it were solid. She shoved it into the fireplace, letting it flow a couple feet up the chimney.

“Stay,” Astrid said, as if it were a dog, and the liquid magic undulated in place, clinging to the mantel as if dammed there.

Once she was sure it wouldn’t move, she imagined it flowing back through the crack in the hearth. “Just for a while,” she crooned. “Not for long.”

Resistance from the other side—the great vitagua icebergs and their frozen inhabitants had sensed a chance, after so long, to melt themselves free.

“Please,” Astrid begged. She gripped the mantel, clenching mentally. After a second a vortex formed in the pool of fluid, a miniature whirl pool that crept around the edges of the vitagua, which was draining back into the unreal a bit at a time. “It’s going back,” she said.

“Okay,” Sahara said. “One problem solved.”

Jacks let out a sigh. “What now? Figure out how to get Astrid out of here once it’s gone?”

“All of us out of here, Jacks,” Astrid insisted.

“Right. Us…” He scanned the spattered room, gaze stuttering over the shrouded body of his father. Then he turned, disappearing down the hall.

The sound of Jacks retching made her concentration lapse…and the vitagua flowing into the unreal slowed, just a bit. She clenched her fist—a concentration trick Albert had taught her—and pushed. The flow increased.

Okay. She could lock her attention there in her hand—by keeping the fist clenched, she could keep the flow going and still think about other things.

“How long will it take to drain it?” Sahara said.

“An hour, maybe?” One-handed, Astrid fumbled with the kaleidoscope. The Sheriff and his minions were scurrying about outside, waving their arms and pointing at the house. “They’ll try to contact Mark. Isn’t that how it goes in the movies—they contact the hostage-taker?”

“Sheriff did call,” Sahara said, voice edgy. “I shouted at them through the window, with Siren on—told them to hold tight. It should be okay.”

“Okay.” Beyond the police line, the street was filling up with neighbors. Grimfaced firefighters were on the scene, setting up lines to keep the people at bay.

“Just another hour,” she said again, not sure whether she was pleading with the police outside or the impatient reservoir of magic in the unreal.

Quiet settled over the living room as the magic continued to drain. Astrid leaned against a wall, pushing vitagua into the unreal and trying not to look at the Chief’s corpse. Jacks returned from the bathroom and took up the kaleidoscope, tracking police activity outside.

Mark Clumber rocked on his heels at the threshold between living room and kitchen, staying well away from the windows. The shotgun dangled from his left hand; with his right, he toyed with his glasses.

When Sahara broke the silence it was like a pin jabbing through skin.

“I know you want to get out of here,” she told Mrs. Skye. She and the old woman were seated on the steps that led upstairs. “I can tell you’re scared. I can feel it. You don’t have to be—you could walk out of here right now.”

The older woman fiddled with her hearing aid. “I knew this house was haunted. Didn’t figure you three were breaking out the ghosts….”

“We didn’t do a very good job,” Astrid said dully.

“If you wanted them loose, girl, you’ve done fine.”

“Pat, you’re not helping,” Sahara said. “We want to let you go. Promise you won’t tell what’s going on?”

“Sweetie.” Mrs. Skye brushed away a lock of Sahara’s hair. “I can’t lie and tell ’em the boy’s to blame.”

“Could you act freaked out—too upset to talk?” Astrid suggested.

“I’m no actor. But listen, after you get this…vitagua, you called it?”

Astrid nodded.

“After it’s hid, you can tell the truth, more or less. I saw the Chief break in here. He did attack Sahara.”

“Yeah, but…”

“As for what happened after—is it true Astrid hit him to get him off you?”

“Yes,” Astrid said slowly. “We’ve got the ax marks on the door—”

“And you’re all banged up,” Jacks added in a hoarse voice. “As long as nobody said anything about magic…”

“Please. My niece’d toss me in the psych ward,” Mrs. Skye said. “But what about Mark?”

Sahara glowered. “Do we care?”

“Yes,” Astrid answered firmly. “We absolutely do.”

“Then maybe you ought to ask my opinion,” Mark rasped.

Sahara’s lip curled. Jacks scowled back, a warning.

“Go ahead,” Astrid said.

Mark shook his head, as if to clear it. “First off, you all officially suck. Second, she—” He pointed at Sahara. “—stops zapping me, or whatever you call it.”

“That seems reasonable,” Mrs. Skye said. Jacks nodded.

“Why not take the mermaid off, Sahara?” Astrid said.

Face taut, Sahara stuck the pendant in her pocket. “Happy?”

“Third,” Mark said. “Me and the old lady are now part of the gang. We vote on what to do, we get a share of the magic goodies—”

“No way,” said Sahara, rising. “Not a chance.”

He spread his hands. “I cooperate, nobody has to feel guilty. Everything gets simpler. Isn’t that right?”

Mrs. Skye said, “I’m not sure I want a share….”

“It’s a deal,” Astrid said.

“This is crazy,” Sahara protested. “He’s an untrustworthy piece of shit. He’ll betray us.”

“So we make him our puppet?” Astrid said.

“We can’t do that, Sahara,” said Jacks.

“Okay, I know. That would be wrong.” Sahara bared her teeth in an insincere attempt at a smile, and Astrid saw that her lips were strangely stiff. “But tell me—what do we say to the cops when we come out?”

Mark said, “I’ll tell them I panicked when Jacks blamed me for the Chief’s death.”

Astrid said: “Panicked…you freaked out?”

“I knew I was in trouble, I saw the shotgun….”

“Yeah, I can work with this,” Sahara said. “He was worked up, because of the prank I played in Boston—”

“Prank.” He sneered. “You framed me for—”

“They’ll still charge you for shooting at them, Mark.” The skin under Jacks’s eyes was gray; he looked decades older. “They aren’t going to laugh and slap your wrist.”

“Yes, but you’ve got that mermaid. If you gave it to me, I could convince them to let me go.”

Sahara gave him a flat, venomous glance.

“Or you give me something just as…” He groped for a word, then beamed. “Powerful. Something powerful.”

“You’d be taking a big chance,” Astrid said uneasily.

“Clearly the rewards are gonna be worth the risk.”

“There has to be another way,” Sahara said. “Astrid, you can’t let him blackmail us.”

Jacks glared. “If you hadn’t been playing with people’s minds, Sahara, this would never have happened.”

“We can fix this, Jacks.”

“You can’t fix him!” he bellowed, pointing at his father. “Your screwing around got someone killed.”

“Why are you yelling at me? Am I in charge here? Did I bash Lee’s head in? You want to be pissed at me so you don’t have to face up to the fact that the love of your life killed your old man—” Jacks barely moved, but Sahara shut up suddenly, backing away.

“She’s right,” Astrid said, convinced he was about to deck her. “It is my fault, Jacks.”

He stared at them, face bleak and furious, fists clenched.

“The point,” Mark said, “is that if I cooperate, nobody’s going to jail. Not me, not Astrid.”

Sure, the grumbles laughed. She bit her lip, fighting the misgivings. “So the Chief attacks Sahara, I kill the Chief, Mark gets blamed, Mark freaks out. Isn’t that kind of a feeble story?”

Sahara shook her head, still cat-tense and watching Jacks. “That’s because it’s practically true. The cops have heard dumber things than this, believe me.”

Astrid touched the gash the Chief had made in her forearm. “Jacks?”

“It’s all we’ve got,” he muttered. “If nothing else, it might buy us some time to run.”

Us. Astrid smiled wanly, thinking idly of jail cells and interrogations that hadn’t happened yet.

“Pat?” Sahara asked Mrs. Skye.

Mrs. Skye gave Sahara a stern look. “You keep Mark out of jail and I’ll keep quiet about the magic.”

Pat, Astrid mused. She’d never known the old woman’s first name.

“Mark will be okay, promise.” Sahara patted her hand. “So—now there’s a plan, how about you get out of here?”

Mrs. Skye took the kaleidoscope from Jacks, looking out at the street. “They’ve trampled those flowers you put in my garden.”

“Pat?”

“I’m not leaving Mark in here with you three.”

“Fine,” Sahara said, flapping her arms in frustration. “Don’t blame me if something happens. You could be out there right now sharing your ordeal with the reporters, selling your story to the highest bidder.”

“Reporters?” Astrid said.

Wordlessly, Mrs. Skye passed over the kaleidoscope. Astrid squeezed her clenched fist tighter, ensuring she could still concentrate on pushing the liquid magic into the unreal. Then she peered at the mob outside her house.

The police were tense, alert, and numerous, in sharp contrast to the spectators wilting in the wretched heat. Townspeople were gathered behind yellow tape, some furtively munching convenience store goodies—potato chips, chocolate bars, and nuts. Sure enough, there was a news van out there, a battered-looking vehicle with a satellite dish on top and an excited camera crew.

How long since Mark had fired at the Sheriff—two hours?

This won’t work, Astrid thought. The resistance from the unreal increased as her hope faltered—she had to push harder, to squeeze her fist until the knuckles were white.

“I can’t sit in here with him anymore,” Jacks said. Pushing past Sahara, he headed upstairs.

Astrid found him in Sahara’s room, pacing and red with anger.

“I’m sorry, Jacks.”

He kicked the bedframe, rattling it so hard, a screw fell out. “Dad killed Albert?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And he hurt Sahara. He hurt you.”

“If we’d been more discreet, like you said…”

He kicked the bed again. “If he’d hurt you, I’d have killed him myself.”

She was afraid to reach for him.

“All that ‘follow in my path’ stuff. Dad wanted me to be one of them.”

“A Fyreman. Yeah.”

“Witch-burners. He wanted me to murder people.” He laughed, rubbing his eyes. “So why am I mad at you?”

“I’m still here?” She kicked off the high heels, tears running down her face. I didn’t mean for this to happen, she wanted to say, but what kind of excuse was that? “I could go to jail, Jacks. Confess, not fight it.”

He sat, head lowered. “Then the well closes, right? Dad wins, it was all for nothing, and you and I—”

Footsteps interrupted him. The others came in, settling around them: Sahara crowding next to Astrid, Mrs. Skye perching in a wicker chair. Mark hovered at the doorway.

The phone rang, an electronic shrill that made them jump. Mark took it from Sahara. “Hello?”

Low words bumbled from the receiver, inaudible. “Demands? Um, no,” Mark said. “I’m hashing things out with my ex, that’s all. I’ll let everyone go real soon.” With that, he hit the disconnect.

“You shouldn’t incriminate yourself,” Mrs. Skye said.

“What do you know about it, Pat?”

“It makes him look guiltier, Sahara.”

“We’re gonna get him off, how many times do I have to tell you? He’ll have a wonderful life and we’ll keep him out of prison. Okay?”

“It’ll work out,” Mark said, pocketing the phone. “I’m coming out ahead on this one way or another.”

“See, he’s not worried,” Sahara said irritably. “Is anyone else hungry? We’re going to pass out if we don’t fuel up.” With that, she flounced out of the room.

“She can’t charm every cop in the state,” Mrs. Skye said.

“No,” Astrid said. “She probably can’t.”

The woman put her hands on Astrid’s cheeks, peering deeply into her eyes. “You owe Mark. He’s taking the blame for you.”

“She’s right,” Jacks said. “And Sahara’s never going to give him Siren.”

Astrid nodded, looking at Mark. A chantment, then. Something the police wouldn’t confiscate…

She clenched her fist again, concentrated. The vitagua downstairs was still moving out of the real. Carefully, she drew on the magic still pooled within her, bringing it through the cut the Chief had made in her arm. Vitagua flowed down her wrist to her index finger, and she reached out, touching the plastic frames of Mark’s glasses. The fluid vanished into them, glowing bright blue and then dimming. When Astrid dropped her hand, they seemed brand-new, almost sparkling.

“The glasses will make people believe you,” she said in a low voice. “When you say you’re innocent—when you say anything that’s true—they’ll buy it.”

Mark’s eyes gleamed—with greed? “What good does that do me if the sharpshooters get trigger happy?”

Chilling thought. Grasping the barrel of the shotgun, Astrid chanted it too. “Point this at the window and pull the trigger,” she said.

“You crazy?”

“It’s okay.”

Mark fired the rifle. It clicked softly, and then the windowsill stretched like taffy, growing up over the glass and creating a hardwood barrier.

“No bullet’s getting through that,” she said.

“So I can lock us in,” Mark said. “What if we want out?”

“Smack the butt of the gun against the barricade,” Astrid said.

He shot at the bedroom door, watching the wood grow over it before doing as she’d said. The barrier flaked to dust, leaving an ordinary door behind.

“I’m starving,” he said.

“Magic takes energy,” Astrid replied.

“Can I do the other windows without passing out?”

Should they tell Mark about the cantations? She looked at Jacks.

“As long as you eat and rest,” he said. “Sahara’s getting food.”

“Cool.” With that, Mark went out into the hall, pointing and clicking the trigger at every possible entry point into the house.

Astrid looked at Mrs. Skye. “Are we good now?”

“It’s not going to be easy,” the old woman said. She dabbed at Astrid’s gashed arm with the edge of her shirtsleeve. “They’ll break you up, girl. Separate you, ask what happened about a hundred times. Take your stories, chop ’em up. Finally one or another of you will slip and tell some kind of truth that can’t be taken back.”

“Sahara can keep that from happening,” Astrid said.

“That girl.” Mrs. Skye’s tone was sad. “She’s too pleased with the sound of her voice.”

The statement sent ice crawling down Astrid’s back.

“I should check on her.” Jacks disappeared down the hall.

“This is a big damn mess,” Mrs. Skye muttered.

“I’ll make other things to help us.” Astrid fumbled for the lipstick, one-handed. “Would you take this one? If we end up in jail, at least I’ll have gotten a few chantments out.”

“What’s it do?”

Astrid blushed. “Makes you pretty.”

“Isn’t Sahara watching the inventory?”

“You’re part of the gang, remember? Besides, she doesn’t know about this one.”

“Oh, kid.” The old lady’s face filled with sympathy. “Don’t you see what you’re saying? You don’t trust her.”

Astrid’s eyes welled with tears; she almost lost her grip on the vitagua downstairs. “I have to help her.”

“You won’t help by dancing to her tune.” Mrs. Skye leaned into the mirror, putting on the lipstick and blotting her lips with a cotton hankie. Together they watched her features become stronger, the weariness around her eyes vanishing as the salt-and-pepper hair thickened, leaving her looking both beautiful and formidable.

“Cute trick.” With a sigh, she tucked the lipstick into her pocket. “What if you put that earring on her?”

“On Sahara?”

“It made you forget about magic, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Hold her down, put it on, get Mark to send her out to the cops before she can make any more trouble.”

Astrid opened her mouth to refuse but the others returned, Sahara and Jacks each carrying a tray piled with random foods: a big bowl of instant soup, crackers, a salad made of canned asparagus and a mixture of pickles.

“Things look good downstairs,” Jacks said. “The vitagua is almost gone. We can go soon.”

“Good,” Astrid said fervently. It was taking more and more effort to keep the flow going.

With the windows sealed, the room seemed like a cave. The temperature had dropped but the air tasted close, stale. They all smelled of nerves and blood.

Jacks sat beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders.

She kissed his cheek, pleased. He was on her left side; Sahara was curled on the floor at her right. The three of them picked at the makeshift feast, and the phone did not ring again.