All Hallows Read online

  “Don’t be dramatic. I can’t tell you how many things I have thought were lost until… here, I’ll get you a doggie bag.”

  “Those are for leftovers,” Abby said, sitting on her butt, caressing Kenna’s leg with her good hand.

  “I’m a sucker for finger foods, but don’t eat yours unless they can’t be saved. Wait to hear what the surgeon says.” Maren walked outside the circle of salt to a dispenser. “I do love a park with free doggie bags.”

  “They’re not… they’re for poop.”

  “How many do you think there are?” Maren yanked repeatedly at the dispenser (line-art on the side depicted a dog engaged in an unmistakable act). The force of her actions resulted in a single usable bag before the unit jammed. “Curses. I’d have liked a few to use in my… ah well. Things could be worse.”

  “How?” Abby asked, beginning to cry as adrenaline faded to shock.

  “How? Your fingers were—you’d just washed your hands, so there’s something. Don’t forget we fixed your snoot, too. Here’s the bag. The advertisement is quite graphic, but this one’s empty.”

  “They don’t come with poop in them. You add that yourself.”

  Maren scowled. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “People with dogs.”

  “That explains it. I can like a dog, but rarely the owner. Now I know why. What else is good? Ah, your child lives, which I gather was important to you. You’re situated well—you can drive to that hospital in a snap.”

  “I can’t drive.”

  “Nonsense. Drove here, didn’t you?”

  “I had two hands.”

  “Still do. You have all of your fingers, too, though I recognize the ones in the bag could see attention. Hence the hospital. Buck-up, Abigail. You have escaped softly.”

  “She’ll come back. The voice.”

  Maren licked her thumb and tied-off the thin plastic bag. She handed it to Abby. “Watch the thin walls. Will Mary start again? Hard to say.”

  “You don’t know? You said she has power—”

  “—Power on par with whom? I have power, too. Even you have power, though you hide it well. Thanks to that worm, you’ll tap strength you didn’t know existed. Mothers are filled with hidden forces.”

  “I’ve never felt weaker.”

  “Then you are already on the path the power. The best way to gain it, I find, is to exercise it. To spend it. Use it and grab it back again. It becomes a cycle. Grows like a muscle. Beware those who hoover-up power and try not to let it leak—all they ever do is build walls.”

  “The bag’s leaking,” Abby noted.

  “Not as much as your hand. I wish you’d carried a pocket knife. Using your teeth was… that hole in your arm has stopped, so that’s a plus. The child is turning pink again. How quickly the young are hurt, and how quickly they heal.”

  “Not without you,” Abby said, tears in her eyes. “I failed her. It was just like the voice said. Next time—”

  “—No more about next times,” Maren said. “Here, I can knot that corner to stop the… who gives bags away for free? It was a good thing we found one before somebody took the lot.”

  “They’re always there.” Abby looked at the bag, which, weighted with ants and blood and the stumps of fingers, had stretched until it was more of a tinted window than solid black.

  “Always? I’ll stop by again if that’s the case. Swanky for a park. You expect those genteel touches at a golf course, but… I have a thought about the next time.”

  “Next time?”

  “You were the one carrying-on about it. Mary. The worm will protect you,” Maren said, tapping the zipper on her waistcoat. “Night worms are good at absorbing darkness. It won’t play puppetmaster, but it will help you reason when… you got those fingers off, didn’t you? But then there’s the child.”

  “Kenna.”

  “Yes, her. If I can’t take the gift, I will give it one. Have to. If Mary steals her now, I’ll be the laughingstock of Samhain. Does it like dolls?”

  “Not the… she has this oily rag, thanks to her father.”

  Maren nodded with approval. “Hard to beat that, but if that red scrap had been properly enchanted, we wouldn’t be where we are.” Maren pulled an object from her purse.

  “This is Orenda. Doesn’t speak or move—not much—but there are no batteries to replace. She draws flies with the windows open or closed. All power has its balance. That red cloth will make a fine dress for her when you can sew again.”

  “A dress? For Kenna?”

  “No, not—your baby would outgrow such an outfit in a year, and if you dress her in rags, people will… Abigail, when you want a cow to accept a calf that is not her own, you skin her dead offspring and tie its hide around the party to be adopted. The skin will rot and fall away, but the two will have bonded by then. Do that with the rag.”

  “What?”

  “Tie the rag around the doll, Abigail. Must I do everything? Oh, and say this aloud for me: kysten er klar.”

  Abby jumped when Maren pinched her. “Hey!”

  Maren sighed. “The night worm will have heard me. Let’s have that rag. I’ll use a safety pin for now. Saw one in my purse.”

  “I don’t like safety pins,” Abby said. “They poke.”

  “How dangerous can they be? It’s a safety pin. If you want to coddle the girl, snap it shut. You’ll be getting boosters on tetanus anyway, else I miss my guess.”

  “Is the doll enough? For next time?”

  “Your child thinks so.” Kenna reached for the rag-wrapped doll and immediately closed her hand on the sharp pin.

  “See? It stabbed her!”

  “The pin didn’t move; the child did. How else will it learn?”

  “They’ll take that away from her. At the hospital.”

  “Tell them not to,” Maren said, muttering an oath. “It is time for you take control of your life, Abigail. Demand that Orenda be at your child’s side. She may look like a bundle of sticks and rawhide—she is—but Orenda is your bulwark against the evil arts. She will see your child past Mary. That said, if something else runs off with your daughter, don’t look to me.”

  “You said—”

  “Orenda can’t protect her from boys, Abigail. I leave that to you. Have that husband of yours shoot a few; get the message across.”

  “I’m… discombobulated.”

  “Yes, you’re moony,” Maren observed. “Pain always wins in the end. You need to go to a hospital. We’ve all dealt with the occasional amputation, and the trick to recovery is quality care.”

  “To the hospital?” Abby shivered, hugging herself.

  “It should be no worse than going untreated,” Maren said, holding her right wrist to the sunlight, a red crown of razor wire made flesh. “Scars are worth more than gold. Some don’t care for them, but I take scars over a stump.”

  “They can fix it,” Abby said to herself.

  “If you hurry, yes. Don’t stop for a loaf of bread on the way.”

  “Kenna—”

  “—Will be at your side. Demand it. Do not explain that you chewed your fingers off. The governments of men like nothing more than to take children, and they will use the slightest excuse to do so.”

  “I can’t explain…” Abby rustled the bag of fingers.

  “Say that you slammed your hand in the door of that vehicle. Your husband won’t be implicated, as he is far away. The truth would be unpleasant to their ears. They’ll believe you. People will digest the most ridiculous of explanations when it falls within their range of comfort.”

  “Okay,” Abby said. “Yes, I can… okay. Or I could not go.”

  “Throw your fingers out the window for all I care,” Maren advised, “but don’t dig for that worm. It’s helping you more than you know. It will continue to.”

  “I did it again,” Abby said, indicating Kenna with her lonesome thumb. “I left her alone, and…”

  “You were a young mouse set against two old snakes. That ba
leful hussy pulled one over on me, and I’m supposed to know what I’m about. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hungry, if you want an answer.”

  “I packed animal crackers in the diaper bag, if you—”

  “—Frosted?”

  “No.”

  “Off with you, then.” Maren’s necklace clanked like chain mail beneath her blouse. “Don’t mention the night worm. They’ll chop at your head.”

  “Can they remov—?” Abby staggered, her mangled hand flying to her face, spattering her features as though she’d swung a loaded paintbrush. Pressure cracked something in her face with an audible pop. “Rennie says she’ll make this work,” Abby said quietly.

  “Good. Hear me on this, though, Abigail: every worm dreams of becoming a dragon. If yours does not remain bound to you, precisely that could come to pass.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mary Hallett has made a mess for me. Time to tidy-up. That and… I’ll deal with anything else. Farewell, Abigail Bell. May we not meet again.”

  “You too. Oh, and Happy Halloween,” Abby said absently, her mind not her own, her good hand slipping as she lifted Kenna’s carrier.

  Abby set the portable seat back on the bench. Despite her injuries, a calming wave seeped into her bones; her anxieties and emotions dimming and winking-out. Not permanently, she hoped—just as her hope, too, was replaced with thoughtless resolve.

  She reached for the diaper bag, found the fob, stuck her left thumb through the metal ring of keys, and looked at the Power Wagon.

  How many steps? It would be more, now.

  Drive to the emergency room. Maren was right. It wasn’t that far.

  The drive would be the easy part. There would be surgery. Kenna would be reviewed, and there would be questions, but Abby could answer those.

  She would need a reliable adult to watch Kenna for a few days. Did she have people to vouch for her stability? They would ask about the pills. Let them—she didn’t need the pills now. She had friends. Friends on her phone. Contact info.

  Tina Masalla. Nell Tanbows.

  John wasn’t her emergency contact when he was abroad, but he would be informed. Her data would soon be zipping around at the speed of light.

  The doctors would learn about Samuel.

  She could explain.

  There would be visitors, questions… and all that, as Nell would say. Therapy. It would be months before she could use her left hand, but she would survive. Emerge stronger.

  For Kenna.

  A surge of energy pumped through her arteries, electric and stinging; torque dizzied her momentarily as the night worm adjusted its mass.

  She looked at Kenna, and the electricity in her exhausted body nearly crackled.

  Power comes of using it.

  An interesting philosophy. Maren was as queer as deep-fried sushi, but she’d come through. She’d helped.

  Kenna was over her near-death experience (and even the safety pin). Abby’s daughter sucked at a fist, awake but silent, nickels and dimes spotting her clothes, her cheeks. She blinked as a large drop rapped her on the forehead. Kenna gripped the red rag, and within the rag, the doll. Orenda.

  My blood’s changing color with the leaves, Abby thought, and snorted laughter.

  “Lightheaded?” Maren asked, her head and both arms deep in the bowling bag.

  “No. Maybe.”

  “You’ll be fainting next. Better get behind the wheel,” Maren said. Her voice was unusually clear, as though the bowling bag refused to trap an echo.

  Abby bent to kiss her daughter, woozy, her feet leaden. “The voice was wrong. I failed her, but she’s not gone. I didn’t lose her.”

  “Just fingers, and that may be temporary,” Maren said, popping from the bag at last. Her peripheral vision captured movement downwind, and Maren’s eyes narrowed. “I hate to push, but you must be going. Now. Rennie, can you hear me? Abigail, I’d accompany you to your transportation, but you will fare… I’m staying.”

  “Why?”

  “Something’s coming. Won’t be Mary, but she could send… Rules are often flexible, but they’re being bent willy-nilly today. I anticipate an attack.”

  “Oh,” Abby said. “Is it an evil eye?”

  “I had better rate something awful. If Mary squares me against a woodland goat, I’ll be quite put-out.”

  “Okay. Is this real?”

  “Which part? Don’t dwell on today, Abigail. Remember what the Vasillias Nortus says: an open mind is an open door.”

  “Right,” Abby said. “I’ll try not to… not to keep an open mind.”

  “You’ll vote with half of America if you do that.” Maren watched as a shock of white pampas grass halved slowly. Whatever was lurking there would be into the rose fountain grass next. “Keep an open mind, Abigail, but close the door to… this side of things, hmm? Close the book on Mary. For a while.”

  “Right.”

  “There it is—we have an unidentified creature in the fountain grass. Will be. You’ve got a head start, you have a worm to guide you, and I daresay an indivertible shield at your back. Rennie? Get her going.”

  “I love fountain grass,” Abby mumbled, the bag of fingers dangling from her teeth. “Rennie says I need to—”

  “—Heed her. You’re distracting me. Its next move puts it into the Japanese blood grass—that’s fitting. Then it’s upon us. Me, I should say. You are leaving.”

  Abby rubbed yellow gunk from the corners of her eyes. She slung the diaper bag around her shoulder like a rebel’s bandolier and began to walk slowly, Kenna’s carrier banging off a knee. “I hate apps,” Abby said.

  “Have them check for a concussion,” Maren replied.

  “The worm behind my… Rennie says I’m fine, but I have to go. To keep Kenna safe.” Abby lifted her head. “Thank God you were here, Maren. Bless you and keep you.”

  “Oh! That’s… new. Be well, Abigail. Remember to stop at a hospital, and remember to forget the rest.”

  “I know,” Abby said. “I have to get fixed. Have to get better. If I give them the fingers, they’ll put me to sleep.”

  “Don’t stop at a veterinarian’s office talking like that. Move into your next gear, if you have one.”

  “I’m moving. I’m just… just really tired,” Abby said, halting no more than ten strides beyond the circle of salt.

  Maren swore, dipped into her bowling bag, removed a stiff bladder on a stick, blew until it stood to attention, unknown substances rolling at the bottom, aimed, and let go. Abby shot toward her parking space as though aided by invisible hands (which, in fact, she was).

  Satisfied at Abby’s renewed progress, Maren turned to scrutinize the largest spray of rose fountain. Anything smaller than a bull moose could be hiding there. Then again, size had no patent on lethality.

  “You there,” Maren called. “Do you know what a scissorwing is? That’s one bird you do not want in your hand. You have a count of three.”

  The wind moaned softly, but Maren saw no movement. She removed the tinfoil from her ears in time to hear Abby’s key scrape clumsily into a lock.

  Maren listened to the turn of the key, the click of the lock cylinder, the creak of a well-oiled door on straight hinges. The door slammed, the cycle repeated, and the Power Wagon’s starter whined for one, two, three seconds.

  The count made for her, Maren released the scissorwing. It might be an animal pacing the brush, but it was large enough to require a leash, and she’d given fair warning.

  The Dodge roared to life, and, at the sound, the grasses parted. Maren almost used one of her coupons, but stayed her hand at the last moment.

  She tilted her head at the grinning, dog-like creature, its four legs planted into the sandy soil, its haunches high, head dirt-low, its lolling tongue a strip of jerky.

  It barked.

  Barking was too kind. It made a sound. The tattered dog advanced, its skin the texture of a walnut shell, its long,
bony tail scything grass in a gesture of peace.

  Maren blinked to see the scissorwing she’d lobbed squirming in its mouth.

  “Sarquito?”

  The dog bounded forward and dumped the scissorwing at the edge of the salt circle as though to play fetch. He barked again, only to twist away, nibbling at the crevices in his hide with short strokes; a growing boy mowing his teeth down an ear of buttered corn.

  Something that reminded Maren of marmalade dripped onto the ground. She breathed thanks that she was upwind.

  “Why, Sarquito… it is you. However did you catch my scissorwing? Those can punch through steel. Did you damage it, you scummy reprobate? No? Wonders never cease. If I had another of those plastic bags, I would collect my creation. What’s became of your other legs?”

  Maren was sure that Sarquito had been eight-legged in the distant past—the fissured, mangy skin and the stinking, seeping body didn’t belong to a dog, per se.

  Sarquito had been accepted as a domesticated by forgiving humans from time to time, but he was more accurately a unique species.

  A boil opened along his bald spine, and Maren put a reflexive hand over her nose. Sarquito was unlikely to bite, though he had a taste for chicken, succulent piglets, eggs, tender lamb, and anything else he could bring down with his short, blunt teeth.

  Chupacabra was the name he had earned in the arid south. For his stench and thievery, Sarquito had been called much worse, and in several languages. Thinking, Maren looked at the grass.

  “You’re not marching to Hallett’s drum. Is… I don’t suppose Tocaya is in the neighborhood?”

  Sarquito made the physical act of barking. Something of a purr escaped, but purring told Maren no more than a bark would have.

  “You’re right. I’m happier not knowing,” Maren said. “What brings you out? Planning a candy heist?”

  Sarquito purred throatily, his knobby tail in constant motion. He recovered the scissorwing and rushed at Maren; she wore a polite smile as he licked her hand.

  “Hello to you, too. I have nothing to feed you. No, I may be wrong… snuffle about. The woman who just left could have forgotten a finger or two.”

  The chupacabra entered a desultory trot around the salt circle. When he’d licked the anthill and a stretch of vomit in the dirt to show that he’d tried, Sarquito returned to be petted—it was that or let him rub against Maren’s legs.