VenCo(73)

Afterwards, they sat in the Pathfinder, too full and too tired to do anything but digest their food.

“I just want to sleep.” Lucky could barely get the words out.

“You can’t. You have to keep driving.”

“I know.”

“We only have six days left, including today.”

“Already . . . Hold on.” Stella was keeping track of the time? “You sure? When did we leave?”

“When did we leave Toronto? Or Buzzards Bay?” Stella asked.

“The bay.”

Stella counted on her fingers. “We left Buzzards Bay Monday. Stayed overnight in Pennsylvania on day eight and left there yesterday. Last night, day seven, we were at the cabin, so we’re on day six.”

Lucky was astonished. She tried to stay still, as if Stella’s lucidity was a bird she was trying not to spook into flight.

Stella turned to her granddaughter, who was watching her from the driver’s seat with wide eyes. “Your mother will be waiting for us, so we shouldn’t be late.”

Fuck. “You’re right. We should be on the way.” Lucky pulled her seatbelt over her distended stomach and started the engine. They had another few hours to go, and it was already getting dark.

Stella dozed beside her, and the only radio stations Lucky could find were playing country or bluegrass. She chose bluegrass. There was something cheerful about banjos that was also melancholy at the same time. For some reason the word alligator popped into her head, and then stuck there.

“Hey, Siri,” she called out, over the plucked notes and picked strings. Her phone beeped to tell her it was listening.

“Are there alligators in Missouri?”

“Here’s what I found on the web,” came the pleasant response. “Alligators are not native to Missouri; however, rare sightings have been reported.”

“Well, if anyone was going to have a rare sighting, it would be us,” she responded.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” her phone trilled back.

“Never mind.”

She propped her elbow on the edge of her window and leaned her head into her hand. They’d have to stop soon. She just wanted to get as close as she could to this Yarb witch before they did. That encounter was going to be crazy—she could feel it in her bones—and she’d much rather deal with it in the morning sun.

The reports from Salem continued to be disappointing. Wendy was still recovering from Buzzards Bay—lightweight—and they all missed Stella and sometimes even Lucky. They were still looking in the water for any sign of the missing piece of their coven puzzle, but so far, there’d been nothing but vague impressions of random spoons in places like cutlery drawers and on tabletops. Lucky was starting to think that their best chance of finding the spoon-wielding witch really was out here, with her and Stella, and a woman whose name made her sound like a cartoon character—May Moon Montgomery.

All day, Lucky had been thinking about a cheesy horror movie she’d watched on TV with her mom. Not the movie, really, but the title—Something Wicked This Way Comes. She thought it might be from an even older story or maybe it was a poem . . . That line had struck a chord with Arnya, who started saying it to her reflection like an affirmation before she left for the night.

She’d stand in the mirror and give herself the once over, then nod. “Lookin’ good, Arn. Watch out, world, something wicked this way comes.”

Lucky had never been sure what the saying meant, but today, as storm clouds gathered in the darkening sky around them, she thought of it with a deep sense of terror.

The storm never broke. Not over their Pathfinder as she drove hard down the highway towards the Ozarks. Not when they pulled into a neon-lit motel with a sleepy old clerk who asked for cash and slipped it into his pocket instead of the till. Not when she fell asleep, her spoon tucked safely under her thin pillow. But it was coming. Of that she was sure.



Jay Christos was in a fine mood. For him, violence and sex came from the same pit of want and power, so stealing Ricky’s last moments was satisfying down into his groin. He felt full. He felt whole. And he was closer than he had ever been to Lucky. He could feel her on this very road, like she was dropping breadcrumbs from her exhaust pipe. He knew the moment he passed her, in the small town of Blowsy Creek. He had been speeding, breath shallow and small, and then suddenly, it was like breaking out of a bubble—he was no longer behind her, chasing. He took a great heaving gulp of air and then started to laugh. He’d done it. And now he could move from defence into his favourite position—offence.

He drove another hour, taking the turns his gut told him to. Eventually, he had to ditch the luxury car, pulling off into the bush and covering it with messy vines, of which there were far too many for his liking. He kept going on foot, using his phone as a flashlight. Of all the things Jay Christos was capable of after so many long years of learning and honing, by far his best superpower was self-confidence. He never doubted himself. So, sure enough, after half an hour at a steady pace, he emerged in a small clearing.

The trees at the perimeter of the yard were mismatched—scrubby and sharp, then tall and luxurious, blending together to form almost a solid wall, like a natural fence. A slice of moon leaked silver onto the reedy grass, revealing an old camper leaning to one side, an abandoned shed with an impressive hornet’s nest hanging from the eaves like a paper chandelier, and a modest cabin.