Kate Fox & The Three Kings (15 page)

“Of course, we weren’t fooled. Fire cannot kill a Fox. Someone had taken you, to channel your power for their benefit. The search began and didn’t end until several months ago. We questioned all of the individuals on your father’s watch-list, individuals who have hunted your family from the beginning of time. But those people moved on from lineage and myth, discarded the old ways, and exchanged them for suburbia, minivans, and overpriced lattes.”

“A resurgence of power had been reported near Lexington,” Hemming interrupted with his stern voice. “Not your normal—hmph— run-of-the-mill people whispering incantations into candlelight, casting a circle, and tossing around an Ouija board nonsense, but whispers of darkness. Children were missing from surrounding towns, their bodies found in sacrifice and ritual, with slit necks and bodies nailed to the ground, some with thorn crowns, others with their innards shoved down their throats. Many suspected cult activity, perhaps of the satanic variety. Maybe pagan. But the culprits were hiding in plain sight, being interviewed on the news at their protests. That’s when we saw you, standing in the background, picketing an abortion clinic opening.”

“Those hicks figured out how to channel power—all they needed was to keep baby Fox close,” Helen picked up where Hemming left off. “But they got sloppy. They let that boy ruin it all for them. The one that attacked you in the woods,” Helen recalled, and I nodded, knowing she was talking about Gideon. “And when you fled from the funeral, I was able to lead all of the bible-thumping dingbats off course, then guide you home, despite your resistance,” Helen’s lips curled.

“You orchestrated the weird dog thing being there?” I asked, feeling more ridiculous with each word, thinking of Beastie. “You couldn’t have arranged like, a four wheeler or trail guide to lead me through the woods?”

Helen glared and muttered “ungrateful bitch” under her breath, and Hemming jerked her back to a seated position as she tried to get up and leave, to which she pouted in protest, like a misbehaved child. “And while we’re on the topic of
you
,” I stabbed her shoulder with my index finger. “How is it possible you could’ve known my father and been handy enough to execute bargaining tactics? Weren’t you both like, seven-years-old at the time of his last, dying breath? That’s barely old enough to count spare change.”

“Helen and I were born in 1935. We are seventy-five years old,” Hemming replied. I opened my mouth to rattle off my disbelief, but he hushed me and continued, “We are afflicted, you see, with something I can only describe as a curse. We age only in our other form, unaffected by illness or injury. We cannot die.”

I had a million questions buzzing against my lips, but the only one that escaped my mouth was, “Your other form?”

“The Cù Sìth,” Hemming exchanged another look with Helen. “The beast that you followed in the woods.”

“That…that thing was you?” my jaw dropped in disbelief, remembering Beastie snapping at my fingers and being generally unpleasant.

“No, bitch, that
thing
was yours truly,” Helen piped up and popped a piece of bubblegum into her mouth, appearing bored.

“What is your deal?” I was growing tired of her attitude.

“What the fuck is YOUR deal?” she hollered back, rising to her feet. “You act like an entitled, sniveling, little brat,” she motioned between herself and Hemming, who was clenching his fists. “We saved you. And instead of thanking us, we’re sitting here, playing twenty questions.”

“That’s enough, Helen,” Hemming warned.

“No, I don’t think it is, brother. We’re not running a goddamn lost children charity,” Helen directed her attention at me. “You owe us.”

“Helen,” Hemming growled.

“Let me get this straight, you two unsuccessfully search for me for six years, after y’all struck a deal with my father, promising to protect me. You find me while I’m being attacked, and you aren’t able to eliminate the problem. So, I have to deal with Gideon weeks later, by myself, and he nearly strangles me. But, by some miracle, I’m able to escape by my own doing. Finally, Helen shows up at the very end to hold my hand for a couple of hours, and she wants all the glory,” I laughed, unable to control myself. “That’s rich…Go on, please tell what the other end of my father’s bargain was.”

Helen’s expression conveyed that she might dagger me at any moment. Hemming was staring at the ground. “Daddy Fox said that if we kept baby Fox safe, and if she survived through the Three Kings Game, then she would do us the honor of ending our long and miserable lives,” Helen said slowly, venom lingering on every word.

“W-what’s the Three Kings Game?” I stuttered, letting her statement sink in.

“A game all Fox’s must play if they wish to harness their power,” Helen’s smile was without a trace of happiness. “Lose and die. Win and live. The rules are basic enough that even a simpleton like you can surely comprehend,” she let out a disinterested sigh. “Daddy Fox played. He played so baby Fox wouldn’t have to. Daddy Fox thought he could get out of our bargain—he tried to weasel his way out. He lost the game. Now, it’s baby Fox’s turn.”

I turned to Hemming, “Take me home,” I ordered, my voice shaky. He nodded.

“More demands!” Helen unraveled a little further each time she spoke. She grabbed my shirt as I tried to walk away. “You’re going to uphold your end of the bargain,” she warned, leaning close.

“And if I don’t?” I inched closer.

“Your auntie and snotty cousin will be collecting pieces of you, scattered in their yard, for well into the next decade,” she hissed. As the last word escaped her lips, my knee collided with her groin, and when she buckled forward, she let out a tiny yelp as I slapped her across the face.

“Don’t worry, it’d be an absolute pleasure to kill you! I’ll certainly come through on my end of the bargain, even though your results were lackluster!” I yelled at her as Hemming hoisted me over his shoulder, kicking and screaming, away from his sister and to her Audi. Helen kneeled on the wooden footbridge, holding her cheek and watching us leave.

“Forgive Helen,” Hemming breathed as he sped off.

“Why? She’s been horrible to me from the very beginning,” I mumbled.

“Helen’s not your enemy, Miss Fox,” Hemming took his eye off the road for a moment to lock his gaze with mine, and he sighed, “She’s not against you. She’s for herself.” His hair was disheveled, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. His jaw had more scruff than usual, even on the scarred side. I realized I was ogling at his handsomeness, and I quickly peeled my eyes off of him. It was difficult to remember that I was angry with him, too.

“Isn’t immortality a pretty hot commodity? Who in the world is able to say that they can live forever?”

“Forever is a romanticized notion. The reality of an everlasting life is much different,” Hemming exhaled.

“Elaborate,” I insisted.

“Maintaining a real connection with people is an impossibility. I gave up on friendship a long time ago. People live and die. They grow, they age, they love, they settle, they repopulate, and finally, they meet their end. Others live a short life. Though abbreviated, a short life can still be a wonderful life. But life, nonetheless, ends the same way: in death.”

“Helen and I—we—can’t plant roots. Our agelessness would rouse suspicion. Relationships are a waste of time. Who wants to be with someone with whom they can’t grow old? Someone who would have to bury their children, their children’s children, and so on. In Helen’s case, she’s not even offered the possibility of offspring,” Hemming frowned and tensed his jaw.

“We—hmph— walk this earth, with the promise of an infinite life, but our hands are tied. We’re alive, sure, but not really living. What is the point?” he seemed like he was talking more to himself now, relaying a one-sided conversation he’d had a multitude of times. We pulled up to my Aunt’s house. Billie’s car was parked in the driveway. I saw her glance up from her phone, sitting on the porch swing.

“Wait,” Hemming opened the glove box and retrieved a small, leather-bound book. “For you. It...mmm... explains the Three Kings Game better than Helen or I ever could.” I nodded, shoving it in my purse. Long fingers laced around my hand before I could reach for the car door.

Hemming cleared his throat one last time, “Sometimes, it seems like you’ll never escape a certain time in your life, but the older you get, the more you realize how temporary everything is. I know you’re scared. Helen and I have given you a horrible task. In the story of your life, you’ll have people who meant a lot to you at a certain point in time that really only last a paragraph or sentence. Your grandparents will take up your first few chapters. Brushy Fork might hog a chapter or two, only to be outshined by your time here with your family.” He locked his gaze with mine, “There might be a mention of me, your boss at the Soda Fountain, followed shortly by a sentence about Helen’s unpleasant demeanor, then you’ll move on to the next paragraph, forgetting us entirely,” he squeezed my hand, offering a sad, lop-sided grin.

“And what if I don’t want to forget you at all?” I wriggled out of his grip and slammed the door behind me.

A
month passed
before I opened up the old book Hemming gave me. The tourist season was dying down, with the only customers at the Soda Fountain being snowbirds. After a slow morning at the shop, I found myself alone for the early afternoon. I cracked the book’s spine after wiping down all of the tables and mopping the floor, utterly and completely dying of boredom. The pages were yellowing as a symptom of age. All of the text was handwritten, accompanied by some illustrations.

“I’m surprised you know how to read anything besides the Bible,” a familiar voice chided, and Helen slinked forward to take a seat at the counter. I slammed the book shut. I hadn’t heard her enter.

“What are you doing here?” I sighed, not feeling up to enduring verbal harassment and threats today.

“Ice cream, of course,” Helen hopped onto the counter and slid to the other side. She grabbed a deep, glass bowl and a scoop and attempted to open the cooler I was standing in front of.

“Do you mind?” she asked sweetly. “Or are you going to cunt-punt me again?”

I moved back to my book, flipping through the pages once again. Helen dropped four giant scoops of mint chocolate chip into her dish, hammering several pumps of hot fudge over the top, and sat down with a giant spoon in-hand. I internally chuckled at the sight: an immaculately groomed woman, with not a single hair out of place, hovering over a massive bowl of mint chocolate chip.

“Hemming tries to pass this off as homemade,” she spoke through a mouthful of ice cream, using her spoon to point down to the bowl. “He’s not fooling anyone. I know it’s Blue Bell.”

I nodded, not knowing how to carry on a conversation with someone who threatened to cut my body up into tiny pieces weeks prior. “Skip ahead to the good part. The rest is schizophrenic nonsense. Page 88,” she instructed, watching me try to make out a drawing of the human anatomy on page 5. I turned to page 88, and sure enough, “The Three Kings Game” was scribbled across the top.

It hadn’t occurred to me that the Game was actually a ritual composed of moving parts. The author had provided instructions for the player, nailing down the details of time and materials needed.

RECIPE

The Three Kings Ritual is a game that detaches the soul from the player, in order to access the Shadowside. Understand, the game is not for the uninitiated, for it takes power and wit to emerge as the victor. If the player loses the game, the soul is trapped in the Shadowside, leaving the body to decay. The players include the King, the Queen, and the Fool. Each player believes they are the King, and from their perspective, you are either their queen or their fool.

That being said, if you have questions, you will get answers. You might not like the answers, and the answers might lead to more questions.

I
ngredients
:

1
. A quiet
, dark place with no windows: ideally, wellhouse or barn. A pantry will do.

2. Black salt

3. Two, large looking glasses

4. A single candle

5. A bucket of water

6. A personal belonging of sentimental value, also known as the anchor; a pocket watch, wedding band, etc. will suffice

T
he ritual must
commence at exactly 3:33 a.m. Not 3:30, not 3:32, not 3:34. The evening prior, at twilight, set up for the game, making a triangle with the two mirrors and what you plan to utilize as a seat. Fill the empty space between the mirrors and your seat with a line of black salt, linking the objects together, but do not close the triangle until 3:32 a.m.

Try to rest before the game. Designate a friend or family member as the helper. The helper will check on the ritual room several times while you sleep, making sure no doors open or close, no objects move, and no looking glasses shatter. If any of these things happen, you’re late to the game, or if the helper notices any abnormalities with the set-up, do not play the game.

At 3:28 a.m., proceed to the ritual room, ignite your candle, close your triangle with the rest of the salt, and take a seat. Instruct the helper to blow out the lights and shut the door at 3:33 a.m. The helper will re-open the door at precisely 4:33 a.m. Focus on the flame or gaze into the darkness. Do not peer into the looking glass, no matter how they tempt you.  

“So, why is it imperative I do the ritual?” I asked after re-reading the instructions twice. My stomach growled, and I pulled a protein bar from my purse and began to unwrap it.

“How else are you suppose to know how to control your own power? The Three Kings will give you answers,” Helen said, licking the back of her spoon.

“That’s the thing, what if I don’t want to control my ‘power’? What if I just want to go to college and work in an ice cream shop and be boring?” My stomach growled again, as I searched the contents of my purse for something more substantial.

“I think you and I both know that’s not going to happen,” Helen placed her bowl in the sink. I wasn’t sure what to make of her somewhat-friendly mood. “If you can’t control your power, your power will control you. Much like your friend Gideon. His taste of power made him hungry. It ate at him until he got desperate,” she was referring to our altercation at the funeral. “I hear the final moments feel like you’ve downed an entire bottle of Fireball whiskey, burning your insides until there’s nothing left.”

“You think that’s what’s happening to me? That’s why I’m so hungry all the time?” I gulped down a can of Diet Coke.

“Indeed,” Helen nodded. “Speaking of hungry. I’d like to have a little chat about my brother,” she slinked towards me.

“What about him?” I replied, picking up the mop and busying myself with cleaning the floor.

“Don’t play coy,” Helen appeared in front of me, blocking my mop path. “I’m trying to save you some heartache, baby Fox. How do you see this little crush on my brother ending? All roads lead to the same place. You kill us, or the Three Kings Game kills you. Either way, it’s not the happily-ever-after I’m sure you’ve been picturing.”

I shoved the mop into Helen’s empty hand and my apron into the other. I tugged the ribbon holding my hair back and grabbed my purse from under the counter. “What do you think you’re doing?” Helen called after me.

“Forget me killing you or the stupid kings game killing me. I honestly might kill myself if I have to spend another moment with you,” I opened up the messenger on my phone and began to type. “I just sent your brother a text. I told him I wasn’t feeling well, but you were kind enough to watch the shop for me until close.” The bell jingled behind me as I skipped out the door.

I sauntered home before I climbed up to the loft and cried for the rest of the afternoon. I knew I shouldn’t have let Helen get under my skin, but her words were a splinter I couldn’t remove from my mind. “You kill us, or the Three Kings Game kills you,” replayed over and over in my head. I went into the bathroom to retrieve a box of tissue, but paused to study my reflection. My eyes were puffy, and one side of my hair was disheveled from lying on the bed. My face was flushed in an unattractive way. I hated how soft and round it was, making me appear young. My collarbone didn’t protrude far enough, my thighs touched, and my butt was so big, my jeans gapped at my waist.

“I hate you!” I yelled at the mirror and smacked my fists on the granite countertops. I hated how weak and powerless and out of control I felt. I hated how much others knew. I hated that I let people control how I felt about myself. I hated my fat arms. I hated how I didn’t trust easily. I hated how lonely I was. I hated that I couldn’t stop loving someone who wanted me to destroy them. I grabbed the box of tissues, wiped the tears from my face, and headed back to the bedroom to sleep away the afternoon.

“I received your text…Are—are you alright, Miss Fox?” a rough voice asked from across the room. I gasped in surprise. Hemming perched on the edge of my bed.

“People who ask that question don’t want to know the real answer. I’ll tell you what you want to hear, so you can leave. I’m fine. Just great. Fabulous, even. You know, these darn allergies and effects of global warming,” I plopped down onto the bed beside him and hid my face in a pillow.

Several moments later a hand rested on my back. “You shouldn’t speak to yourself like that, you know,” Hemming said quietly, confirming he had overheard my tantrum. I lifted my head from the pillow to see him. He brushed the hair from my face and laid down beside me. I reached out to touch his scarred jaw, which he shied away from but eventually let me touch him.

“What is my sentence?” I asked him after a while.

“Your sentence?”

“Yeah, my sentence…in the story of your life,” I muttered, realizing how stupid and childish I sounded. I was barely a blip on his radar.

“Oh,” Hemming replied, clearing his throat.

“It was naive to think you might have a sentence about me,” I tried to salvage the moment. “Especially when I’m sure you’ve met many exciting women, I mean, um, people, in your long and interesting life. I’m not exciting. I haven’t swam with the dolphins or dyed my hair or gotten a really regrettable piercing. I’ve never even flashed a bus of old people on their way to Key West, and I tried coffee only a few months ago,” I chuckled and nestled into the cozy space between his chest and arm without his permission and tried to memorize his scent, hoping a trace of it might linger on my pillow. He smelled like pine needles and leather.

“What about—hmph— escaping a cult and letting a giant dog guide you through the Kentucky wilderness? Destroying the black-eyed children without even breaking a sweat? You don’t consider that exciting?” he inquired, keeping his voice low as I traced the outline of all the buttons on his vest with my fingertips. It felt like a treat for Hemming to let me touch him freely, but I didn’t push my luck.

“I guess so,” I muttered into his shoulder. “What was my dad like?”

“We only spoke once,” Hemming stared at the ceiling.

“And?”

“He loved you,” Hemming turned so he could see me. Occasionally, he’d run his fingers across my hair; his touch was careful and hesitant. We lay like that for a long time, tangled and content with saying nothing, until the tangerine sunset came into view, and I knew Aunt June and Billie would begin to worry if I didn’t join them for supper.

Hemming planted a kiss on my forehead as though he’d read my thoughts, then swung his long legs off the bed, and scuttled down the loft ladder as I quickly padded behind him.

“Do you wanna to stay for dinner? I think we’re having chili,” I called after him.

“I can’t stay,” Hemming answered dismissively, and I frowned. He stood with his hand on the door knob. “She was—hmph— a wonderfully odd girl,” he paused, only for a second to clear his throat, “Quietly strong, but burned the ground with her intensity when she was done being quiet. She made a half man whole again, like the first warm ray of sunshine after a blackberry winter, thawing away at life that had been frozen for far too long,” and before I could say anything, he disappeared through the door.

Finals week tore my thoughts from Hemming, Helen and the Three Kings. For the entire weekend, I locked myself into my makeshift study arsenal, on the couch, two pillows and a stack of books on either side of me, with the TV disconnected, and a pile of notecards on my lap. I reminded Hemming I wouldn’t be able to work my shift that week over text message. I hadn’t spoken to him in person since his appearance at the pool house the other day.

“Whadddup?” Billie glided in, wearing a Mrs. Claus apron, carrying a plate of frosted Christmas cookies. “Mom and I just baked these. We knew you were studying and didn’t want to interrupt. Now I don’t care. Want one?” she wiggled the plate in front of me.

“Maybe later,” I coughed. I hadn’t felt hungry all day, which I contributed to pre-test nerves. “Thanks, though,” I smiled, then sneezed into my elbow.

“Please tell me you’re not getting sick as soon as classes are over,” Billie whined, clearing a spot for her to sit down.

“I’m not sick!” I shot back defensively. My hoarse voice wasn’t incredibly convincing.

“That’s whatcha get for swapping cooties with Cyclops,” she teased. “I saw him leave here in a hurry last week. What were y’all talking about?”

“Gonorrhea.”

“Good. It’s always good to make sure your partner is clean before insertion occurs. What a great student I have,” Billie pinched my chin, got up, and plugged in the TV. She reclined on the sofa and flicked through the channels.

“Wait!” I grabbed the remote. A flash of neon on the news caught my eye.

“No, you shouldn’t watch that!” Billie tried to snatch the remote back in attempt to shield me from what was on the screen. They were there, picketing on the steps of the Florida State Capitol.

“Those fag-lovers wanna to legalize gay marriage,” a large woman spat at the news anchor, her bloated face barely fitting in the frame. I dropped the remote, recognizing Joy’s unpleasant expression. “God won’t stand for it. He sure won’t. Men with men! Women with women! Disgustin’. It’s against the natural order! Do ya support such an unnatural couplin’?” Joy directed the question at the news anchor.

“My partner and I believe marriage is a human right. We’d like to be granted the same rights as straight couples,” he replied without skipping a beat.

“That’s too bad,” a tsk-tsk sound hissed through Joy’s lips as she shook her head. She seized the microphone out of the anchor’s hand. “Let this man be a lesson to all y’all out there livin’ in sin. The end is near. Judgment day is upon us.” The man’s face turned as blue as his suit as he grasped his neck, signaling distress to the camera crew. Joy stepped out of the frame. The news anchor collapsed on the ground, foam and drool dribbling from his mouth. His body began to jerk, while his colleagues tried to hold him down, then all of a sudden, he was eerily still and didn’t move again.

Billie covered her gaping mouth with her hand. My heart strained against my rib cage, growing more frantic with each beat, panic pumping through my veins. Billie’s face was pale as she clicked off the TV.