Page 21 of That Ain’t Witchcraft

“Witches?” I asked carefully.

“They’re not the same as sorcerers,” said James, a faint lecturing note coming into his tone. He was clearly enjoying this: he had the opportunity to talk about things most people would never listen to without laughing. That probably didn’t happen very often. “There are all kinds of witches in the world, and some of them draw power from the road. There are probably a few of them traveling around North America right now, maybe even with a carnival like the one … you all …” He stopped, looking around the table again.

Under other circumstances, the sudden blend of hope and fear in his eyes might have been amusing. He was looking for commonalities, or at least for people who could understand him. He was looking, in his own sideways manner, for witches.

“Sorry,” I said. “None of us are witches, route or otherwise.”

“Route?”

Inwardly, I winced. “If they draw power from the road, it makes sense, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” he said. “But yes: after the crossroads changed, the witches started avoiding them. There’s some evidence that they tried to warn people away, and got killed or driven from their homes for their trouble.”

“People don’t like things that are different,” said Sam bitterly.

I leaned over until my shoulder brushed his, eyes still on James. “What does all this have to do with anything?”

“I thought I said.” James took a deep breath. “The crossroads prey on people when they’re at their weakest. The crossroads hurt people. They can be any place where two roads or paths cross, but there are always places that have … weight, for lack of a better word. Places where the crossroads are more likely to hear you.”

I knew what came next. God help me, I knew what came next. I didn’t say anything.

“One of those places is here, in New Gravesend. It’s easier to reach the crossroads than it ought to be. People do it by mistake, sometimes, and they get hurt. They get hurt bad. Some of them …” His voice caught in his throat. When he finished, it was quieter, more introspective. “It’s not how things are supposed to be. I know it’s not. The crossroads weren’t always like this, and now that they are, someone has to stop them. I have to stop them.”

“That’s impossible,” I said.

“No, it’s not.” James looked me squarely in the eye. “There’s a way, and I know how.”

I stood so abruptly that my chair scraped, hard, against the floor.

“Excuse me,” I said, and left the room. The others could make excuses for me, if they wanted to. Sam was more likely to glare at James until one of them exploded. That was fine. I had to go. I had to get out.

The front door was locked. I fumbled it open and let myself outside, walking along the wrap-around porch until I reached the swing on the left side of the house. It looked out on the woods, and the moonlight glinting off the thinnest slice of the distant lake. I sat down, my heart pounding so hard it felt like I could taste it.

“All right,” I said softly. “You can come out now.”

The air changed around me.

“Hello, Annie,” said Mary. “Long time no see.”

Six

“There’s no honor in running away from a debt. There’s no shame in running away from a bullet. Learn to tell the difference as early as you can.”

–Evelyn Baker

Outside on the porch, preparing for an awkward conversation

“NOT LONG ENOUGH, BASED on the conversation I just had,” I said, keeping my eyes on the lake. The water sure was pretty. It must have been wonderful in the summer, when the sun was hot and the lake was cool and everything made a certain sort of seasonal sense. “How’s the family?”

“Worried about you.” The porch swing creaked as she settled next to me. Dead since before my grandmother was born, and she can still have mass and substance when she wants it, can still move through the world like she belongs there. It’s a neat trick.

Her eyes always give her away, at least to people who know what to watch for. Mary Dunlavy—Aunt Mary to three generations of Price children, all of us growing up under her careful eye, with her wiping our spills and kissing our booboos, the eternal babysitter—has eyes like a hundred miles of empty highway, every color and no color at the same time. Look into them too long and you’ll see the cornfields waving next to an Iowa offramp, the tangled forests of Oregon and the sunset splendor of Arizona. Everywhere the road is, she is, because she serves the crossroads, and they’ve marked her, permanently, to make sure she never forgets.

As if she ever could have. Being dead and bound to work forever for an eldritch horror masquerading as a piece of roadwork isn’t exactly the sort of thing a person forgets.

“I’m sorry to worry them,” I said.

“They know. Believe it or not, they trust you enough to believe that if you’re not coming home, it’s because you have a good reason.”