Page 30 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“That you will. You bring your beau with you then, and I’ll drink a beer with ’em and give all the standard warnings about breaking your heart.”
Disappointment shines in Lizzie Bishop’s eyes, but she nods. “Good enough, then.” She glares again at Alice, saying, “Areyoustaying for that, or are you too Big City for such nonsense?”
Alice raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t been invited to any parties, so I guess not.”
Lizzie smiles like the cat who swallowed a whole damn flock of canaries and sidesteps Alice deftly, humming happily as she continues on.
“Well,” Alice breathes. “I think I know where I stand withher.”
I snicker a little. She doesn’t actually sound too put out. “You can come to the party,” I say as we turn back toward the town hall and my truck. “It’s a dress-up affair, out in the woods. Big bonfire. Lots to drink.” Alice grimaces, and I add, “You’ll probably lose the headache by then, Blythe. Take heart.”
Alice Blythe sticks her tongue out at me, just like Lizzie did to her, and she and Fern march ahead, leaving me in their dust.
When we get backto the truck, Alice ravages her burrito while I check in with the coven. As expected, when I return, she seems to have regained some equilibrium. She’s got the truck windows rolled down. She and Fern look to be communing with the breeze, their chins tipped into the autumn air as I walk up. There’s a faint smell of caramel apples on the wind.
“Better?” I ask, feeling tentative as I lean against the side of the truck to peer in at her.
Alice nods, but there’s no quick joke. She actually looks a little sick, and I wonder for a moment if the burrito went wrong in her stomach. But then she speaks. “My parents check in every few days, and they’ll worry if I don’t respond,” she says, her eyes shining with worry. “Should I use the café at the Archer Inn?”
I do a couple of quick calculations in my head. We’re a little close to the full moon for my comfort, but it’s high noon—and I’d rather she not use the internet at the Archer this time of year. After every tourist season, Cade has to go through a whole rigamarole of debugging the internet café.
Whether it’s Sector or some corporate goofball trying to track spending habits in small towns, there’s always some issue I don’t want Alice tied up in. Especially not now that she’s “all in,” as she says.
“You up for meeting the last Hayes spawn?” I ask. “My little brother’s got the only other internet in town outside of tribal lands.”
Alice gives me a surprisingly sweet smile for the morning we’ve had, but I’ve lived with Fallon Hayes my whole damn life. I know better than to trust sweet smiles. “That sounds great.”
I want to ask what she’s thinking as I climb in the truck, but I also know better than to ask questions that I’ll get lies for answers in response. Alice is allowed to be mad that I’d let tourists die, rather than my own people. If I were her, I’d probably be mad too.
There’s not much reason to go this way, but I take Main Street out of town on a whim. Maybe I just want to remind Alice that Blackbird Hollow is special again. This time of year, downtown is especially charming. All the shops have their front windows decorated with seasonal wares, window boxes overflowing with bright chrysanthemums and sweet potato vine.
There’s little kids everywhere as we make our way down Main Street. The rush on Halloween costumes has begun, soeveryone’s out settling theirs, and between that and the leafers, downtown is crowded. I keep my eyes locked on the road, thinking this was probably a mistake.
But then Alice leans forward, right as I slow for the last stop sign before the turnoff to Cade’s. She makes this terrible little noise, and before I know it, she’s out of the truck, Fern following close behind with a displeased growl that’s not about Alice leaving the vehicle.
“Shit,” I swear, throwing the truck into park, despite the fact that in exactly thirty seconds, traffic’s gonna pile up behind me. As I push my door open, I see what’s got both Alice and Fern all riled up.
Five-year-old Belle Laveau is slumped over on the sidewalk, clutching a skinned knee, weeping silently, her angelic obsidian ringlets practically vibrating with her quiet sobs. Fern growls again, and Alice points half a block up the sidewalk. Even through her pain, little Belle knows better. She grabs onto Alice’s arm and shakes her head.
“We don’t point,” the little witch says as I jog over, shaking her head in a schoolmarmish fashion that makes her look about thirty-five. “Outsiders think it’s cursing.”
Alice puts her hand down immediately, but the glare she shoots at the couple walking away is venomous. “They didn’t even notice that they knocked her over,” she hisses.
From half a block away, I clock the expensive, quilted outerwear. The oversized rock on the woman’s left finger. The leather hiking boots that have never been worn. They look just like Nik described. All the same, all assholes. “Stay here,” I warn under my breath. “Wait for her mama.”
Sally Laveau is very likely dropping off eggs at the bodega, and will be out for her babe in a second. I’d like for Alice to meet her anyway. She and Belle are newer to town, migrating up afterthe Last Flood in New Orleans, and she can give Alice a better picture of Black southern craft.
I catch up with the couple in a matter of moments, falling into step with them easily. They’re probably just another couple of rich white folks, dime a dozen this time of year, but it’s always possible they’re Sector. I plan to keep things as civil as possible, since we’re all full up on trouble at this juncture.
“This town’s not your playground,” I say, keeping my voice soft as I grip the man’s elbow. He’s gym-fit but not much else, that much is clear as he slows, an edge of both defiance and fear in his eyes.
“What the hell is your problem?” the wife asks, swinging her bleach-blonde hair away from the slick of sticky-looking gloss on her unnaturally puffy lips.
Her nails are painted the same color as her skin, but sparkly, and I notice her big rock is on the wrong finger. Maybe she’s just the girlfriend. I don’t really give a shit. The way they’re dressed—hell, even the way they smell—tells me that they’re the type who come to places like this to use us up and take stories of how they “roughed it” in the country for the weekend back to their big-city burbs. As though a stay at a boutique hotel like the Archer Inn is roughing it.
They stop, waiting for me to explain why I’m accosting them in the street. I gesture back at Belle, Alice, Fern, and now Sally, who has her little girl cuddled into her arms. Elena Fernandez, the store manager at the bodega, is hurrying toward them with a first aid kit.
Alice gives the couple one of the most toxic mean-mugs I’ve ever seen in my life, and I grew up with Fallon. Who is, at this very moment, due to nothing more than bad luck, coming down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. We’re about to have a good old-fashioned shitshow, right here in the street at high noon.
