When Tisper was fourteen, she was sent off to live with her grandmother.
Grandmother Sophie wasn’t the type to bake pie, knit sweaters or weed her garden every spring. She didn’t feed birds in the park or join a quilting club or complain to cashiers about expired coupons.
Sophie was a lot of things. But more than anything, she was a real hard bitch.
Tisper remembered the first day she’d been dumped at Sophie’s home. She didn’t want to be there. She missed Phillip. She missed her friends. She missed her mom and her dad, even though they were the ones to banish her away.
Maybe they thought Sophie would “straighten her out”—teach her a lesson, the way hard women like her did. Sophie taught her a lot of things that summer, but nothing like they’d been hoping for.
First and foremost, Sophie taught her how to sew.
Tisper heard her voice so vividly, after all these years: “Why all this?”
Tisper was supposed to be unpacking. She was supposed to be putting away her clothes, setting her bed, hanging her jackets in the tiny wardrobe Sophie had taken out of storage just for her.
But instead Tisper had laid on her bare mattress, crying into the naked seams.
“Why all this, child? Why all the tears? Enough. Enough of this now,” Sophie griped from the doorway.
“I don’t want to wear all these things, Grandma,” Tisper had told her. kicking her suitcase from the bed in a tantrum. “They wouldn’t let me pack the clothes I liked. My tank tops and my blouses—mom threw them away. I know she did. I don’t want to wear these things.”
“Is this how your mother raised you?” Sophie scorned. “Did that woman never teach you in all your life how to fix your own problems? Lord, Tisperella.” No one had ever called her that before but herself. “Come. Come now, and bring those clothes you hate so much.”
That day, Sophie taught her how to sew. She taught her how to turn t-shirts into skirts and how to iron patches onto denim jackets. That summer, she taught Tisper how to make things for herself. How to respect herself. How to live without the guidance of anyone else.
Grandmother Sophie taught her a lesson that had stuck with her all her life.
“When the going gets tough, she always said, pointing with her crooked old wooden cane, you get tougher.
Tisper wondered just how tough someone could get. If maybe it was possible to wear so much armor, you lose yourself somewhere inside of it.
She watched Quentin in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. He slept with his head against the glass, silent. So silent, it was unnerving. His breath went rigid and shallow, and then deep again. The knight in shining armor, Tisper mused. He’s just as lost as the rest of us.
They’d been pulled over at a diner for a good hour. Quentin had been asleep for at least two. Tisper knew he needed rest, but she was so tired of the quiet.
He was too still. Too peaceful. Normal people don’t sleep like this, Tisper thought. Normal people groan and grunt and toss and turn. And then suddenly there was movement—the first she’d seen all this time. The deep, worried furrow of his brow.
She hated to wake him, but she was starving. There was no sense in letting a bad dream go on anyways. Tisper poked at his arm once and then twice, and slowly Quentin stirred. He squinted his eyes and blinked at the light from the diner. The world had gone dark around them in the time they’d been gone. He grunted—a confused, tired kind of noise.
“Why do you bake?” Tisper asked, before he could shake the grogginess away.
Quentin rubbed his eyes, kneaded at his at his sore neck. Then looked to her, muddled with sleep. “What?”
“Why do you bake?” she asked again.
“I guess because my mother was a baker.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yeah. Somewhere.”
“You don’t talk?”
“It’s too early for questions.”
Tisper had to laugh. “It’s eight at night.”
“No,” Quentin said. “We don’t talk.”
“Do you miss her?”
“More than you know.”
“So baking—it’s like a therapy to you, right?”
Quentin rubbed at his eyes again, stretched out against the passenger seat. “It’s like a therapy, yeah. She owned a bakery, I used to help out all the time as a kid. She taught me everything she knew.” He still looked tired, but now there was something fond growing in his smile. “She said God gave her me as a legacy.”
Tisper stared straight into the neon lights of the diner. “My mom said God gave her me as punishment.”
Quentin looked to her for a moment, but maybe he really was intuitive. Because he didn’t ask anything after that. He popped open the passenger door and said, “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”
So she’d lied.
She knew exactly what it was Jaylin saw in him.
There was something handsome and humble about Quentin Bronx. Even with dark circles under his eyes, even in the dull, placid diner lighting, he was like the sun. Warm and comfortable. Grinning, watching her and just grinning as Tisper ordered half the menu to satisfy her empty stomach.
Quentin didn’t order anything but black coffee. When Tisper asked why, he said “food like this doesn’t sit well with me” and that was all. She knew he was probably famished, but Quentin wasn’t the type of person to look hungry. He was the type to sit pretty, read through the menu and sip his bitter coffee while the person in front of him shoveled greasy food into her gut like she’d eaten cattle straw her whole life.
“I’m alright,” he’d say each time she offered him a bite. “I’ll eat something when we get there.”
She felt too guilty to finish her meal, and she knew they hadn’t the time to sit and chat leisurely over chicken-fried steak. So Tisper asked for a box, Quentin paid the bill, and they were back on the road within thirty minutes.
This time Quentin drove. Tisper watched his face as they passed under streetlights. She wondered what he might be like under all that armor. What he was thinking. What he thought about when Jaylin crossed his mind. Was he worried about Jaylin, or was it only the lichund?
It was because of Anna. That’s what Jaylin told her. Was that the truth? Was he only doing this because of Anna?
“Hey, what about Olivia?” Tisper cracked the silence. “How come you aren’t, you know…putting as much effort into finding her?”
“We’re looking for her. I don’t have the same feeling as I have about Jaylin. He’s different. He’s going to change everything.”
“Intuition?” she asked.
“Intuition,” he said. “I’m surprised you remember the discussion about her after all the chardonnay.”
“I wouldn’t forget something like that about Olivia. Next to Tyler, I think she might have been the worst thing to ever happen to Jay.”
Quentin glanced at her just for a second—just long enough to show his interest had piqued. Then he was back on the road.
“Just how much exactly does Jaylin tell you?” she asked.
“Not much.”
“How much do you tell him?”
“Not much.”
“God.” She crossed her legs in the cramped little space. “Men are ridiculous. You won’t open up to each other, not even the tiniest bit. But you’ll suck face until sundown with no rhyme or reason.”
Quentin glanced at her, the lights of the city night swimming up his face, lighting his eyes. “He told you about that?”
“Told me what?”
He paused, then she paused. And like the earth had shifted on its axis, an understanding grin stretched slow across her face. “No!“
Quentin looked to her, hesitated a moment too long. A flash of light burst through the windshield, and Quentin slammed on the breaks, launching Tisper forward. The seat-belt snagged around her chest and she cringe as she heard the horn of a truck, the scream of its tires. The metal body was only a flash of red as the vehicle hydroplaned, skidding against the wet cement, nearly clipping Quentin’s bumper. The truck wobbled, swerved and then finally took control again, miraculously rolling out of the intersection without a scratch.
Quentin sat back with a hard exhale. “You alright?”
Tisper nursed the red marking across her chest, burned into her skin by the webbing of the seat-belt. “Jesus. You weren’t joking about the intuitions. If you weren’t part superman, part dog, I think we’d be dead right now.”
Quentin puffed out a laugh and palmed away the sweat on his forehead. “It’s the city. People act strange in this district come night.”
“Peachy. Why are we here again?”
“We need to pick up some supplies before we head back.”
Tisper was expecting a grocery store, a sports depot, hell—a guns and ammunition shop. But instead, Quentin pulled up to an old shack with a wooden sign hanging over the doorway. “The Bizarre Bazaar – worldwide oddities” was painted across the slab of wood in eggshell white.
It was an oddity in itself, this shop. Taxidermy bats hung from the ceilings, and jars decorated bookshelves—strange, fleshy things inside. There were creatures she couldn’t comprehend, glass eyes, and dozens of old, withered books in all kinds of language. Spanish, Cantonese, Latin.
Tisper was drawn to a table, where crystals rested in silk bedding. Dozens of different kinds, some tiny, some large. The biggest of all was a moonstone sphere, propped on a metal throne. And as Tisper stared into the glassy luminescent fragments and shimmering flecks of calcium, for a moment, she was looking at the twilight sky. Watching the clouds roll overhead—the sun leaving the world in only a specter of its warmth. Magic. Like a summer night.
She reached forward to touch it.
“Not for sale.” A gravelly old voice made her jump and Tisper backed away from the stones.
An old woman was hobbling down the steps, her dry, white hair spilling down her back like silver spiderwebs. She wore slippers and a cotton-knitted nightgown, and the floorboards creaked beneath her weight as she steadied herself on the stair railing. By the looks of it, she lived just upstairs.
“The moonstone,” she said. “I won’t sell that one. It was a gift from my late husband. It adds purity to this place.” Her eyes floated off to Quentin and her leathery old face stretched into a big dentured grin. “My, my. It has been a while, dear. You’re as handsome as always.”
“Devi,” he smiled and walked forward to meet her. She looked smitten as he held out a hand and helped her down the final two steps. “How have you been?”
“Oh, same as always. But what’s to be expected of an old woman?”
“I know you better than that. You’ve been up to something, Devi. You always are.”
“Perhaps,” she smiled something wicked. “What is this late night visit about?”
“I’m sorry,” Quentin said. “I would have come tomorrow but we’re in a hurry.”
“What can I do you for?”
“Ground bane—the pills if you can, a milligram each. And more of your mistletoe oil.”
She curled her lips and nodded her head, making her way slowly behind the service counter. “Tell me son, what will you use it for? And tell me you haven’t gotten yourself in trouble again.”
“Protection,” he said.
“Protection…” Devi thought to herself. She lifted two small boxes from behind the desk, and a flat glass plate to pack pills on. Then she tottered out from behind the counter. “This way, both of you.”
She led them in through a closed door—one that needed a key to open. She wore it around her neck, so Tisper assumed it must have been important. Whatever she was hiding.
“You do know me too well, Quentin,” she said, switching the lights on. “I have been up to things, as always.”
The room lit up and Tisper clutched at Quentin’s arm, started by a taxidermy deer hanging above a fireplace mantel. It wasn’t like anything she’d ever seen. Its antlers were frighteningly large, beautifully symmetrical. But wrong in some way. Malevolent. And it’s face—the buck had sharp, monstrous teeth and eyes, white and milky like the moonlight.
Once she’d realized it wasn’t real—that the teeth and antlers were glued on. That the eyes were only pearly marbles, pressed into the sockets. Then she let go of Quentin and floated inside, trading her fright for fascination.
“What are these?” She exclaimed with a gasp, gazing up to a wall of black, silken dream catchers. They were the most beautiful things she’d ever seen—glinting quarts shards hanging from braided thread. The longest, silkiest black crow feathers, dangling from the middle of the plated strands.
“Black willow dream catchers,” the old woman said. “The web is made from spider silk. Sell the little ones for three-hundred. Big ones are six.”
“Spiders?” Tisper ran a finger along the threads. They were soft and brownish—some with tiny specs of dirt and debris. “This was made with spiders?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “I have many beautiful brown recluse. I collect their abandoned webs and sew the fibers together. Spider silk is one of the strongest material on earth, I’ll have you know.”
“Will they work?” Tisper asked. “Do they keep away bad dreams?”
“And night terrors, sleep paralysis, sleep walking, even. You’ll never have another nightmare; the recluse’s webs were made for catching evils.”
“But those spiders are deadly,” Tisper said. “And you keep them in your home?”
“There is a difference between deadly and dangerous.” The woman took the smallest of the dream catchers from the wall and placed it in Tisper’s hand. “When they’re handled right, they can be valuable tools of spirituality. Powerful weapons against the dark. Keep this, dear. I think you’ll need it some day soon.”
“I couldn’t—” Tisper started, but the woman gave her a hard look—one that said you will and that’s that.
She wouldn’t protest again. Tisper felt the soft spider silk under her fingers again and hugged the beautiful piece to her chest.
Devi crossed her strange little room, over to a white sheet, draped atop a square figure on the wall. “Here we are. Quentin, dear. Take that down, will you? I had to have my nephew put it up to keep the boys next door from stealing a peek. It’s been nice to have it, but the time’s come.”
Quentin reached up and shed the sheet from the wall. Below it, encased in glass was a bow, dressed in metal and detailed in carved wood. Not a bow like the ones from her archery class—but a cross bow, the body built of thick, glinting black metals. The old woman lifted a chest from mantel, cracked it open and held it out for the two of them to see. Rows and rows of arrows stacked top-and-tail inside. They weren’t any arrows Tisper had seen before; the bodies were made of long, slender vials, nearly a pencil’s size in diameter. Each one sloshed with a brownish-red liquid.
“Is it mistletoe?” Quentin asked.
“Mountain-ash extract, rye grains and tobacco juice,” Devi said, shutting the box. “Not enough to kill but well enough to stop a were in their tracks. The mountain-ash weakens them, the rye causes temporary paralysis, the tobacco leaves them sick for days.”
Tisper sought out Quentin’s reaction. This woman too knew about werewolves. She wondered how many more were out there—how many people were keeping such a substantial secret. And she wondered just how they were keeping it.
But Quentin didn’t look surprised. He looked focused. He studied Devi, then his eyes rose to the crossbow. “You knew I was coming. You made this for us.”
Devi reached forward and took the weapon into her arms. Her eyes were slow to find Quentin, but when they did she smiled. “Not at all.” Then she turned to Tisper and pushed the weapon into her arms. “I knew she was coming. And I made it for her.”
Tisper was surprised by the weight and she fumbled to hold both the cross bow and dream catcher in her arms at once. Quentin’s eyes were on her now, like he was trying to see something he couldn’t. Trying to sense something that wasn’t there. He was looking through her and there was nothing to be seen.
“Me?” Tisper studied the weight of it. “Why me?”
“You’re indigenous to this land, are you not?”
Tisper swallowed and flexed her fingers around the wooden grip. “My mother was Chinook. My father—”
“This isn’t about your father. This is about your ancestors. The deed they asked of me.”
“My ancestors….” She’d never known of her ancestors before. Her mother had married a white man. Her heritage wasn’t something her family focused heavily on and she’d never known her grandparents on her mother’s side. Maybe they’d denounced her, the way Tisper had been denounced.
“I don’t—I don’t know how to use this,” Tisper stuttered. “I use recurved bows. I’ve never shot a crossbow before.”
“Good,” Devi said. “Because this is no ordinary crossbow. The arrows you’ll be shooting in this are made of glass, not wood. They’re heavier. You’ll have to change your projection, fire differently to hit distant targets. It will be easier to teach you if you’ve yet to learn.”
“Devi.” Quentin reached into his jacket pocket and returned with a small, empty vial. Something like a tranquilizer dart, Tisper gathered. “Can you tell me where this might have come from?”
She took the glass from him and turned it in her fingers, studying the shape, the craftsmanship. Then she shook her head. “Sadly, I’m not the only supplier. Anyone could have made this.”
Quentin set his jaw, chewing on some small disappointment. Devi seemed to catch it before her eyes softened and she smiled as she passed the vial back. “Get yourself some food, Quentin. I have quite the lesson to teach this young lady and we’ll hardly be able to focus with your stomach grumbling and growling. Reminds me too much of Harold.”
Quentin laughed at that and shed his jacket. “Is it okay if I take the back route?”
“It should be just fine. Wait until you’re out of sight of the next door bakery—nosy, nosy people.”
“Thanks,” Quentin said. Tisper watched him shed his shirt, and she stared in wonder as he made for a set of black curtains.
As he disappeared behind them, Devi shouted after, “Hose off before you come back in!” and though her voice was rigid and cranky, she returned to Tisper smiling.
Something about it reminded her of Grandma Sophie.
“Where exactly is he going?” Tisper asked.
“There’s a lake about a mile back—if there aren’t any ducks, the forests here are just covered in white-tail deer.”
“D-deer?” Tisper felt a bit queasy. “He’s going to eat a live deer?”
“They’ve become too comfortable around these parts—fed fat by folks around here who don’t realize the harm they’re doing. Having a new predator prowling around might help them more than hurt them. Besides, this is what the wolves are built for. Why else do you think they can’t eat the same food as you or I? Now then,” she said, taking Tisper by the elbow and leading her from the room, “have you ever fired a gun?”
“No,” Tisper admitted as they stepped out of the secret room and Devi locked the evil buck away.
“Christ, we have a lot of work to do.”
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