The Price Guide to the Occult(30)
Nor glanced at the raised skin in the crook of her elbow. She could hear the scars on her arm calling to her, and she could feel that familiar ache — the ache to stop caring, to mask it with blood and pain. She tugged down her sleeve and clasped her hand over her singing scars. Savvy was right. Nor did care about Reed. In fact, she cared so much that she sometimes felt it would swallow her whole. But that was the whole point. She cared about him enough to stay away.
“Okay, new plan,” Savvy decided. “I may not know anything about curses or psycho moms, but as your best friend, I promise that I will help you get it on with whomever you want. Reed or what’s-his-name or Heckel Abernathy if that’s your kink. On the condition that, should any of this manifest, you have to give me all the delicious details. Deal?”
Nor smiled, and then followed Savvy and Bijou out of the chaos of the Society for the Protection of Discarded Things — past toppling towers of scorched pots and pans, a scattering of broken-down lawn mowers, and an antique metal dress form. Though Savvy couldn’t actually solve the bulk of Nor’s problems, Nor felt better having been reminded that someone gave enough of a shit to try.
Around this time of year, Meandering Lane was usually ablaze with strands of tiny twinkling white lights draped across trees and strung along rooftops. There would be mistletoe and holly greens hanging above the front door of the Witching Hour, and Heckel Abernathy would have fixed the eight gaudy reindeer atop the Willowbark General Store. There would be a wooden nativity scene in front of the library and a menorah flickering from the front windows of Harper Forgette’s and Reuben Finch’s houses. A medley of secular Christmas carols would be blaring from the ferry speakers. But this year only a single strand of red and green lights hung limply from the front door of the co-op.
“The holiday spirit is hard to find around here this year,” Savvy said.
Though it was no longer raining, the air felt cold and wet against Nor’s face. She scooped up Bijou and wiped his muddy paws with her mittened hand before bundling him inside her jacket.
The heat from the ovens had steamed up the Sweet and Savory Bakery windows, but she could still see the blurred outline of Bliss Sweeney, preparing marzipan scones or maybe a batch of cranberry-orange biscotti — both favorites during this time of year — in the hopes of attracting some scant customers. Through the opaque glass, Bliss looked like a colorful ghost.
With heavy steps, Nor followed Savvy toward the Witching Hour. She knew she should check in on Madge, but she was afraid of what she’d find — which was why she’d brought Savvy with her.
They passed Catriona on the stairs. She avoided their eyes, ignored Savvy’s cheerful hello, and practically fell over the railing in her haste to get away from them.
“Is it just me,” Savvy said, “or have cartoon villains looked less suspicious than she did just then? I bet she stole something like —” Savvy suddenly stopped. Her mouth agape, she pointed as that peculiar fog Nor had seen on her run that morning suddenly billowed in from the ocean. It quickly spread across Meandering Lane. From the top of the stairs, they watched as, little by little, the entire island seemed to vanish. First Willowbark and then the library; soon, Nor could barely make out the strand of lights hanging from the front door of the Artist Co-Op. She looked up at the Witching Hour. The fog had hidden the shop from sight.
Almost like camouflage, Nor thought.
“What is this?” Savvy said, shaking the fog out of her burgundy curls. “A sign of the end of times? Should I be freaking out right now?”
“I don’t think so.” Nor swept her hand through the mist, and it swirled around her fingers like cotton candy. “I think it’s just — fog.” Nevertheless, it was unlike any fog that Nor had ever seen.
They stumbled up the stairs, and Nor held her breath when they opened the front door. The shop, like the street, was empty. Nor’s and Savvy’s steps echoed eerily.
A few seconds passed, and then Madge pushed through the back doorway. She stopped abruptly. The curtain clung to her shoulder, and she gave the room behind her a furtive glance before she said to Nor, “I didn’t schedule you for today, did I?”
A wave of nostalgia washed over Nor. She had the sudden urge to embrace Madge, to rest her chin on her shoulder, and to breathe in the comforting aroma of Madge’s vanilla-scented soap. Even from here, however, Nor could tell that something different wafted from Madge’s skin now: a metallic smell, like a butcher shop at the end of the day. There were purple bags under her eyes, too, and gray strands in her straight black hair. Madge busied herself behind the cash register, and Nor could see fresh tattoos, red and raised and angry, spiraling up and down her arms and across her hands.
Out of curiosity, Nor pushed back the curtain and peeked into the back room. The room was dimly lit, the shades from all the windows drawn, and Wintersweet lay on a sofa pushed against the wall. Tattoos of Fern’s malicious plant — more than Nor had ever seen — crawled across her golden-brown skin. They crept across the tops of her feet and wrapped around her ears; they covered her hands and curled down her fingers. Her breathing was ragged.
“What the hell happened to her?” Savvy said with a gasp, peering around Nor’s shoulder.
A dark cloud passed over Madge’s face, and the glance she cast in Wintersweet’s direction seemed more culpable than caring. “She’s just tired,” she said, but a tremor was in her voice, and a greasy and glistening purple cloud floated out of her mouth and across the room. It splattered like a boil across a display of scented candles.