Night Shift
Page 8
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“Do you have any ceremonial daggers? I’m not sure how to pronounce them. Athames?” The middle-aged woman peered around the shop as if one would materialize in front of her. She looked faintly familiar.
Fiji looked at the woman more closely, wondering where she could have encountered her new customer. Fiji would never have pegged this woman for a serious practitioner. On the short and stubby side, she had a graying perm with a severe, almost militant, curl to it. Bright pink lipstick was her only makeup. Her clothes were strictly Chico’s, and her sandals were something good but practical, like SAS.
“Don’t I know you?” Fiji said.
The customer looked up reluctantly. “Maybe,” she answered vaguely, and looked around the shop again. Fiji began to get the feeling something was distinctly off about this woman. This had been a day for encounters that weren’t what she’d expected, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.
“I have a few athames,” Fiji said. “I keep them here inside this counter, if you’d care to come look.”
The woman approached, and Fiji pointed through the glass of the countertop. There were seven or eight athames on display, of different types, sizes, and styles. The newcomer peered down, apparently fascinated by the blades. Fiji was ready to tell her the different materials used in carving the handles, but the woman didn’t ask a single question. The bone one was plain and simple, a steel one had designs chased all the way down the blade, another had a wicked and practical look, another was modeled on a Scottish sgian dhu.
While the customer looked at the display, Fiji looked at the customer. She was convinced she’d seen her before.
“Athames have very specific usages,” Fiji offered, to break the silence. “Would you like me to explain?”
But the woman shook her head. “I want that one,” the customer said after another moment of contemplation. She pointed to the sharpest one, made of stainless steel—the most utilitarian-looking of the bunch, and the only blade that looked as though it could do real damage. Athames didn’t have to be sharp; they were meant to direct energy. Some witches did use their athames as daily tools, on the theory that usage gave the blades power—but most were strictly ceremonial, like Fiji’s, which she kept locked away.
“So when are you going to use it?” Fiji asked directly, though she took care to smile as she did so.
The woman looked blank. “Oh, you know . . . I’ll take it when my coven meets,” she said finally.
Wrong answer. Usually, only the priestess used an athame during a coven ritual. And if this woman was a priestess, Fiji was a hole in the ground.
Fiji had never faced a problem like this before. Wouldn’t you know it would be today, she thought bitterly.
“You have a coven?” she asked, trying to sound as nonconfrontational as she possibly could. “I’ve never heard of one around here. That’s so interesting.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman said vaguely. “You’d be surprised.”
I certainly would, Fiji thought. But what’s the harm? After all, it wasn’t like this woman couldn’t go into any Walmart or hunting store and purchase a knife even longer and sharper, right?
So Fiji extracted the athame, let the woman examine it more closely—which she did, but not as if she really understood what she was seeing—and then took the woman’s proffered cash.
While the woman’s billfold was open, Fiji caught a glimpse of her driver’s license. She was hoping for enlightenment, but the name Francine Owens was unfamiliar. Fiji was still cudgeling her memory for where she’d seen the woman before as she dropped the receipt and the knife into a bag. Fiji felt an overwhelming wrongness emanating from this customer. But she had no evidence, no proof, no information.
“Have you ever come to the class I hold on Thursday nights?” Fiji asked.
“What?” The woman stared at her, bewildered. “Maybe the first one you ever had,” she said, after a significant pause.
“Then I’m glad you returned to visit the store. Enjoy your purchase,” Fiji said automatically, and as Francine Owens walked out of the store Fiji heard Kiki coming out to stand by her.
“Customer, huh?” Kiki sounded unmistakably surprised.
“Yep,” Fiji said, barely aware of speaking. She went to the front door without knowing what she was going to do, and she opened it just as, across Witch Light Road, Manfred Bernardo whipped open the front door of his house and began to run . . . toward Francine Owens, who was walking toward the intersection with her shoulders braced back and a ground-eating walk that seemed close to marching. She’d discarded the bag, which was bouncing east with the wind. The bare knife was in Francine Owens’s hand.
Fiji began running, too. Manfred had had a good head start, and before Fiji could reach the woman, he launched himself from the pavement to tackle Francine Owens just as she would have sunk the knife into her own abdomen. The north/south light had turned green, but thank the goddess, there were no cars coming from either direction.
Fiji reached the struggling couple within seconds. Francine Owens was fighting Manfred. She was a hefty woman and Manfred was a slight man. Fiji landed on her knees beside them. She performed the spell at which she excelled. She froze Francine Owens.
“God almighty,” said Manfred, rolling off the woman. “Thanks, Feej.” He sat back, panting.
“Don’t thank me, it’s my fault,” she said, her voice coming in jerks as she caught her breath. Fiji looked down at what she’d done. Owens was still and her eyes were open, and she was fixed in the position she’d been in when Fiji had cast the spell. Her right hand was up to slap the side of Manfred’s head, and her left hand had been gripping the athame, perhaps to bring it up to use on him.
Or herself.
“Thank you,” Fiji said. “Thank you, Manfred. So much. For stopping her.”
“She came out of your shop?” He was paler than ever, and his silver piercings glinted in the sun. She could see the black roots on his platinum hair.
“Yes, she bought the athame,” Fiji said. “The knife. But . . .” Fiji had to gasp in a huge lungful of air before she could continue. “But it seemed so strange that she was buying one, and she didn’t seem to know what she was doing. So.” Another heave of her chest. “I watched her, but you got it first.”
Fiji looked at the woman more closely, wondering where she could have encountered her new customer. Fiji would never have pegged this woman for a serious practitioner. On the short and stubby side, she had a graying perm with a severe, almost militant, curl to it. Bright pink lipstick was her only makeup. Her clothes were strictly Chico’s, and her sandals were something good but practical, like SAS.
“Don’t I know you?” Fiji said.
The customer looked up reluctantly. “Maybe,” she answered vaguely, and looked around the shop again. Fiji began to get the feeling something was distinctly off about this woman. This had been a day for encounters that weren’t what she’d expected, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.
“I have a few athames,” Fiji said. “I keep them here inside this counter, if you’d care to come look.”
The woman approached, and Fiji pointed through the glass of the countertop. There were seven or eight athames on display, of different types, sizes, and styles. The newcomer peered down, apparently fascinated by the blades. Fiji was ready to tell her the different materials used in carving the handles, but the woman didn’t ask a single question. The bone one was plain and simple, a steel one had designs chased all the way down the blade, another had a wicked and practical look, another was modeled on a Scottish sgian dhu.
While the customer looked at the display, Fiji looked at the customer. She was convinced she’d seen her before.
“Athames have very specific usages,” Fiji offered, to break the silence. “Would you like me to explain?”
But the woman shook her head. “I want that one,” the customer said after another moment of contemplation. She pointed to the sharpest one, made of stainless steel—the most utilitarian-looking of the bunch, and the only blade that looked as though it could do real damage. Athames didn’t have to be sharp; they were meant to direct energy. Some witches did use their athames as daily tools, on the theory that usage gave the blades power—but most were strictly ceremonial, like Fiji’s, which she kept locked away.
“So when are you going to use it?” Fiji asked directly, though she took care to smile as she did so.
The woman looked blank. “Oh, you know . . . I’ll take it when my coven meets,” she said finally.
Wrong answer. Usually, only the priestess used an athame during a coven ritual. And if this woman was a priestess, Fiji was a hole in the ground.
Fiji had never faced a problem like this before. Wouldn’t you know it would be today, she thought bitterly.
“You have a coven?” she asked, trying to sound as nonconfrontational as she possibly could. “I’ve never heard of one around here. That’s so interesting.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman said vaguely. “You’d be surprised.”
I certainly would, Fiji thought. But what’s the harm? After all, it wasn’t like this woman couldn’t go into any Walmart or hunting store and purchase a knife even longer and sharper, right?
So Fiji extracted the athame, let the woman examine it more closely—which she did, but not as if she really understood what she was seeing—and then took the woman’s proffered cash.
While the woman’s billfold was open, Fiji caught a glimpse of her driver’s license. She was hoping for enlightenment, but the name Francine Owens was unfamiliar. Fiji was still cudgeling her memory for where she’d seen the woman before as she dropped the receipt and the knife into a bag. Fiji felt an overwhelming wrongness emanating from this customer. But she had no evidence, no proof, no information.
“Have you ever come to the class I hold on Thursday nights?” Fiji asked.
“What?” The woman stared at her, bewildered. “Maybe the first one you ever had,” she said, after a significant pause.
“Then I’m glad you returned to visit the store. Enjoy your purchase,” Fiji said automatically, and as Francine Owens walked out of the store Fiji heard Kiki coming out to stand by her.
“Customer, huh?” Kiki sounded unmistakably surprised.
“Yep,” Fiji said, barely aware of speaking. She went to the front door without knowing what she was going to do, and she opened it just as, across Witch Light Road, Manfred Bernardo whipped open the front door of his house and began to run . . . toward Francine Owens, who was walking toward the intersection with her shoulders braced back and a ground-eating walk that seemed close to marching. She’d discarded the bag, which was bouncing east with the wind. The bare knife was in Francine Owens’s hand.
Fiji began running, too. Manfred had had a good head start, and before Fiji could reach the woman, he launched himself from the pavement to tackle Francine Owens just as she would have sunk the knife into her own abdomen. The north/south light had turned green, but thank the goddess, there were no cars coming from either direction.
Fiji reached the struggling couple within seconds. Francine Owens was fighting Manfred. She was a hefty woman and Manfred was a slight man. Fiji landed on her knees beside them. She performed the spell at which she excelled. She froze Francine Owens.
“God almighty,” said Manfred, rolling off the woman. “Thanks, Feej.” He sat back, panting.
“Don’t thank me, it’s my fault,” she said, her voice coming in jerks as she caught her breath. Fiji looked down at what she’d done. Owens was still and her eyes were open, and she was fixed in the position she’d been in when Fiji had cast the spell. Her right hand was up to slap the side of Manfred’s head, and her left hand had been gripping the athame, perhaps to bring it up to use on him.
Or herself.
“Thank you,” Fiji said. “Thank you, Manfred. So much. For stopping her.”
“She came out of your shop?” He was paler than ever, and his silver piercings glinted in the sun. She could see the black roots on his platinum hair.
“Yes, she bought the athame,” Fiji said. “The knife. But . . .” Fiji had to gasp in a huge lungful of air before she could continue. “But it seemed so strange that she was buying one, and she didn’t seem to know what she was doing. So.” Another heave of her chest. “I watched her, but you got it first.”
