Lori Devoti: Amazon Ink

After selecting one of the imports, the one without a cracked windshield, I wrapped the two thongs around the driver’s door handle. To make sure my trip didn’t go unnoticed, I dragged a wooden bench from under a nearby tree and laid it across the hood.

After brushing off my hands, I was ready to go, except for one thing. I glanced back at the house. The priestess who had set the ward was experienced and obviously wary. And I’d had the necklaces in my possession for some time, close to my body, even. Odds were she would be able to detect something of me on the objects.

Made me doubly thankful I’d come prepared to erase all signs of myself from the scene. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a bundle of juniper and a lighter. Burning the herb and spreading the smoke would cleanse the necklaces and the area of my presence-completely, I hoped.

I tapped the light on my watch-after two A.M. I was running out of time. I knew nothing of the habits of the particular Amazons in this safe house. At least I didn’t think I did. I hoped the major players had changed in the ten years since I had left. But nervous high priestesses and queens tended to be nocturnal. They could start moving around at any time. Not to mention I still had the drive back to Madison. The high priestess in my life, Bubbe, could very well be up before I returned.

Still, I had to do what I could. Pulling in a breath, I flicked the lighter and counted to myself as I waited for the herbs to crackle and catch. Within seconds, smoke streamed out of the bundle. Murmuring a prayer of forgiveness for my lie of omission, I waved the herbs around, paying extra attention to the car, bench, and necklaces. When I was done, I snuffed the herbs with a handful of dust and shoved the still-warm sticks back into my jacket.

It was then I noticed the horse. I could almost see the imprint of my palm shining back at me from where I’d placed my hand on her side.

Damn. Relighting the herbs was out-waving a bundle of smoldering sticks around a horse was never a good idea, especially when you were trying not to be noticed. The best I could do was rub the actual dried herbs over the spot and hope that did the trick. I broke off a few bits and walked toward the mare, empty hand held up.

She let me get within three feet before backing up and letting out a whinny. Then, shaking her head, she began to buck-setting off a chain reaction that soon had fifteen horses stampeding around the paddock. The mare raced once around, then ground to a halt in front of me, the white spot on her nose dancing up and down as she tossed her head.

She was laughing at me, the bitch. Wrong animal, but the sentiment held.

A window flew up in the house and I knew Amazons would flow out the doors in minutes. With a curse, I wrapped my arm around the troublemaking mare’s neck and threw myself onto her back. This time she played along; at a gallop we raced across the paddock. As we approached the fence, I prayed she’d been trained well-she had. Without breaking stride, she vaulted, clearing the gate by inches.

We rode on, down the gravel path, until I could see the spot where I’d left my truck. As I slid down her side, she stood patiently, waiting. Remembering the juniper, I reached in my pocket, only to find it gone.

I stared at the mare for another beat, wondering if the Amazons would sense me on her. She stared back, still waiting. Realizing I’d already wasted too much time, I shook off my uneasiness and smacked her once on her rump. Only then did she move, taking off down the path back toward the camp.

Definitely well trained. I stared after her…wondering. Then I shook my head and forced myself back in the present.

When I left the Amazons, I left everything about them, even my family, for a time. It was too late for regrets now. Besides, if the mare belonged to whom I suspected, she wouldn’t let childhood friendships stop her from hunting me down-not if she learned I was the one who’d sneaked into the camp.

She would want answers, and she wouldn’t be subtle about getting them. Just like she hadn’t been subtle ten years earlier when she’d stood with the High Priestess against me.

When I woke thenext morning-three hours past my normal waking time-my first thoughts were of the Amazons: had they found my clues? Did they know what they meant? Would my small message be enough to save another teen? And had they sensed my presence? I’d dropped the juniper, but that would offer only the smallest of clues. My energy smeared all over the mare would be much harder to miss-by a high priestess as powerful as, say, my grandmother anyway. There weren’t many as old as Bubbe, or as skilled, but it was a possibility. Were the Amazons already putting together a plan to drag me back to the council? To find out what I knew and how?

At that juncture I had no way of knowing the answers to any of those questions, but I was sure of one thing: hiding my unwilling involvement in the deaths was the right choice. If anything, my visit the night before, the roiling of my stomach when I’d first seen the house, remembering how even my best friend had turned against me, had confirmed that.

I’d done what I could to alert the Amazons, and the police were already investigating. It was enough; it had to be. I couldn’t even share what had happened with Mother or Bubbe. Odds were they would feel they had to alert the Amazons directly, which would mean me facing the Amazons. It wasn’t going to happen.

So, to keep up the facade of my carefully crafted world, I ignored the gnawing of my conscience, smashed aside all thoughts of Amazons, and went down the worn marble stairs that connected our living area to the main floor and my office.

The reception area was nothing but a couple of tall chairs in front of a barlike structure made of paneling and plywood. The shop wouldn’t open for another hour, and I had no early morning meetings, so I had the place to myself. I walked around the reception desk/bar and opened the glass-and-wood door that hid my office. The room had housed the school’s principal in its past life. My employees commented on that whenever I called them in to talk. Having been homeschooled myself or, more accurately, “road schooled,” since I grew up traveling from place to place, I got no negative vibes when entering the space, but it didn’t bother me that others did. There was nothing wrong with starting out with an upper hand-the principal thing did that for me.

A folder thick with papers sat squarely on the center of my desk.

Interview day. With everything going on, I’d forgotten.

Artemis bless Mandy for remembering.

My hand drifted down to the manila folder and rested there. Our business was growing-a good thing-and it was time to add an artist, also good. But I couldn’t help question if now was the best time to be adding a new employee to the mix-another set of eyes to take note of whatever strange thing happened next.

This was no spur-of-the-moment decision. We’d talked about hiring another artist in our weekly staff meetings for months. If I backed out now, it would turn more than one pair of curious-make that outraged-eyes on me.

To make matters worse, even in the best times hiring an artist could be tricky. To work for me they had to be the absolute best at what they did, and they had to ignore little things like Bubbe’s spell casting and Mother’s weapon practice in the basement below the shop.

Oh, and female. They had to be female.

Female-like the dead girls. I shook my head and stared down at the folder. Putting the deaths to the back of my mind wasn’t going to be easy, but somehow I had to-interviewing artists was as good a way as any. Resolved to the necessity, I heaved out a breath and flipped open the folder to see what my day had in store.