The Dark Divine(31)

“Don’t say things like that!” Mom brandished her wooden spoon. A brownish glob landed at my feet. Neither of my parents seemed to notice that I was still in the kitchen making filling for my caramel apple pies.

“If it’s such a problem for you,” Mom said, “then I’ll do the rolls, and the turkeys, and the stuffing, and the cranberries, and the mashed potatoes, and the green bean casseroles, and the spinach salads. All you’ll have to do is say the blessing and put on a happy face for the crowd.” Mom stabbed the spoon back in her bowl.

“You are these people’s pastor. They don’t want to hear you talking like that.”

Dad slammed his fist onto the counter. “Like what, Meredith? Like what?” He stormed out of the room and into his study before Mom could respond.

“Insufferable man,” she mumbled, “thinks he isn’t worth anything if he can’t save the whole world.” She marched over to the fridge and flung open the door. She riffled through the shelves and swore under her breath.

I cleared my throat and made loud noises as I scraped apples into my piecrusts.

Mom stiffened, no doubt realizing I had been there through that whole exchange. “Finish those pies,” she snapped. “And then run over to Apple Valley and get some cranberries. The berries. Not that canned garbage.”

Mom slammed the fridge door. Her shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry. I forgot,” she said. “They were out at Day’s Market yesterday and I forgot to check elsewhere. I think Super Target opens at seven for a few hours.” She opened the fridge again. “Would you mind running to get a couple of things?”

“Not at all.” Normally, I would have grumbled and whined on principle at being asked to run errands on such a frigid morning, but that was one heated kitchen I was anxious to get out of.





LATER THAT MORNING




I drifted without direction up and down the grocery aisles, unable to remember what I’d come to the store to get in the first place. I’d left the house as soon as I stuck my pies in the ovens—and, in my haste, left the dozen-item shopping list Mom had dictated to me on the counter.

That was the second time in a week that I’d heard my parents shout at each other. Had things been strained at my house for longer than I realized? I thought of Dad holed up in his study for the last month. And Mom flipping into perfection overdrive wasn’t a new thing. The first time I’d noticed it was a few days after Charity and I had come home from our unplanned trip to Grandma Kramer’s three years ago. I’d found Mom frantically trying to brush, measure, and cut all the fringe on the area rugs to be the exact same length. Dad hid the scissors for weeks after that. I guess I’d been too young to fully clue in to the weirdness between them then. And, of course, no one ever talked about it.

Was this how it started for April’s family? Was this anything like it had been for Daniel in his broken home?

But I knew it had been worse for him. My parents’ shouting was nothing like what Daniel had lived through.

I dropped a bag of cranberries into my basket and pushed all thoughts of Daniel aside. I foraged through the picked-over shelves for whatever else I could remember from the list, paid for my stuff, and headed back home.

When I opened the door into the mudroom, I was slammed by a wall of stench. Something was burning. I dropped my grocery bags and ran to the kitchen. All but one of my pies was cooling on the counter. I yanked open the oven door. Black smoke billowed out, making me cough and gag. I pushed open the window above the sink and tried to direct the smoke outside. But it was too late. The smoke detector started screaming from the hallway.

I covered my ears and ran for Dad’s study. The detector was right in front of the closed doors. I flung the doors open and was surprised that Dad wasn’t in there—and even more surprised that no one else in the family had responded to the screeching alarm.

I struggled to open the study window, almost snagging my hand on a protruding nail in the sill. Stupid old house. I finally pried the window open and grabbed a book from the stacks on my father’s desk. I used it to fan the smoke away from the detector until the blaring stopped.

My ears were still ringing as I took the book back to the tower of babble that used to be Dad’s desk—books and notes were scattered everywhere in heaps. The book I held was cased in crackling leather and looked older than anything I had ever checked out of the local Rose Crest library branch. A delicate hooded flower was etched in silver on the cover. The title was also engraved in worn silver: Loup-Garou.

I’d never heard such a word. I flipped the book open. It was all in what I assumed was French. I checked the next book in the stack where I’d gotten the first. This one didn’t look quite as old, but it was just as battered. Lycanthropy: Blessing or Curse? I was about to open it when I saw a long, slender velvet box sitting in the stacks of papers. It looked like one of those necklace boxes from a high-end jewelry store. I put down the book and popped open the lid of the box. It held Don’s silver knife. The one I’d locked in Dad’s office over at the parish. Why would Dad bring it here? And why would he leave it out like this with a toddler in the house?

The front door rattled open.

“What on earth?” Mom’s voice echoed down the hall.

I stuck the knife box on the highest shelf of the bookcase and went out to meet her.