The Atheist's Daughter (2 page)

Mrs. Norton said, “Mr. Brass is occupied at the moment. There’s a patrol car outside of the building and a Sergeant Foster is at our front counter. It appears the police don’t trust Mr. Brass. They suspect he’s using our little shop for mundane purposes.”

“Drugs.”

“Or guns or money laundering. Something trivial.” A hint of amusement brightened her face. “Sergeant Foster believes Mr. Brass is a villain.”

Well, why wouldn’t he think so?
King’s Corner Gold and Pawn
leant money to the poor. Respectable society and its guardians always regarded such establishments with suspicion. The shop’s owner, then, would be viewed with suspicion as well.

Tall and strong, graying at the temples, Mr. Brass was exactly the kind of man who would own such a business. If
King’s Corner
had a villain to observe, it would clearly be him.

Mortal and infinitely careless with the years bestowed upon him, Sergeant Foster would waste hours researching Mr. Brass’ background. If he bothered to seek elsewhere, he’d find young Mr. Locke’s record was also spotless.

It was unlikely he’d concern himself with the ethereal Alice Poe. Nor would he probe into Miss Sweet’s past. So ancient a creature as she must be harmless.

Most shockingly, he’d dismiss the polite and unprepossessing Mrs. Norton out of hand. Not that Mrs. Norton was a villain. Not by his standards.

By his standards, Mrs. Norton was an abomination.

“I hate crows,” Miss Sweet said in a whisper.

“Naturally.”

Animals hate us
, Miss Sweet thought,
but birds are the worst. Crows and ravens are the worst of the worst.

They scream at us, hoping their cries will awaken the world. If they dared, they’d use their talons and beaks on us.

Only they see us for what we are.

“Tonight,” Mrs. Norton said, “as dusk falls. You’ll go hunting.”

Miss Sweet didn’t need her seer stone to visualize the task ahead. Somehow, she’d catch a bird; she dared not fail, even if it took all night. Returning to the pawnshop, the bird shrilling from inside its cloth prison, she’d slam the bag against the floor to stun the miserable beast. Reaching for its throat, looking it in the eye, she’d throttle her enemy.

Once it was dead, things would be better. In her experience, dead was always better.

Her fingers tearing at its feathers, she’d pluck the crow’s carcass. She’d boil the meat from its body, letting steam rise into her face as she hovered over the pot. Using a fresh kettle with each change of water, she’d watch the bones roil beneath her until they floated free from their frame. Only then could she collect what she needed.

Five bones. One from each of the crow’s wings. One from each of its legs. The biggest one from its chest.

Pulling the linen cloth from the surface of her table, she’d chant her incantation and spill the boiled sticks from her fingers. In her mind’s eye, she could see the bones clattering onto the table and bouncing lightly over its lacquered top.

When the bones lay still, they’d provide a tiny window into the future. It wouldn’t be much but it would be something. A child’s cry, a whispered word, the sight of frost on a window. Some little something.

If she wasn’t focused when the bones stopped, if she let herself be distracted, she’d miss the magic when it was offered. If such a thing happened, as it had twice before, she’d have to start over again.

Worse yet, she’d have to tell Mrs. Norton of her mistake. There would be punishment.

She shuddered.

“In the morning, you’ll tell me if we can stay,” Mrs. Norton said.

“We haven’t done anything here. Not yet.”

“Nor can we, if Sergeant Foster is watching.”

“It would be a bother to leave.”

“Better to do it now than in the summer.”

“Summer.” The word slipped lovingly from Miss Sweet’s mouth. “When we start to feed.”

“Hungry already, love?”

“A little. It’s not just me. We all are.”

“A young crow,” Mrs. Norton said. “One in its prime, with feathers so black they shine. It will tell you what you need to know.”

“What if we have to go?”

“I’ve made some inquiries, just in case. Another business, I think, possibly in Winterhaven. Do you remember Winterhaven?”

Miss Sweet shook her head.

“No surprise,” Mrs. Norton said. “It’s a little nothing of a town. Still, it’s one of my favorites.

“People die so easily there.”

Chapter Three

From Kristin’s Diary

In a few weeks, I’ll graduate from high school. The USPS guy just delivered my blue cap and gown in a tear-away envelope. Welcome to the world of biodegradable clothing, guaranteed to dissolve in fifty short years. 

Let’s hear one last cheer for the Wildcats. Go, Wildcats, go!

Free at last, free at last.

Finally.

One school year and a full-fledged psychotic trauma later than everyone else. Everybody says I’m well-adjusted now, Dr. Ron, just like you promised Mom. Sure, things were tough when I was admitted to Kendall, my two best friends at the time, Jessica and Audrey, never talked to me again, but I got better.

Right?

Of course, I did. I’ve been cured. The Psych Patrol did its job.

But can I tell you a secret, Doc? Just between you and me and the black-lined pages in this book? The first day home, I quit taking the pills you prescribed. They fuzzed my brain up really badly, they made me feel slow, they made me feel stupid, and they didn’t help.

AT ALL.

Good thing you explained what the pills were supposed to do. It’s easy to know how to act when someone’s given you the script.

Every morning, I flush the circular white pill down the toilet bowl. Every night, just before bedtime, I flush the rectangular pink one away, too. It’s a waste, sure, but I don’t have any choice. I tried to tell Mom I didn’t want to take them, didn’t really need them, and she freaked. You think
I’m
nuts, you should have seen how she acted.

I caught her once, counting the pills in each of my bottles, just to make sure I was still on my medication. She was mortified when I came up behind her. She pretended she was checking to see if the pharmacy had filled the order correctly.

‘Cause the six dollar a month prescription fee starts to add up over a lifetime.

I don’t want you to think I’m bitter about our time together. After all, it’s not like I wasted eleven months of my childhood behind locked doors, barred windows, and an electrified fence.

Well, no, now that I think about it, it’s
exactly
like that. But I did get something positive from the experience.

I started keeping this diary….

Chapter Four

Winterhaven

“Sixty-two, sixty-six,” the clerk said.

Kristin’s mother nodded, a worried wrinkle creasing her brow. Unsnapping the latch on her wallet, Becky Faraday tugged a credit card from the plastic sleeve holding it.

A year ago, what was it Mom said?

“No more plastic. We’ll keep one card for emergencies but that’s it. We’re done being held hostage by the MasterCard Mafia.”

Kristin shook her head.
Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in
.

She left the store, the door’s electronic sensor offering a single beep of protest. The empty sidewalk stretched past her, long and wide, curving at the corner of the Mall.

Winterhaven Mall was dying, it was that simple. New, it had boasted of twenty-four stores, a movie theater and a fast food restaurant. Now, only five shops still survived. Judging by the face of the clothing store’s sad-eyed owner, the Mall could expect one more vacancy in the near future.

By Christmas
,
only the check-cashing store will still be open,
she thought
. Not that I care.

In six months, I’ll be gone from here, too. When I need to go shopping, it’ll be in Ashfork
.

Ashfork’s three-story Parkway Mall was newer, better, nicer in every way than anything Winterhaven had to offer. In some ways, it was a reflection of the city around it.

Ashfork was growing and expanding, happily embracing progress and all of the promises it offered.  Besides its grand shopping Mecca, the city had a thriving Tech Center and a newly-constructed university. Its entire community was thriving, willingly surrendering its farmland to fresh business opportunities and ever-expanding housing developments.

Ashfork was everything Winterhaven was not.

“Mom doesn’t care,” Kristin told an empty storefront window.

Becky Faraday rejected the very concept of progress. “We’ll shop local,” she said that morning, “until every last store in our town is closed.”

‘Shopping local’ meant higher prices, fewer selections and outdated styles. Everything was more expensive in their small town.

No Dollar Stores for us. No Midnight Madness or Half-Price Sundays here, no two-for-one coupons.

Live in Winterhaven, you pay full price for everything. You pay and you pay and the stores die, anyway. 

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Kristin jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice. Becky was beside her, the store’s electronic buzzer failing to give warning of her exit. Holding a shopping bag in her arms, she looked at her daughter quizzically.

“Thinking about finals,” Kristin said. With her lie came the sound:
Schhhct!

A sharp, stabbing noise reverberated inside her head. From experience, she knew only she could hear it. Besides, it was never the sound that bothered her when she lied. It was the physical sensation accompanying it.

The skin on her face started to burn. Her lips pulled together like warm rubber, squeezing against one another. A stab of pain went through her as the lower lip melted into its twin.

The dark glass of an empty shop revealed her reflection. The lower half of her face had disappeared behind a sheath of skin. Smooth and featureless, this barrier of flesh locked her words inside of her.

No one else saw this image. Unless she showed an outward sign of distress, even her mother remained unaware of the transformation. At thirteen, confused by the sudden change in her appearance, the sudden change in her
life
, she’d blurted out everything as it happened to her. Her mouth, the visions, all of it.

Biiiig mistake
, she realized now.
First I got pubes, then I got breasts. How was I to know visions weren’t part of the package deal?

“Comp 202 still giving you a headache?” Becky asked. “No, that was last semester, wasn’t it?”

About to speak, Kristin caught herself. The movement pushed her mouth against the flap of skin. Her teeth rubbed the wet surface, scraping its virgin seal.

A drop of blood fell onto her tongue. The dull, metallic taste always made her want to gag.

“Semester before last,” she said. The words sounded faint to her, muffled behind their fold.

Schhhct!
In an instant, the sheath was gone.

Her mouth was back. Cool air pushed in as if it had never left. Darting her tongue forward, she touched it briefly, reassuringly, over each of her lips. Except for the lingering taste of blood, it was as if nothing had happened.

“I thought English Comp was going to be the death of you,” Becky said. “Thank goodness for Hawkins.”

“My turn now. Poli-sci is Hawk’s kryptonite.”

“Poor Hawkins.”

“Poor Liz.”

“Liz? Isn’t she going to the University?”

“Only if she manages to graduate,” Kristin said. “She’s already signed up for summer school. Calculus.”

“That’s Trevor Silva’s subject, isn’t it? The teacher who gives three hours of homework for every hour of class?”

“That’s the one.”

“Liz may never leave high school.” Shifting her shopping bag, Becky stepped off the sidewalk.

Following her mother, Kristin stopped abruptly. “Mom?”

Becky waited at the back of their sedan. “I could use some help here.”

“Don’t you see?”

“What?”

“Piotrowski’s Café. The front door is open.”

Becky pressed at the car’s key fob. “Damned trunk opener. I replaced this battery less than a week ago.”

“Somebody cleaned the restaurant’s windows,” Kristin said. “Somebody painted the wooden shutters.”

“Maybe they’re finally putting it up for sale.”

Taking the car keys, Kristin opened the car’s trunk. “I think I’ll check it out.”

“Now?”

“I’ll walk home. It’s not far.”