Autumn Bones

Eighteen

That afternoon, I called in sick to work—hell, after the morning I’d had, I figured I was entitled—and Sinclair and I had The Talk. By this time, I’d already pieced together most of the details, but it was good to get the whole story.

In a nutshell, his mother was a brilliant, ferociously ambitious lawyer, now judge, and obeah woman descended from a long line of obeah men and women, and had used her gifts throughout her life to obtain whatever she wanted, including Sinclair and Emmeline’s father, who was a good-looking, hardworking, God-fearing man who had wanted nothing to do with obeah or those who worked it. When the twins were three years old, by sheer happenstance their father discovered the love charm that had bewitched him.

And no, I did not interrupt Sinclair’s story to inform him that while infatuation could be compelled, genuine desire couldn’t.

Anyway, it was at that point that his father fled the island of Jamaica, taking his son with him.

“Why did he leave Emmy behind?” I asked him. We were on the dilapidated, butt-sprung plaid couch in Sinclair’s living room, where he was lying with his head in my lap, eyes closed.

“He tried to take her,” he murmured. “She didn’t want to go. She screamed bloody fucking murder. So in the end he left her with the neighbor.”

I stroked his temples. “Do you remember it?”

“I remember Emmy screaming,” he said.

In the years that followed, the divorce and the terms of custody were settled. From the time he was a young boy, Sinclair spent one month out of every summer on the island, being trained in the tradition of obeah until he was old enough to choose otherwise.

“Why did you walk away from it?” I asked him. “I’m not arguing the decision by any means—I’m just curious.”

He opened his eyes. “I saw what it did to my father, Daise. All my life, he’s never been quite . . . whole. And my mother . . . you know, for all her power, I don’t think she’s a happy woman.”

“What about your sister?” I asked. “What was that business about the two of you being twice as powerful together?”

Sinclair was silent a moment. “It’s true, but it’s not that simple. You know what she said about obeah being a path of balance?” I nodded. “Well, I’m drawn to the light. Emmy’s drawn to the dark. Together, we’re capable of finding balance in far greater extremes.”

“Sounds kind of ominous,” I said.

“It’s dangerous,” he said soberly. “Especially for her. That’s another reason I left. What’s the point in studying healing magic, blessings, and luck charms if it drives the person closest to you deeper into darkness?”

Okay, not exactly a question I could readily answer. “You know what’s odd?” I said instead. “Emmy mentioned the whole balance thing to me last night, only she said that your dating me was one step too far into the darkness.”

“Did she?” Sinclair smiled wryly. “I think what she really meant is that it’s one step too far out of reach. This has been going on for a while, Daisy. But before, Emmy and my mother could tell themselves that I’d be drawn back into the fold eventually. It was when I came to Pemkowet that they began to worry that I’d found something that suited me better. Dating a, um, member of the eldritch community was the final straw.”

I was dubious. “I don’t know how much she said to you, but Emmy didn’t think much of your life here.” If I recalled correctly, the terms “neutered American house cat” and “japing like a mountebank” had been used, but I wasn’t about to mention that either.

“Oh, I’m sure she was horrified,” he said. “All the more so for knowing I like being the guy who drives the tour bus, who brings a spark of magic and joy into the lives of people she doesn’t think deserve it.”

“Sounds about right.” Gazing down at Sinclair’s face, I sighed. “Dammit, you were supposed to be the normal guy! The nice, uncomplicated guy with the great smile and killer thighs, the guy I could talk to about movies and go out to dinner with and hold hands and feel like a normal human girl for once in my life.”

“Sorry.” He paused. “As opposed to who?”

“Oh, no one in particular.” It was a total lie, because of course I immediately flashed on the images of both Cody Fairfax and Stefan Ludovic, my long-standing childhood crush and the centuries-old Outcast who made me feel quivery inside. “It’s just . . . this was supposed to be simple.”

“Life isn’t, Daisy,” Sinclair murmured.

“Tell me about it.” I laid one hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat steadily beneath my palm. When all was said and done, there was something soothing in the contact. “Your sister’s coming back, isn’t she?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What happens when she does?” I asked him. “Because I can order her to leave again, and I’m pretty sure I can enforce it, but I can’t stop her from coming.”

Sinclair met my gaze. “I’ll tell her no.”

“And?” I prompted him.

He took a deep breath. “My guess? She’ll try to set a duppy on me, one that will haunt me until I say yes.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, thinking. “So that’s what we need to plan for, right? Protecting you from a . . . a duppy.”

“Right.” Sinclair nodded. “And in a way, I think Emmy’s right, Daisy. I’ve been running from something I can’t run from. I need to take a measure of responsibility for my own protection. I know some, but not nearly enough. I left the practice too soon. Maybe your local coven can help?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m sure Casimir would be delighted. He’s already got a grudge against your sister. Can you, um, do that? Just switch from one tradition to another?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Probably not entirely. But there should be enough overlap that I can continue to learn from them.”

“Good.”

An awkward silence descended between us. Where did that phrase come from? I wonder. Silence descended. Descended from where exactly? Was it hovering over us like the alien spaceship in Independence Day? Maybe it wasn’t really silence so much as it was the smothering weight of something unsaid, words we’d kept at bay, kept in the air, by talking about other things.

“So.” Sinclair broke the silence and broached the unspoken topic. “Where does this leave us?”

“Us.” Stalling, I echoed him. “As in you and me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Honestly?” I shook my head. “I don’t know, I really don’t. Yesterday morning, I was coming from what was probably the most perfect and romantic night of my life, riding across the bridge on your handlebars and feeling on top of the world, and then . . . boom.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

I withdrew my hand from his chest. “You should have told me.”

He levered himself upright on the couch. “Daisy, I swear, if I’d had any idea Emmeline was going to show up here, I would have told you sooner. I thought we had all the time in the world.”

“I know.” I blew out my breath. “But we didn’t and we don’t. We have one month to figure out how to keep your evil twin sister from setting a duppy on you. By the way, is that four weeks or a calendar month? Because it would be helpful—”

“Emmy’s not evil.” Sinclair cut me off, then backtracked, trying to lighten the mood. “Sorry. Look, did you ever see Legend? Vintage Tom Cruise? Ridley Scott film? Without darkness, there can be no light, right?”

“Of course I saw Legend!” I shouted at him, my temper flaring unexpectedly. I’d kept it on a tight rein for too long. “And I don’t need any lectures about light and darkness! What do you think I struggle with every day? And let me tell you, evil or not, your sister isn’t making it any easier!”

The air pressure in the living room intensified at my abrupt emotional shift. Dangling scraps of half-stripped wallpaper shivered.

“Daisy, I know,” Sinclair said in a low voice, calm and soothing. “Look, it’s one of the things I like about you. You may have been conceived in darkness, but you’re always struggling toward the light. I admire that. A lot.”

My anger dissipated. “Thanks,” I muttered. “Credit my mom.”

“I do,” he said. “Are you kidding, girl? I envy you your mother. I wish I had one like her.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s just . . . I need time to process this, all right? It’s a lot to spring on a person, Sinclair.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

And that was how we left matters. We talked a bit longer about pragmatic issues like meeting with the Fabulous Casimir to discuss studies in the magical arts, and the fact that Sinclair was really going to need a car to get around before winter and probably a part-time job to supplement his income in the off season, and maybe should consider taking in a roommate to help with the rent even though it was cheap on account of the work he was doing to improve the place, and whether the deadline for dear Emmy’s ultimatum meant four weeks from today or the same date in October, because I really did want to be prepared. Sinclair guessed it was the latter, but he wasn’t sure.

When I left, Sinclair walked me to the door and kissed me good-bye, his lips lingering briefly on mine. It was one of those indeterminate kisses that could mean anything or nothing depending on what I wanted to make of it, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about a lot of things.

Which did not include the pebble that stung my ear as I walked toward my Honda. That just plain hurt.

“Dammit, Jojo!” Clapping my hand to my ear, I whirled around, looking for her. “I thought we had a truce!”

She darted out from behind the slender trunk of a ginkgo tree, sling in hand. “Who said aught about a truce, you whey-faced scullion?”

I winced. “I assumed it.”

A look of disdain flitted across the fairy’s face. “You know what they say, lackwit. ‘Assume’ makes an ass of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ Although in this instance,” she added judiciously, “I’ll allow it’s merely you.”

“Okay, look.” I held up both hands, spreading my fingers in a universal gesture of peace. “I’m calling a truce. Can we talk for a minute? It’s about Sinclair’s sister.”

Jojo lowered her sling and tilted her head, regarding me. The afternoon sunlight angled into her cat-slitted eyes, turning them an eerie and luminous hue of lavender. “I am listening.”

“She’s leaving,” I said. “But she’ll be back in a month’s time. And you’re right—she wants to take Sinclair away. I want to stop her. And I want to know the minute she crosses the threshold into Hel’s territory. Can you help keep a lookout for her?”

The fairy sniffed. “I cannot be in all places at once.”

Funny, because it certainly seemed that way to me. The laws of physics appeared to be mutable when it came to the fey. “I thought maybe your brethren and, um, sistren could help.” Was sistren a word? I hoped so. Mr. Leary would know.

“I will ask,” Jojo said grudgingly. “None among us wishes him to leave. Will there be a favor recorded in your ledger?”

“Yeah,” I said. “A big one for whoever finds her first.”

Her minuscule features took on a calculating look. “Might the favor take the form of forgiveness for a past, present, or future transgression?”

Oh, gah. I should have known better than to get myself into the position of bargaining with a fairy. That usually didn’t go well for mortals. “Transgression?” I hedged. “You mean like pelting Hel’s liaison with pebbles?”

Jojo’s luminous eyes narrowed, her translucent wings buzzing with agitation. “That is a personal matter between you and me, strumpet!”

I dropped my right hand to dauda-dagr’s hilt. “Okay, you know what? As much as you’d like to believe it, it’s really not. So here’s the deal. I’m willing to consider forgiveness for minor transgressions, Jojo. Nothing major. Nothing that results in the harm of a human, especially a tourist-type human. And no changelings,” I added sternly. “Under no circumstances will the stealing of a child and the making of a changeling be forgiven. Understood?”

The joe-pye weed fairy gave a reluctant nod. “It is understood, and I will carry word to the others to enlist their aid.” She bared her needle-sharp teeth in a grimace. “We do not like an outsider threatening one of our own.”

I nodded in solidarity. “Neither do I.”

With our bargain struck, I made my escape, ducking into the Honda before Jojo could decide the truce was off.

I drove around aimlessly for a while. I had a lot of thinking to do, but I wasn’t ready to be alone with my thoughts yet. Which I realize doesn’t make a lot of sense, since technically I was alone in my car, but being alone in public spaces isn’t the same as being alone in the solitude of your own home. And it was nice being able to get around town without all the tourist traffic. I tooled across the bridge, feeling a pang at the memory of how happy and carefree I’d been at yesterday morning’s Bridge Walk.

Just past the bridge, the SS Osikayas loomed over the river, white and green, its yellow smokestack jutting cheerfully into the sky. At the end of the dock, Union Pier, where I’d listened to the Mamma Jammers with Sinclair, was already closed for the season.

I turned into East Pemkowet and idled along Main Street with its boutiques and bistros and art galleries, with the crumbling, ivy-choked Tudor of Boo Radley’s house smack-dab in the middle. I thought about the rumors of Clancy Brannigan lurking inside, scuttling along the breezeway in the dark of night to retrieve the groceries delivered to his shuttered gazebo, and wondered how or why anyone would live that way. Supposedly, he’d once led a normal life as some kind of famous inventor or engineer, but no one had actually seen him for decades.

To be fair, it probably wasn’t easy being the sole living descendant of the town’s infamous lumber baron and axe murderer. At least he didn’t have to worry about his heritage causing a breach in the Inviolate Wall, just the urban legend about Talman “Tall Man” Brannigan’s ghost roaming the dunes.

Contemplating axe murderers made me realize I hadn’t eaten all day and was ravenous—hey, the stomach has its own logic, which will not be denied—so I drove over to the Tastee Treat and got a cheeseburger and a chocolate milk shake to go, because if ever there was a day that cried out for the solace of fast food, it was this one.

I took my guilty spoils to the beach, which was another off-season luxury since there was no longer a charge for admission, and ate sitting perched on the hood of my car, gazing at Lake Michigan. Although it was sunny and seventy-five degrees and still felt like summer, everything looked different. There were only scattered handfuls of sunbathers and kids frolicking in the water, and more people strolling the shore, quite a few of them walking dogs, which is what locals do when the tourists go home. Which, incidentally, is illegal, but the police department doesn’t bother to enforce it unless someone complains.

There was one young couple with a little dog messing around at the water’s edge. It was one of those energetic, bouncy little dogs, a fox terrier or a Jack Russell, dashing back and forth before the breaking waves and barking like mad while his owners played in the shallows, the guy chasing the girl and catching her around the waist, threatening to dunk her while she shrieked with laughter.

I watched their antics while I finished my milk shake, slurping up the dregs. I tossed my trash in a nearby garbage can, got in my car, and drove back to my apartment.

Although Mogwai had made himself scarce during the whole hexing incident this morning, he was back and demanding to be fed. Some helpful familiar he was. I filled his bowl with kibble, put Koko Taylor on the stereo, and curled up on the futon in my living room.

It had been a long day, a day that started with me waking up thinking I was dying of an aneurysm. It had been a long forty-eight hours containing some of the biggest highs and lows of my life.

Sinclair’s question echoed in my thoughts. So where does this leave us?

Good question.

I’m a-mixed up, Koko Taylor sang in the background, an unabashedly fierce growl in her voice. Mixed up about you.

“Me, too, Koko,” I said aloud. Just a little mixed up, and I didn’t know what to do. That sounded about right.

I liked Sinclair. I liked him a lot. I liked spending time with him and I was attracted to him. The whole thing about being threatened and hexed by his secret twin sister was an issue, but that wasn’t his fault. Okay, I felt a strong sense of betrayal that he hadn’t been upfront with me about such a major aspect of his life, but I could forgive him for it sooner or later. We were still getting to know each other. I hadn’t been one hundred percent truthful with him, either. I hadn’t told him about my feelings for Cody, or whatever the hell it was I had going on with Stefan.

But if I was honest with myself, totally, completely honest, what I felt for Sinclair didn’t compare. There was none of that deep yearning or searing emotional intensity that both compelled and frightened me.

What there was instead was something else I craved, something I’d missed out on throughout the course of my life: a sense of togetherness and desire, fun and belonging, all the sweetness of being young and infatuated and oblivious to the rest of the world. I wanted to know what it was like to be the teenagers in the park with their hands in each other’s back pockets or the couple at the beach romping in the water while their stupid little dog barked its head off. I wanted the satisfaction of riding on Sinclair’s handlebars while Stacey Brooks stared in envy.

Like I’d said, I wanted to feel like a normal human girl for once in my life.

But I wasn’t. And this probably wasn’t the best time to pretend I was.

Dauda-dagr’s hilt was poking into my side. I unbuckled my belt and slid the dagger from its sheath, holding it up with the blade at eye level. The hilt felt preternaturally cold and bracing against my palm. The reflection of my eyes gazed back at me in the bright rune-marked steel, black on black and inhuman.

Maybe if Sinclair was completely honest with himself, deep down, it wasn’t the yearning for brightness in me that drew him, but the inherent promise of darkness. Maybe without knowing it he was seeking balance for his absent twin, his missing dark half.

Or maybe not. He hadn’t fought for our relationship. Hell, he hadn’t even put up much of an argument.

In the end, it didn’t matter which was true. I made my decision.

Then I cried for a while.