Trill

Chapter 2-2

The strange cat blinked green-gem eyes at me, then got up and ran into the house, making that same odd sound as it went, almost as though it were trying to form words.

“Okay, I want one of those,” I told Dante.

“You already have one,” he said, a smirk in his tone.

I snickered. We stuck our heads into what looked like a small mudroom, beyond which was the kitchen through an open doorway.

I was about to call out again when a willowy voice from somewhere deeper inside the house said, “Come into the parlor, my dears. I've been expecting you.”

Dante and I exchanged glances. It was a little unnerving, knowing the elderly lady who dwelled here was a real witch who could cast spells. But much scarier was the fact she was to help me get a ring that would signify that I was the sibyl. I had told Dante about it. I genuinely wanted to get this done. I'd been constantly on edge since I learned about it.

We strode through the square kitchen that may have had some improvements in the '60's but not much after that, other than new coats of light tea-cup blue paint on the walls and the wainscoting of the old cupboards. It was clean and bright. The table and the counter were covered in a grayish-blue Formica. All the appliances were at least twenty years old, by my guess. Stationed on the stove with a blue flame beneath it sat a stainless steel teapot that I hoped had water in it. Squinting to take a quick read, I knew that it did, thank goodness.

The house had intriguing lingering aromas of herbs, baked bread, and possibly soup. I'd never been able to get a read from Mrs. Bench's house, and, up until I realized she was a witch, it had puzzled me. Now I knew why. At the moment, whatever reads I got were all hazy, or watery. It would take a strong witch to keep my inner eye from working.

Dante led me through the small kitchen, and into another square room. Because of my clairvoyant abilities, I already knew the layout of the house. Downstairs had four rooms: kitchen, parlor, dining room, and one bedroom through a hall. In the dining room, a staircase angled up the wall to a landing and then turned. A hall behind that led to a back door, and then the bedroom, where Mrs. Bench slept. This was located at the other corner of the house, and the hallway that led back to the kitchen, with a bathroom between. Upstairs there were three bedrooms situated in a short hall at the top of the stairs.

Upon entering this room, we faced a fireplace with a nice, cozy fire snapping away behind the screen. When we were outside, I had thought I smelled wood smoke in the air—here was the reason. Every piece of furniture was at least twenty-five to fifty years old, and yet it looked as nice as if she'd bought it a few days ago. Probably recovered. The couch was camel-backed and dark brown. An almond swivel rocker and a dark brown wingback chair faced the couch. Doilies were displayed everywhere there was table surface. Everything I saw seemed like the typical house belonging to an old person who was stuck in the middle of the last century. That is, everything except for the large crystal ball on the dark wooden coffee table, lit candles in brass candle sticks arranged at the four corners, and the Tarot cards fanned out before the aged woman seated on the couch. Other than those minor details, I would say this was your typical old lady's house.

Mrs. Bench resided on the couch, smiling serenely up at us. To say that Mrs. Bench was a frail old woman would be like saying a duck had feathers and a bill. A network of deep lines creased her face and neck, giving her the look of someone who'd seen the other side of seventy. White hair haloed her small head. Blue veins beneath the liver-spotted skin snaked across the ridges and contours of her bony hands. She wore a rose-colored sweater over a light blue shirt that matched her sweatpants and had a black, brown, and orange afghan in a zigzag pattern draped over her lap. She looked up at us with a brilliant blue gaze. She wore no glasses, but I knew she needed them to read print.

“Here! Quickly! Drink this, Sabrina!” She croaked, holding a small vial out to me in a slightly palsied hand. The solution was somewhat brownish, like weak tea.

I gaped at her, and then darted a glance at Dante. With a small jerk of the head, he urged me to do as she said.

“You have only moments before you change!” she said in a slightly husky voice.

I shifted the plate of cookies to Dante's hands. He took them and placed them on the coffee table.

I took the vial from her fingers and uncorked it. I didn't want to go into my wolf-persona right there in her parlor. I tipped it back and swallowed it in one gulp. It went down, and not unpleasantly. I stood there, my gaze roving around, waiting for something to hit me. Nothing hit me, but maybe that's what this had been for—to avoid it.

I turned my gaze onto Dante. He walked quickly toward an east window in the next room.

“Moon's up,” he called out.

“And… I'm not changing.” I looked back at the witch.

“Yes!” Mrs. Bench clenched her fist and pumped it. The action seemed un-old-lady-like, and it earned a smile from both Dante and me. “First time I've ever done that spell on anyone. And you were a perfect candidate!”

“Well, thank you,” I said slowly, shifting my gaze to Dante who shrugged slightly. “I think.” What if the spell had gone wrong and I'd halfway shifted?

“Come. Sit down. We need to talk!” she croaked, her hands fluttering at us, indicating we should sit down.

Dante took the chair by the fire, and I took the brown wingback. We both leaned expectantly toward the old woman as she closed her eyes and held her hands over the crystal ball. She looked in her element. Then a frown deepened the furrows in her forehead. Her shoulders went up as she tittered uncontrollably. “Stop that Ted!” she admonished an unseen entity.

Dante and I looked at one another, not sure whom she had been addressing.

“Okay, never mind,” Mrs. Bench said, dropping her hands from the crystal ball, and opening her eyes. “The spirits are not responding to my call tonight,” she explained, shrugging again.

“Who's Ted?” I asked.

“Just a spirit that helps me connect.” She smiled crookedly. “Tonight he's being a pest.” She giggled a little. Sounded like her spirits liked to get a little fresh. I could feel the spirit world, and I had, from time to time, been able to see ghosts, too. I didn't know what level the spirits were that Mrs. Bench contacted. They might be on a higher level than those that I, a clairvoyant, could see. Many disconnected spirits didn't know they were dead and roved around familiar grounds. They were the ones most people feel, see, or hear associated with hauntings, and they were the ones I could see and speak to. There were other levels, higher levels. I'd been able to ascertain that from speaking to certain spirits. I didn't know how many levels a spirit could attain before moving on to the final realm, but mine were on a lower level, obviously, than those Mrs. Bench could contact.

“Oh, I completely understand,” I said.

“There are Wayward Spirits who can connect to the higher spirit realm, but cannot attain that realm because they are earth-bound by emotions.” Dante explained.

“You're Native American, aren't you?” she asked Dante.

“Yes,” Dante said.

She smiled quietly, then her eyes slid to one side. “Yes, I agree. He should just deal with it.”

Dante and I exchanged glances. I had to guess that Ted was still there talking to Mrs. Bench.

“Bill?” she called out, her voice cracking a little bit.

“Coming,” a male voice called back from somewhere. The newcomer didn't surprise me. I knew that there was someone else in this house—besides the cat. I'd known it for a few minutes. I didn't know who he was, or how he was related to Mrs. Bench. I did think it odd that I couldn't get a read on him either. It was as if something had locked down my abilities.

Through the wide dining room entry, I spied a pair of legs ensconced in tan Dockers gliding down the stairs. He made the turn, breezed through the dining room toward us, and entered the parlor.

Drawn off his handsome face and falling to his collar, Bill's hair was dark brown and wavy. He gazed at us through beautiful green eyes. I swear they were the color of spring leaves on a tree. Built like a hard-core military man, he stood six-four, and the cream-colored cable sweater he wore fit him like a second skin. Oh, boy.

Dante and I both rose to greet the tall man in the sweater.

“May I introduce my grandson, Bill?”

We both shook hands with him. His hand was almost twice the size of mine when he took it, not pumping, but clasping both his warm hands over my gloved one. He never broke our gaze to look down at my gloves. Other people would always look down at the gloves, the questioning look of why I wore them etched in their face, lips wanting to burst with the question, but almost never quite having the nerve to ask. But I knew it bothered them some.

Bill's s****l magnetism rolled off him like the musk he wore. I did my best not to show how his presence flustered me while the pulse in my neck begin to throb. I'm not that hard up! Jeeze!

“I didn't know you had any children, let alone a grandson,” I said, surprise in my voice, my hand going to my neck, feeling the throbbing beat there. I knew that Dante probably had noticed the fact that the guy had my meter running. I couldn't help myself. I dropped my hand and cleared my throat, feeling my face flush.

“This is my daughter's son,” she explained. “His parents are living in Europe.” She gestured dismissively.

We all sat. Bill folded his larger frame at the other end of the couch, leaning forward, arms braced on his thighs. I shifted slightly in my chair, crossed my legs, and found it difficult not to drum my fingers on the chair arm, wondering who was going to get this conversational ball rolling.

That was when the teapot screamed.

Bill jumped up. “I'll get the tea. Don't start without me!” He jogged past me (I didn't look, I swear, at his tight butt), and disappeared into the kitchen (okay, I peeked a little as he sailed by. How could I not?). One last screech of protest and the whistling teapot became silent.

Mrs. Bench tittered again. “Bill doesn't want to be left out. Did you make those cookies especially for me?” She eyed the plate of cookies on the table near her.

“Yes, I sure did, Mrs. Bench,” I said. “Peanut butter. I hope that's okay.”

“Oh, I love them. So does Bill. He cooks, cleans, and takes care of the house, did you know that?”

“I've never seen Bill around your house at all,” I said, trying hard not to sound suspicious.

She smiled, leaned, and peered at the cookies. “Bill, never mind the boxed cookies! Sabrina brought wonderful fresh baked ones!”

“Okay,” drifted out of the kitchen. In a few moments, we all had a cup of tea, and a plate of my cookies to enjoy.