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It was fairly relaxing, given my overall sense of caution and nervousness and the perfect setup for when, without warning, I plunged down a waterfall, a vertical drop of an organ-scrambling distance. I landed with a teeth-shattering splashdown and shot out of the boat like a popped cork. Surfacing out of breath and aching from the impact, I was still struck by the beauty of the scene. The natural pool was deep and so piercingly blue it shone as if faceted like a gemstone. And it was as warm as a hug.

  I spied my boat, intact and upright, a few yards away, and dog-paddled toward it. While grasping it and taking a moment to recover, I heard a voice. In a sheltered grotto, not far from where I’d landed, there was a woman half-submerged in the water. What registered first was her hair. It was so silvery white it was opalescent, picking up the sparkling blue of the water and the fern green of the cavern’s foliage. And her dress was fantastic, even though I had only a waist-up view. It was formfitting, willow-green, and made of such intricate glittery sequins that they seemed to ruffle in accordance with the movements of her lithe frame. What I’d first taken as beauty, however, was soon tainted by her behavior. A manic desperation contorted her features as she wailed, seemingly to herself. Upon closer inspection, I noticed before her, in what was otherwise a glassy pool of water, a small whirlpool. It was this swirling rotation that she was, for all appearances, addressing.

  “I have no reason to doubt the success of this mission. The girl knows what’s at stake. To break the pact would be to risk everything.”

  Uh-oh.

  When, next, up from the spinning vortex, Brigid’s icy voice rose, I felt the water ripple around me from my pounding heart.

  “You and King Marbendlar are fools, Safira, if you think that girl will cooperate. She’s headstrong and rash and too young and foolish to comprehend the enormity of the situation. You’d do best to throw in with me now.”

  Safira? As in Queen Safira? OVQ had just gone OMG scary. Dread pressed the oxygen from my lungs. “I do grow impatient,” Safira replied, her voice carping and bitter. “Though I’ve dispatched one of my most loyal servants, I admit to misgivings. My forbearance will not last much longer.”

  “Together we have the power to revisit missed opportunities, to change the universe. Why do you not seize this opportunity?” Brigid was raging. The waters’ rotation intensified, and an icy mist rose from its core.

  “Should the pact fail, Marbendlar and I do not deny the necessity of such recourse. But until then —”

  “You disappoint me,” Brigid snapped. “It is my tolerance that is now tested. My offer does not stand for long.”

  With that, the vortex spun downward, creating a recessed bowl, until it snapped back to a glassy surface with a splash. Safira slapped at the water with such fury that the force of her action caused a tidal wave upon which my boat and I were borne like flotsam. I don’t know how I managed to hold on to the side of the skiff, but I did, knowing probably it was my lifeline through this treacherous ordeal. The wave did eventually break, and I managed to catapult myself back into the boat. I lay on its hard, cold hull recovering and replaying the two queens’ exchange.

  Finally I coasted onto a sandy bank and was surprised at the sight of a group of women at the base of a large, silver-trunked tree.

  What on earth now? Until it jarred me like flying glass, this wasn’t earth at all.

  I slipped from the boat and padded across sand and then grass. The women took no notice of me even as the reeds and rushes swished at my feet.

  The oldest of the group, a woman with long white hair, spoke with an air of authority. “Gather, maidens. I have need of your divine counsel.” She perched on a velvety stool. Women assembled before her — nine, by my count — and sat at her feet.

  “First my box, please, Fulla, for I have heavy burdens to store,” the older woman continued.

  A beautiful young woman with long golden braids stood. “Yes, Goddess Frigg.”

  “Frigg” as in the queen of Asgard, surveyor of all the universe, and Odin’s wife? Where the heck am I?

  The braided blonde, bearing an ornately carved box upon her open palms, approached Frigg. The box was opened. With bent heads, the two of them whispered for several minutes.

  While they conferred, I studied the others. They were an interesting group: young and physically beautiful. Each was dressed uniquely and wore or bore an object of distinction. A very dark-skinned, raven-haired hulk of a woman wore a shield and carried a sword. Another, pale and freckled and boyish of figure, wore loose-fitting pants and strapped a leather satchel across her chest. A heavy book sat upon the long-skirted lap of a third, a full-figured redhead. A golden bowl rested in the elbow crook of a high-cheekboned, lively-eyed brunette who whispered with another of similar features and holding a mortar and pestle. Another clad in all black wore a veil from under which only the shadow of her face was visible. The final two were identical twins and seemed younger than the others. Their white-blond hair — a shade much like my own — matched their all-white gowns, over which they sported capes of white feathers.

  Frigg and the one she called Fulla concluded their private conference, after which the box was snapped shut. The commanding Frigg then clapped her hands. “We proceed, for all is amiss, and I have need of your talents.” The maidens drew closer to her. Suddenly, she cocked her head to one side, stating, “Silence! Did you hear that?” She stood abruptly from her stool. The women turned in unison to where Frigg was looking, right in my direction.

  Holy crap. I froze. Had I done something? Made some kind of disturbance?

  The women stood now, also peering in my direction and chattering nervously among themselves.

  “Silence,” Frigg said with a slash of her hand.

  I heard it, too, then. It was a distant howl so eerie and discordant, my heart throbbed with an irregular beat. The sound of it — caterwaul defined — became unbearable. Frigg and her maidens scattered, disappearing behind tall grasses. I began to shiver and pulled my arms across my body, rocking back and forth and feeling as if I were dissolving into subparticles.

  When I awoke, I was outside the sweat lodge, and Jinky had thrown my jacket over me on the ground.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I said through chattering teeth.

  “Can you dress and walk?”

  “I can try.” My upper and lower jaws felt like slabs of cold marble slamming together uncontrollably.

  She helped me with my clothes, even tying the laces of my boots for me. We trudged back in silence. I couldn’t have talked if I’d wanted to. It was all I could do to hold my racking frame together and get one wobbly step to follow the next.

  When we were finally over the fence, Jinky asked, “What happened to you?”

  I bit my trembling lip. I knew I was playing with some powerful stuff. Whatever that shriek had been, it had jarred me to my marrow. If accepting Jinky’s shaman services was a gray area, confiding in her was not: Marik had been clear on that point.

  “I don’t think I can say.”

  She gave me a look that could skin a rat. “You and Marik both, huh?”

  I twitched my mouth to the side.

  She stomped off in the direction of the car, lighting a cigarette and blowing back a huff of smoke. It probably wasn’t good karma to piss off a shaman, even one in training; I had enough figures in my “foes” column. But there was nothing I could do about it right now. And I didn’t care how mad Jinky was or how much I owed her; she still wasn’t smoking in my car.

  The next morning was a grind. I was exhausted from two treks out to Alpenstock, and it was a Monday, never my favorite to begin with. OVQ had provided me with information; I was pleased with myself for initiating it, but it hadn’t been quite as empowering as I’d hoped. Two things were for sure: Safira was getting restless, and Brigid was keen for a co-conspirator. Even if I resigned myself to Hulda’s fullness-of-time mantra, it sure didn’t sound like that was the two queens’ MO. One thing I was in
no hurry for was meeting up with the source of that ungodly howl. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Thinking about it made my stomach drop and my body spasm as if the temperature had suddenly plunged.

  In Design, Jinky arrived late and took a seat in the back without ever glancing my way. She was always late and never one for eye contact or acknowledgments of any kind, but I couldn’t help reading more into it on that occasion. She wouldn’t tell Marik what we’d been up to last night, would she?

  “Penny and Jinky, would you like to go next?” Ms. Bryant’s voice tugged me from my reverie.

  Jinky stood quickly, which surprised me. She was usually the eyes-on-desk, non-participatory type. Penny’s jutting chin and tiny huff indicated that she had expected to be the team’s spokesperson.

  “The name of our business is the Sage Hand.”

  Jinky paused. I wondered at her timing; it seemed for dramatic effect, but that didn’t seem her style. The small delay gave Ms. Bryant the chance to cock her head to the side in interest; Sage was, after all, her first name.

  “It’s a kind of New Age market,” Jinky continued, “offering homeopathic remedies, books, artwork, jewelry, crystals, gems, and candles. Our slogan is ‘Where open minds meet healing hands.’”

  While Jinky spoke, Penny shuffled through the note cards in front of her as if trying to catch up.

  “Very original,” Ms. Bryant said with an appreciative nod of her head. “And definitely not on the list of suggestions. I look forward to your final project.”

  Judging by the vigor with which Penny tapped her pencil against her notebook, she wasn’t sharing Ms. Bryant’s enthusiasm. I noticed that Jinky had nothing in front of her, not even a single sheet of paper, while Penny had now turned her stack of cards facedown. Not only had Jinky hijacked the project, Penny had put a lot of work into the original topic.

  I was relieved when Ms. Bryant called on another team next. Marik and I weren’t adequately prepared. We’d had a hard time agreeing on a business. My original idea of a hat store had met with little to no excitement from Marik, the guy who liked everything. Even Penny had rolled her shoulders when I’d run the idea past her. You’d think in a climate where protection from the elements was necessary that people would be keen to combine fashion and function. Guess not. Marik’s idea, the one we’d settled on, was a toy store. Now this he did get excited about. I’d come up with a name, the Toy Box, but we’d still yet to create a slogan and had only the bare minimum of a proposal.

  The bell rang, and I stuffed my things into my book bag. Abby and Marik walked down the aisle and through the space separating my desk from Penny’s. Abby had her hand on his shoulder, pulling at him playfully.

  “Wait up, goofball,” she said, her hand now slipping into the crook of his elbow.

  “Yes, Abril Julianna,” he said, continuing his forward progress. Neither of them looked my way, which was fine by me. I didn’t want Marik picking up on the dark circles under my eyes, my distracted state, or the gooseflesh that sprung to my arms every time that horrible screech came to mind.

  Abril, I mused. I’d have guessed Abigail. It reminded me of the way Marik always called me Katla, never Kat. Furthermore, it spoke of a deeper friendship, one where he knew her full name, middle included.

  I glanced at Penny. She didn’t look any better than me. That little spark that had been growing in her like a hidden ember was gone. She didn’t even seem all that mad at Jinky; she just appeared ashen and beaten down. And Abby had the glow that had gone out in Penny. I drummed my fingers across the desktop as I stretched to a stand. What was it about Marik that was so alluring? No one, not even Mean Dean, seemed immune. Even Jack was amused by the guy. And given his mission, my relationship with the guy should have been adversarial. But it wasn’t. Not really. He was too damn pleasant all the time. A slump-shouldered Penny, not Penelopa, heaved herself out of her desk and shambled toward the door. I wondered what kind of homeopathic remedy the Sage Hand would have for a broken heart.

  Between my schoolwork, preparing for the move, working at the store, missing my busy college boyfriend, worrying about a two-queen scheme, and hearing bone-buckling howls in every dog bark, the week stampeded by. As proof, I had hoof marks on the side of my face when I woke up on Saturday.

  A packing crew had spent the previous day boxing up our shockingly numerous belongings. That morning, a parade of moving dollies made its way out the front door, down the driveway, up the ramp, and into the huge van. Watching from a lawn chair on the front porch as the house emptied out, I felt oddly sad. It made me think of our move from California just over a year ago and of the fear and misgivings I had in leaving my home and neighborhood since birth. As if in counterpoint to this melancholy, Jack, in his old truck, rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the house. It was a nice reminder that things had a way of working themselves out.

  This happy buzz was short-lived; a few minutes later my frenzied mom dispatched Jack and me to the new house with a mop, broom, and bucketful of old rags and cleaning supplies. “Kitchen first. No goofing off,” was her directive. She was not in the mood for my “KP duty, no fun allowed, copy that,” message into an imaginary walkie-talkie. At least Stanley thought it was a little funny, though he probably bought himself an extra hour or two on diaper patrol.

  At our new-to-us, still-pink house, I pulled into the detached garage, a feature I knew I’d hate come winter. Jack and I unloaded the cleaning gear and were en route to the front door when a crazed and waving Marik came rushing toward us.

  “Hi, there!” he called from the driveway.

  So much for avoiding the guy now that we were neighbors.

  “Hey, Marik,” I said.

  “Today’s the day.” Marik caught up with us on the steps to the porch.

  “Yep. The moving van will be along soon. We’re on janitorial duty until it gets here.” I hoisted the bucket and swung it from its handle.

  “I can help.” Marik pushed the sleeves of his denim shirt up over his forearms and made a muscle of his flexors.

  “What’s going on?” Jinky walked up behind Marik.

  Regardless of my skittishness around both of them, a Tom Sawyerish scheme began to take shape in my head. Four people could certainly knock this thing out faster than two. “A cleaning party. One of those quirky American traditions.”

  Jinky jutted her chin forward. I figured she’d seen right through my ruse. Instead, she motioned with her head toward the house. “Let’s go, then.”

  I led the way; Jack, behind me, was snorting with laughter. OK, so someone was onto me. Inside the foyer, I stopped and put down the supplies. The broom clattered to the floor. Jinky jumped as if poked.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  “This place,” she said, circling the foyer with her head tilted upward. “What was this place?”

  Jinky had not been in the car when Penny had told me about the Bleika Norn, the Pink Witch; her reaction, therefore, was without bias.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I sense a presence,” Jinky said. “Do you mind if I look around?”

  Gack. The last thing I needed was for the rune-reading shaman in the crowd to go all poltergeist on me.

  “I guess not,” I said.

  Jinky moved into the sitting room but quickly returned to the foyer. Moments later she started up the stairs.

  “Wait for me,” Marik said.

  I was not about to let them out of my sight. I was on their heels; Jack swung me a confused look, but he, too, fell in line.

  Jinky paused briefly on the landing of the second floor, but then — like some kind of whiff-frenzied bloodhound — made for the attic. My attic. Just great.

  On the third floor, my new space, she walked from one dormer window to the other, touching the walls as she explored the area. Marik and Jack were quiet, as if hesitant to break her concentration. I, for the record, was more in too-freaked-to-speak mode.

  “I’ve lost her,” Jinky finally said, throwing her
head back in frustration.

  “Lost who?” I asked.

  She gave me one of those pure-Jinky scowls and said, “She didn’t exactly introduce herself.”

  What I wanted to sass back was: My house. My ghost. Be nice or go home. Instead, I asked, “How do you know it’s a her?”

  “By the smell,” Jinky said.

  “What smell? I don’t smell anything,” I said. Technically, I did smell mold and age and neglect, but those were hardly gender specific.

  “It’s gone now,” Jinky said.

  “What did it smell like?” I asked.

  “Pink,” Jinky said.

  It was an awkward moment. Did I respond as if I believed that some kind of ghostly presence — one that reeked of some sensory short circuit — was a real possibility? Granted, the four of us were Fringe-cast material, but I was operating on so many secrets and cross-pacts and intentional misleads that I stood there with taboo tongue. It felt an awful lot like swallowing a bee, post-sting, which, by the way, I’ve experienced firsthand.

  “My mom will kill me if she gets here and I haven’t even started yet,” I said, making for the stairs. If nothing else, my taskmaster mom was a good diversion.

  The nice thing about a paranormal work crew was that they didn’t mind getting their hands a little dirty. Jack stuck a wet rag and his head into a kitchen cupboard. Jinky took off with the Windex bottle. Marik swept the kitchen. I took a scouring pad to the kitchen sink.

  “Now that we’re neighbors,” Marik said, “we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. We could walk to school together.”

  “I usually drive,” I said.

  “Even better,” Marik said. “I can catch a ride.”

  I noticed his subject had been an I rather than a we.

  “What about Jinky?” I asked.

  “She gets picked up most mornings,” Marik said. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  I coughed and then sprinkled Ajax cleaning powder into the sink, creating a toxic cloud as cover for my reaction.

  “Picked up by who?” I fanned the space in front of my nose.