Ritual for Friends (pt. 1)
Soul-searching in a new town
Mara winced as she dragged the end of her eyeliner just a little too far. With a controlled exhale, she glanced at her watch. Quarter to nine. She had a deadline to meet. Eyes drifting back to the mirror, she whispered a small promise. Smoke rose from her nostrils, and when it cleared, a flawless face was looking back at her.
Outside, it was another starless night. Her blue Ford Bronco’s engine drowned out the singing cicadas. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of old leather and damp leaves. Mara liked driving after the rain. There was a charge to the air.
Country roads were still strange to her. So many miles of darkness with just her headlights casting out into the night. It made her uneasy. Not the way humans fear the dark—they fear the unknown. Mara knew exactly what lurked in these hills and hollows, and she did not want any unexpected meetings.
Tapping along to The Mountain Goats, she thought about Richmond. Green and cool, with a wildness running through its riverbed, Richmond had been her home for decades. It was pastoral but still enough of a city that there was chaos—those bursting seams, the randomness she thrived in. Or that she had thrived in until she went too deep. There were ancient ones there, and they were ravenous.
A loud hum and the bounce of the truck on the road’s growlers reminded Mara to focus on the winding lanes. She could see the lights from downtown Parkton now. It was funny to her how humans felt so comforted by the light. There was so much more potential in the dark. Of course, she still felt a small warmth in her belly when she saw that distant glow. She was human once.
There were bikers in the parking lot when she pulled into Miller’s. Their bikes were clean and their jackets were hardly creased. They hollered at her as her riding boots crunched on the gravel lot, and she had half a mind to ignore them.
“Wanna go for a ride?” one shouted.
She kept walking despite the angry murmurs at her back. Another promise escaped her lips. The men did not notice the wisps of smoke rising from the bikes’ engines.
When Mara entered the bar, she nearly choked on the unique bitterness of the cigarette smoke. Real, vintage neon glowed red and blue through the haze, and her boots stuck to the old wood floor. Every table and booth was packed.
At the bar she found an opening. A man with curly black hair and a fade made space for her. Mara smiled at him, but when she saw his face, she couldn’t help but gasp.
He was the perfect image of Damien. There were his dark curls, wide smile, and deep, amber-brown eyes. But what paralyzed Mara was the uneven crease between his brows and the patch of stubble that was always thinner than the rest. He could have been Damien’s twin.
“Um, hi,” the man said, running a hand through his curls. That hand broke Mara from her trance. It was healthy and strong, not burnt and bloodied.
“Sorry,” she said, putting on a smile. Leaning against the metal rail that ran around the edge of the bar, she looked around the room purposefully.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Well—what do you want?”
“Oh, uh—mint julep.”
“Sophisticated,” he said, with a chuckle. Mara gritted her teeth.
When she heard the thud of her drink being set before her, she flashed one last smile at the man, snatched the glass, and darted into the next room. It was only slightly less crowded, but the haze of smoke was thicker here. She whispered a promise, a slightly larger one this time. Smoke rose from her eyes and lips, wrapping around her head. As the gray haze cleared from her face, she was entirely transformed.
The man from the last room ran in, looked straight at her, and turned away to continue his search. Smiling, she sipped the mint julep. She had missed playing such simple tricks.
Her eyes landed on a group of middle-aged women playing pool. They welcomed her, and she played well as the spirits trickled down her throat.
“Where’d you move from?” Susan, the one with graying hair, asked.
“Richmond. Are you all from around here?”
“Oh, I have a cousin in Richmond, Danny Weir. He owns a record store. Girls your age like records right? Have you heard of him?”
Mara wondered how young the other women thought she was. She was at least twice their age, but the years had stopped showing on her body when Nattmyr found her and made her into Mara. She had been just twenty-two years old, living under a name she’d long forgotten. Her little sisters did not survive the encounter, but Nattmyr had spared her and made her into a thing not quite human, not quite nightmare-incarnate. Before these women, her shifted appearance may have prevented recognition, but there were certain aspects of her form even the heaviest promise could not alter. Age was one of them.
“There are a lot of record stores, so I’m not sure,” she replied.
They asked more questions, and Mara learned very little in return. They were all mothers though. That wouldn’t do at all. For the ritual, Mara needed friends who would not be missed.
In the bathroom, Mara locked the stall door and whispered what she hoped was her final promise of the night. She did not like to deal with so much debt in one day. But she was on a tight schedule, and the process of procuring these particular ritual components was new to her. Her window to open the rift would close in two days.
She heard the bathroom door open before the smoke had fully dissipated. Greasy work boots paced outside her stall.
“Sorry love, mind if I bum one?”
The woman must have seen the smoke. Flushing and hurriedly unlocking the stall, Mara emerged with her new face, hair and clothes. Her chin was less defined, and her cheekbones were higher. At least her eyebrows looked good for once.
Mara said, “Sorry, that was my last one.”
“No problem. Just had a long day on the road.”
As Mara washed her hands, she glanced at the other woman. Her stomach fluttered a bit as she took in the woman’s messy bun, full lashes and plump, freckled cheeks. She looked to be late twenties, early thirties. There was a confidence and restlessness to her steps that pulled Mara in.
“Where were you driving from?”
“Greenview.”
“Really? You drove across states just to come here?”
She snorted.
“Didn’t have much say in it.”
The woman stepped into the stall, and Mara wavered. She should go back out to the bar and resume her search. But she found herself still adjusting her curls in the mirror when the woman stepped back out.
“Want to grab a drink?” she asked.
Mara followed her back to the main bar. The after-dinner crowd had cleared out and the late-nighters were just trickling in. The two women settled in at the far end of the bar, perched on old stools with black, cracked leather.
“Red Sun, with an orange slice,” she said to the bartender. Her voice had just a little bit of a fry to it.
Turning to Mara, she asked, “New in town?”
Mara nodded and said, “Very. Wasn’t sure what the night life would look like out here.”
“You found it,” she said, gesturing around the room. “Well, this and the docks, if you have a boat. You don’t strike me as someone who has a boat.”
Chuckling, Mara said, “You’d be right. What about you? Lived here long?”
“I come and go.”
“Which is it tonight?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Warmth flowed into Mara’s cheeks and she raised her eyebrows. The woman cast a sideways glance and smirked when she noticed Mara’s blush.
“I’m Wendy, by the way.”
“Grace,” Mara replied.
The bartender set a glass of amber beer in front of Wendy, and a mint julep in front of Mara.
“Hey, I didn’t ord—.”
“Don’t worry, it’s on me,” Wendy cut Mara off, tentatively grazing her hand. Mara felt a jolt of anxiety and want from her touch. She forgot all about the fact that she hadn’t ordered yet.
Belinda Carlisle came on the radio, and the two started chatting about music. Wendy collected old punk CDs from the 90s. Mara lost herself in the secondhand nostalgia of a woman who had not lived through the era, marveling at the human ability to romanticize other people’s pasts.
“Wanna get out of here?” she whispered. Mara nodded. Sliding her fingers between Mara’s, Wendy led her out the back way.
“Where are we going?” Mara asked.
“Oh I live real close,” Wendy said, and she pointed to a huge semi across the parking lot, flashing a grin at Mara.
Part of Mara was relieved that Wendy was only passing through. She could have this night, and Wendy, separate from everything else. Separate from the darkness calling her name.
Mara took the slip of paper Wendy had written her number on and burned it in her fireplace the next morning. She whispered a prayer as she did it. Wendy should have a good year, even if Mara couldn’t. She had a ritual to attend to.
She spent the day delivering on the previous day’s promises. Mara didn’t like her debt to accrue. Starting off small, she made fake collections calls to two random numbers. Then she wrote a letter to the editor of the Parkton Times warning about strange animal sightings in the woods. Finally, she called into the local radio station claiming to have had her cat stolen from inside her home. She did all of this anonymously, of course, but Nattmyr would know. She should be satisfied with the embers Mara had spread for her to stoke into nightmares.
When night came again, Mara made a new promise. Nattmyr’s smoke billowed out of her mouth, giving her gray eyes and long black hair, wisps of it coming undone from her braid. This was closer to Mara’s true form. Or, more accurately, what she had looked like when she was human.
Miller’s was quieter, with a different crowd from the night before. Mara easily found a seat at the bar and started scanning the room. Her eyes landed on a group that looked to be in their late twenties, mostly men. She flagged down the bartender.
He set a glass down with a heavy thud and asked, “Anything else?”
Mara took her eyes off the men and looked at the drink he had brought her. A mint julep.
“I didn’t order yet,” she said quickly, staring the bartender down. There was no way he could recognize her from the night before. Her eyes, hair and bone structure were all different. Human eyes would never know better.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he said, raising his eyebrows and the corner of his lips. Mara studied his face, but there was no familiarity to it. His eyes were green, and his hair fell onto his face in unkempt, honey-blonde curls. His button nose and smooth chin made him look too young to be standing on that side of the bar.
“Fine. Yes. Can you get me a pitcher too? Whatever your most popular beer is.”
“Whatever you’d like. Got a name for your tab?”
“Mara,” she said. She immediately covered her mouth with her hand. She hadn’t meant to say that name, it had just come out. And now he had it.
“Mara,” he repeated. She shuddered.
“And you?” Mara asked.
“Let’s say…Henry,” he said, with a wink. When he brought back the pitcher, Mara leaned in to grab it from him. He smelled like damp leaves and moss, not beer or sweat.
Gripping the pitcher tighter instead of releasing it, he whispered, “You better tell me what you’re up to, Mara.”
She felt the threat behind those words. Rather than shrink away, Mara tightened her own grip.
“Well, I’m trying to share some beer. If you’ll let me.”
“That’s fine. But that’s not all you’re doing, is it?”
Mara yanked the pitcher free from Henry’s grasp. It was surprisingly difficult, and both parties were shocked at the other’s strength. Beer spilled over the man on Mara’s right, and he leapt to his feet in a rapid explosion of rage. Before Mara could apologize or react, the stranger was swinging his hand towards her face.
Henry grabbed the man, stopping his fist. They glared at one another, the drunken stranger attempting to punch through Henry’s hold, but Henry just squeezed tighter. Mara heard a pop.
The man whimpered, and in a slurred voice, he said, “Sorr…y…Please. Please…”
The bartender let go by throwing the man backwards. Clutching his contorted hand, the stranger scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the door.
Mara took the opportunity to bolt out the back, but she was only halfway through the room when Henry commanded, “Mara, wait.”
“I can forge you gold. I can bless your bar. Do your kind get sick? I have all kinds of herbs. I can—”
“Stop. Just, stop. I want to know why you’ve been running in and out of my bar in all kinds of disguises.”
“Can’t a witch get a drink?”
“You’re not a witch. There’s something…inhuman about you.”
“Rude.”
Henry sighed. He had made Mara wait outside until close, and it was now a little after 2:00am. They sat at a table out back of the bar. Mara couldn’t help but glance to where Wendy’s truck had been parked the night before. It was gone now. Mara would be gone now too, if she had a choice. Physical binds could not hold her, but her name was another matter.
“I’ve never met a fae who wouldn’t make a deal.”
“What makes you think I’m fae?”
“You smell like a rotten log.”
He chuckled at that.
“Are you a changeling?” Mara asked.
“No,” he said. “Are you a demon?”
“Only to myself. If you’re not a changeling, what are you doing living among humans? Wait. Don’t tell me. You must get hundreds of names working a place like this. Lots of good mischief to make with that. But you don’t want my soul, trust me. It’s in poor condition.”
“You’ve never met another creature like yourself before, have you?” he asked, turning to look up at the stars.
“You’re nothing like me.”
“I know Nattmyr’s smoke when I see it. I used to use it quite a bit. But I don’t steal souls. Do you?”
He was looking at Mara again now, and she felt that same strange compulsion she had when he asked her name.
“Yes. Well, not yet. But I will need to.”
“Ahh, there it is.”
Mara’s mouth felt chalky, as if someone else had said those words. But they were the truth, and she couldn’t take them back.
“Why?”
“Well, why not? They’re just humans. Like you said, I’m inhuman. So are you. Why does it matter?”
He leaned forward a bit, and the light from inside the bar struck his eyes. Mara could see now that there were flecks of gold and turquoise in the green around his iris.
“You’re lying.”
“So you don’t steal souls, but you do steal thoughts?”
“No. But bartenders are good at reading people.”
Mara sighed.
“Just let me go. I won’t come here again.”
“You’re free to go now, if you want. But if you like people. And I know you do,” he said, nodding to the empty space where Wendy’s truck had stopped. “You don’t have to do this.”
Wendy’s soft, smiling face flashed through Mara’s mind. Then Damien’s, contorted in agony, his eyes pleading with hers. Mara stood, and she let all her bitterness spew out.
“I do. I do like people. But people are fragile and stupid and when you break one…when you break one you love, you’ll do anything to fix them.”
Mara closed her mouth to stop a sob coming out, but the tears would not be held back. She ran. She ran to her car and sped down the road into the darkness.
Thank you for reading Every Nook Uncanny. If you liked what you read, please share and comment. The audio version of this story will be available this Friday, and Part Two will come out the following Sunday. You can follow Mae on Twitter here.