Winter, page 2
She climbed back into the skiff, found the remaining oar, and started to row.
Okay, then, she thought as she churned the water, driving the boat quickly up the creek. Mother Blessing is definitely opposed to me leaving. Don’t know yet if she’s homicidal about it, but she’s obviously serious.
Kerry rowed and rowed. Her arms started to ache, her shoulders and back protesting from the effort. The rain gave up, and by the time light started to show itself, patches of silver and pink visible through the leafy ceiling to the east, she knew something was wrong. She had been making for the old Slocumb site—the blasted, cursed township Season and Mother Blessing had once shared—and she should have reached it within a few hours. Navigation had been difficult in the dark, but even so….
More light filtered in through the trees and Kerry saw a bank that she recognized, with roots reaching through the bluff of clay and diving into the water, a big, pale mushroom sticking out of one like a dinner plate wedged halfway in. She had seen that bank at least an hour or two before, on one of the occasions when she’d taken out her flashlight to gauge her path. She was positive she hadn’t been rowing in circles—the swamp wasn’t so well organized that one could even do that intentionally. Which could only mean that the swamp itself was shifting, changing itself around in an effort to keep her here.
What if it isn’t Mother Blessing? Kerry wondered as the icy hands of fear gripped her again. What if it’s Season—or the swamp itself? What if it doesn’t want me to leave? Will I ever get out then?
But Kerry Profitt was the Bulldog, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter who—or what—was trying to keep her here. The only thing that mattered was that she was determined to get out, and so she would. She drifted past the familiar bank. Now that the sun had come up, she knew which direction east was. Slocumb was to the east, and a high-way ran alongside the Great Dismal in that direction. She would find an exit, at one spot or another.
Kerry had traveled maybe another half mile when the water started moving faster under her boat. It took her in the direction she wanted to go, so she let the current carry her, using the oar only to keep herself away from the banks. A family of feral pigs watched her race by from a bluff; crows and three snowy egrets took flight at her rapid approach.
Then the creek widened, and ahead she could see where it joined with a broader canal. By now she was completely lost—she was nowhere she had ever been before, or, more likely, the swamp had never been configured in just this way before. She put the oar to water to help ease herself into the canal, but when her smaller tributary hit the larger one, the water there rushed faster than she had ever seen water move here. It was like a river’s rapids, not like the near-stagnant swamp water she was used to. Her heart raced as she tried to steady the shallow skiff, but the little boat was no match for the sudden flow.
Water roared in her ears and splashed ahead of the skiff, and Kerry found herself spinning around and around, the oar useless to stop her. Then the tiny craft was hurled against a jagged bank, where it splintered. Kerry snatched up her duffel bag as the water rushed in, and hurled it up onto the bank. The water in the swamp was rarely deep, but things lived in it that she didn’t want to encounter if she could help it—water moccasins and alligators foremost among them. Grabbing exposed roots, she pulled herself onto dry land, where she sat down hard and watched the boards that had once been the skiff separate and float away.
The waterways were the highways of the swamp, Kerry knew. There were trails on land, but they were mostly animal paths, unsuited for anything as big and ungainly as a human being. Kerry was slender enough for most trails, but when they wound underneath spreading ferns and fallen trunks, they could be impassable even for her.
Still, it didn’t look like she had much choice now. She headed vaguely east until she found a faint track and then followed it.
And still Mother Blessing wasn’t done with her, she discovered. After maybe a mile or so, Kerry discovered that she was being followed. She heard the chuffing sound of a big cat first and froze in place. Slowly, carefully, she turned and looked back down her trail, and after a few minutes a bobcat showed itself, its strange golden eyes fixed on her. But the bobcat wasn’t alone—a black bear parted the brush and stood beside the feline. Kerry knew that would never happen in nature—only Mother Blessing’s intercession could have made those two creatures into allies.
Knowing that didn’t make Kerry feel any better about it. Either one, bear or bobcat, could do a lot of damage if it attacked her. Both acting together, impossible as it was to imagine, could easily tear her to shreds.
She could defend herself, of course. But the idea of hurting either of those animals, forced against their own natures to cooperate in her destruction, was repellent to Kerry.
Fighting the tremor in her knees, the urge to run, she turned away slowly, showing them her back. She then continued down the trail she had found, heading into the morning sun, moving at a steady clip—not running, but not slow.
Behind her, she heard the animals keeping pace.
To panic, to run, would certainly bring them both charging down on her. This way they remained at bay, tracking without charging, while she tried to think of a way to reverse the spell that had enchanted them.
No such reversal came to mind. Kerry was exhausted. She hadn’t slept since yesterday morning, Thanksgiving, which seemed a lifetime ago, and then the battle with Season, the effort of rowing all night—it was no wonder answers weren’t coming to her as quickly as they might have.
Finally an idea occurred to her. The animals had been set on her trail by Mother Blessing, no doubt with malicious intent. They hadn’t attacked her yet, but Kerry was convinced that they would when their instincts told them she was a threat or when she tried to run. She didn’t know how she could alter the programming, but she was pretty sure she could change their target. She stopped, then spun around, facing them again. Speaking a couple of the magic words she had learned, gesturing with both hands, she pointed toward a nearby puddle and raised the water from it. With the water that now hovered in the air between herself and the animals, she sculpted the image of Mother Blessing—all three hundred pounds or more of her, complete with scooter, oxygen tanks, and beehive hairdo. She tried to look into the eyes of each animal, and she drove into their minds the concept that this person was their enemy, their mutual target. Finally she hurled the water sculpture at them. Bear and cat both flinched away, but it splashed against them, harmless but soaking.
When it was over, both creatures regarded Kerry almost casually, and then looked this way and that, up and down the path. They were no longer fixed on her, she believed. She waved her arms at them, and they backed away, turning and going back the way they had come.
Kerry didn’t know how long Mother Blessing’s spell would last—or how long her own would, for that matter. But if it held, and if these two unlikely companions found their way to Mother Blessing’s cabin, the old witch was in for an unpleasant surprise.
The path twisted and turned, widening here, narrowing to almost nothingness there. Always it led east, which was where Kerry had decided salvation lay anyway. So she stayed with it as best she could.
In another hour or so, she could hear the rush of cars on the highway. She struggled to place her weary feet. The duffel was so heavy she was regretting having brought it. The world no longer seemed to conspire against her—when vines snatched at her ankles or thorns tore at her sleeves, they were simply doing what vines and thorns naturally did. But she was almost ready to admit defeat anyway, not sure how long she could continue the hike. The sound of cars perked her up a little. But they were still at some distance, with plenty of thick swamp between her and them.
She drove herself on. When her mind started to wander, when she began to lose her focus, to fall asleep on her feet, she reminded herself of Mace Winston, whom Season had killed back in San Diego during the summer. That summer had changed everything for her—had taken a life that was moving in one direction, as surely as the creek that had carried her skiff, and spun it around just like the canal had done the little boat. Summer had introduced her to Daniel Blessing, three hundred years old and, as it turned out, the love of her life. She allowed the memory of his smile, kind and genuine, to fill her for a moment. It brought her a few seconds of peace, reminded her why she was doing all this. He was the handsomest man she’d ever seen—centuries old, sure, but witchcraft, she had learned, was the original Botox and didn’t even involve needles or deadly germs.
But the summer had also brought Season Howe into her life, and Season had killed Mace, and later Daniel. Then, during the fall, when Kerry was in the swamp learning from Daniel’s mother, Season had apparently tracked down Rebecca in Santa Cruz, and Josh in Las Vegas. Josh hadn’t survived the encounter. The only ones remaining from the summer house in La Jolla were herself, Rebecca, Brandy, and Scott.
Finally Season had shown up here, in the Great Dismal. Where it had all started, so many years before. Here she hadn’t been able to defeat Mother Blessing and Kerry, but neither had they been able to triumph over her. It almost didn’t matter—the things Season had said were enough to make Kerry rethink everything that had happened since August. She had been motivated by thoughts of revenge against Season ever since Daniel had died.
Now it wasn’t so much revenge that spurred her on, although that was still a factor. Now—just since yesterday afternoon—what Kerry discovered she wanted most in the world was the truth. She wanted to know who had destroyed Slocumb. She wanted to understand the relationship between Season and Mother Blessing, wanted to know what Daniel and his brother Abraham had known about it.
That quest, instead of just simple revenge, kept her putting one foot before the other, ducking branches, dodging thorns. She tried to remain alert, worried that Mother Blessing would have turned the swamp against her in ways she hadn’t encountered yet. But her eyes grew bleary and her concentration flagged.
Until finally she topped a low rise and saw, at the bottom of a weed-choked slope, the highway she sought. Highway 17 ran northsouth here, along the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp. It would take her away—away from Mother Blessing, away from Season Howe.
It was so beautiful, that strip of lined asphalt, that Kerry thought she would cry.
2
Kerry didn’t know exactly what she looked like, but she was pretty sure she was a horrific mess. A full night and all morning in the swamp, in the rain, falling out of the boat—all after an epic battle—would do it to anyone, she decided. She hadn’t spent time on her appearance since yesterday morning, when she’d cleaned up and brushed her hair and even put on a little makeup because she was going into Deep Creek to do the holiday feast shopping.
If she were driving and spotted herself hitchhiking, she would lock her doors and speed up.
She couldn’t do much about her physical appearance—not without a shower and a hairbrush and maybe a new wardrobe. But that didn’t mean she had to let passing motorists know what she really looked like. Casting a glamour was one of the first tricks Mother Blessing had taught her. It was basic, and while it didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the more common definition of “glamour,” there was no reason it couldn’t apply. She decided she would look like a clean-cut, friendly student, in the swamp to study its biology or something. She visualized what she wanted people to see, changing as little of herself as possible. The muddy, torn coat became a clean sweatshirt with a UVA logo on it, the shredded jeans were crisp and new, the fouled, mud-caked boots were shiny green duck boots. She imagined her hair as she liked it best, loose and flowing in the breeze, ravendark and fine. She visualized herself only lightly made up, her natural porcelain complexion undisguised, her green eyes almost luminous. As a finishing touch she imagined a faint scent of lilac, instead of the swamp mud and sweat she really smelled like.
Once that was accomplished, she ventured out to the edge of the roadway and stuck out her thumb when the next batch of vehicles raced up the highway. She wanted to go north, toward Portsmouth and Norfolk, and points beyond. But either of those nearby cities would do for a start.
Six months before, Kerry would have been petrified to even consider hitchhiking anywhere. She still understood that it was not the safest mode of transport, particularly for a young woman. But compared with what she had survived in the past twenty-four hours alone, it was a piece of cake.
The third car that came along stopped for her. A man in his early thirties drove, a pretty woman by his side. In the back was an array of photography equipment—camera bags, tripods, backpacks, and the like. The woman rolled down her window as Kerry jogged up to the car.
“Where are you heading?” she asked.
“Portsmouth, I guess,” Kerry told her.
“We’re going to Newport News,” the woman said, “so that’s on the way. If you can find a place to sit with all that junk in the back, you’re welcome to ride.”
“I don’t take up much space,” Kerry promised. She climbed into the back. The driver pulled back out into the lane, and the woman started to say something else. But the motion of the car on the highway lulled Kerry, and though she tried to listen, within minutes she had slipped into a deep sleep.
The Friday after Thanksgiving is, retail legend has it, the busiest shopping day of the year. Brandy Pearson saw no reason to doubt the conventional wisdom. Her parents lived in Needham, a Boston suburb, and she had foolishly tried to go to one of the town’s independent bookstores to find something to read during the Thanksgiving break that wasn’t required for one class or other. She didn’t have anything particular in mind—she enjoyed chick-lit, legal thrillers, suspense, and the occasional romance, as well as popular biographies, and she figured she could easily find something in one of those categories that caught her eye.
So she fought the bundled-up throngs, trying to peer past anxious shoppers at the covers and spines of the books on the store’s shelves. She browsed new hardcover fiction first, picking up and putting back at least a dozen books. She had experienced a lot in the past several months, since San Diego and the discovery that witches were real—and deadly. She had mourned Mace and Josh and even Daniel, who had drawn them all into it. She had broken up with Scott, who had been, for a time, the guy she thought was forever. Now she found that fiction that took some matters too lightly—the existence of the supernatural, life and death, love and hate—didn’t appeal to her anymore. She picked up a book with a knife on the cover—she had heard somewhere that knives on book covers were guaranteed sellers—flipped it open, read the cover flap. Then she put it back where she’d found it.
“Do you taste them too?” a voice asked from behind her. “Or just squeeze them to see if they’re ripe?”
Half-expecting to see someone she knew, Brandy turned around. But the young man who had spoken was a stranger—a handsome stranger, she corrected herself, but a stranger just the same. He was about her age or a little older, early twenties, maybe. His friendly smile revealed even, white teeth. His hair was short, neatly cropped, his eyes were wide and cheerful. His skin was several shades darker than her own, set off nicely by a cream-colored dress shirt underneath his heavy winter coat. Clean blue jeans and expensive leather shoes made up the rest of the ensemble. Brandy had to approve.
“If you take them home too early they just spoil,” she replied. “Vine-ripened is always best, at least for hardcovers. Paperbacks you can keep in a bag for a few days if you need to, and they’ll usually turn out just fine.”
“I see you know a lot about the care and feeding,” the man said. “Maybe you can give me a lesson sometime.”
Is he asking me out? Brandy wondered. We just met, like, seconds ago. We haven’t met, really. Well, one way to fix that.
She extended her hand. “I’m Brandy Pearson,” she said with a smile. “World-famous expert on book botany.”
“Adam Castle,” he said, taking her hand in his. His hand was large and warm, and, he shook hers with a firm grip and then released it. “Not world famous at all.”
“Give it time,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll find your niche.”
“I’m afraid my specialty is a little more mundane. Urban planning.”
A browser reaching for a new Dean Koontz novel jostled Brandy. “Nothing wrong with that,” she said, sidestepping so as not to take another elbow to the ribs, and glad she wore a heavy woolen pea coat over her lavender turtleneck and black yoga pants. “Especially if you can urbanly plan a shopping experience where there’s some kind of consideration for personal space.”
The shopper put the Koontz book down, shot Brandy a glare, and said, “Excuse me,” as he moved down to the next shelf unit.
Adam laughed. “Ouch. You don’t pull any punches, do you, Brandy?”
“Only when there’s a good reason to,” Brandy replied. “Which, it seems, is pretty rare.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that, I think,” he said. “And to answer your question, yes, I think I do have some interesting ideas about retail spaces. Of course, this is an example of what I like—smaller independent stores, as opposed to big-box chains. But there are ways to situate them, and to organize the insides, that create a more efficient and user-friendly shopping experience, and … you were just saying that, right? You didn’t really want to hear my theories.”
“Not that they’re not fascinating,” Brandy assured him. “Because I’m sure they are, in the right setting. I just don’t think this is it.”
Adam laughed again. Brandy found herself responding to his laughter—it was honest, with a lack of self-consciousness that she found refreshing. She knew virtually nothing about this man except that he was strangely appealing. She wasn’t in the market for a relationship, especially so soon after breaking up with Scott. But there was some kind of instant connection going on here, it seemed. This guy was cute, he made her laugh, and he seemed to have a few brains in his head, all of which were qualities that Brandy appreciated.
