Kat Richardson - Downpour

The floor was partially covered by mismatched rugs that had once roamed around as the skins of bears and sheep and now lay about as aimlessly as their sofa companions. I could see traces of chalk and salt on the floor under the rugs, and the air smelled of burning herbs and pine needles, with a faint, clinging odor of dead things under it all. I imagined the furniture could be moved quickly against the walls when needed, the rugs thrown over them to clear the floor for whatever work Costigan got up to. In the Grey, the room breathed slow gusts of dark mist.

Costigan pointed at the sofas as he went toward the worktable. “You sit. I’ll get something for the boy’s face.” He cackled to himself as he strolled away.

Quinton looked at me and mouthed, “Boy?”

I shrugged and sat on one of the couch lumps, which gave under me as if it were stuffed with down. In spite of the fire in the fire pit, the room was chilly, but the squishy embrace of the sofa made me too warm and I was panting in a minute. Quinton yanked me back up, and I realized the couch hadn’t been warming me up so much as smothering me. I gave it a dirty look and stayed on my feet with my coat on.

“Think we can trust whatever crazy thing he’s bringing back?” Quinton muttered.

“Not sure. But I won’t let him do anything to you,” I replied, then added, “That would hurt you.”

Costigan shuffled back from the far side of the fire pit, a bowl in one hand and a bottle of rum tucked under his other arm. A thin Grey shadow that didn’t bear his shape followed him. He frowned at us. “Whyn’t you sit?”

“I think it’s feeding time,” I said.

“Eh?” Costigan muttered. Then he glanced at the couch I’d escaped from. “Ah. Well, I been busy.” He kicked at the sofa in passing and his shadow did the same. The furniture whimpered. “Now, lemme see your face.”

Quinton turned his cheek toward the old man warily, watching him from the corners of his eyes as he did.

Costigan huffed. “Looks nasty. You gonna get a scar there. Little scar, but you still be pretty; don’t worry.” He held the bowl in front of Quinton’s face. “Spit.” His shadow, flickering the color of budding leaves, reached to stroke the blackened weal and I blinked, conscious of its fingers.

“What?”

“Spit, you fool. Otherwise the spirits think it’s me. You don’t want them fix you up to look like me, do you?”

Quinton made a face and spit into the bowl. Costigan cackled to himself and poured in a stiff shot of rum before he used his fingers to stir the glop in the bowl around. Then he scooped up some reddish brown paste and patted it on the black line across Quinton’s cheek. The shadow did the same while Costigan muttered under his breath. Quinton winced and so did I, which seemed to amuse the old man. “Just poultice, boy. Not gonna kill you, so stop squealing.” The crazy old sorcerer shot me a glance, but didn’t say anything.

I watched as the old man smeared the stuff on, seeing little green and gold threads, fine as spider silk, weaving out of the goo and settling into Quinton’s skin. Where they touched, the skin turned a little rosier and sparkled slightly. The effect spread slowly over the bluish patch on Quinton’s face until there was a fine gauze of magic clinging to the injury. I almost sighed in relief and felt the last of the tension drop from my own aching fingers.

But mention of a scar had made me think. “Is that how Faith got his scar?” I asked.

Costigan laughed. “No. I hear he had him a argument with a fella had a rifle and he only had him a dog. Before I come here, though, so I ain’t sure.”

“Why did you come here?” I asked as he poked at Quinton’s face.

He shrugged one shoulder, screwing up his face the way you do when you watch a man shave. “This old lake full of power. I want me some, I come take it. That damned witch ’cross the way don’t want no one else round. I say, ‘To hell with her,’ and I make me some helpers to show her the way to the door.” He cut a glare at me. “Until you went and ruined’em all.” He patted Quinton’s face aside. “You’ll do. You let that set till it get hard and fall off. Or until it start to itch. Whichever.” Then he muttered some more words and crossed himself like a Catholic at Mass.

“How long’s that going to be?” Quinton asked, looking askance at the half-naked old man.

Costigan looked up again and frowned at him. “Few hours.” Then he grabbed Quinton’s chin and gave him a fast kiss on the lips before he backed off, laughing. “You gonna be fine, boy. Just fine!”

I think Quinton would have taken a swing at him if I hadn’t put a hand on his arm. “He’s just messing with you,” I said, but I wasn’t sure of that. The pale green shadow had remained next to Quinton, keeping its head near his. The shadow seemed to breathe its own essence onto the red-painted wound on my lover’s cheek, making the delicate fabric of magic brighten and gleam.

I turned my gaze back to Costigan, who’d noticed I was looking at his shadow. He put the bowl down and dropped into one of the sofas with his legs crossed. The bottoms of his feet were black and the position made it obvious he didn’t wear anything under his sarong. I tried not to grimace in disgust.

“Now, you say you didn’t lure my helpers to you to destroy ’em. I believe you. But who you say sent ’em?” Costigan asked.

“I didn’t. That’s what I’d like to know from you.”

He shook his head adamantly. “If not you, I know who it must be, but I’m not tell you the name.”

“Why not? Whoever it was ruined your plans. Aren’t you mad?”

“I deal with my child my own way.”

“Child . . . ?” I asked, wondering who’d have ever borne this creature’s baby.

He cackled again. “Not that kind of child, missy. I know what you’re thinking. My child been naughty; it up to me to punish him.”

“Him.” It didn’t tell me who I was looking for, but at least I now knew Willow was the rogue and there was one more person to fear. “How long . . . have you had this child?” I asked.

“For a while. Troublesome, but talented.”

“Does he live here?”

“I keep to myself. And I prefer that continue,” he added, glaring.

“I meant, does he live nearby, your child?”

Costigan shrugged. “Comes and goes.”

“On your business or his own?”

“Mine, mostly. I don’t care for that city you come from, but time and again, I need send him out there.”

“To Seattle?”

He looked at Quinton. “She a bit slow, ain’t she?”

“I don’t go for fast women,” Quinton replied, cupping one hand over his injured cheek. The shadow plucked at his fingers and Quinton shivered before he dropped his hand without apparently thinking about it.

Costigan squealed with laughter. Then he flew to his feet, his face gone as suddenly stormy as the lake outside his window whipped with angry waves from nowhere. He pointed toward the door. His voice came out as a guttural roar: “I done with you. Get out.”

We didn’t argue; we left as quickly as we could without running.

Outside, freezing sleet had begun pelting down.

The temperature kept dropping as I drove back across the top of the lake. If it continued, the sleet would turn to ice soon, increasing the pressure to finish up my inquiries and get indoors before dusk. I hoped it wouldn’t keep the magicians from showing up at Jewel’s house later. I stopped at the Log Cabin Resort to use the phone in hopes of finding Ridenour, but the ranger on duty at Hurricane Ridge wasn’t sure where the senior ranger was. I needed to find Willow also and see if I could talk her into meeting with Faith. So far, she’d always turned up on her own. I hoped she’d show up at her half sister’s house, but earlier would suit me better.