“So Jackson is a spider, and your mother’s the fixed spot.”
I nodded. Without discussion, we started running again. Felicia had put on slacks this morning, and she was wearing flat shoes. That helped a lot. Her braid flew around as she ran, like it was trying to lift her in the air.
We didn’t meet another living soul until I spotted Agatha Hunter in her front yard, her rifle at her side. She was looking toward the square. She scarcely glanced at us as we pounded by. In the open door of their home, Agatha’s husband, Donnie, sat in his homebuilt wheelchair, a shotgun across his lap.
“Easy death!” Donnie called to us.
“Easy death!” I called back. I felt proud to know them. They didn’t know what the hell was happening, but they were ready to fight.
So far, we’d been lucky not to encounter any hostiles. Any moment, that could change. I heard more shots, two or three rifles firing at almost the same time. Unless I was catching an echo, these came from off the square and to the west… the direction of the school, the way we were headed.
“Not much farther,” I told my sister. “Let’s stop for a second.”
We leaned against the side of the Food Shack, which sold tacos and hamburgers from eleven to seven. There were gaps in the planks, and I was sure that inside the shack, the owner could hear me gasping for breath.
“Earl, you okay? Is my mom in the school?” I said, in the lowest voice I could manage.
“Lizbeth, that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Candle’s in there, all right. She shut it up tight when we heard the first shot and the commotion.”
“Thanks, Earl. Stay down.”
“I plan on it.”
Felicia and I crept around to the front of the Food Shack to eyeball the school for another minute. Surrounded by its large yard, it took up a whole block… though in this town, that wasn’t saying much.
A rectangular one-story building constructed of rock and mortar, the school had first been a church. It had been erected right after the founding of Segundo Mexia. By the time the church’s congregation had grown enough to need a larger building, there were enough children for a school. Ever since then, all the children in the area had learned the basics inside those four walls. I was lucky there’d been enough money to hire my mother as a teacher right after she’d qualified. She’d been there ever since.
The main school door faced west, opening onto a yard bare except for two redbud trees. The door was shut, and so were the windows, a sure sign my mother was battened down inside. Who’d close up the building in this hot weather? Even the bright curtains were drawn… except for a tiny gap. Good for you, Mom, I thought.
There wasn’t a soul in sight. Nothing could be gained by hesitating any longer. Felicia and I exchanged a glance. Then we stepped out away from the shelter of the Food Shack and hurried across the street. “Mom,” I said, tapping on the door. “It’s Lizbeth! Let us in.”
The second the bolt drew back and a slice of darkness appeared, Felicia and I slipped inside. My mother was behind the door. I threw my arms around her. I clung to her like I was the one who needed help.
“Lizbeth, I’m fine,” Mom murmured. She held me close but not tight, giving me time to collect myself. “You must be Felicia,” she said over my shoulder. She was using her teacher voice. “I’m Candle Skidder.”
“Pleased to meet you,” my half sister said politely.
I inhaled twice more and stepped back.
“What’s happening out there?” My mother’s dark eyes were wide with worry. “I heard a commotion from the direction of the square.”
I told her about the trucks full of armed strangers in uniform. “We got no idea who they are or what they want,” I said. “Their trucks are parked right outside of the Antelope.”
“Jackson?” Mom said, trying to sound calm.
“We haven’t seen him yet,” I said.
“I haven’t heard the shotgun,” Mom said. “I opened the back windows so I could listen for it.” She was keeping a hold of herself.
As we talked, Felicia was moving quietly from window to window, straightening and curling her fingers to make them flexible.
“Felicia isn’t armed?” Mom said carefully.
“Oh, she’s armed, all right,” I said, loud enough for my sister to hear. “She doesn’t need guns, though.”
Mom gave me a blank look to let me know she didn’t get the joke.
“Felicia is a grigori,” I said. I had not been sure my mother wanted to hear about Felicia, so I hadn’t told her much. “The school didn’t realize she had the magic until a few months ago.”
“They realized pretty quick after I killed my grandfather,” Felicia muttered. She was standing to the side of one of the eastern windows, her head close to the little gap in the curtains. “They’re coming,” she said. Her hands twitched.
“Mom, lie down on the floor behind your desk,” I said. The wooden desk wasn’t much protection, but any was better than none.
Mom did exactly what I’d said. Candle Rose Skidder was good at many things, but fighting was not on the list. She would if she had to—she always did what she had to—but if Mom was fighting, it meant I was dead.
I moved to the other back window to see what Felicia had spotted. Two soldiers were approaching, both with rifles. They were prowling through the row of houses on the next street to the east. They were alert. There were patches on the shoulders of their khaki shirts, but I couldn’t make them out from this distance.
“Those familiar?” I whispered.
Felicia shook her head. She raised her hand with her fingers folded to imitate a gun. Was I going to shoot them?
I considered. I could do it, of course, but the windows were closed, and I’d have to allow for the glass affecting my shot, which would be from an awkward angle. And the two soldiers (mercenaries? militia?) were at least ten feet apart, so one of them would have time to react. I tossed the idea when I thought about the noise. Shots would draw more of the soldiers. Too risky.
I waved a hand to get Felicia’s attention. I raised my eyebrows to show I was asking a question. Then I held a finger to my lips. Then I drew a finger across my neck.
Felicia nodded with a little smile. Focusing through the slit in the curtains, she extended one hand, nodding gently as she felt her way through the spell. Our father, Oleg Karkarov, had told Felicia that all forms of magic were drawn from the same pot. Felicia might be a grigori like him or a witch like her mother. I wasn’t sure it made a difference as I watched her work her magic.
Felicia’s fingers opened and tightened, opened and tightened. The mercenary nearest Felicia, a man, paused. His free hand went to his throat. He opened his mouth to say something to his companion, but the words never got out. Felicia opened her fingers one final time and then clenched them in a fist. The man struggled to breathe, dropping his rifle. He turned white and crumpled to the ground. He didn’t move again.
His companion, a tough woman in her forties, glanced over as he fell. For a second, she didn’t believe her eyes. Then her mouth opened to yell. In that second, Felicia had begun repeating her spell much more rapidly. The woman struggled violently, swinging up her rifle to fire an SOS shot. She took a step closer to her fallen comrade, just close enough to the window to reach.