An Apple for the Creature

“What are you doing?” Callie asked after a few more seconds of protracted silence, but Agatha only shook her head.

“Just give me one more minute.”

Callie stood there, shivering in the pitch-black night, her teeth chattering in double time as she tried not to lose her patience. She wanted to know where in the heck the wormhole had taken her, but she was starting to get the horrible feeling it wasn’t so much a “where?” as it was a “what?” kind of a question.

“Um, so I’m starting to get the feeling that—”

“Shh!” Agatha shushed her, then she squeezed Callie’s fingers so tightly it felt like the meaty bits of muscle might burst through their fleshy casings like overcooked sausages.

“Anything?” Happy cried from another spot a few yards away from the original stand of pine trees.

Agatha didn’t answer, but her eyelids fluttered.

“No way!” she breathed, eyes flying open to look at Callie—to really look at her, almost as if she were some alien specimen trapped inside a bottle of formaldehyde.

“What did you say?” Happy yelled, but Agatha’s rigid stance had piqued her interest, and she was already making her way back toward them through the snow, the crunching of her boots a riot of sound in the muted hush of the wind and the flickering buzz of the streetlights.

“Who are you?” Agatha breathed, the look of wonderment on her face disconcerting.

“I’m Calliope Reaper-Jones,” Callie said to peals of Agatha’s laughter.

“No, silly,” the other girl said, playfully punching Callie in the arm. “Who are you really?”

Well, that’s a loaded question, Callie thought.

“I mean, your aura is on fire,” Agatha continued. “You have the craziest vibrations I’ve ever seen.”

No shit, Callie thought, wondering just how much Agatha was able to sense about her—and if she’d been able to pick up Callie’s connection to Death, Inc.

“And what are you really?” Callie asked, turning the mock interrogation on its head. “One of those crazy psychic ladies who goes around giving people annoying psychic readings that they don’t want?”

“Agatha’s no Cassandra.” Happy snorted, having reached them just in time to overhear Callie’s last comment. “She’s an aura reader . . . and a pretty damn effective one, too.”

“This gal’s full of psychic ability,” Agatha said, turning to Happy. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone whose aura was so fully charged—”

“Look, I’m not psychic, but, you know what, I am freezing,” Callie interrupted, the real fear of becoming hypothermic making her cranky. “Is there somewhere warm we can go?”

“Well, we were on our way to a very exclusive acting master class,” Agatha began, but Happy cleared her throat loudly.

“No, you were going to a master class. I was only going to watch you take it.”

Agatha pouted, her large heart-shaped lips turning down at the corners again.

“But you said you’d participate!”

“I did not,” Happy sputtered, looking put upon. “There is no way in hell I’m taking that class. No way, no how.”

“As cute as the witty banter is, ladies,” Callie said, the cold making it hard to feel her face. “I need to get somewhere warm before I turn into a Popsicle.”

The two girls gave each other an inscrutable look, then Happy nodded. “Okay, we’ll take you with us, but on one condition.”

Callie nodded.

“Okay, whatever you want. Just get me to a fire.”

“You have to tell us what you are!” Agatha chirped, unable to wait for Happy to get the words out. “You’re like Pat Boone or something, dropping out of the sky like he did in that movie The Man Who Fell to Earth.”

Pat Boone? Callie thought, shuddering on the inside. I think someone is in dire need of a pop culture tutorial.

“No, if I were David Bowie, I wouldn’t be in this situation.” Callie sighed, daring either one of them to contradict her. “But I think I’ll save any and all explanations until we’re out of the snow.”

“Then follow us,” Happy said, crawling over the snowbank so she could join them on the sidewalk. “It’s just down the street.”

—

Down the street was a relative term, especially when you were hobbling around in a pair of peep-toe pumps in the snow.

After ten minutes of walking, and freezing, they left the darkened woodland landscape behind them and stepped out into a better-lit suburban street. Only there were no tract homes here, no cookie-cutter little boxes or white-picket fences neatly arranged in a row along the curve of the street. Instead, there was a sprinkling of older Victorian homes, all decorative curlicues and clapboard siding in a myriad of pastel colors.

Interstitial bits of broken Gothic wrought-iron gating separated the lots, which were large and overgrown, and deciduous trees, denuded of their autumnal skins, giddily waved their skeletal branches back and forth in a hobgoblinlike greeting.