VenCo(96)

“I belong to Arnya and to myself. No one else,” she whispered at the gate, reminding herself of the childhood mantra.

Movement behind a set of French doors on the second floor caught her eye. A man came out onto the narrow balcony. This time he was dressed in grey dress pants and a vest, the top buttons of his shirt undone and his long black hair down. But it was still the man who’d pretended to be Morris, the man who’d stolen the spoon. He leaned on the railing and smiled down at her.

“You did it,” he called. His tone was casual enough, but there was a hint of caution in it. “You made it this far, might as well come in for a drink. Door’s open.”

With his eyes on her, it took her a moment to get her feet to move and another minute to get her shit together enough to push open the front gate. As she started up the walk, he turned and went back inside.

Lucky was expecting a pull or a push back, some kind of change in the atmosphere inside the gate, but by all accounts, this was just a regular house, a regular old generationally-wealthy-for-the-wrong-reasons rich person’s house. On either side of the cobblestone path to the porch were small ponds with white marble statues of robe-draped women pouring water from slim vessels. And on each statue’s right shoulder sat a small yellow bird, watching her pass.

She nodded to them, then stopped to introduce herself. “I am the daughter of Arnya St. James, defender of women, drinker of gin, fighter of assholes, a fierce half-breed from a long line of fierce half-breeds who took no shit and gave no fucks. I am a witch and I am here.” She supposed this was her version of making the sign of the cross before going into battle—reminding herself what she believed in.

She climbed the front steps and crossed the porch. Grabbing the handle, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open, entering the house as if she were going underwater.



The Mother broke the circle when she abruptly stood up and walked away from the table. Her breathing was irregular, and she pulled at her blouse, pacing in front of the covered windows.

“Come on, we’ve got to push through.” The Maiden was tired but needed to see this to the end. They’d been in this room for days now, as evidenced by the takeout containers and empty bottles. They spent most of the time sitting, heads bowed, hands joined, focusing with everything they had. They were drained and frustrated. The Maiden had even snapped at her favourite receptionist when she had popped in to see if they wanted coffee. The witches were spending long hours searching their dreams for any sign of the seventh witch. It was the Oracle’s job to help the dreamers move in the right direction while asleep.

But now the Mother was wigging out.

“I can’t breathe,” she gasped. “My heart . . . my heart is too loud.”

“Now, now, chère.” The Crone went to her, rubbing her back in slow circles. “You can breathe just fine. And your heart? She is good. Strong. You are just exhausted. We are all just exhausted.”

“No, this is different.” The Mother sat on the narrow window ledge. “It’s Lucky.”

“What about her?” The Maiden was holding her head in her hands, elbows on the table. “Is she dreaming? Did you see her?”

“No.” The Mother opened the top button of her blouse and pulled the fabric out to get some air on her skin. “I . . . I think I felt her?”

“We don’t usually feel others. Not like that.” The Crone spoke softly, trying to calm her colleague down so they could get back to work. “Perhaps intuition?”

“Maybe.” The Mother was breathing more regularly now, trying to focus in on the specifics of her anxiety. “It feels like she’s falling. Like she’s falling and I can’t grab her.” She put her hands out, fingers splayed as if trying to catch something fragile. “Oh, I don’t know. It feels fucking terrible, that’s all.”

“I can make you a drink?” A Tender at heart, the Maiden prescribed cocktails for many ailments. “Something to help you forget? Or maybe to see the path to get to her?”

“Maybe later.” The Mother rubbed her hands up and down her thighs, focusing on her breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth. Her dog came over and licked her right hand every time it reached her knee. “Just give me a minute, then let’s form the circle again.”

The Crone had never seen the Mother this upset. “It seems you have a special connection to this girl.”

“No, I’ve never met her.”

“You don’t always have to meet someone to have a connection. Sometimes it’s deeper than that.”

The Mother knew that was true. She did have a special connection with someone she had never met, but it wasn’t Lucky. It was the man Lucky was after, and she also knew that the girl, with every minute that passed, was getting closer.





30

It Was All a Dream




The entry hall was ornate—framed tapestries, baroque console tables, veined marble floor tiles. The only spot of chaos was on the round table in the centre, where a vase of rotting flowers littered the teak surface with castaway petals. At the back was a grand staircase that split on either side into long hallways going deeper into the second floor of the house.

Lucky heard noise coming from the first room on the left, so that was where she went, slowly pushing aside the pocket door. The room, once a parlor, was dimly lit by two small Tiffany table lamps in opposite corners. It smelled of dust and uncirculated air . . . and something else, something organic and hollow, like an empty beehive or burnt timber.