Muddy Waters (Otherwhere Book 1) Read online

  Josie returned with a tray of glasses, a pitcher of tea, and a bowl of cut lemons. Maya followed her, carefully carrying a chipped plate of cookies, which she offered me shyly.

  “Did you make these?” I asked, glad to be distracted from my anger. Without taking her eyes off my shoes, she nodded. “They look yummy.” I took a bite and swallowed. Too much sugar for me, but I said, “And they are yummy. Thank you.” She grinned and set the plate on the table, then scurried to stand by her mother, occasionally daring a smile.

  Josie didn’t sit, just stood rigid and scowling, her arms folded across her chest.

  “Sometimes you just have to put things back for a while, until the meaning becomes clear,” Papa Myrtle said, stirring sugar into his glass. “But then again, maybe it’s just a pretty thing she wanted you to have.”

  “Daddy, that tea’s already got sweetening in it. You’re going to make yourself sick.” Josie said it in a way that let me know it was a common thing between her and her father.

  Papa Myrtle waved a dismissing hand and kept looking at me. “I wish I could offer you more, Hushpuppy, but my debt to your mama has been paid off. And I wish you the best. I’m sorry, child. I truly am.”

  I knew what he meant: “We can’t protect you, and we can’t help you.” But I thought he wanted to, and he would have, if he could.

  We drank our tea, the only sounds the clinking ice and the rattle of cicadas outside.

  “We done heard about you gettin’ set free, but we had some family business to attend to in Louisiana.” He took off his glasses and began to polish them with his t-shirt. “My cousin passed, and we were down to the funeral.”

  I nodded, more than a little relieved that at least they weren’t ignoring me exactly on purpose. Maybe that’s where everyone else was―on summer vacation.

  “We won’t be seeing you for a while again, Hushpuppy. Setting off back for New Orleans soon, be closer to our roots. So you take care now.” Papa Myrtle struggled to stand. His hand was clammy on my arm. “You’ll be all right, I reckon.”

  “Oh, sure. No friends, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Let an old man give you some advice, child.” He wheezed a little closer to me. “Sometimes it don’t do no good to look back too much. You’ll trip on the future.” He broke into a toothy grin that dissolved into a hacking laugh.

  We hugged.

  “Bye, Josie. Nice to meet you, Maya.” The little girl beamed and waved. Her mother continued to scowl, but it softened a hair.

  “Tessa.” Josie grabbed my hand. In a low voice, she said, “You take care, you hear?” I nodded.

  With that, I went back out into the yard, the sun too bright after my time in the dim shack. As I pulled away, I saw Maya waving from the window, Josie standing behind her with a look of sadness and resignation on her face.

  So, my mother gave a locket to an old friend to keep for me. It didn’t seem very special, except it had maybe been hers even for a few minutes. Did it have something to do with her death? It didn’t feel like it, if I was being honest about it. It just felt like something my mother would do for some quirky reason. Like the time she came and got me out of school in the fourth grade just to go to the zoo on a Tuesday afternoon. That’s Mama.

  I looked at the locket. It was one of the only things I had that was hers. I should have been more grateful to Papa Myrtle.

  By the time I hit the expressway, I could barely see the road for all the tears and snot. I was full-on bawling, missing my mom and family and my friends, feeling alone and very sorry for myself. I got home, stared at the locket for a long while. I fastened the clasp around my neck, the metal warm against my sternum. Then, I poured a large quantity of bourbon before sliding Practical Magic into the DVD player. I fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of frogs with big smiles leaping into the river.

  I woke up at dusk, thirsty and cramped. After a hot shower and a big glass of cold water, I went into my library. Research on several topics was on the agenda―Charlie Bartley’s case, my mysterious murders, and maybe something about my mother.

  I spent most of my life living with my mother, a gaggle of aunts, assorted cousins, and relations in a giant Victorian house on St. James Court. They were into all manner of things. One aunt wrote books on the occult. One was a potter and ceramics artist specializing in items for the Craft such as altar patens, candleholders, and sculptures of gods and goddesses. A cousin was a veterinarian. My mother was, among other things, a seamstress. Her workshop was in the apartment I now inhabited, where she made elaborate costumes and robes, wedding dresses and bespoke suits, all under the watchful gaze of her prized Brigid statue. When the downstairs tenant retired from the shoe sales business, she bought the building and opened The Broom Closet with some of the aunts, when I was about nine years old. She then ended up running the whole thing when the others lost interest. I lived in the big house until I was in my early twenties and eager for a bit of freedom. Mind you, the farthest I would go was the apartment over the shop when Mama got too busy to sew.

  Soon after, she moved all those books and things to my apartment. I took over the smaller of the two bedrooms, and we made the master into a library and magical item storage area. I always assumed it was just because we ran out of room in the house.

  Thanks to my family, I have what I suspect is one of the best collections on the Craft and the occult in the world, and I’m not just saying that. I have some really weird things―a spell etched on the femur of a female Druid, books written on various animal skins (including Human), grimoires from the last dozen generations of Reddick women, a bunch of shotguns that shoot things such as holy water bullets, salt pellets, and silver arrows. There’s even a glass eye from a Pope. It’s a lot better than the internet, but it’s spectacularly disorganized; a lot of it still in old unmarked trunks or grubby wooden boxes. I haven’t been through the tenth of it all; if I’m to believe myself, an inventory is totally on the agenda.

  After three hours of digging through dusty books and talking to the ghosts, I was done. I would have to ask the oracle at Google for some more information, but that could wait. Besides, I was ready to get out and about.

  Time to do a little old-school recon.

  The Three Libras is a bar in Smoketown on a nondescript street. It’s owned and run by a trio of sisters, Nona, Deci, and Morticia. They don’t advertise, they don’t have specials. They will never serve microbrew or put a jukebox in. They don’t accept credit cards, debit cards, or blood money.

  I parked the Camry at the curb, got out, and pulled up the hood of my cloak. Its deep indigo velvet is lined with fine soft wool, with all sorts of pockets sewn in. A silver aspen leaf clasp holds it fastened. It’s the sort of thing that keeps you cool in warm weather and warm in the cold. Like magic. It’s the perfect thing to wear to a place like Three Libras. Although it is possible the overall effect got ruined by my beloved red cowboy boots.

  I took a deep breath before sauntering up to the guy at the door. On giving me a close once-over, the bouncer nodded me in, past the long line. He didn’t look familiar, but I slipped him some of Charlie Bartley’s money as I passed. Most of the guys at the door have some notion who’s Human and Other and who’s looking for trouble. It never hurts to grease a palm, just in case.

  The place hadn’t changed much. Not that it ever did… It’s always been dark, but for candles burning on all the flat surfaces and a couple of well-tended fires. No matter what time of year it is, Three Libras is always the same sixty degrees, which is why my cloak came in handy. The bar is a combination hideout, hangout, and refuge for the things that come through the Rift and want a taste of home. Or for those of us on this side, with Otherwhere-ish tendencies. It’s generally a good place to go for information and creature-watching.

  I edged to the bar, happy to see Nona working.

  She swept over, her brown eyes wide. “As I live and breathe.” Her long nails were a beautiful indigo, as was her lipstick. “Morty said you were coming, but I h
ardly ever listen to her these days.” Uncertainty played on her features like a water bug on a still pond. “My goodness. Well.”

  “Hi, Nona. Can I get a Woodford, please? Neat.”

  Her hospitality subroutine kicked in, and she smiled widely. “Coming right up.” Her long blond hair swayed as she glided off. Always the height of fashion, that one.

  I assumed she wasn’t sure which side of the game I was on, whether she should ally with me or stay out of it altogether. Nona isn’t the one who makes these decisions, it’s Morticia. Morty is rarely seen at the bar. She scares the customers.

  Begrudgingly not kicked out on the street, I took my drink to a corner of the polished wood bartop, the perfect spot to peer out from under my hood.

  You won’t find any electricity here (hence the candles and kerosene lamps), because it’s too easy for someone (or something) to use it as a weapon or travel along it as if on a paranormal highway. Music often comes by way of an old wind-up player piano, or the occasional impromptu jam performance. The walls are coated in sigils meant to tamp down magical energies. Makes it hard to cast a spell or hulk out on anyone in here.

  From my vantage point, I could see most of the room. Relief skittered through my chest when I didn’t notice anyone I knew.

  But that feeling was short-lived.

  “I didn’t hear that. I can’t believe they let her out!”

  “My grandmother said they had it coming; it’s a wonder she got to them first and not somebody else.”

  “Can you imagine? Offing your whole family? I mean, I hate my cousin Demarcus, but I’m not going to kill him, you know what I’m saying?”

  “What on earth is she doing here, anyway? Isn’t there a price on her head?”

  Zeus’s balls.

  I concentrated on the bourbon.

  You know how you can tell when someone is watching you? Like, more than idly. I got that feeling about twenty minutes later.

  I turned around, hackles up and ready to fight, and came nose to nose with a rumpled little man.

  “Reddick,” he wheezed, his wet gaze lapping at me. “Long time no see.” He patted me clumsily on the back.

  “Victor Funar. What’s shaking?” He clambered up on the stool next to me and signaled to Nona.

  She brought a dusty bottle, with no label, from somewhere and poured a tumbler full of a deep amber liquid. She glanced at me again, still trying to work out how she felt.

  “I don’t know how you still drink that swill,” I said to Victor, shaking my head.

  “It’s not real palinka, but she does try,” he grumbled, gesturing to the retreating Nona. After seven centuries, he still hadn’t bothered to lose the thick Hungarian accent. “What I wouldn’t give for real thing. My papa used to make it in our barn when I was a boy. This,” he gestured at the glass and made a rude noise. “Muddy piss water. But,” he sighed, “is the best I can do.”

  When Victor was a boy, there was no America. They thought the Earth was flat, and there were dragons at the edge of the map. Eastern Europe was vastly different than it is now, and in his lifetime, has included places like Byzantium and the Holy Roman Empire. He was turned into a Vampire in his late twenties, before dental hygiene, skin care, or fortified milk.

  After the Rift, when cultural trade began to pick up steam, some of the beings from Otherwhere got quite a kick out of seeing how their kind was represented in Human books and movies. The Trolls were pleased to be upgraded to slightly smarter and better-looking versions of themselves. The Elves were miffed at being cast as a laissez-faire race of pointy-eared supermodels. Vampires are likely still incensed about the mess Hollywood made of their history, and a particularly pejorative term among them is “Sparkles.”

  We sat in silence for a while.

  “I miss anything while I was gone?”

  Victor shrugged. “Some murders with Humans and Others. There was some fear for a while. People think you did it.”

  I groaned. “I know. Should I be worried?”

  He shrugged his lopsided shoulders again. “Some people still think you called something from the deep to kill your family. Then you did other murders by casting a spells or something from your jail.”

  I had to laugh at that. People were giving me way too much credit. “You don’t seem bothered by me. Why is that?”

  Victor shook his head. He cast a glance around, as though fearing an eavesdropper. “I don’t believe you did anything. Besides, they killed a shapeshifter family, a couple of lesser demons, some cows, maybe? I don’t bother with such things, but I know you wouldn’t kill a family like that. Especially a family of Others with little children.”

  Interesting. There had clearly been some talk through the Other grapevine but not enough to work him up. Granted, Victor was an anomaly, even in Otherwhere. He was Turned―a Human who had been bitten by a Vampire―and he had managed to survive so long largely because he never wanted power or wealth. No, for him it was enough to mosey along, staying out of everybody’s way, drinking his palinka and trawling for porn on the internet. Oh yeah, he’s old, but he’s pretty up on naked girls. He’s a connoisseur, seeing as how he’s seen practically every kind of pornography known to man. Ignorance is bliss, and Victor is a case study on willful ignorance. Most of the time.

  Whenever I see those movies where the Vampire is super-hot and played by a teenage boy, I laugh and think of poor old Victor. Born to a family of rope-makers, in what is now Hungary, he was turned by a Vampire drunk on Faerie blood at one of the Vamp high feast days. Victor told me the Vamp thought he was Natalia, Victor’s younger sister, and turned him instead. Boy, was that Vamp mad when he sobered up and discovered he had lumpy, stinky male Victor instead of the much younger, much blonder, and much less pockmarked female Natalia. I imagine he got as far from Hungary as he could, which in those days, was probably like ten miles. Currently, Victor was a world-renowned scholar and teacher of Eastern European history and folklore.

  “It’s nice to not have you treat me like a leper,” I said. The twisted little man blushed, his gnarled cheeks reddening in the dim light.

  “I knew your nagymama, Lydia. Beautiful woman. I don’t believe you would do this terrible thing to them.”

  “When did you meet my great-grandmother?” I hadn’t heard that story.

  He waved a hand dismissively. “A long time ago. It was the Belle Epoch. It’s nothing. Look, it’s nice to see you again, Reddick. Excuse me, I see a Whisper Demon who owes me money. Be careful, yes?” He patted my arm then slid off the stool and shuffled into the gloom.

  An accordion band began to warm up in the corner. Great. Of all the nights to get out of the house, I had to do it on Squeezebox Sally and the Magic Accordi-orchestra night.

  “As I live and breathe. If it isn’t Glinda, the good witch of the east end.” Someone slapped the bar and plopped onto the stool next to me. “I heard they let you out of Oz! Woo hoo, right?”

  Mark Tabler, erstwhile champion of mine. I groaned inwardly.

  “Will you shush? How did you get in here?” I hissed. “I told you when you tried to weasel your way into Lakeland, I don’t want to talk to you.”

  With his rumpled dark hair, over-large ears, and gawky limbs, the kid looked much younger than his twenty-four years. Raised on a steady diet of cheap science fiction and fantasy e-books, social media, and the Syfy network, Mark was trying to be the Next Big Thing in supernormal news. His website, the Southern Supernormal Explorer, was a haven for those really into Other culture and taking the field for Others’ rights.

  He put a hand on his chest in mock hurt. “Is that any way to thank me? As founder and president of Others’ Little Helpers, I have connections. A lot has changed since you were last out here in the real world.” He turned to a woman beside him waiting for a drink―a young Latina in extremely tight leathers that had her boobs locked and loaded to within an inch of their lives. She sported a tattoo of a bat around her navel. More ink decorated her arms, mostly pieces that declared
she was Human but open to being fed on by pretty much anything with teeth. Given the marks on her neck and arms, it seemed she was popular.

  “Hey there.” He grinned. She hissed at him and flounced off.

  “Can’t win ‘em all,” Mark said cheerfully.

  Nona appeared again. “You’re quite the belle of the ball.” She winked at me.

  “Mountain Dew and Red Bull, barkeep,” Mark said.

  “I told you. I’m not talking to you,” He really was an embarrassment and a half.

  “How about I ask yes or no questions, and you just nod or shake your head?” He pulled a tablet out of his nerd bag. Ever notice how nerds always have bags? Usually, they’re of the crossbody satchel variety and full of their nerdy toys. Then again, I guess I don’t have room to talk, because I have a Witch bag, but Witches are cooler than Nerds, right? Right?

  I took a swig and pulled my hood a little farther forward, so I couldn’t see him at all.

  “Come on, humor me.” Mark nudged me with an elbow. I resisted the urge to shove him off his barstool. “Besides, I’m pretty sure you don’t have many friends around here.” He said it softly, like he knew I’d been getting an epic cold shoulder.

  I turned to give him a good hard glare. “What the hell do you know about it?”

  He gave a casual shrug. “Just… that a lot of people are talking.”

  “Yeah? About what?” I demanded.

  “About how they think you did it. Or didn’t. I don’t, obviously, but I have a theory that a lot of your old pals have vanished into the woodwork. That you’re kind of the opposite of popular these days.” He looked closely at me with kind eyes. “Am I getting warm?”

  I didn’t say anything, but of course he actually was.

  “Hey.” He put a hand on my arm. “It’ll work out in the end. I’ll help you. And the FBI seems pretty keen on you, yeah?”

  We sat there for a few minutes, listening to the accordions―the low-born wheezy bellows of nineteenth-century dance halls. In a terrible pun-filled irony, they were doing a cover of Wang Chung’s Dance Hall Days.