K Stewart - A Devil in the Details

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t watching behind me as I drove on toward home. Last thing I needed was some little punks egging my house or breaking my windows or something. Not to mention I’m pretty sure scaring the hell out of Mira would be hazardous to their continued well-being. But there was no one back there, and I arrived without incident.

Climbing out of the truck in the garage, I immediately went to inspect for damage. The corner of the license plate was a little bent, but that could have happened long before. Other than that, there wasn’t a mark on her. “Atta girl.” I patted the fender affectionately, some of the tension going out of my shoulders. At least my baby wasn’t hurt.

The house was dark when I got inside, and it smelled of sage and enchiladas. It figured that I’d work late. She hadn’t told me it was enchilada night.

Mira, the most perfect woman in the world, left me a plate in the microwave. Her enchiladas were even better reheated, and I wolfed them down as quickly and quietly as possible, lurking in front of the bay window in the living room. Nothing stirred outside; no cars, no people, nothing. Somewhere, there was an owner of a small dark car who was no doubt congratulating himself on giving some perfect stranger the scare of his life.

I put the plate in the dishwasher, then did my usual house walk before bed, checking the doors and windows. Stopping to eyeball the street again, I watched one lonely car trundle up our block until it reached the end and turned out of sight. It wasn’t the mysterious car that followed me from the highway; I recognized it as belonging to a house a few blocks down. The light came on briefly in the neighbor’s yard to our rear, and I heard her mumbling to her dog to hurry up his business. Blocks away, another dog started barking, to be silenced by its disgruntled owner. On the surface, things were as they should be.

As I walked down the hall toward the bedroom, I heard the softest of sounds from Mira’s sanctuary.

While I got the former closet as a haven, Mira had claimed the spare bedroom and converted it into her own little hideaway. The spare bed was shoved negligently into the corner and buried under piles of books, mostly research on things Mira wanted for the shop. Bundles of dried herbs dangled from hooks in the ceiling (an entire weekend’s work for me, to get those just how she wanted them), giving the room a pungent, earthy smell. Only Mira knew what they all were, and their purposes. To me, they just looked like dead weeds. A wreath of grapevines, woven into a pentacle, hung on the wall, and beneath it rested a small altar, all the implements of Mira’s faith set in their precise places.

Frowning, I poked my head in.

The candles were lit, one for each cardinal direction, lending a cheerful glow to the hardwood floor. The air in the room felt heavy, like the thickness before a lightning storm. A large metal basin sat in the center of the floor, filled with some kind of milky liquid. And on the far side, Mira sat huddled, arms wrapped around her knees and her face buried as she sobbed quietly.

“Mira?” Alarm sent my heart thudding into my throat again, and I stepped into the room, only to stop short when she flung her hand out toward me.

“Don’t! Don’t break the circle!” Hurriedly, she wiped tears from her face, crawling back to the basin. “You have to see this.”

I moved as close as I dared. Somewhere between us was a thin film of Mira’s own will, holding in her magic or keeping foreign magic out (I was never quite sure about the mechanics of it). I craned my head to see what she was working with.

“I was setting protective spells for Miguel and Rosaline, and it occurred to me that I could try a scrying, see if I could locate him.” Mira’s voice held steady as if she hadn’t just been crying her heart out, her hands making quick and efficient movements over the bowl of milky liquid. Ever practical, that’s my girl. “Here, watch.”

The flickering candlelight made vision difficult, and I strained my eyes to see what Mira saw. The liquid in the bowl-heavily salted water, if I had to guess-swirled in response to my wife’s graceful gestures, clouds of white following her hands like a magnet. Once she had them swirling in a very nice whirlpool, she withdrew her hands, and the water took on a life of its own.

At first, it was no more than streams of white through the water, caught up in the vortex momentum. But gradually, the lines began to diverge and congregate, solidifying into something like the reverse of a black-and-white movie. The first thing I recognized was the shape of a man, and as it grew clearer, sharper, I was able to recognize Miguel in negative, his black hair stark white in the reversed image.

But what was he doing? It looked at first as if he were going through katas, the same exercises I did every morning to practice my fighting skills. But Miguel wasn’t a martial artist, and as far as I knew, he didn’t work through forms like I did.

He lunged with the weapon in his hand and chopped hard to the right. That’s not his machete, I thought, and I leaned as close as I could to look. In fact, it looked suspiciously like a baseball bat. What the hell? No one in his right mind used a nonbladed weapon unless he had no choice.

Next, he spun to the left, aiming a low block at some invisible enemy. Then his left shoulder jerked back in response to a blow I could not see. Before he could bring the weapon around again, something hit him hard enough to spin him in a circle. The bat went flying out of his hand and out of view. The grimace of pain was visible on the tiny dark face, even in the dim light. This was no kata, and I was only getting half the scene.

“Why can’t I see what’s there with him?”

“I only have something of his. The salt in the bowl is bound to the salt in his body.” Glancing away from the disturbing images playing out in the water, I saw her fidget with something tiny in one hand.

Miguel’s negative image doubled in half, taking some kind of blow to the stomach, and then dropped to his knees. The next strike came to the back of his neck. I knew it even before his body sprawled on the ground, simply because that is what I would do to a kneeling opponent. For long moments, he lay there; the salt-image wasn’t precise enough to be able to see if he was breathing. Finally, one arm jerked upward at an awkward angle.

“Is this happening right now?”

Mira shook her head, eyes fixed on the basin. “No, it hasn’t changed in the last two hours. This is just the last thing I can see before he was taken beyond my sight.” Being dragged, I realized. Whatever had taken him down was slowly dragging the body off… somewhere. “Beyond your sight. Dead?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see any more. Something just… ends it.” The salt abruptly dissipated, the basin clouding over into murky water. The item in her hand dropped free, clattering across the floor. It crossed the barrier of her magic circle and came to rest against my foot. A wooden bead; I recognized it from a choker Miguel always wore.

Mira curled up again, hiding her face against her knees, and I immediately crossed the broken circle to gather her into my arms. She wrapped her arms around me and held me as tightly as she could, shaking. “Shh… You did good, baby. You did real good.”

Her skin was ice-cold. I could feel it through the thin fabric of my shirt. God, how many hours had she been sitting here, just watching that horrible image replay into infinity and holding that thread of magic as it drained her strength? And I, like a jerk, stopped to eat dinner in the kitchen first. “You shouldn’t have done this… It wasn’t worth this, baby.”

“We had t- t-to know.” One small sob shook her; then she took a deep breath to gather herself, just as I knew she would. “Are you going to tell Rosaline?”