Texas Gothic (24 page)

“Did you find anything else after we left?” Phin asked.

“More bones that appear to be from the third skeleton,” said Mark. “Tomorrow we dig test holes around the field to see what else turns up. Then home so Dr. Douglas can write a grant proposal.”

“Well, some of us are staying for the party,” said Lucas, his eyes following a pair of women who walked by, checking him out in return. He lifted his beer to them, and they laughed and hurried on.

“Is it just me,” said Jennie, amused by the exchange, “or are we getting even more stares than usual?”

“Everyone’s talking about the dig,” said Lucas. “I’m not fooling myself that it’s because of my stunning good looks.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she said.

Emery hunched over his bottle. “They’re a lot more interested today than yesterday.”

Dwayne elbowed him. “Stop sulking because Phin found some buried treasure and trumped your bones.”

Jennie giggled. “Trumped your bones. That’s funny.”

I was going to miss Jennie when she headed back to Austin. Emery, not so much.

“That’s the lamest treasure I ever saw,” he said. “A fist-size hunk of gold ore. Even at today’s prices, that would hardly be worth the cost of refining.”

“Well, I’ll ask the question no one has yet,” said Dwayne. “Where did it come from?”

Lucas tore his attention away from another passing woman and answered. “There are records of several Spanish expeditions to look for gold in central Texas.”

“Like Coronado?” Phin asked.

Mark turned to her with a laugh. “What is it with you and Coronado?”

She shrugged. “He’s the only conquistador I remember.”

I cleared my throat, hesitant to tell them their business. “While I was home this afternoon, I looked up that San Sabá mission that Mark talked about. There’s supposedly a lost San Sabá gold mine, too, that no one has ever found.” The Google hit had startled me, since buried treasure kept coming up in conversation. Ben had even reminded me today: the Mad Monk was supposedly guarding his treasure.

Lucas straightened with interest. “The San Sabá mine is just a legend, but there
are
actual records of a mine in this area. Los Almagres.” He stared at a neon beer sign for a moment, checking his mental files. “Or maybe that was silver. No surprise it was lost, because this was Apache country, and they weren’t keen on prospectors.”

“Maybe what we’ve found was a prospecting expedition,” said Jennie.

“But what about the cross?” asked Dwayne, tag-teaming
the speculation. “Doesn’t that mean they were monks or missionaries or something?”

“Maybe it was both,” said Mark. “Missionaries wanted to convert the heathens; conquistadors wanted their land; everyone wanted their gold. It’s not like Spain had separation of church and state.”

Emery wrapped it all up with a sneer. “So we’re all agreed. The Mad Monk is a totally plausible theory based on historical record.”

Phin turned a considering gaze his way. “You would be sort of funny if you weren’t so obnoxious.”

Lucas laughed, and nudged me to let him out of the booth. “Well, you guys are great, but I’ve been with you all day. I’m going to do some socializing. Who’s with me?”

“I need something to nosh,” said Jennie, “and I cannot eat one more Hitchin’ Post burger or hot dog.”

“You forgot nachos,” Dwayne said.

“And nacho cheese fries,” added Mark.

“So who’s for trying that Mexican food place on Main Street?” Jennie looked at Phin, then me. “Wanna join us?”

I realized we were down one. “Where’s Caitlin?”

“She’s, um, on a date,” she confessed, so apologetic I would have guessed whom the other girl was with even if I hadn’t seen them talking at the dig today.

Which was fine. No, it was
good
, because it meant Ben was busy, leaving me free and clear to (hopefully) run into Joe Kelly. Which I realized I was less likely to do if I was in the middle of a crowd.

“You know,” I said, “I’m beat. I think I’m going to grab something from a drive-through window and head home.”

Mark volunteered, as I’d expected, “Phin, I can drive you home later if you want to hang out.”

“Sure,” she said, and one by one they slid out of the booth until only Emery was left. I thought they might just leave him, but Jennie relented and said, “Come on if you want, Emery.”

“I figured I was too
obnoxious
.”

“So’s rap music,” said Mark, “but some people like it.”

Emery didn’t give them a chance to reconsider.

As the rest headed for the exit, I caught Phin’s arm, holding her back. “How’s this spell supposed to work? Should I do something?”

“Just go about your business,” she said. “It’s not instantaneous, just sooner rather than later. These kinds of spells merely affect probability. But you can’t manipulate the human factor. Influencing free will is a
much
bigger deal.”

“Okay,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Tell the others I’m going to the restroom, then heading home.”

Phin frowned. “I don’t think the ladies’ room will up your chances of meeting Joe Kelly.”

“It’s not a tactical stop. It’s too many Dr Peppers.”

In the “Cowgirls” room, I washed my hands and hit the dryer with my elbow and just a little bit of déjà vu. I was taking Phin’s advice and going about my business, which unfortunately meant wondering whether Ben had asked Caitlin out (or accepted her invite) before or after the back-rub, and why it mattered.

The door opened and a woman in the Hitchin’ Post uniform (jeans, T-shirt, apron) came in. She was older than
Jessica by a long shot, and might have been a natural blonde at some point in her life, but not now. She watched me as the dryer ran out, but I thought maybe she was just waiting for the sink.

I had no hint of anything odd until she asked, “Are you the witch that’s digging up the bones in the pasture?”

Warily I dried my damp hands on my jeans, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I’m one of the volunteers working with the crew from the university.”

“I know who you are.” Whoever
she
was, her eyes were hard as flint, her voice a bitter pill. “Jessica told me you’re not just digging up bones. You’re digging up the ghost.”

“I’m not—”

The words stuck in my throat like a tongue on a frozen flagpole.

No, no, no! Not now!

Think, Amy. This is what you do
.

But I couldn’t. I reached for my store of clever evasions and found nothing but cold, empty space. Panic spiked, my mind raced, but I couldn’t find a single word.

“You are,” said the woman. I silently begged her not to be a small-town, small-minded cliché. “You’re poking your nose where it shouldn’t be. No wonder the Mad Monk is stirring. A witch like you digging up his bones.”

“Trust me,” I managed. Hope flared, and I tried again, “I’m not—”

But my tongue knotted on that, too, and
holy crap
what was wrong with me? I wasn’t a witch. Why couldn’t I say that?

Maybe because there was a spell in my pocket and a
ghost paying calls at my house. But it wasn’t honor or nerves or guilt that stopped me. I
physically
could not speak. This was
not
natural.

“You are.” She spit words like daggers. “All of you Goodnights, passing yourself off as hippie, new age types, thinking you can charm this town with your money. But what you’re doing is unnatural. And so are you.”

She poured out her venom on me, thinking I was young and defenseless. And, horribly, I
was
. I couldn’t control this conversation and couldn’t even walk away. I was paralyzed by my inability to deny what she said and my unwillingness to just
own
it.

No one was that bitter without some cause. I seized on that and used it to say
something
. “I’m sorry for whatever’s happened to you.”

“You should be.” Her voice hitched, but her fever of anger didn’t break. “My husband is in the hospital right now because of you. Hit on the head because you city types can’t leave things alone.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said again. I didn’t try to explain that I hadn’t even heard of the ghost until two days ago. Excuses wouldn’t make any difference.

“You tell those college folks to stop violating those graves. And you—” Her voice quaked. “Just get out to your farm and stay there, before you hurt any more decent people than you already have.”

She straight-armed the door and left. In her wake, I sagged against the counter, the strength washing out of me. My eyes burned with tears I’d held back while she was flaying me.

My hands shook too hard to turn the knob on the faucet. It took me three tries before I could splash cold water on my face and begin to sort through my tumbling thoughts.

Why couldn’t I lie?

What was wrong with me? How had I lost the ability to steer my own voice?

I heard Phin’s words in my head.
Influencing free will is a much
, much
bigger deal
.

Was my bond with the ghost enough to do that?

Panic rose up to choke me. Maybe I could live being haunted, but how could I exist without the ability to spin-doctor my crazy dual life? My glib explanations, my denials and dodges … those were my lifeline. They were how I kept my balance between my worlds, and how I protected my family from the skeptic authorities and the crazy believers.

Even if the Goodnight Effect would keep them safe without my help, I didn’t even have that. Could I handle a lifetime of living in a magical world with no magic, and no defenses, dealing with situations just like this? Because the only other option would be to disown my family and become a totally different person.

It was too much to hold in, and I did
not
want to cry in the bathroom in front of the condom machine. I fled the cowgirls’ room and in the hall turned away from the throng in the bar, toward the back door with the half-dark exit sign.

I burst out into the night air. Or more specifically, into a haze of marijuana smoke. And in the middle of it, sitting on an upended milk carton, two minions lounging with him, was Joe Kelly.

This
was why I didn’t mess with magic.

m
om always knows the right time to call, even when it seems like the wrong time.

When I rushed out of the bar, Joe Kelly shot to his feet. Impressive, considering what he was smoking. He stared at me, and I stared at him, and finally he thought about holding his joint somewhere less obvious than right in front of him.

I didn’t care. I had reached my limit and couldn’t possibly construct a sensible sentence just then. Ironic, when searching him out had put me in this situation in the first place.

So I turned and ran to Stella in the parking lot. I flung myself into her, closed the door, and sat soaking up the toasty warmth of the car.

When I’d collected myself, I headed home.
Screw you, Mad Monk. I’m taking the night off
.

Usually I love to drive, because it gave me time to think. No teachers, no TV, no Internet. But tonight, the best part of the Hill Country was that you
couldn’t
think and drive. The twilight shadows and the curving stretch of highway took all my attention, like meditation. By the time the phone rang where I’d tossed it in the passenger seat, I thought I’d recovered at least a surface calm.

But there was no fooling Mom.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

I put the call on speaker rather than pull over. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

I didn’t want to talk to her. I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want I-told-you-so’s, and I
didn’t
want to admit how fear had turned to fury.

Stupid ghost
.

“I’m sure Daisy told you what’s going on,” I said.

“No one likes to hear secondhand that her daughter is under a geas to a spirit.”

Geas
. The word was heavy and old-fashioned, which was about right.

I scowled at the windshield, because she wasn’t there in person. “Well, I didn’t really like finding it out firsthand, either.”

“Are you taking a
tone
with me, Amaryllis?”

I took a deep breath and eased my foot off the gas pedal as the road dipped. It was tempting to put Stella through her paces, but there were other drivers out. And also, my mother was on the phone.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Tell me what happened, sweetie.”

“Aunt Hyacinth has cursed me, that’s what happened.”

“Oh, honey. She would never do that.”

“Not literally. But I have this ghost tied to me, and I can’t say it’s not real, or that I’m not looking for it, or even that there’s no magic involved. My mind just goes blank and my mouth will not work.”

She paused, and I felt the point even over the phone. “So, you can’t lie?”

“It’s not lying, Mom. It’s smoke screen.” Except that it was
totally
lying, with one exception: “I couldn’t even speak to say I’m not a witch.”

“Sweetie, saying you’re not a witch is like saying you’re not a carnivore if you get your meat from the supermarket instead of hunting it yourself.”

The road took a steep curve, a little too on the nose, metaphorically, to what just happened in my head.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said when things leveled out.

“You must have, or you would have been able to say it. Triple promises work on your own conscience, even if it’s
sub
consciously.”

It was true. I didn’t practice magic, but I used it like some people use the Internet. No, not the Internet, because I couldn’t function without that, but something life enhancing
yet nonessential, like text messaging. Not spells, usually—teas and bath potions and the occasional crystal jewelry.

“How did you know it was a triple promise?” I asked, even though I could guess.

“I talked to Phin, of course. I’m so proud of you, honey, for taking on this task. I always knew you had an affinity of your own, but I’d almost given up—” She corrected herself with a laugh. “No, that’s not true. I’d never give up on one of my babies.”

I flexed my hands on the wheel, my knuckles stiff from gripping so hard through twists and turns, literal and figurative. I wished I had pulled over while I had the chance. This was taking much more concentration than the venting/bitching session I’d anticipated.