Chapter 17

The next morning,Grams and I were up early. I had tossed and turned all night, thinking about Gloria and about Bran, and by the time I made it to the table, it was going on seven-thirty, and I needed all the coffee in the world.

I stared at my closet. I had wanted to go shopping, but there hadn't been time.

In the world of witches, black wasn't a color for mourning—it was a power color, the color of the night. Like a few other cultures, we tended to wear white or pastels, signifying the rebirth and transition of the newly dead.

I owned few garments that weren't black, purple, or green, but in the back of my closet, I found a pale cream colored dress. I had worn it once before—when we laid Rian's remains to rest. I had sworn I'd never touch it again, but now I stared at the simple sheath, thinking it would honor my cousin. I quietly dressed and put on my makeup, then picked out a pair of ivory pumps that went with it.

As I entered the kitchen, Grams was there, wearing a white pantsuit. She nodded her approval. "Your cousin will appreciate the effort."

"I realized that I don't want to go because it means Owen's actually dead. While we haven't been close for awhile like we used to be, I have so many memories of growing up with him and hanging out. We went out on our first dates as a double-date. We were both so nervous, but it turned out better than we could have hoped." I stared at my latte that Grams had fixed for me. She was making breakfast—grilled cheese and sausage muffins.

"You miss him," she said, setting my plate in front of me.

I nodded. "I do. I miss him. He was a bright spot in the world, until he got into drugs and booze. He tried so hard to fight the addiction, but I guess…sometimes you don't win those battles."

"Sometimes the enemy overwhelms us," Grams said, sitting opposite me. She had fed the cats, and Fancypants—who was eating his bowl of cat food with obvious relish.

"Thanks for taking part in this. You didn't know Owen much."

"What little I did, he seemed like a man who could have gone on to rule his world, but sometimes, things just get too heavy to carry. He might have been shouldering other burdens that nobody knew about."

We spent the rest of our breakfast in silence, and then Grams called her town car. Bree arrived, with good news.

"The lawyers talked to my ex-clients. They've dropped the lawsuit. I don't know what they said to them, but that's one big worry off my chest. Thank you so much." She looked positively gleeful. "I had no clue how I was going to deal with all of that. I'd like to pay you back for their time?—"

Grams held up her hand. "No, dear. Consider it a gift. They're on retainer for me, and they manage my affairs. I pay them plenty."

"They must be expensive," I blurted out, then blushed. "Sorry." Grams was reticent about financial discussions, I'd discovered. She seldom divulged much about her own affairs. I had the feeling she had money, because she'd had no problem buying a house in Port Townsend. But I never asked because it felt gauche.

"They are, far more than you probably know. But I have far more money than you probably realize." She glanced at the clock. "Nearly time to go."

"Oh! I forgot to tell you—I guess I was so tired I just blocked it all out. You'll never guess what happened last night." I launched into telling Bree about Gloria and what had happened. "The woman's crazy pants." I stared at my hands. "Actually, she's a broken woman who just couldn't handle the things that happened to her. I felt sorry for her. I don't forgive her for destroying my shop—and somehow I think she had some magical hand in making my customers angry—she's a powerful witch. Very powerful. But I do feel like she ended up with the rug pulled out from under her, and she fell hard."

"Holy shit, that sounds scary. Have you talked to Daisy yet?"

I shook my head. "No, but I plan to call her on the way to the wake. Maybe she knows more now. I still wish Bran could come with us, but I understand why he can't."

"Speaking of the wake, the town car just pulled up outside," Grams said, sliding her arms into her coat. As she buttoned the camel-colored trench coat, I slid on a light jacket. It would be warm in the car and, as far as I knew, we weren't planning on traipsing outside for any reason.

"We'll be back late," I said. "If you need to go feed the dogs, no problem."

"They're in the car. I'll set up a zip line so they can run back and forth—I brought a portable one with me, since I plan on being here all day. I'll make sure they can't get into the garden. While I'm here, I might as well take a look at the remains of your shop and see if I can salvage anything."

I let out a relieved breath. "If you like, but be cautious. By now, who knows what's left? It rained this morning, and after Gloria blew up the building, well…I'm not hoping for a miracle. The Fire Marshal inspected it, but it's pretty clear what happened, especially with Gloria's confession." I gathered my purse and keys. "Ready, Grams?"

"Let's go. Nice to see you, Bree." Grams waved a be-gloved hand at her as we headed out the door. The town car was waiting.

* * *

The drive upthe coast to Port Townsend was pretty, though the gloominess of the day filtered through the ever-present clouds. The wind swept briskly through the peninsula, and as the town car smoothly rolled along over the asphalt, I stared out the window. I didn't feel like talking, I was so lost in my thoughts.

Bran hadn't texted me yet, and I had this sudden fear that he'd go back to Gloria. That he'd feel obligated to stay by her side, given what had happened. I had grown to depend on him, and if he did take her back, then he'd probably distance himself from me.

But just as I was sinking into a depressed vision of him coming over to the house to tell me that he'd chosen to stand by her, I received a text.

morning, sweetheart. i'm so sorry about everything that happened with gloria. i just found out from daisy that gloria is implicated in julien's death, and once she's clear headed enough, she'll be extradited to France. daisy's not sure of the exact circumstances, but…it sounds like gloria may not have been telling the truth about what happened to her. julien's family said that he broke up with her to go back to his wife and she stalked him. she broke in one night while his wife was gone to a show with their daughter, and stabbed him, then ran away. the embassy has no record of helping her escape—only of receiving word of the crime.

I stared at the block of text, trying to fathom what I was reading. "Grams, Bran said that Gloria was lying last night." I read her the text. "Could she just be psychotic?"

"Could be," Grams said. "Text him back so he knows you got it."

I blinked. "Oh, yeah. I was just so startled by the news that I didn't even think." I texted Bran back. now, that blows my mind. i didn't expect her to be lying. do you think she believes her story, or do you think that she knows she's making up shit?

i don't know,he texted. gloria was always sneaky and i'm thinking now that she was hoping to play on our sympathies long enough to either get away or to convince us not to call the police. whatever the case, it's up to the psychiatrists and the judge now. we're pressing charges for all the destruction, or insurance won't cover it. and we're pressing charges for assault because if she's that far gone, we don't dare take a chance on her coming at us again.

right,I texted back. okay, we'll talk either after i get back. bree's over at my house right now. i guess i don't need her there, considering we caught gloria, but it makes me feel better knowing she's watching over things.

i hope the wake goes easy, love. take care and i'll talk to you soon.

I stuffed my phone in my purse and turned to stare out the window.

* * *

Port Townsend wasopen to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and it overlooked the Salish Sea. On a clear day it felt like you could see forever over the expanse of waves as they rolled in to crest against the shore. The air was filled with the scent of seaweed and decay, but it was a comforting scent—the smell of home. The mournful call of the gulls sounded lonely, and as I stared at the tidy but eccentric town, I shuddered. I'd grown up here, I'd gone to school and met Rian and planned to spend the rest of my life in my hometown until the horrors that had happened.

As our car rolled through town, I caught sight of the building in which the Butcher had held Rian and me hostage, and I shuddered. Grams noticed.

"What's wrong?" she asked as we sat parked at a stoplight.

I pointed to the rundown building. "There. That's the building that the Butcher…that's where he…" I turned away, dashing at the tears that threatened. I was grateful I'd worn waterproof mascara and done my eyes so the shadow wouldn't bleed and run.

"Oh," Grams said. She squinted at it. "What's it called?"

"It was the old Armandine Hotel, but that went out of business about six years ago and nobody's bought up the land. I wish somebody would just raze it, along with the memories it holds." I pressed my hand to my stomach, then the car started moving and my queasiness slowly diminished.

My mother's house was on the corner of Madison and Lawrence Streets. As we arrived, there were cars parked all the way down the block, and it was only ten-thirty. Had everyone shown up early? But that was when I realized that it was a big football game day, and there would be football parties going on at a lot of houses.

Port Townsend was a colorful town. Home to all sorts of quirky artists and small-goods artisans, the color of the town was like a veneer. Long ago, Port Townsend had hopes of becoming the port city for Washington State, but Seattle had taken the title, and the little peninsula town had gone ghost until the seventies when the hippie crowd discovered it and gave it a renewed sense of life.

They had come in with their arts and crafts and communes, and soon the town began to breathe again. Now, it was filled with Victorian houses that mimicked the painted ladies of San Francisco, and Fort Worden—a military base that had seen plenty of action—had been turned into a park.

First constructed during the years 1898 through 1920, Fort Warden sat on over four hundred acres and, although no one had ever fired the cannons during the war, the Fort and its soldiers kept a strict watch over Admiralty inlet. Eventually, the fort had been sold to the town, who then sold it to Washington State. Before being turned into an actual historical park, the fort had been used to house inmates being held in juvenile detention.

The Fort had several batteries, including the old Battery Kinzie, a mammoth structure in weathered metal that was covered with graffiti. The place scared the hell out of me. I always felt, when I walked anywhere near it, that something was lurking within. Each time I went to visit, I tried to steer clear of it, and that would include today.

As we got out of the car, I stared at my mother's house. It seemed small, now, though when I was young it had felt huge. Two story, it wasn't a Victorian, but it resembled the style, with a bay window that overlooked the front porch. It had a banquette for a window seat and when I was young, I'd spent many an afternoon curled up with a book, watching over the front yard. Upstairs, my old room had a similar window, directly above, and I'd watched the moon and the stars from that lookout, leaning against the glass as the leaves fell, leading into winter snowfall.

The wake was being held at my mother's house, given my aunt's house was too small. As Grams and I ascended the porch steps, the front door opened and there stood my mother.

Catharine was shorter than me—I'd inherited my father's height—but her hair, like mine—carried the coppery red gene. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and she was wearing a pair of camel linen trousers, along with a matching blouse. Her face was too red, which meant she'd been drinking or crying—or both, and she wore oversized tinted glasses.

"Elphyra, Grams, welcome. Come in. Ciara will be here in a few minutes. I've been getting everything ready." She shooed us inside. In the living room, I saw a big spread set out, along with a couple caterers. On the center table, surrounded by food, was an urn.

"Oh, you did not put Owen's ashes in the center of the food table?" I broke away and immediately moved the urn to the mantel, sitting it centered over the cozy flames that were burning below. My mother had a gas fireplace—a good thing, given how careless she could be. "There, that's better."

"What's wrong with where I had them? He's the reason we're here," she said, clueless.

I thought about trying to make her understand how uncomfortable that would make people feel but then decided that it was a lost cause. "Just leave them where I put them."

"Oh, all right. I'm busy, anyway. I need a smoke," she added, heading over to her purse which was sitting on the desk in the corner.

"You're still smoking?" I couldn't help it—I judged. Smoking was a filthy habit and it made everything, including the smoker, reek of nicotine and smoke. I had to give her credit, though. She didn't argue back. We'd both learned that any arguments in this department were a lose-lose outcome. Her smoking had led to numerous fights and recriminations, and with me refusing to stay under her roof because of the habit. For one thing, the smell made me queasy, and for another, I didn't want second hand smoke in my lungs and my mother wasn't polite about taking it outside.

When I was young, she had once told me—when I complained about her smoking at the dinner table—that if I didn't want smoke in my face, I was the one who needed to move. I'd started eating my dinners early after that, leaving her alone at the dinner table.

I shook my head, glancing over at Grams. Grams gave me a rueful look, but just smiled. I thought she'd learned to pick and choose her battles, too. Or maybe she just took it in stride because it wasn't her house.

"How long till Ciara gets here?"

"She's on her way, I asked her five minutes ago." As my mother returned to the kitchen and Grams followed her to help, I stopped by my cousin's ashes and lightly stroked the urn with my fingers. It was so strange. The thought boggled my mind: this one little bottle held what had been an entire person.

"I hope you're happy now," I whispered. "I hope you're free, and out of whatever pain you were in. Maybe one day, you'll be able to tell me why. Until then, peace, my cousin. Peace be on your soul, your heart, and your mind. May you flow with the river, glow in the golden sun. May you frolic in the meadows, until the day is done."

At that moment, people began to trickle in, and I turned off my emotions and turned on hostess-mode, and did my best to carry the day through for all of us.