Just when I thought I'd heard everything, just when I thought the last mystery had been revealed and that I couldn't be shocked anymore, something like this came along. I'd never be able to blow off another story as long as I lived. Flying monkeys? Oh, yeah, I could believe. Stockton was right. I should have known better.
Maybe I should chase a few more rainbows looking for pots of gold.
"How did you know?" I said to Stockton.
"I didn't," he said. "My grandmother gave me the locket. For protection, she said. And, well, I couldn't say no to Grandma. She sets out milk for the brownies, even in the Boston suburbs. What can I say, I believed her. But I didn't know Smith was one of them until he walked into the room this afternoon. I have to tell you, I didn't expect the charm to work like that ."
Jeffrey said, "I didn't know what I was looking at. I can't see through the disguise, but I can see the disguise. Interesting." He sounded far too academic about it.
Theoretically, having an answer to one question—what was he?—should have brought us closer to answering other questions. Like, what was he doing with his church? Why was he drawing vampires and lycanthropes to him, and what was he doing with them? Why would an old-style Celtic folklore elf do these things?
Activity within the camp increased. Smith was out of sight again, but people were gathering and filing into the tent. Based on what details I could make out from here, the people looked ordinary, commonplace. Like any fringe church community going to a service. People walked with their heads bowed, their hands clasped. I normally wouldn't see this kind of patience, this kind of humility, from these groups of people.
They almost looked tired.
I expected the guards to circle back around any minute. They didn't right away, because they remained at the other side of the caravan, by the entrance, helping to escort in the new recruits.
They might be clever enough to count the number of people come to join them, versus the number of cars parked on the road, and realize there were too many cars. We couldn't stay here all night, twiddling our thumbs.
I wanted to break up the caravan. This was a cult and Smith was using people. He had some kind of ancient power, and he was dangerous.
"You know about this stuff," I said to Stockton. "How do we break his power?"
He looked panicked for a moment. "I don't know that much. I know what my grandmother told me. I know a few little charms, the four-leaf clover, the iron. Maybe if we threw iron filings at him."
"Would your grandmother know what to do?" I said. "She knew the locket would work, right?"
"I don't know that she ever thought I'd actually run into one of these guys."
"Could you ask her?"
"Right now?"
"You have your phone with you, right?" Hell, I had my phone with me. I'd call her.
"Well yeah, but—"
"So call her." And maybe after that I could talk to her and learn where her belief came from. Did she leave milk for the brownies because her family had always done so, or did she have a more immediate reason?
Stockton pulled one of those fancy little flip phones out of his front pants pocket. I was glad to see he'd had it turned off for our escapade.
The thing lit blue when he turned it on. He searched the menu, then pressed the dial button.
He sat there, listening to the ringing, while Jeffrey and I watched. It had been such a great idea, I'd thought. But she probably wasn't even home. I was getting ready to suggest that we call it a night, leave, do some research, and have a couple of beers while we came up with a plan to confront him tomorrow.
Then Stockton said, "Yes? Hello? Gramma, it's Roger… Yeah, I'm fine. Everything's fine… What do you mean I only call you when something's wrong? No, Gramma… Mom and Dad are fine, as far as I know… I don't really remember the last time I talked to them…"
I was used to being the goddess of phone conversations. I wanted to grab the phone out of his hand and make his grandmother get to the point. Ask her the right questions. Then I imagined trying to explain to her who I was.
"I'm sorry, Gramma, I can't really talk any louder… I said I can't talk any louder… I'm sort of hiding… That's what I wanted to talk to you about… You know those stories you're always telling? About the Fair Folk… Yes, Gramma, I crossed myself—" He quickly did so, in good Catholic fashion. "Some friends and I seem to have come across one who's doing some not very nice things… What kind is he?… I don't know… Seelie or Unseelie? I don't know that either… No, Gramma, I do pay attention when you tell stories…"
"Unseelie are the bad guys, right?" I whispered at him. "I bet he's Unseelie."
"Neither one is very good," he said, away from the phone for a moment. "Yeah, Gramma? I'm pretty sure he's Unseelie… That's right, it's pretty bad… What would you do? Pray?" He rolled his eyes. "What about getting rid of him? Will he just go away? No… okay… okay, just a minute." He took out a mini notepad and pen, and started writing. A shopping list, it looked like. "Okay… Got it. Then what? Really? Is that all?"
Patience, Kitty. Back in the caravan, people had entered the tent. I couldn't see anything now, or sense anything, except that a large group of people had gathered.
"Thanks a lot, Gramma. This is just what I need. I have to go now… Yes, yes I'm coming for Thanksgiving this year. No, I'm not bringing Jill… She broke up with me six months ago, Gramma." He held the phone an inch away from his ear, closed his eyes, and gave a deep sigh. I could hear the woman's voice, slow and static-laden, but not the words.
This was ridiculous. I wanted to throttle him.
"I have to go now… goodbye, Gramma… I love you." He clicked off.
"What did she say? What do we do?" I said, forcing my hands to not grab his shirt and shake him.
"We go grocery shopping."
"What?"
"Bread, salt, some different herbs. Unless you brought any of this stuff with you?" He showed me the list he'd written: verbena, Saint-John's-wort, rowan.
"Can we even find some of this at the local supermarket?"
He shrugged. "Once we get the stuff it doesn't sound like it's that hard of a spell. We just walk around the camp, sprinkle the stuff on the ground, and poof."
"Poof?"
"Poof, he's banished back to underhill, or wherever the hell he came from."
Wherever the hell. Apt phrase, that.
"So we go to the store, get the supplies, come back, and that's that. Easy," Jeffrey said, grinning like we were planning a school prank.
Stockton put the list back in his pocket. "I think I remember seeing a convenience store a few miles back, at the last intersection. They'll have some of this stuff. She didn't say we need all of it, these are just the options. Why don't you two wait here and keep an eye on things while I go get the stuff."
"Sure," Jeffrey said without hesitation. Stockton was already turning to go.
"Wait!" I tried to keep my voice down and sound desperate at the same time.
"You have a better idea?"
"I go get the stuff and you wait here?"
"I'll be back in half an hour, I promise. Here, hang on to this." He gave me the locket charm, then ran along the shelter of the trees, back to the road.
I had a bad feeling about this. "Split up," I muttered. "We can take more damage that way. You know we're stranded here once he takes the car."