Every Which Way But Dead. Ким Харрисон
in a cupboard for a mug good enough for a guest, Jenks snickered, swinging my earring like a tire swing. His kids were flitting into the kitchen in twos and threes—much to Ivy’s annoyance—pulled by the novelty of Ceri. They hovered over her, Jih taking the closest stance.
Ivy stood defensively before her computer, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ceri sat in the chair farthest from her. She looked lost and alone as she fingered the crucifix about her neck. As I searched the pantry for a tea bag, I wondered how I was going to make this work. Ivy wasn’t going to like another roommate. And where would we put her?
The accusing clatter of Ivy’s pens was loud as she rearranged her pencil cup. “Got one,” I said in relief as I finally found a tea bag. Jenks left me to bother Ivy, chased off my earring by the steam drifting up as I poured the boiling water into the mug.
“Here, Ceri,” I said, waving the pixies away from her and setting it on the table. “Do you want anything with it?”
She looked at the cup as if she’d never seen one before. Eyes widening, she shook her head. I hesitated, wondering what I had done wrong. She looked like she was ready to cry again. “Is it okay?” I asked, and she nodded, her thin hand shaking as she took the mug.
Jenks and Ivy were staring at her. “You sure you don’t want sugar or anything?” I asked, but she shook her head. Narrow chin trembling, she brought the cup to her lips.
Brow furrowed, I went to get the coffee grounds out of the fridge. Ivy rose to rinse the carafe. She leaned close to me, running the water to blur her words as she muttered, “What’s wrong with her? She’s crying over her tea.”
I spun. “Ceri!” I exclaimed. “If you want some sugar, it’s okay!”
She met my gaze, tears streaming down her pale face. “I haven’t had anything to eat for—a thousand years,” she choked out.
I felt as if I had been punched in the gut. “Do you want some sugar?”
Still crying, she shook her head.
Ivy was waiting for me when I turned back around. “She can’t stay here, Rachel,” the vampire said, her brow tight.
“She’ll be fine,” I whispered, appalled that Ivy was ready to kick her out. “I’ll bring my old cot down from the belfry and set it up in the living room. I’ve got some old T-shirts she can wear until I take her shopping.”
Jenks buzzed his wings for my attention. “Then what?” he said from the spigot.
I gestured my frustration. “I don’t know. She’s much better already. She wasn’t talking half an hour ago. Look at her now.”
We all turned, finding Ceri sobbing quietly and drinking her tea in small reverent sips as the pixy girls hovered over her. Three were plating her long, fair hair and another was singing to her.
“Okay,” I said as we turned back. “Bad example.”
Jenks shook his head. “Rache, I really feel bad for her, but Ivy’s right. She can’t stay here. She needs professional help.”
“Really?” I said belligerently, feeling myself warm. “I haven’t heard of any group therapy sessions for retired demon familiars, have you?”
“Rachel …” Ivy said.
A sudden shout from the pixy children brought Jenks up from the spigot. His eyes went past us to his kids as they descended upon the mouse, who had finally made a dash for the living room and found itself in its own personal hell. “Excuse me,” he said, flitting off to rescue it.
“No,” I said to Ivy. “I’m not going to dump her in some institution.”
“I’m not saying you should.” Ivy’s pale face had started to color, and the ring of brown about her eyes was shrinking as my body heat rose and my blood grew warm, triggering her instincts. “But she can’t stay here. The woman needs normal, and Rachel? We aren’t it.”
I took a breath to protest, then let it out. Frowning, I glanced at Ceri. She was wiping her eyes, the hand curled about her mug shaking to make rings on the surface of her tea. My eyes went to the pixy children arguing over who was going to get to ride the mouse first. It was little Jessie, and the tiny pixy screamed in delight when the rodent darted out of the kitchen with her on its back. In a blur of gold sparkles, all but Jih followed. Maybe Ivy was right.
“What do you want me to do, Ivy?” I said, calming. “I’d ask my mom to take her in, but she’s a step away from being in an institution herself.”
Jenks buzzed back. “What about Keasley?”
Surprised, I looked at Ivy.
“The old guy across the street?” Ivy said warily. “We don’t know anything about him.”
Jenks landed on the sill beside Mr. Fish and put his hands on his hips. “He’s old and on a fixed income. What more is there to know?”
As Ceri collected herself, I sifted the idea through my mind. I liked the old witch whose slow speech hid a sharp wit and high intelligence. He had stitched me up after Algaliarept had torn my neck. He had stitched up my will and confidence, too. The arthritic man was hiding something, and I didn’t think his real name was Keasley any more than I believed his story that he had more medical equipment than a small emergency room because he didn’t like doctors. But I trusted him.
“He doesn’t like the law and he knows how to keep his mouth shut,” I said, thinking it was perfect. Eyes pinched, I looked at Ceri talking to Jih in soft tones. Ivy’s eyes were doubtful, and peeved, I pushed into motion. “I’m calling him,” I added as I motioned to Ceri that I would be right back and went into the living room for the phone.
“Ceri,” Jenks said as I flipped the switch and got a pot of coffee going. “If tea makes you cry, you gotta try french fries. Come here, I’ll show you how to use the microwave.”
Keasley was on his way over. It might take him a while since he was racked by arthritis so badly that even most pain charms wouldn’t touch it. I felt bad for pulling him out into the snow, but it would have been even more rude to descend upon his house.
With an intentness I didn’t understand, Jenks perched himself on Ceri’s shoulder and talked her through the task of microwaving frozen french fries. She bent to watch the little carton spin, my pink slippers on her feet looking overly large and awkward. Pixy girls swirled around her in a whirl of pastel silk and chatter, mostly ignored. The unending noise had driven Ivy into the living room, where she was currently hiding with her earphones on.
My head came up when the air pressure shifted. “’Ello?” came a strong raspy voice from the front of the church. “Rachel? The pixies let me in. Where are you ladies?”
I glanced at Ceri, recognizing her sudden apprehension. “It’s Keasley, a neighbor,” I said. “He’s going to check you over. Make sure you’re healthy.”
“I’m fine,” she said pensively.
Thinking this might be harder than I thought, I padded in my sock feet into the hallway to talk to him before he met Ceri. “Hi, Keasley, we’re back here.”
His hunched, wizened figure limped down the hallway, eclipsing the light. More pixy children escorted him, wreathing him in circles of sifting pixy dust. Keasley had a brown paper grocery bag in his hand, and he brought the cold scent of snow in with him, mixing pleasantly with a witch’s characteristic redwood scent. “Rachel,” he said, his brown eyes squinting up at me as he got closer. “How’s my favorite redhead?”
“I’m good,” I said, giving him a quick hug and thinking that after outwitting Algaliarept, good was an understatement. His overalls were worn and smelling of soap. I thought of him as the neighborhood’s wise-old-man and a substitute grandfather