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There is a house

Chapter 24: Something cooking

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Wednesday wrenches open the front door this time and climbs into the passenger seat beside him. Nancy can’t help but flinch against the force with which the old war god slams the door shut again. The rage is pouring from the all-father, filling the confined space, like the moisture rising from his damp overcoat.

 

Nancy licks his lips, “Bad news?” he queries nervously, watching as the wipers carve an arc on the rain speckled windshield, and the Raven disappears from view.

 

Wednesday turns a baleful eye towards him.

 

“He’s supposed to be intercepting the Ifrit,” the grizzled god grits out, shaking his head; before leaning back in his seat, looking away and briefly closing his eyes.

 

Nancy remains cautiously silent, and doesn’t ask who “he” is.

 

Wednesday stirs himself abruptly to lean forward and tap the dash twice,

“Well come on, time waits for no man.”

 

Nancy raises an internal eyebrow at that, but shifts the car into drive and pulls back towards the lot exit, flipping the right hand turn signal.

 

Wednesday leans over to flip the signal the other way.

 

Nancy looks at him startled,

 

“We’re not going to Lakeside?”

 

“No not yet, I think we’ll head them off about…” he lifts the yellowed map from the dash, folded and re-folded and tearing along the creases, he drops his gnarled finger, the ridged and slightly overlong nail landing seemingly at random, “...here”.

 

Nancy glances from the empty, rain streaked road to look at where he is pointing on the map, “La Crosse”.


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Maman Brigitte lays a hand on Samedi’s shoulder but he doesn’t turn his face from the flames he is so intently watching. 

 

“You feel that chere?” he asks her laying his hand over hers.

 

She leans in down close, her curls brushing his shoulder, her breath  a soft dance on his ear

 

“Hmm, you know I do.”

 

“You think she’ll be able to…?” he begins, and Brigitte can’t, won’t entertain the thought of failure,

 

“She has to”. She overrides him. 

 

Samedi leans forward to throw the feather he is holding into the flames, which briefly flare bright .Then he sits back and draws a line in the pale drift of ashes on the hearth with the toe of his boot, bisects it with another. Brigitte watches the movement, leaning more onto his shoulder, 

 

“Oh, ha, I see,” and he can hear the smile in her voice, “at a Crossroads,” she slips her hand from under his, standing up over him, “will you come?”

 

Samedi sighs through his nose, yes he can travel to any crossroad, graveyard too for that matter, but the heart of his power is in this city, the swamp dark earth, and the blood of slaves, he purses his lips  in frustration turning to face her.

 

“I think my help is going to be in other ways, you catch my meaning?” and his teeth are bright, back in his usual smile.

 

Brigitte leans down to press her lips to his. 

 

“Oh I think I do. Gonna do a little cooking cher?”

 

“You know it.” 



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Laura grips the wheel and takes a glance at her travelling companion. Sitting next to the Jinn is like sitting next to a sun warmed building. Heat seems to emanate from him. There’s also a stillness to him, some kind of indefinable patience, it’s one of the only things that might make you think he was anything more than just some, admittedly tall, guy - well that and the fucking flaming eyes that is. Laura gives herself an internal shake and is just about to take that preternatural stillness for sleep when the Ifrit breaks the silence.

 

“I don’t know what will happen when I meet with,”  his mouth hardens and he takes a breath, “with Grimnir”.

 

Laura glances towards him and watches his hands bunch into fists.

 

“He has a ..” he gives a frustrated shake of his head, “power over me and  I..”

 

“Ifrit, it’s going to be ok,” she interrupts him. Oh is it? Does she believe that?

 

“Can you check the map?” she asks, to distract him as much as anything, to distract herself if she’s honest.

 

“We are coming back towards the Mississippi river,” he follows the road with his finger, “there is a town coming up.”

 

“Maybe we should find a motel”.  She doesn’t look at the tarp covering the bed of the pick up. She doesn’t look at the ring on her thumb. The road unfurls before her like a ribbon of asphalt and in her pocket, the king's gold sings.

Notes:

xx