Homecoming (20 page)

She stood up and put her key in the dead bolt, turning the lock. She pushed the heavy wooden door open and belatedly realized that she'd neglected to leave a light on that afternoon, so the interior of the house was blanketed in darkness.

“Shit,” she said, patting along the wall until her fingers found the light switch. She flipped it on and gasped.

“Oh my God.”

She stared at her wrecked living room. Every drawer in the built-in cabinets had been yanked out and smashed into splinters. Papers were fanned out across the floor like discarded ticker tape. The television was busted. The brown leather couches were pushed onto their fronts, the backs slashed to pieces.

And she soon discovered the carnage wasn't limited to the living room. The rest of the house had been violated, too.

She shooed the cats out of the house and closed the door. She wanted to take inventory of the damage without them underfoot—because as much as she loved her babies, they could be real assholes when they were hungry and she wasn't paying enough attention to their needs.

She trooped through the living room, found the kitchen in disorder—dishes, cookware, and packaged stuff from the cabinets tossed into the middle of the kitchen floor, though the refrigerator was untouched—and discovered that the bedroom had been upended, too. Clothes and shoes had been flung across the hardwood, box spring and mattress slashed with a knife.

The bathroom stank of cleaning fluid and crushed bath products. A twelve-pack of toilet paper had been dumped into the half-filled bathtub. Even her art studio had been taken apart: exploded paint tubes, shredded canvas . . . and, the worst, someone had taken oxblood paint and slathered it all over her latest piece.

“Dammit!” Daniela said, wanting to scream, but she settled for kicking a tube of indigo paint across the studio floor instead.

She called the police and, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene, chose not to try to salvage anything yet. She went outside and stood on the porch, the cats surrounding her. She didn't know who was behind the destruction at her place, but she was going to beat the crap out of them.

In a show of frustration, or maybe it was plain old hunger, Verity gently bit Daniela's calf.

“I'm sorry, girls,” she said. “I totally forgot. Just give me a second.”

She went inside, leaving the cats meowing on the porch, and wove her way through the mess.

Under normal circumstances, she didn't keep all the house lights on at the same time, preferring to turn on lamps as she went, lighting her way as needed. But tonight she felt unsettled and violated, so she left the place lit up like a Christmas tree.

The dry cat food was in the kitchen, stored in a cat-proof plastic container in the cabinet over the refrigerator. This was the only way to keep the girls out of their food. She'd once made the mistake of leaving a giant unopened bag of cat chow in the pantry only to come home to find the kitchen floor littered with kibble.

Stepping over the smashed remains of her favorite dishware—pale blue plates and bowls she'd purchased from a local potter—she dragged the step stool over to the refrigerator and climbed up to the topmost step. She struggled with the cabinet door and ended up taking off her gloves in order to get a good grip on the door pulls. This particular cabinet tended to swell and contract with the heat, making it almost impossible to open.

“Come on,” she murmured to the door. Finally, it came unstuck, and she reached inside for the Tupperware container of cat food.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement.

Shit, no gloves,
she thought before she whirled around and slammed her right foot into the chest of a would-be attacker.

Her kick surprised the hell out of him, and he went flying backward into the metal spice rack across from the refrigerator. A lone bottle of cinnamon—sans its top—had survived the first trashing of the kitchen. The impact jostled the bottle forward, tipping its contents out and unleashing a cloud of cinnamon on her masked attacker's head. Sputtering, the man swiped at his face, trying to keep the cinnamon granules out of his eyes. Daniela used the distraction to slam the heel of her boot into his solar plexus.

He hit the spice rack again, releasing another dust cloud of cinnamon, and she played the advantage, landing a kick to his belly.

This time he grabbed her ankle, wrapping his fingers around the top of her boot and twisting her foot, so that she cried out in pain as her ankle made a popping sound. She tried to pull out of her attacker's grip, but she used too much force, and the step stool toppled underneath her. She fell backward and cracked her head against the plastic handle of the refrigerator door.

Stars exploded in her head as she hit the ground, and she fought to stay conscious. Her attacker grabbed her by the ankle again and began to drag her through the house.

The pain in her ankle was exquisite, but she began to flail and kick out with her good foot, landing a blow on the soft underside of her attacker's left knee. His leg went out beneath him and he crumpled forward, releasing his hold on her.

She flipped onto her stomach and began to crawl toward the front door, refusing to look back, eyes focused on her escape exit. But then she sensed him reaching for her and quickly rolled onto her side, lashing out at him with her good foot. He dodged the attack, throwing himself on top of her and wrapping his hands around her throat.

She was being strangled, her airway constricted by the power of his massive hands. She stared up into his green eyes—the only visible part of his face beneath the mask—and searched for some sign of recognition.

And then she remembered.

No gloves.

She reached up, wedging her bare hands underneath the edge of the ski mask until her fingertips found the man's skin. The oncoming seizure hit her with the velocity of a speeding freight train—and just before her brain exploded into a million points of sparkling light, Daniela experienced the most amazing sense of oneness with the universe.

E
leanora couldn't sleep.

Her mouth was dry as a bone, and her brain just wouldn't settle. She rolled onto her side and bunched the covers down around at her feet. She decided she wasn't going to spend the night tossing and turning and crawled out of bed. It was cold in her room, or maybe she just didn't have enough fat left on her bones to keep her warm—whatever the reason, she slipped on her housecoat and wrapped a scarf around her neck, and that seemed to do the trick.

She closed her bedroom door, careful not to slam it—sound carried in this old place, and she didn't want to accidentally wake Lyse—and headed down the long hallway to the kitchen. There was enough moonlight coming in through the kitchen windows that she didn't need to turn on any lights. She opened the refrigerator door, and the interior light cut a slice out of the darkness. She stood there for a moment, trying to remember what she wanted.

Thirsty,
she thought, and grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the top shelf.

Normally, she would just drink straight out of the bottle, but she had company staying, so she plucked a coffee mug from the draining board and filled it with bubbly water. The carbonation tickled the back of her throat. She guzzled down one cup after another without stopping—and this barely quenched her thirst. She started to pour herself a third mugful, but stopped and just drank out of the bottle.

This made her feel naughty, and she grinned as she wiped her mouth, but this happy moment was almost instantly replaced by exhaustion, a feeling ever present within her these days. Bone tired, bone weary, bones too old and weak to keep her standing for much longer, at least figuratively. Nights like this, when she felt her body was too far gone to keep moving, she longed for death. It was like a much-anticipated visitor who'd kept her waiting far too long.

She didn't worry about what came after. She'd seen ghosts—Dream Walkers—her whole life. She knew death wasn't the end. It was the beginning. She did have worries, though. And they weren't for her old bones; they were for Lyse. There was so much the girl needed to learn, and Eleanora knew she wouldn't last long enough to teach her.

She blinked and realized she was standing in front of the open refrigerator door, another unopened bottle of sparkling water in her hand. She didn't even remember finishing the first one. Who knew how long she'd been standing there, letting chilled air escape into the night, aiding and abetting the criminal act of wasting electricity.

Time had a funny knack of getting away from her these days.

It had started with the advent of her illness—the partition between the past and present becoming more and more tenuous until she was afraid the barrier would be breached irreparably. It'd gotten so bad that, at times, Eleanora found it impossible to tell the difference between
then
and
now
, her past overwhelming her so completely she actually felt as though she'd stepped through Alice's looking glass.

She returned the second bottle of sparkling water back to its place on the shelf and shut the refrigerator door. She wasn't thirsty anymore.

I want to sleep,
she thought, rubbing her tired eyes with the heels of her palms.

She hated taking things to knock herself out, but it didn't seem like there was any other option. Arrabelle had made her a sleeping draught, one she'd avoided using, but tonight seemed like the perfect time to take it on a test run.

She used the same coffee mug to make a cup of hot water in the microwave, then added a spoonful of the powdered sleeping draught to it, mixing everything up. Waiting for it to get cool enough to drink, she took the mug with her and padded down the hall to her bedroom.

Outside, the slam of a car door caught her attention, and she wandered back the way she'd come, curious to see who was parking in front of her house. She expected to find Lyse asleep on the living room couch, but to her surprise there was only a crumpled throw pillow where Lyse had been earlier.

She probably got up and went to bed,
Eleanora thought as she pushed back the curtains to peer through the window.

Lyse was standing at the bottom of the front steps, her arms wrapped around the waist of a young man. Beyond them was an idling Volvo station wagon.

Weir.

Not wanting to spy, Eleanora turned away.

She smiled, pleased by this new turn of events. Lyse had always dated intellectually brilliant loudmouths and addicts—bad boys who didn't deserve her time—and Weir was neither of those things. She very much liked Lizbeth's older half brother, and if Lyse was choosing him as a possible partner, then maybe she didn't need to worry so much about the girl's future. Plus, it might help entice Lyse to stay in Echo Park after she died.

Eleanora waited until she heard the Volvo's engine growl to life, and when she looked outside again, Weir, Lyse, and the car were gone.

Now that she couldn't be accused of eavesdropping, she relaxed and stood in front of the window, taking in the spectacular view of downtown. Being at the top of the hill made Eleanora feel as though she were floating over the darkness—and that the other houses dotting the hillside were merely twinkling fairy lights strewn below her.

The sleeping draught wasn't unpleasant, but she took her time finishing it. When she was done, she turned to go, but something, a flash of light from Daniela's place, drew her eye. She walked over to another window, one that had a better view of next door, and gasped: An intruder was in Daniela's house.

Her heart rate quickened, and she only had to take a few steps before she realized the fuzziness in her head was an effect of the sleeping potion.

“Not now,” she murmured, fighting the drowsiness as she scurried out of the living room and down the hallway.

She made it to her bedroom, pausing for a moment at the door to catch her breath, then proceeded to the closet. She sat down heavily, the floor seeming to rise up to meet her instead of the other way around. She found the plain cardboard shoe box tucked into the back of the closet and threw open the lid. Inside, nestled between a pair of leather sandals, were a small-caliber handgun and a box of bullets.

She loaded three bullets into the empty chamber and clicked off the safety. Using the end of the bed to drag herself to her feet, she weaved her way across the bedroom and headed for the front door.

*   *   *

She knew she looked a sight—a woozy old woman in a white nightgown and polyester print bathrobe running through the streets in the middle of the night, waving a gun in the air like an overzealous cowboy. She could only imagine the notice in the
Eastsider
newsblog the next morning: “Crazy Old Lady in Ratty Housecoat on Rampage in Echo Park!”

She made it to Daniela's house without killing herself, the night air reviving her a little, and found the cats on the front porch yowling like little demons as they scratched at the front door.

“I'm here,” Eleanora said, stepping over their squirming bodies with her bare feet. “Don't worry.”

She slipped her finger around the trigger and shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs from her brain.

She threw open the front door.

“Take your hands off her,” Eleanora yelled, leveling the gun at the masked man who was crouched over Daniela's writhing body.

He looked up, surprised by her arrival—and by the entrance of the cats, who shot past Eleanora's legs, claws extended like the deadly weapons they were.

“Verity, Veracity, get back,” Eleanora cried.

The cats ignored her, hissing, yowling, attacking, and batting at the man with everything they were worth. The man caught Verity by the neck, and the cat began to thrash in his arms.

“You hurt those cats and so help me, I'll blow your brains out,” Eleanora said as she aimed the gun at the man's head, meaning every word.

Her tone seemed to give the man pause, and finally he released the cat. He dropped his hands to his sides, letting the cats swat at him.

“I'm glad you can listen,” Eleanora said, keeping the gun trained on the man's face. “Now get off her. Slowly. And they'll leave you alone.”

The man did as he was told, scooting far away from Daniela. As Eleanora had predicted, the cats left him alone, protectively curling their bodies around their mistress. Verity continued to send the man dangerous glares, letting him know she'd kill him if she could.

“Now I want you to tell me who you are and what you're doing here,” Eleanora said. “Or I'll use this gun.”

She was serious. The man had tried to kill Daniela, and if she hadn't seen the slight rise and fall of the younger woman's chest, she'd have thought he'd succeeded.

He refused to answer.

“I've used it before,” she said, adrenaline pumping through her. “And I'm not afraid to use it again.”

The sound of police sirens echoed in the distance. The man's eyes locked on Eleanora, and he slowly began to rise to his feet.

“Sit down,” she said, her gun hand trembling.

The stupid sleeping stuff was kicking in big-time, and Eleanora couldn't stop herself from yawning.

“I said to sit down,” she growled, blinking furiously.

The man began to advance toward her, and she tightened her grip on the gun's trigger. He took another step forward, and then the room slid out of focus, her brain reeling. She felt a hand on her wrist . . .

. . . and she screamed.

The pain was so intense, she could hardly breathe.

“Make it stop,” she pleaded with Hessika, squeezing the other woman's fingers until both their hands were bloodless.

“We're close,” Hilda said, a look of complete concentration on her face.

She was older than Hessika and Eleanora, in her late fifties, and extremely competent. As the coven herbalist and a practicing midwife, she was the only person Hessika trusted to deliver Eleanora's baby . . .

“No,” Eleanora said, dragging herself back to the present.

The man was staring at her as he gripped her wrist . . .

. . . “It's coming,” Hilda said. “I can see the head.”

Eleanora was sobbing.

It was so close to being over that she could taste it.

“One more push, Eleanora,” Hilda said, her forehead slick with sweat. “We're almost there.”

She gritted her teeth and pushed so hard it felt like her womb was being expelled along with the baby. There was a loud, mewling cry, and everyone in the room began to smile.

“It's a boy,” Hilda said, holding the tiny, squirming thing up to Eleanora. “A healthy baby boy.”

All Eleanora could see was the blood and viscera, the utter alienness of the creature screeching in Hilda's hands.

“Wait, we have another one,” Hilda said abruptly, handing off the first baby to Hessika, who swaddled the tiny thing in a soft, woolen blanket that Donna, the coven's diviner, had knitted especially for the occasion.

Pain ripped through Eleanora's belly, and she began to sob.

“Push, Eleanora,” Hilda said. “Push now!”

There was a soft cry, not as strong as the first baby's yowls, but still full of life.

“A girl,” Hilda said, looking as exhausted as Eleanora felt. “She's a lot smaller, but everything looks like it's in the right place.”

The second baby was shivering in Hilda's arms—they'd been unprepared, had expected only one child, not two. There wasn't another blanket.

“I'll go fetch something,” Hessika said, and held out the first baby to Eleanora, offering her his tiny, squirming body. “You wanna hold him,
ma belle
?”

She knew she should feel something for it. It'd come out of her, was part of her, had been carried around inside her for nine months . . . but no matter how deeply she probed, searching for the maternal love that was supposed to already be there inside her, she could not find an ounce of feeling for the newborn creature.

“No,” Eleanora said, turning her head away, hiding the newborn baby from her view. “I don't want to hold it.”

She could sense Hilda's shock. Even Hessika seemed disappointed by her lack of maternal feeling. Eleanora knew they were thinking that she was cruel and inhuman—and maybe she was. But she just couldn't face holding them if she was only going to have to give them away.

She closed her eyes as the hot tears slid down her cheeks . . .

. . . and when she opened her eyes again, the man in Daniela's living room was gone.

*   *   *

“How do you feel?” Eleanora asked when Daniela came to.

“Okay.”

Eleanora made a quick phone call to Arrabelle. The herbalist arrived minutes after the EMTs and persuaded them—once they checked Daniela's vitals, which were normal—to let them take her to Eleanora's house to recuperate.