Opal Fire Read online

  “Un momento, Cinnamon,” Mario said, winking. He bent over the kitchen table, which I noticed was swathed in a black velvet cloth, and began extracting gold watches from his pocket, lining them alongside one another on top of the cloth. Then he pulled out a few gold nugget rings and placed them next to the watches. He stopped and looked at me, holding out a pinky ring. “Stacy, for your boyfriend, hah?”

  Although Leo could pass for a key member of the Greek Mafia, I wasn’t about to encourage that look.

  “No, thanks, Mario,” I said.

  “Eh, too bad,” he told my cleavage.

  A few minutes later, we pulled up to the inn and I thanked Cin and sprinted around the side to the door of my cottage, hoping Thor hadn’t destroyed the couch. The lock hardly clicked over when the dog rushed out, claiming the nearest tree as his own.

  Moonlight was sprawled across my desk. He stretched, yawned and meowed at the same time, then hopped on my shoulder and rode me to the kitchen.

  I was preparing dinner for the three of us, making a mental note to call Gladys and request a rain check, when the text alarm sounded on my phone. I put Moonlight’s dish on the counter, opened the door to call Thor, and placed his food on the floor. The pasta circled the microwave as I sat down with a glass of milk to read the message.

  FROM: Birdie 7:12PM. Home tomorrow. Danger lurks. Feathers, a bow, a warning. Careful. Keep reading the book.

  I thought about the rock crashing through my back door window. Then I thought about Monique in her stupid cupid costume with the bow and arrow and heart shaped feathers. Then I deleted the message. Next, I gave Gladys a ring and asked if we could have dinner another time.

  The sauce was thick, rich with layers of garlic and oregano that danced perfectly together. I wondered what Kathy’s last meal was. Her thoughts, before she took her last breath. And what role, if any, had Mr. Huckleberry played in her life.

  My stomach full of Angelica’s food, I showered, slipped into flannel PJs, then spent about an hour surfing the internet for Kathy Sims’ parents last known address. It seemed they still lived in Culver City after all this time, if I had the right family. Hopefully they’d be up for company in the morning.

  The information printed and my fur kids soundly sleeping, I settled on the couch and cracked open the elusive book of my family theology, apprehensive and eager at the same time to discover its secrets.

  The pages were thick, the binding in surprisingly good shape. The first fifty or so were penned in a sharp, decisive script that I knew belonged to my great grandmother, Maegan Geraghty. There was a hand-sketched map of Ireland, labeled with landmarks, rivers and cities. A tree outlined my familial descendents, whose history reached back to the Druids. The Celtic tribe they founded settled near County Kildare, Ireland.

  Maegan wove tales around wise women, like Birdie, who healed the sick through medicine grown and cultivated with their own hands. There were recipes for tonics, potions, and poultices, with specific details for applying each one.

  She spoke of mediators, like Fiona, who calmed tempers and settled disputes. The triads were spelled out there too, Celtic laws of three regarding everything from land ownership to family quarrels. Truth, honor, respect and diplomacy were the words that repeated over and over.

  There were also stories about women of the hearth like Lolly, who stoked the fires and cooked the meals. Enchantments were splashed across the margins of every page, from protecting the home, to safe travel, to mending a broken heart, showcased in step-by-step detail.

  Maegan also wrote of high priestesses singing the dying to sleep, of elderly prophets and courageous warriors. There was an intricate drawing of the Wheel of the Year, explaining the eight Sabbats of the pagan religion, and discussions on the Roman Invasion, the Burning Times, and the Salem Witch Trials.

  I was mesmerized by the melody of her words, the rhythm of her ink strokes. Her stories entranced and inspired me, both in the language she used to relay them and the moral woven into each one. The tales filled me with an admiration for the men and women who have gone before me, and a pride in the Geraghty name, that I never quite felt before. Now, I felt a little ashamed of that.

  Hours passed before I finally looked at the clock. When I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I closed the book, stretched, yawned, and shuffled to the bathroom. It was getting late and tomorrow would be a long day. Birdie was coming home, which meant I might be obligated to console Gramps. I usually ate breakfast at the inn on Sundays, if I wasn’t helping out, which meant I could run into Smalls. Plus there was the visit to the Sims’, a good thirty-minute drive with church traffic. I brushed my teeth, gulped some water, and flipped off the light.

  When I returned to the living room, the book was upside down on the floor, open. I glanced at Thor sprawled across the carpet, one brown eye following me.

  “Were you on the couch?” I asked. He sneezed in response.

  I wagged a finger at him and knelt to pick up the book. My hands grazed the binding when something gripped my shoulder and I froze.

  Nails, long ones, lightly fingering my sleep shirt.

  Had I not just relieved myself, another shower would have been in order.

  I glanced at Thor again. He was still watching me. Surely, if someone were touching me, he’d growl, bark or attack, right?

  Thor lifted his huge head, perked his ears, and cocked his snout, sniffing the air. He stared at something just over my head.

  I still couldn’t move.

  And then, warmth hugged me, like being wrapped in an afghan delivered straight from the dryer. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.

  Just your imagination, Stacy. Deep breaths, happy thoughts.

  That’s when the voice came. Soft and fluid, like a birdsong.

  As the surviving matriarch, it is my duty to pass knowledge to my children and to my children’s children. Throughout the ages, our histories have been sung around bonfires, whispered near hollyhocks, gasped from deathbeds. But with a New World comes new traditions. And so, my purpose for putting ink to paper is twofold. The first–to keep the spirit of our ancestors alive. The second—and most important—so the next Seer in the Geraghty clan will know she will not walk the path alone. There are few of us. Your challenge is great, my child. Let your dreams guide you, your strength carry you, and the truth light the way.

  I sat back on my heels after the voice faded, wondering if that was a hallucination or if Angelica had spiked the pasta sauce.

  The book still within reach, I feathered the binding with my thumb, yearning to flip it over, but afraid there’d be a message like, “Yes, Stacy there is a Seer.”

  I turned it over anyway and the text was there in black and white. Every word I just heard in my mind, there on the page. I didn’t remember reading it, but I must have before I closed it shut.

  That was the only reasonable explanation.

  I ignored the part of me that knew very well there was no such thing as reasonable when it came to the Geraghty Girls. But more importantly, was Maegan referring to me? Did Birdie think I was a Seer? Because if that was the case, then I sucked at it. Besides, she told me I was The Seeker of Justice. So how can one be both?

  Unless...was she referring to my mother? Was she the Seer? Was it too much to bear?

  Or was it someone else entirely?

  A loud thump rattled my thoughts as Thor surfed the countertop. I yelled at him to get down and he did. Then he came over to me, sat and pawed at the air, whining loudly.

  “What?” I asked. He rested on his haunches and I caught both paws in my arms for a second as he reared up. Then he jumped down, grunted and trotted back to the counter, now pacing.

  “What? There’s no food on the counter,” I told him.

  He threw me a disgusted look, curled his teeth around something near the toaster, and tossed it at my feet.

  I recognized the purple protection sachet that Fiona made for me and scratched Thor behind the ears. “Good Boy!” I couldn’t b
elieve I forgot to hang that thing after she scolded me once already.

  I carried the book to my bedroom, flipping through pages of spells, ritual recipes, and crystal enchantments, marking the last page I read before setting it on the dresser. Then went back and scooped up the herbal pouch, untying the ribbon as I approached the threshold. I hung it from the entryway light. That done, I hit the lights and crawled into bed.

  He’s here. I’ve been waiting so long for this. Tonight I tell him. It’s dark. Cold. He leans in and whispers, “Kathy,” as my supple face shrinks into a leathery shell and life slips from my body.

  I woke up gasping for air and accidentally launched Moonlight off the bed. Bright sunlight penetrated the shade, casting a colorful prism on the far wall of my room.

  Just a dream. That’s all. A vivid, disgusting dream.

  I threw the covers off the bed and climbed into a robe and slippers. Eyes at half-mast, the kitchen was the first stop because that’s where the coffee was. Thor darted for the front door, so after the pot was set to brew, I opened it for him. He galloped out, but then forgot he had to pee as his nose coaxed him to my wicker rocker. There, a chicken sat with my name on it. Literally.

  I shook my head. “Gladys.”

  The note was taped to a red cellophane bag tied with a bow. My hands trembled from the cold as I read it. Made especially for you, Stacy.

  For some reason, Gladys thinks I can’t cook. Maybe it’s because Cinnamon can operate a drive-through window better than her own stove, and that reflected on me, but the truth was, I loved to cook and I was pretty good at it. It’s just not that fun cooking for one and I’ve eaten enough cold dinners waiting for Leo to finish working that it wasn’t worth the effort.

  My stomach rumbled as I tucked the chicken into the fridge, searching for nourishment. I decided on a yogurt. Mmm. Blueberry. My favorite. I shut the refrigerator door, flipped the top off the yogurt and was just about to dip in when I stopped.

  Something about that chicken was odd. Aside from the fact that it was left on my front porch, I mean.

  I peaked in the fridge. Without my jolt of coffee, my mind was jogging to catch up with my eyes.

  There was string tied around the legs of the bird. Sure, that was normal. People tie the legs together before they roast a chicken.

  Wow. Was I paranoid.

  I shut the fridge and leaned against it.

  A familiar feeling crept into my stomach and this time, I recognized it.

  Uh-oh. Harmful intent. My eyes jumped to attention.

  Moonlight snaked through my legs as I opened the fridge for the third time.

  String on the legs. Normal.

  Wire sticking out of its ass? Not so much.

  I slammed the fridge shut, grabbed my cat by the scruff, and dove out the front door just before the explosion.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Well, I never heard of such a thing,” Fiona said as she poured me coffee. “Who leaves an exploding chicken on someone’s front porch?”

  “Who picks it up and brings it inside?” Leo said.

  “Look, I told you, I was half asleep. I thought it was from Gladys.”

  “Why would Gladys cook you a bird that blows up, dear?” Fiona asked.

  “She didn’t, Auntie. But last night I declined her dinner invitation, so I thought she made one anyway and brought it by this morning,” I said and sipped the coffee.

  Leo raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Well, sure, now it sounds stupid,” I said.

  I was sitting in the dining room in the center of the Geraghty Girls’ Guest house. The claw foot table sat twelve and always wore antique Irish lace. The sideboard leaned against the far wall, its etched mirror illuminating a silver tea set.

  The room was lovely, a stark contrast to my appearance this morning. My hair was in knots, my face was imprinted with bed sheet wrinkles, and my shoulders were bare because Lolly dressed me in a strapless lace cocktail dress, claiming that PJs were not proper breakfast attire.

  Leo sat across from me, Lolly was in the kitchen and Fiona was setting the table. No sign of Birdie yet, thank the Goddess. I was not looking forward to explaining why my refrigerator–or rather, her refrigerator–was standing near the curb awaiting execution.

  “I’m home.”

  Crap.

  “We’re in here, Birdie, in the dining room,” Fiona sang.

  “Well, I’m out of here.” I stood as Lolly came into the room with biscuit dough.

  “Breakfast is ready,” she announced and dumped the glob onto the table. She then began sectioning it with her hands.

  Leo made a face.

  Fiona chuckled and guided Lolly, who was wearing a WWII Navy uniform, to a chair. I felt bad for a second, since I was sure it was the task of finding me something suitable to wear at this hour that crashed her database. But then I remembered my grandmother was present and I figured it was every woman for herself. I sprinted to the kitchen and broke one of the four-inch heels in the process. I was almost at the back door when she called, “Anastasia!”

  I considered hiding out in the fruit cellar.

  “Come out here,” she said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

  I sighed. What was the point in putting it off?

  I limped back into the dining room.

  It was difficult to interpret the look on Birdie’s face. Not worried. Not angry. Not sad. More like I cannot believe this girl share’s my blood.

  She didn’t speak, just looked at me like I had bird shit on my head. Which I very well could have, at that point.

  Thor was under the table and he belly crawled closer to Leo. I took that as a bad sign.

  “Hey, Birdie. How’d the marriage encounter go?” I asked, attempting a smile.

  “Yes, dear. Where is Oscar?” Fiona asked. She stepped forward and took Birdie’s bag.

  Birdie was still looking at me when she said, “I dropped him at home, where he belongs.”

  Damn, she must know what happened. How could she, though? Okay, the marriage thing had to transfer some of the heat from me to Fiona. I could have told her that wasn’t going to work.

  Lolly started singing “Anchors Away” just as Mr. Smalls entered the dining room.

  He removed his hat and asked Fiona, “Will there be breakfast this morning?”

  “Of course, we have a seat all ready for you, Mr. Smalls.” Fiona motioned to a high-backed chair and Smalls sat, still staring at my aunt. Under her spell, you might say.

  “Thank you so much,” he said as if he was a starving man and she gave him her last cupcake.

  “Knock, knock?” It was the trace European accent of Gladys.

  Oh good, more witnesses.

  “Hello, everyone,” Gladys said.

  Nods and salutations all around.

  “Mr. Leo, you want to speak with me?” she asked.

  “Please, sit down.” Fiona escorted Gladys to a chair and Gladys drank them all in, Lolly included, with the admiration of a celebrity stalker.

  I was slowly tipping towards the kitchen when I bumped into Tommy Delaney.

  “Good morning everyone. Leo, I think we’re all done.”

  “What did you find out, Tommy?” Leo asked.

  Fiona pulled a chair up for Tommy who thanked her and sat down.

  Tommy glanced around uneasily. “You sure you want to do this now?”

  Leo nodded and sipped his coffee. He smiled at me and I wagered another step back towards the kitchen. Might have gotten away too if Birdie hadn’t clapped her hands and said, “Who’s hungry?”

  Seven hands shot in the air including my own.

  “Put your hand down, Anastasia,” Birdie said and made her way to me. She gripped my shoulder, a bit too hard, and announced. “My granddaughter and I will make breakfast.”

  I looked to Fiona for support. She raised her palms and took a seat. Grasping for straws, I tried to catch Lolly’s eye, but she was relaying a story about fighting the Japanese at Pearl Harbor and Gladys was t
ransfixed.

  I threw my hands up in surrender and limped into the kitchen.

  Birdie moved to the center island that once served as an apothecary table. She grabbed a mixing bowl from the shelf below and a whisk from a pewter pitcher. Fiona had already set the eggs out and she began cracking them in.

  I reached for a heavy cast iron skillet and crossed to the old black stove, flipping on the burner and lobbed some butter into it. I chopped red and green bell peppers and tossed them with sweet basil before adding them to the skillet.

  It wasn’t until she ducked into the refrigerator that Birdie spoke. I was grateful she broke the silence.

  “Do you ever listen to me?”

  Well, almost grateful.

  “I read the book,” I said over the pop of peppers.

  “All of it?” she asked, holding the milk.

  I faced her. “Are you serious? That thing is thicker than the Library of Congress.”

  Birdie rolled her eyes and sloshed some milk into the bowl, whisking the eggs together. I reached for a potato and started to grate it.

  “My warning, the message I sent you. Didn’t you at least give it some thought?”

  “Of course I did and who ratted me out?”

  “That’s not important. Why didn’t you understand it?”

  “I thought I did, but I made a mistake.” I remembered the image of Monique with those feathered wings and shivered.

  Birdie looked up and stopped whisking. “How could you have been mistaken? I made it very clear, Anastasia. Feathers, a bow, danger.”

  “Well, you left out the KABOOM part, Birdie. That would have clinched it.”

  She handed me the eggs and I poured them in with the peppers and grated potato. I topped it all off with a hearty helping of fontina cheese, dashed on paprika, and popped the frittata into the oven. I set the dial to 350 degrees.

  Birdie was pealing pears when I turned back around, so I handed her the large saucepot and went to the pie safe for cinnamon sticks.

  “Are you telling me you had no warning signs? No feelings at all?”