The Price Guide to the Occult(35)

Wintersweet had never been particularly chatty to begin with, but now it was difficult to get her to say much of anything. There were gaps in her memory, too, as if someone had carved parts of her away. She’d often remember that to make a fried egg, she had to use a pan, but she would forget that the egg must also be cracked. Or — like today — she’d remember the ritual of serving tea but forget the part about making it first. A few days earlier, she’d remembered how to turn on the kitchen faucet but not how to turn it off.

Wintersweet seemed to prefer hanging around the Tower rather than at the Witching Hour. Nor didn’t blame her; the last time Nor had visited the shop, it had felt almost sinister. The gargoyles hanging from the walls had seemed cold and menacing. And something was wrong with Madge. Her tattoos looked infected. Her cheeks were sagged and droopy, as if her skin were suddenly too big for her. She’d shrugged off Nor’s concerns. Nor hadn’t spoken with her since.

As for Fern, her rising success and popularity continued to seem unstoppable. She was doing seminars now, offering her fans new ways in which to behold her benevolent talents. A renowned publication had named Fern Blackburn Person of the Year. Soon, her face would be adorning every checkout counter and newspaper stand in the country. There were even rumors that she’d been invited to meet with several foreign diplomats, and the Chinese ambassador had been spotted sporting his own green fern tattoo.

But lately, there’d also been reports of people going missing after attending one of Fern Blackburn’s events. People had been disappearing around Anathema Island as well. No one had seen Catriona in weeks, and just yesterday, the Sweet and Savory Bakery had been uncharacteristically closed. Vega was also gone, but at least that vanishing act had an explanation. The last Nor had heard, he’d reconnected with his old flame Lake somewhere in rural Texas. Wherever he was, Nor hoped he was in a place Fern would never think to look.

The few people Nor had seen on Meandering Lane were Pike and Sena Crowe, though judging from the knives they always had slung on their hips, they weren’t there to shop. Fortunately, Gage was never with them. Every time Nor saw Gage, she was overcome with the feeling that she was on the cusp of some terrible disaster, like she was standing in the path of a hurricane. Gage Coldwater felt dangerous, the way a sharp metal object felt dangerous, and try as she might, Nor had never been very good at keeping herself away from those.

The weather had remained cold and gray; the whales had yet to return. The island was void of its usual surge of tourists. Retirees hadn’t returned to air out their summer homes; their lawns grew more feral with every passing day. For the most part, those who remained stayed locked in their houses, sealing their doors and windows against whatever nameless ghost had brought this air of unease to their island home. The animals, too, had hidden themselves away. The dogwood trees along Meandering Lane were covered in a toxic residue that could burn the skin. The juniper bushes in front of the Witching Hour screamed whenever Nor was within hearing range.

Nor stood and walked out into the overgrown yard, leaving Wintersweet to enjoy her tea party on her own. She made a point to avoid a hostile-looking holly bush and chose instead to pass through what looked like a benign patch of narcissus. When she did, she felt something prick her skin, and when she looked, she saw a bead of blood well up on her ankle.

It seemed now even the daffodils had thorns.

It was hours later when Nor wended down the trail that led to the beach. Behind her, the Tower loomed against the setting sun, like a fortress in some medieval legend. The plants along the trail were just as vicious as ever, and when she emerged, her sleeves were torn, her hands scratched and smeared with blood. She’d almost lost her scarf to a mean-spirited rhododendron bush. If she’d trusted herself with a knife, she would have brought one to fight them off, but ever since that incident with the cigarette back in January, Nor could barely glance at even a paper clip without feeling on edge.

Once she reached the shore, she unzipped her jacket, and Bijou hopped to the ground. The little dog scurried gleefully ahead of her, kicking up rocky sand as he ran.

It was nothing special, this beach, but its many nooks and crannies and delightful sea treasures that washed up on shore — gelatinous jellyfish and bulbous bull kelp and the occasional sea star — had made it the perfect place for Nor’s childhood adventures. And as Nor spotted a familiar figure walking toward her, she realized it was perfect for other things as well; when the beach grass glowed silver in the moonlight, Nor could imagine how easily felicitous lovers might find each other in the dark here.

“Are you looking for the whales, too?” Reed called. When he got closer, Nor could see the tip of his nose had turned pink from the cold. “I keep thinking that I just haven’t looked closely enough,” he said, “but it doesn’t look like there’s anything but a few fish out there.”

Nor had stopped expecting the whales to return, mainly because it wasn’t just the whales that had disappeared. It had been weeks since Nor had come across a young deer and her fawn while on her evening run or woken up to the crows tormenting Antiquity through the bedroom windows. All of the sea creatures were long gone; even the ones who made their homes there had left. There were no breaching porpoises, no barking sea lions, and no seabirds gliding overhead, calling to one another with their cackling cries. She suspected the whales had skipped over the archipelago on purpose, disturbing migration patterns in search of more welcoming waters.