The Blood Witch Saga

2. Words on a Page

My assistant, Jessica Flores, met me at the door with coffee and a frown the next morning. “Why are you here?”

I took the coffee and drank nearly half of it in one go. The motel had miserable coffee. “I work here, last I checked.”

“No one expects you to be here.”

“You did,” I countered, lifting the coffee cup.

“Well, I know you better than the rest. Here are the notes from yesterday, I figured you"d want to see them before the stand-up.”

“Thanks.” In return, I handed her the now mostly dry file folder with the employee reviews. “I think I saved them. Mostly. Can you go through them and make sure everything is legible?” I took the notes, glancing over the page. “Have we figured out what is causing the excessive solder problem on the wave line?”

She shook her head. “John Padilla is going over the boards from yesterday. He thinks it"s a board design issue.”

I nodded and turned toward the conference room. “Make sure I get results from him by close of business.” We parted ways, and I took a moment to take a big breath and steady myself before facing the assembled line supervisors and product managers. I waded through all of the platitudes and attempts at offering me comfort without actually throwing any punches, which I figured was something I didn"t get enough credit for on a day-to-day basis.

By the time the end of the day rolled around, my shoulders were tight, and my head was throbbing, and I wanted to go back to the crappy motel and crawl into its crappy bed and try to sleep more than I had the night before. However, Jessica reminded me that we were supposed to be meeting at the Iron Horse for drinks for one of my inspectors’ birthday.

I pulled into the local watering hole, which doubled as a biker bar, and promised myself a single drink and the minimal amount of socializing before I got out of the car. I half expected Finneas whatever his name was to be lurking in the shadows, or maybe his mysterious bad guys. I put him out of my mind and headed inside the Iron Horse Saloon, where I could see a group of my product line was already in full swing. Lupe, who was the birthday girl, was laughing, bent over the table as I came in and approached the bar.

I held up two fingers to the bartender, then indicated Lupe and dropped a twenty on the bar. Best to get my birthday drink out of the way early so I could skip out. Debbie poured two shots of tequila and hung a lime wedge on each glass. I took it to the table as Lupe sat up, wiping her eyes.

“Boss, you made it!” Lupe stood, her smile wide. “You didn"t have to, you know?”

I smiled and handed her the shot. “Wouldn"t miss it.” One of the guys passed the saltshaker and I dutifully mirrored Lupe"s movements to down the shot. They all moved seats so I could sit and my lead, Arturo, leaned close enough that I could hear him over the general din. “Hey, don"t feel like you need to stay. We all know what you"re going through.”

I nodded at him. “I got nothing to go home to but an empty motel room with a crappy bed, worse coffee, and a broken hot tub.”

He crinkled his nose, then lifted his hand to signal Debbie, then a circle to indicate he was buying a round. “I don"t need another,” I said.

He chuckled. “Everybody needs another.”

“I have to drive home.” Nevertheless, I did the shot with the rest of them. Which meant I had to stay and buy a round for the whole group.

Before I knew it, I was four shots in and starting to regret my decision to come in the first place. I got up to go to the bathroom and stopped at the bar on the way through. “One for everyone but me, I need caffeine and food. Peter still in the kitchen?”

Debbie nodded. “Nachos, fries, and some wings?”

“Am I that predictable?”

“Only when you"re drinking tequila,” Debbie answered. “You should stick to whiskey.”

“Tell me about it.” I was a little unsteady on my feet as I made my way into the tiny bathroom with two stalls that seemed to shrink every time I came in the place. My head was buzzy, and my stomach reminded me that I hadn"t stopped for lunch that day, making that greasy roach-coach breakfast burrito at morning break my only food. I relieved myself and washed up, stopping back at the bar to give Debbie my credit card to run for the round and the food.

I hung around another hour, keeping to my diet coke, and eating until I felt like I was sober enough to walk the three blocks to the motel because I had no delusions about being sober enough to drive. I wished Lupe a happy birthday one last time and made my exit, tucking my keys between my fingers like they"d taught me in my sixth grade PE self-defense class because I had three blocks to walk, and it was close to midnight in a city that had a lot of violence. Not that I had a lot of illusions about fighting off thieves and rapists, but I wasn"t afraid to s***h and run.

I could walk back and get the car in the morning. Most of the walk was through a residential area, but the last of it was on well-lit and busy streets. I was cutting through the parking lot of the nearly defunct shopping center and could see the door of my motel room when I heard tires squealing and looked behind me to see a car barreling right toward me. I ran toward what I thought was the safety of the building, but it kept coming, picking up speed.

I jumped to the side, falling and rolling on the broken concrete as the car crashed into the brick wall of what had once been a Dillard"s department store. Climbing to my feet, I was already cursing, and obviously not thinking clearly as I yanked open the driver"s side door. I only had a second to look before hands were grabbing me and pulling me away.

“Are you crazy?”

I blinked into Finneas"s eyes, confused as he pressed me into the wall around the corner from the car. “I"m not the one driving like a f*****g lunatic.” I pushed him away and moved back to the corner. I could have sworn there was no one behind the wheel. Now there was no car, just the impression it had made in the wall. “What the actual f**k is going on?”

“Like I"ve been trying to tell you, someone is after you. They would prefer to take you alive, but dead works too.”

I rounded on him, shoving him against the wall. “For all I know that someone is you. None of this started happening until you showed up here.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “No, not me. As I said, I am a friend of your father"s. We heard rumors that someone caught your scent, so I came to try to find you before they did.” He chewed his lower lip and bobbled his head a little. “I probably led them to you, now that I think on it, so maybe you"re not wrong.”

“Tell me why I"m not dragging you up the street to the police?”

“They can"t protect you,” Finneas said.

“And you can?” I asked, less than amused by the turn my whole existence had taken since this man had come into my life.

“Gods, no. I can only help you find help. My gifts are largely passive, tracking and the like.”

“So, help me, you had better start making some sense or I"m going to start throwing punches,” I growled the words, getting more irritated with the man as the seconds crawled by.

“May I suggest we get off the streets? No telling where your would-be assassins have gotten themselves off to.” He gestured toward the motel, shrugging me off, and ducking around me before straightening his suit coat and adjusting his hat. He set off at a brisk pace, leaving me no real choice but to follow.

I unlocked the door and opened it, my eyes searching around the gloomy room. I half expected someone to jump out of the shadows at me.

“Not to worry, I warded the place before I came to find you,” Finneas said, as he held a hand to the door and then murmured something I didn’t catch. The whole door seemed to shimmer and then he was pushing me in and following. There was a wooden box on the bed, a trunk really, beautifully carved with ornate scrollwork, and a silver clasp. “I"ve been holding that for you since…well for quite some time.”

“Who are you?” I asked, half certain that the answer to that question would only raise ten more.

are“Just a family friend.”

“I have no family,” I responded, though the bite in my words was dulled by my distraction with the box.

“You may find you are wrong,” Finneas responded, bowing slightly.

I inhaled, tearing my gaze from the trunk to look at him. I was tired, half-drunk, and ready to be done with all of it. “Get out.”

“I"ll leave you to your business, but I will be near enough to protect you until you are safe.” He tipped his hat toward the trunk. “I think you"ll find that your transfer to San Francisco will come sooner than you expect. You need to get there soon. You"ll be safer there.”

I turned to the trunk, fingering the clasp. “What do you mean I"ll be safe…” I turned to look, but Finneas was gone, just like the car.

“f*****g tequila,” I muttered. I rubbed my head and stared at the trunk, not entirely sure I wanted to know what was inside. For the moment I decided it could wait and I went to the bathroom to get a glass of water. My head was not going to be a fan of me come morning.

Still rubbing at my head as if that could stop the impending headache once I was sober, I sat on the bed, turning the trunk to face me. It was only slightly smaller than my old steamer trunk had been, but much more beautiful. The bulk of the trunk was a pale wood, nearly white, but the scrollwork and accents were in a rich mahogany. The lock was unlike anything I had seen before, and I wasn"t sure exactly how I was supposed to open it. There was something that looked like a button, so I pressed it. For a moment nothing happened.

“Right thumb, please,” a voice said.

I looked around, half expecting that Finneas had returned from wherever he had gone, but when the strange man didn"t appear, I lifted my right hand to the box and touched my thumb to the lock. There was a whirring sound and then a pop, and the lock opened. For a long moment, I just stared at it, trying to decide if I was drunker than I had thought I was, but really? I had seen a car ram into a brick wall and then just vanish, and a man had disappeared between one word and the next and a strange box had spoken to me.

So, yeah, I decided that it was the tequila and vowed to never let them make me drink it again.

Still, curiosity won me over and I eased open the trunk"s lid, shifting closer slowly, half-convinced something was going to jump out of it and eat my face. Instead, I found a neatly ordered trunk filled with what seemed to be family memorabilia from a family I didn"t even know. There were baby clothes and a silver rattle, an envelope of baby teeth and as I shifted some of it, my hand found something heavier.

I lifted it slowly. The binding was old leather with an unusual coat of arms etched into the front and it was bigger than a phone book. I sat back against the headboard and let one hand caress the leather reverently. Whoever had crafted this book had been skilled.

I opened the cover, my breath short and escaping from behind my teeth which had clamped down over my lower lip as my heart raced. I don"t know exactly what I was expecting, but the first page deflated those expectations.

The words appeared to be in some foreign language that might have been an approximation of Greek or maybe some Cyrillic language, or something like it, but I was only guessing based on some tickling in the back of my brain that I couldn’t identify. I couldn"t read it, and that was the important bit. With a little less trepidation, I turned a few pages until I came across something I did understand, pictures.

They were old, ancient even, faded and yellowed, the sepia tones bleeding into one another as wizened old faces grinned out of them. Clothing from a century ago or more hung from gaunt frames while toothy grins beamed at the camera. Women wore furs and had hair swept up off graceful necks while men wore suits and hats, not unlike what Finneas wore.

The quality of images improved a few pages in, and I was starting to notice which faces went with which faces, and as I turned another page, I saw a face so similar to mine, I had to look up at the mirror across the room from me to confirm what I was seeing.

She was younger than me, and the picture was sixty or more years old, but those dark eyes that gleamed in a bright afternoon sun were my eyes, and the thick, unruly black hair that hung in curly sheets, all puffed up in the humidity was the image of my own, or mine before I had chopped it to shoulder length and paid a fortune to have it straightened every month.

Her skin was far fairer than mine, however. I baked in the sun like a Thanksgiving Day turkey does in the oven, my skin going from pale olive to a roasted tan that let me blend in with the locals enough that everyone was surprised I didn"t actually speak Spanish, other than the little bit I remembered from Ms. Lorenzo"s Spanish class in high school.

My finger caressed over her young face, then as I turned a page, an envelope fell from the book, sliding to the floor under my leg. I set the book aside and retrieved the envelope, turning it over to find my name in a beautiful script. It was just my first name, and it was only plain blue ballpoint ink, but it struck me hard. I don"t know why, but suddenly it was real…or something.

This trunk had belonged to someone before me, someone who knew me. Someone who was family.

I put the envelope down and stood, pacing to the door, then around the bed, and into the bathroom, round and round while I pulled my hands through my hair and shook my head and tried to deny that any of the last week had happened.

My family was gone. I had accepted that fact a long time ago. I had no family. I had filled those empty holes with my work. I didn"t need old wounds ripped open by some f*****g magical box from some family who had abandoned me on a park bench when I didn"t even know who the hell I was.

I wasn"t doing this. I shoved the envelope back into the book, put the book in the trunk, and put the trunk on the wobbly table by the window. I slammed down another glass of water and brushed my teeth, double-checked the lock on the door, and turned off the lights.

I was going to forget the whole damn thing.