Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(114)

All three women turned to face me and stared. They were wearing dresses in various shades of blue and pink—colors said to make women look prettier. I was wearing jeans and a navy jacket, my shirt untucked and my hair down and flowing to my shoulders in all its curly multicolored shades of brown and red. Pointedly, Mama looked Mud and me over and said, “Mindy’s bunned up, but she’s too young to . . .” Mama stopped, firmed her mouth, and said, “Too young to marry. We won’t be letting our girls marry young no more.”

Mama Carmel said softly, “You’un ain’t here to talk undercover. About coming back to the church.”

I took in the good china cups and linen napkins on the table. Gently I said, “No, ma’am. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear on the phone. I’m here to talk about what we are. Mud and me. And maybe Daddy. Or Mama.”

All three of the mamas blinked, taking in my statement, standing motionless, like dead trees in still air. Panic flooding the air, they looked at each other, communicating silently, the way people who have lived together for a long time can. Mama shook her head, saying she had no idea what was happening. Long seconds later, she looked down and wiped her hands on a towel. “Well. You’uns come on in then. Set a spell.”

Mud and I sat on the long bench at the kitchen table, side by side. Mama poured us each a cup of coffee and passed the creamer and sugar for us to fix to our tastes. Today I took it black, straight up, and bitter, like the meeting we were about to have. From the back of the house I heard shuffling steps and a cane, and Daddy rounded the corner to take his place at the head of the table. He looked awful, gray-faced as the salamander nanny, skin sagging where he had lost weight, his hair disheveled. He accepted a mug of coffee and drank a while, the lines on his face easing. “Forgive me for overhearing, Nellie,” he said, “but we’uns had hoped you’un were coming to tell us good news. Am I to understand that was a mistaken impression?”

“Yes, you were mistaken. I’m here to talk about witches and magic.”

“We had you’un tested,” Mama said, her voice sharp. “You’un ain’t no witch.”

“No, ma’am. I’m not a witch.” I took a slow breath and let it out, jumping in with both feet and praying I wasn’t gonna drown. “I’m something else. And Mud is like me.”

No one replied. No one looked up from their coffee cups. It was so quiet, I could have heard angels dancing on the head of a pin, to mix two of Mama’s sayings.

“Some months back,” I said, “’round a year or so ago, a Cherokee woman came to my house looking for a way onto church property to rescue a vampire.” Still, no one moved. I wasn’t sure they were even breathing, except for Mud, whose eyes were darting from face to face so fast I was surprised her head didn’t fall off. “That was when the Department of Social Services raided the church and took away so many children. I never hid the fact that the vampire hunter came across my land to raid the church. What I didn’t tell you is that she told me I’m not human.”

Mama closed her eyes and her lips moved, praying silently. Probably for strength, or maybe for protection from my evil.

“Her name is Jane Yellowrock and she’s a vampire hunter. Lives in New Orleans. I called her today to get the names she called me, the Cherokee words for what I am or might be. She called me a yinehi. Or yvwi tsvdi. Or amayinehi. I’m not pronouncing them right, but that’s close. They’re Cherokee for fairies or wood nymphs or brownies. Maybe dryads.”

I stopped. Mama stopped praying. Daddy said, “But not a witch.”

“Not a witch,” I agreed.

“And your’n sister ain’t a witch either.”

“No, sir.”

“She’s one of what . . . whatever you are.”

“Yes, sir.”

Daddy’s brown eyes latched on to me. “Bible don’t say nothing about none of those things. Long as you’uns both not a witch, you jist keep it to yourself and we’uns’ll all be fine.”

Beneath the table, Mud grabbed my hand and squeezed. I patted hers with my free one and eased my fingers away. I stood. “It isn’t so easy, Daddy. Whatever I am, it shows.”

All four of the Nicholsons shot covert glances at me. “How so?” Daddy barked. “The color of your’n eyes and hair? Them contact lenses and hair dye, or a wig like you’un was wearing when Ben come to visit?”

“Not contacts. Not dye. Not a wig. I’m changing physically. I grow leaves.”

Daddy reared back in his chair.

I approached the head of the table and knelt at Daddy’s knee. I pulled my hair to the side and up to expose the nape of my neck to the patriarch of the Nicholson family. To do that, I had to bow my neck, which meant I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see any of their faces. I was staring at the underside of the table and the floor. “You can touch them,” I said. “Pull on them. I cut them when needed. Lately, I trim them every day.”

I felt Daddy’s fingers on the back of my neck. Felt him tugging and pulling on the vines and leaves. Felt the mamas all move closer and tug and pull. Mama said, “When you trim them, do they bleed?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Mindy’s gonna grow leaves?” Daddy asked, his tone disturbed.