The Price Guide to the Occult(24)

Nor wasn’t scheduled to work that morning, but she decided to stop by the Witching Hour after breakfast anyway. If, along the way, she saw the ocean looking like its usual self — specifically without a crowd of bizarrely behaving sea creatures — she might be reassured that the world wasn’t falling to pieces.

What she saw, however, was hardly a comfort. Overnight, an invasive vine had taken over the hillside behind the Tower, smothering the lupines that normally blanketed the ground. And while the deciduous trees on the island typically enjoyed shedding their foliage at this time of year, today they waved their naked limbs forlornly. Nor hurried by, troubled by the melancholy that pulsed like a feeble heartbeat from their branches.

Nor entered the Witching Hour and found Vega sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner of the shop, meticulously stacking copies of The Price Guide to the Occult in another new display.

Though it was cold, the sun shone brightly through crystal prisms hanging in the windows, casting tiny rainbows across the black pentacle painted on the floor and across the shoes of customers waiting in line at the register. The first in line was, strangely, Bliss Sweeney.

She hardly ever comes in here, Nor thought warily.

Nor shot an exasperated — and pointless — look toward Vega, who was oblivious to the impatient customers, and then stepped behind the counter to ring up Bliss’s items.

As she was doing this, she became aware of Bliss studying her. Nor stole a quick glance at her face. It was pinched, hollow. There wasn’t anything particularly different about the way Bliss looked, but she seemed — pained somehow.

Bliss suddenly grabbed Nor’s hand, demanding her attention. The movement was quick and unexpected, reminiscent of the way an abused animal might attack without provocation. “You really don’t look anything like her,” she blurted.

Nor didn’t need to ask who Bliss meant. The tattoo on her wrist said it all.

It was a fern, the tip curled like the end of a violin. Everyone in the shop was a Fern Follower; every single one of them had a freshly inked fern — most still red and raised — scrawled across an exposed shoulder blade or collarbone, or on a wrist or throat.

Nor had been eight when Fern had given herself her first tattoo. Nor had woken up in the middle of the night to find Fern sitting on the edge of the mattress, an open safety pin between her fingers. Nor had watched her mother dip the needle into the green ink of a broken ballpoint pen. Then she had punctured the tender skin on the inside of her wrist over and over again, until she had had a crude fern drawn there.

“What do you think, Nor?” she had asked, and held up her wrist for Nor’s inspection. She’d smiled wickedly as the impossible happened: the fern tattoo had come to life and begun inching its way across Fern’s skin toward Nor.

Nor had scrambled backward as fast as she could, her sweaty palms and feet slipping on the nylon sleeping bag. With her back pressed up against the wall, she had whimpered as the fern bared spines and thorns like teeth. “Why is it doing that?”

“Because I want it to,” Fern had said, her eyes narrowing. But then the tattoo had retreated, recoiled like a tongue back to Fern’s wrist. Fern had examined the blood on her arm with interest. “And I always get what I want.”

That wasn’t exactly true. There would always be one thing Fern wanted that she couldn’t have, and that was for Quinn Sweeney to love her.

Bliss pulled out a copy of The Price Guide to the Occult and opened the book to a tabbed page. “I sent in my order form just like it says you’re supposed to, but I was refused.” Bliss paused and licked her dry lips. “I thought maybe there was a chance that you could help me. I haven’t heard from him in years, Nor,” she said desperately. “My son. It’s been seven years since he disappeared. I just need to know what happened.”

Nor swallowed hard. “I can’t —” she started.

Bliss began digging frantically in her purse. “I have money,” she said. “I can pay you.”

“It’s not about money,” Nor said. “I’m sorry, Bliss. I can’t help you.”

“You’re her daughter,” she said, crestfallen. “Can’t you put in a good word for me?”

Nor shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to my mother in years.”

Bliss looked confused. “Oh,” she said. “I thought I saw her —” She stopped, and Nor caught a glimpse of the look she shared with Vega. He shook his head, and Bliss said, “I must have been mistaken.”

She hurried from the shop, and Nor turned sharply to Vega, still stacking copies of The Price Guide to the Occult with creepy reverence. “What was that look you gave Bliss?” she asked. “You haven’t seen my mother, have you?”

“No, of course not,” Vega replied phlegmatically.

As he spoke, a puff of purple vapor passed through his lips. Nor followed it with her eyes as it moved through the air like a poison before sticking to the window. Vega was lying. Sliding down the glass, his lie turned black and slick, bringing to mind mud and grease and bird shit.

Vega turned his head, the wooden beads he had threaded through his dreadlocked hair click-clacking together, and Nor spotted a green tendril inked into the umber-colored skin on the back of his neck. “No one has seen your mother on this island in years,” Vega replied coolly. And this time, he was telling the truth.