As a child, she had learned.
Through books and maps, astral travel with her Mother, as her Grandmother watched the sleeping bodies by the low-lighted fire, as the crickets chirped in the unmowed grass outside and swept low, long songs in the aftermath of the ether in the back of her brain; she had learned. Stink of sulfur in the After; sight of glowing eyes in the Physical. The wispings of demon and demonkind is ever-present, and fairly easy to spot, like a game of hopscotch you never really pass up to play, despite the warnings, despite the snapping at your heels.
All too fun and gay to truly pass up, when you feel the safest in your own bones.
There are branches of the rotted Root, as the gnarled arms of a dead tree, and she's learned of these branches.
Her mother sets her off with new, long chalk in her pockets, with fresh pens and dried herbs in leather-tied bags; sigils of centuries' old secrets burnt into the soles of her sneakers, embroidered language too muddled to speak on the ass-pockets of her jeans. Whispers of fierce protection in her hair; sighed thoughts of loose comfort in her clothes. Belly full of home-cooked recipes planned to pass down to her from her Crone, to give to her children, and their children, all written in the scratchy scrawl of the Matron Saint of the Clearwater Household.
Three generations' worth all settled in a cozy home in the mountains, with the weeds and the deer and the opened windows. Where no one would bother without good reason, without trade and a good word to spread the ancient, sacred knowledge of the Clearwater Clan.
It was knit, it was Home, and it was hers. And it all went swirling down the proverbial toilet when her Grandmother passed.
The cold of the glass is a stark contrast to the suffocating heat outside the safety of the car. She snorts, and presses the ridge of her cheek against it.
And promptly removes it as a jerk lurches and bangs her cheekbone against the glass.
"Sorry, honey," her mother murmurs, the gilded paint of her polished nails gleaming in the sunlight. The stereo is turned off; forgotten in the squinted looks for familiar signs off the printed sheet in her lap. "Goddamn potholes. You'd think they'd fix this in the city."
The city. She rubs her face, blinking burning, tired eyes, bloodshot and bright, glaring at the concrete cemetery that is her new Home. With plastic litter and raucous human beings. She sneers beneath her hand, hiding it from her Mother. Suddenly, the stuffed-cotton smell of the car is too stuffed, stinking of stale smells and old takeout bags, and she struggles to unwind the window without breaking the lever, and sticks her face towards the wind –
And immediately pulls it back in, wide eyed and sweating. "God, shit, why are we here? Why California?"
"I thought you liked California," her mother quips, eyes never leaving the road. The brilliant sheen of her copper hair flows like water over her shoulders, and she wonders for a pen and paper to write the thought down. Her fingers twitch in a physical manifestation of her want.
"I liked the stories of California, not the actual idea." To think, this is her Home; of sweat and sun and baking in her clothes, like boiling vegetables. She breathes deeply, winding the window back up, fanning her face and staring at the carpet-covered ceiling. There's a hole in the mesh; she sticks her finger in it, tearing it and making it bigger.
"Give it some time, Franny." Her Mother's murmur is a soothing thing, and she breathes again, in a low-lilted sigh. Perhaps so; perhaps she should take comfort that they have a Home, after the broken memories and broken soil of the Old. "If it's anything like I remember, from years and years ago, you might like it. There's enough people here to strike your interest."
She snorts again. "Yeah?" The beginnings of a grin curl at the corners of her mouth.
"Oh yeah. Good-lookin' dudes, good-lookin' girls, and anything and everything in between." Her Mother shoots her a grin. She laughs, eyes crinkling.
As if her heart is set on mating.
"What about beyond?" Emboldened by her crass, and craven nature. "Is there anything I should be mindful of? Should I be worried, or careful?"
"You should always be careful," her mother interjects, frowning, cocking a brow. "But if you're looking for something specific, I can't help you." At the sharp snort and the rise of her daughter's eyebrows, she hurries to finish. "I haven't been here in years, Franny, new things could've popped up without us– without me knowing. It's the common nature of an ecosystem, no matter how crappy it looks with people shit all over it." She taps her fingers on the steering wheel, enjoying the sound of her rings clacking together.
A sign larger than the car begins to slowly rise over the horizon, with cheap, ancient brushstrokes of some gods-be-damned promotional ring. 'Welcome to Santa Carla!'
"You will be the second woman of Clearwater to set foot in Santa Carla; stab your flag in the dirt, make it your own! Snatch the scalp of any dumb fuck who says it differently!"
She snorts unattractively at her mother's indelicate wording, but takes them to heart. She will make it her own, for she lives here, and her home of Old is gone, and she will make it her own. A smile widens on her whitened face, as she scratches at her fiery hair.
And perhaps she will carve new rules in the olden stone, in the meanwhile.
The house is beyond any beauty she's ever dreamed, ever assumed of such cabins, over the crashing rocks of the salt-strewn shores. Laced in white picket, choked by wild ivy and scratchy bark of thick trees, she's had to be brought back from her mindlessness, of her musings, by an amused shout of her mother while she lingered next to the trees, with marked boxes in her arms.
There's an old saying that climbing down a hill is much more easier than climbing up one, but it could never be said in metaphorical tones when unloading the tapered remnants of decades of living. The living room, what they assumed is to be the living room, with hard-wood floors and screen doors, becomes littered with taped boxes minutes before the sun has time to set. There's a sink, there's a counter, there's a working gas stove. The bathroom is kept, with only a few bits of chipped tile to remind of previous owners, but the toilet works, and the shower works, and the mirror is whole and uncracked, and Franny rips open a few boxes to find the unopened salt container, and pours a good bit down the drain, for safe-keeping, murmuring a verse of Protection in habit.
Her Mother draws runes and circles in the shape of learned sigils on the floor, white markings littering the borders of each and every door and window before the chalk snaps in half. She huffs, and uses the broken piece.
Franny can see the beginnings of plans: a potted plant here, a piece of old art on the wall there, and idea for furniture and wicker chairs and glass coffee tables. Maybe even a stereo.
"Would you be upset if I went outside?" she asks, dares to ask, sitting on one of the sturdier boxes, not really setting her weight on it. Broken glass breaking under her butt, it would give her a heart attack. Her Mother hums, groans in her worried way, never looking up from her white dusting of learned magick.
"The sun's going down, Franny."
"I know, and I do have everything I need to keep me safe." But-- "I'm antsy. I can't sit still, and I think I'll go nuts if I use that to unload boxes."
Her Mother looks up, at her, raising copper brows.
"I've thought about getting a job."
Now her Mother looks surprised. Even delighted. "Really?"
"Really." It's not really any hardened thought of her distaste for human beings; she can't blame her for being surprised. Franny smiles, sharp and sarcastic. "Money is money. We could use it."
"Not really, Franny, money is evil."
"And a necessity," she points out, threading a hand through her hair. She makes a face. "I hate it too; I want to go out. Really. Meet new people. Reimburse my faith in humanity." And she smiles at her mother's resounding huff. "Can I?"
There's a long, drawn moment where her mother visually deliberates, frowning, eyes narrowed, the dusty piece of chalk turning sticky and tacky from the sweat in her palms. She sighs, and Franny begins to see the beginnings of crow's feet. "Alright. Take your knife, take your chalk, take your amulet. Remember where to hit if someone gets you, and always go for the groin."
Franny guffaws, lifting herself from the box to press a kiss to her Mother's cheek. "Of course. I'll be back soon, I promise."
"You better, Franny. Curfew is curfew."