Wisteria Wonders Page 10

  “Did it, really? Everything happened so fast. She might have miscommunicated.”

  “Your theory is preposterous. Whoever was controlling your body, they had one goal, and that was to feed me to the machine for fuel.” He turned his full attention back to the road and shuddered. “You know, sometimes my clothes will wrinkle against my skin a certain way, and for an instant, I can feel those tentacles sliding over me, finding the perfect places to pierce my skin.”

  “That's awful,” I said. “Does the DWM have a staff therapist you can talk to, or some kind of PTSD treatment?”

  “Forget I said anything,” he growled abruptly. “I'm fine.”

  “Well, if not for you, since you're such a big, strong man who doesn't need help, then how about for me?”

  He gave me a questioning glance. “Do you think you need a therapist?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped. “I'm sure being possessed by the spirit of a woman who tried to kill herself should have no potential negative side effects. None whatsoever.”

  He paused before answering. “I'm right next door. You can always talk to me.”

  “Like how Chessa talked to you? Some help you were. Was it after one of your helpful chats that she cut herself up and dove into the ocean?”

  He winced, and I saw the pain wash over him. I immediately regretted my hurtful words.

  “Chet, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that.”

  “Of course you did.” He kept his eyes on the road. His hollow cheeks grew more shadowed. “No need to apologize. I deserve all that, and more. I mean, if you only knew...” He trailed off and shook his head. “Never mind. What's done is done.”

  We drove in silence.

  I thought of what I'd overheard at Chloe's house, when she was talking to the baby. “Zara is a good witch,” Chloe had said.

  Was I? Was I a good witch? Zara tries to be a good witch, but Zara has a weakness for buttery pastry... and for losing her temper at the people she loves.

  “Chet, I do want to help you and Chessa,” I said with a sigh. “I was just asking about therapy out of concern for you, because I'm a good witch who thinks of others.” Zara is a good witch.

  “I'm serious,” I said. “I was called to being a librarian because of my innate desire to help people.” I shifted in my seat, rearranging my fluffy skirt. “I need to help others even when it's not necessarily appreciated.”

  “And you're okay with putting yourself in danger to help people?”

  “My aunt has advised that I make safety more of a priority. I'm trying to be more careful, but most times you don't realize how much danger you're in until it's all over and you're looking back.”

  “That's true,” he said. “And you do seem to be dealing well, all things considered.”

  I thought of the prophetic book, and its quotes about chaos and murder. “Oh, I do get the heebie-jeebies now and then, but even with everything that's happened lately, I'm surprisingly well adjusted. It must be a side effect of being a witch.” I patted the embroidered pink poodle on my skirt then crossed my hands in my lap. “And I can't ever complain about being bored, that's for sure.”

  Chet sniffed in agreement, and gave me the first smile I'd seen on his face in a long time. “Never a dull moment in Wisteria.”

  We left the outskirts of town and turned onto a side road, narrow but paved.

  We approached an iron gate, guarded by a tall watchtower. I leaned forward to look up at the tower's window. Someone was manning the post, but I couldn't see their face.

  The gate opened, and we drove through.

  “So, this is the secret access point for the DWM headquarters,” I said. “Very clever. It looks exactly like the access for a drinking-water reservoir.”

  Chet nodded. “Which it also is. The department manages the clean-water supply for the regional district.”

  “Hence the name,” I said. “You guys must work hard to keep things running smoothly.”

  “We do,” he said.

  I smiled inwardly. If you want to win points with someone without the use of magic, tell them their job sounds difficult.

  “You probably don't get nearly enough credit for keeping our town safe,” I said.

  He tilted his head left and right, stretching his neck with an audible crack. “We don't do it for fame or glory,” he said.

  I was tempted to compare his vocation to mine, at the library, but bit my tongue. Helping patrons find books about flower arranging wasn't the same as taking the hit from bullets and tentacles.

  He gestured at the terrain before us with his chin. “Keep your eyes on that rock wall up ahead. This is the best part.”

  I did, and as I watched, the rock wall split in half, slid apart, and offered access to a tunnel. Chet cranked the wheel hard and spun the back tires with a hot squeal on the pavement before shooting us into the tunnel.

  “Fancy driving,” I said. “The DWM must have an excellent training program.”

  “Basic evasive maneuvers,” he said. “It's good to stay sharp.”

  We passed another checkpoint, where a mechanical arm shone a green bar of light through the van's windows, scanning us both.

  After that, we reached an underground parking lot that resembled a normal parking lot for a big-city mall. Chet pulled into a parking spot with a practiced ease. There were at least twenty empty spots between the one he chose and the door to the elevator. If the spots were assigned, as I suspected they were, Chet was at least twenty people from the top of the organization.

  We got out of the van and proceeded to the elevator's security panel, where he used a key fob on his keychain. He also held still for a retina scan. The screen above the panel flashed to life with a familiar female face. It was Charlize, the gorgon triplet sister of both Chloe and Chessa. Her blond hair framed her round face with soft ringlets. There was no sign of the snakes, but I saw them in my mind's eye, overlaid across her normal human appearance.

  “You're early,” Charlize said. “Why didn't you take Zara to get a bite to eat, like we planned?”

  Chet looked away from her to give me a guilty look.

  I stepped closer to the screen and answered for him. “Because we're not dating, sweetheart. I'm here strictly on business. Buzz us in now so we can get on with it.”

  Charlize widened her eyes. “Folks, we've got a live one here.” She shook her curls. “It must be true, what they say about redheaded witches. You're all... straight to business, like a struck match. I hear your type is all fire and brimstone in the bedroom, too.” She leaned back in her chair, covered her microphone, and spoke to someone off camera.

  Exasperated, Chet said, “Just hit the button. Please.”

  The screen went black, and the elevator dinged as the doors opened.

  Once we were in the elevator, I said to Chet, “For the record, it's true about the fire and brimstone. The only reason I'm a single mother is because, back home, I kept incinerating my dates with the power of my kisses. But at least those poor guys went out with smiles on their faces.”

  Chet held his hand to his mouth and whispered, “There are cameras everywhere.”

  I held up my hand to my mouth and replied, “I know.”

  The elevator seemed regular enough, except it went down instead of up.

  Down, down, down.

  Chapter 15

  The digital floor display listed alphanumeric codes, nonsequential, but I did count twenty changes in the code, and my ears popped with the change in elevation.

  The doors opened to what appeared to be a typical office-building hallway.

  “We're taking a quick detour before the coma ward,” Chet said as he led the way down the hall. “Stay close, and don't make eye contact with anyone or anything.”

  I did stay close, but when a man walked by accompanied by a creature that was the size of a child's pony but with the head of an iguana and the body of a lion, I had difficulty keeping my eyes to myself.

  The iguana-lion flicked its pink, forked tongu
e in the air between us. “Hey, Chet,” the beast said with a surfer-dude casual air. “How's that new office chair working out for you?”

  “Very ergonomic,” Chet replied. “Thanks for eating my other one.”

  The iguana-lion chuckled as it continued on its way.

  As soon as we were alone, I asked Chet, “What was that?”

  “His name is Steve, and he's one of our in-house lawyers.”

  “But what is he?”

  “I told you, he's a lawyer,” Chet said. “They're a special breed.”

  We'd stopped at a closed door. Chet tried the handle, but it was locked. He muttered under his breath with frustration.

  “Allow me,” I said.

  I held my hands over the door handle. I imagined the mechanism inside the lock, and the driver pins pushing up to align the tops of the key pins—or at least I tried to. Without a visual of the shape of the ridges on the matching key, I couldn't get it right. And if I'd had the key for a visual reference—well, I wouldn't need to use magic.

  When Chet saw that I couldn't get the door open, he said, “Never mind,” and turned away. “We shouldn't be here, anyway.” He took my elbow and nudged for me to come with him.

  “I'm no quitter,” I said, staying where I stood. “Remember what Charlize said about redheaded witches? I'm like a struck match.”

  “You shine brightly?”

  “That's right.” I grinned and looked down at his hand, which was still on my elbow. “And if you try to hold onto me, you're going to get your fingers burned.”

  He let go and gave me some space. I tried the door again, this time picturing myself on the other side, giving the door handle a simple twist to unlatch.

  The handle gave a satisfying pop and turned. The door creaked open.

  I didn't have long to bask in the glory, because more people—or creatures—were approaching. Chet pushed me into the unlit office and closed the door behind us.

  The dark, windowless, underground room felt black and dangerous in the way that only an office in a secret organization's lair, twenty stories below ground level, could feel. I could see nothing, but I heard a soft hum—probably the HVAC system—as well as Chet's breathing, and the rustle of the crinoline under my poodle skirt.

  In the darkness, Chet asked, “Did something follow us in here, or is that your skirt I'm hearing?”

  “Yes and no. It's the crinoline underneath my skirt. It's got boning, like a corset.”

  “Boning,” he said with a chuckle, and then he pawed at my breast.

  I gasped. “Found something you like?”

  He made a strangled sound and whipped his hand away from my chest. “I was trying to flick the light switch.”

  “You could try flicking what you were grabbing, but you didn't even buy me dinner tonight, so I'm not—” The lights came on with a blinding flash, and I stopped talking. Chet had found the light switch, and he looked horrified enough without me having to finish my sentence.

  I looked around the ten-foot-by-ten-foot room. The walls were painted a soft teal, decorated with framed prints of sand dollars and seascapes. That part of the room was as pleasant as the waiting room for a fancy dermatologist. The desk, chair, filing cabinet, and other accessories were all white. A pair of silver-wire-and-sea-glass earrings lay on the desk next to a white pencil and a half-finished crossword puzzle. It looked as though the office's occupant might be back any minute, except for the year's worth of dust on the computer monitor.

  Under the bright overhead lights, the ease between us froze back into a block of ice. Chet paced the room, looking over everything with stiff, robotic gestures.

  “This is Chessa's office,” he said. As if I hadn't figured it out already.

  I surveyed the contents of the room. Other than being prettier than the typical office, with all its pale decorations, it was a standard office. An oval mirror on a pewter frame stood to the left of the computer monitor. On the metal frame, a tiny pewter woman in a long dress leaned over to peer at her reflection.

  “That mirror was a gift,” Chet said.

  I traced the curls of the pewter girl's hair with my finger. Her ringlets seemed to have a life of their own. “I can see why someone saw this and thought of her.”

  He cleared his throat.

  I picked up an ivory box, the size of a necklace gift box, and peered inside. It was empty, except for a plastic insert with a hollow space for a pen.

  “What was this?” I showed Chet the box. “Is this how your fancy spell-busting pens come packaged?”

  “No, they come in a kit with other weapons.”

  I sniffed. “Who do I need to sleep with to get one of those weapons kits?”

  Chet gave me a horrified look.

  “It's an expression,” I said.

  “You don't need a weapons kit. You already have too much power.”

  I gave my nose a twitch. “Power is like chocolate. You can never have too much.”

  “Let's see if you can control the powers you do have. Are you getting any feelings, being in this room?”

  I took an audible breath and waited. “Mild claustrophobia.”

  “Anything else?” He looked at the empty pen box, which was still in my hands.

  “This was an AG7,” I said, closing the ivory box. “It just popped into my head. That must be knowledge put in my head by Chessa.”

  He didn't seem impressed with my naming of the pen model.

  I opened a desk drawer and examined the orderly contents: colored markers, Post-It notes, assorted paperclips, three different mirrored compacts, a ball of elastic bands, and an unopened box of granola bars—the gross, healthy kind with no chocolate. I took out the elastic ball and gave it a bounce on the floor. It took a funny angle and shot away from me, but I used my powers to nab it midair before it marked up the pale teal-painted walls.

  Chet pulled open a file drawer and thumbed over the tabbed contents. “She kept meticulous records of everything,” he said. “I wish I could find her journal. She mentioned that she kept one, but I've searched every inch of this room, and the cottage, and I can't find it.” He stared unfocusedly at a seascape print on the wall.

  I took a seat in the dusty white chair and gestured to the computer monitor. “Maybe she went digital.”

  “The network admin already checked,” he said.

  “Ah, but maybe the network admin didn't know where to look. A girl's gotta keep her secrets, and one way to hide a diary is to call it something else, like TPS Reports.” I pressed the button to switch on the monitor. A username and password prompt popped up. Without thinking, I typed both in and hit the Return key.

  The system gave me access.

  Chet looked at me in astonishment. “Chessa?”

  I replied, “Why don't you try sticking your tongue down my throat and find out?”

  He jumped back like I was made of blue lightning. “Sorry.”

  “You're not wrong to make that assumption,” I said. “Something or someone clearly guided my fingers to type in her password. Plus I'm not usually so forward with you.” Not that I didn't want to invite him to stick his tongue down my throat regularly, but I'd controlled myself until today.

  “Chessa can be very direct,” he said. “Flirtatious.”

  “Did she have other boyfriends besides you?”

  “Of course not,” he snapped. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  I held my hands up. “Easy, wolf boy. No need to chomp my head off. We'll get you a bowl of Puppy Chow right after this.”

  He tilted his head. His lips moved wordlessly before he spat out a response. “Chessa used to joke about feeding me Puppy Chow.”

  “Maybe we're getting warmer. That's what you want, isn't it? For me to strengthen my connection with Chessa so that she can get inside me and then you can—”

  “Zara!”

  I laughed flirtatiously, thrusting my chest forward so it was straining against the buttons of the pink blouse. “We're getting warmer and warme
r,” I teased.

  He glanced around the tiny room guiltily.

  My fingers were moving again on their own, typing commands even though I wasn't even facing the screen. I whispered to Chet, “Don't look now, but something's happening.”

  He took a seat on the edge of the desk and watched over my shoulder. I slowly turned my head and watched the screen as well.

  My fingers were flying, punching in a series of passwords and access codes. The tapping on the keys sounded like a rainstorm.

  And then I stopped; my hands flew up, folded together, and landed in my lap.

  It was time for me to look at what the spirit had found. “She wants us to read what's on the screen,” I said.

  “That's classified,” he said, reaching to turn off the monitor.

  I swatted his hand away, and jabbed him in the ribs, right where I'd seen Chloe poke him the day before. He whimpered and gave me a dirty look but let me continue viewing the screen.

  I asked, “What am I looking at?”

  On the computer screen were scans of ancient-looking text. The lettering of the text—if it was text—was similar to hieroglyphics, with its alphabet of shapes using straight edges so it could be pressed into clay tablets with simple tools. But this wasn't a scan of a tablet.

  “These pages were hand-written,” I said. “On paper that looks like it turned to dust seconds after these scans.”

  “You're right about the paper,” Chet said, still rubbing his ribs where I'd jabbed him. “The document was stored in a sealed container, underwater. Once the Department opened the box, oxygen got in, and the paper started rapidly deteriorating.”

  “How old is this? Was the paper material silk, or bamboo? Hemp?”

  “Mulched tree bark, we think. It turned to dust almost immediately.”

  “But you got copies of it, right?” The librarian part of my brain got excited about adding the relic to our Local History Collection.

  Chet shook his head. “The crew scanned as much as they could, but much of it was lost to dust and time.”

  “What kind of container? Where was it found? This artifact should be preserved and displayed for the public, not buried down here in the bowels of your weird bureaucratic whatever-this-is.”