Chapter Two

The apple pie was obviously store bought. Brigitte could tell with one bite. Her mouth twisted into a wry smile as she glanced over at the kitchen. The dishes for her mother's oven-roasted lemongrass chicken soaked in the sink alongside the now-empty bowl of green beans with bacon and onion that Jorge had bought. Brigitte felt a little embarrassed about her Winn-Dixie apple pie now. Though, she need only look at the empty plastic container of Claire's off-the-shelf coleslaw to feel better.

"How's Mr. Vincente doing?" asked Noah.

"Trying to make some last-minute edits before midnight," said Jorge. "I told him he should've waited before sending it in. But does he listen? No. Now he's scrambling to change parts before the deadline."

Jorge, with his large, hooded eyes and square jaw, looked nothing like Eliza and her daughters. He had an easygoing personality and wide social circle in contrast to his introverted foster sister. He wasn't a large man—in fact, Claire stood a good two inches taller—but he used wide gestures when he spoke so he seemed to take up much more room than he actually did.

As her uncle recounted his and Vincente's weekend in Las Vegas, Brigitte wore a polite smile. She had barely heard a word throughout dinner. Over and over again before her eyes, the image of the deathly pale hand appeared. The screech of the fingernails on glass filled her ears. Noah's concerned expression as he looked at her. He hadn't seen. He hadn't heard. He—

Abruptly, Brigitte rose from her seat. Jorge stopped mid-sentence to look at her.

"Something wrong?" asked Eliza.

"I'll finish the dishes." Blindly, Brigitte grabbed Noah's and her plates. She almost knocked a fork onto the floor, but Noah caught it with the tips of his fingers.

"Do you want any help?" he asked.

"No, it's fine." Brigitte shot him a grateful smile before heading to the kitchen.

"Why don't you help your sister, Claire?" asked Eliza.

From the kitchen, Brigitte could see Claire's head bent over her smartphone. Claire didn't even look up as she said, "She can handle it."

"And how many job applications did you fill out today?"

"Yeah, yeah." Claire shoved her smartphone into the pocket of her hoodie. "I'll help with the dishes."

Idle chitchat drifted from the dining room as Claire brought the remainder of the dessert plates to the sink and Brigitte loaded them into the dishwasher. Tama slunk into the kitchen and curled around Brigitte's ankles. It was when Brigitte started to scrub the pans and knives that Claire first tried to make her escape. Brigitte caught her sister tiptoeing away and tossed a soaking wet dishrag at her head.

Claire's quick hands caught the rag before it gave her a face full of soapy water.

"Don't try to run away," said Brigitte. "The counters still need cleaning."

Claire let out a dramatic sigh before she started wiping down the island.

Brigitte glanced at the dining room where Noah was enthusiastically retelling his encounter with a football player earlier that week. A smile danced across her lips before she turned back to the sink.

"Tama's glaring at me again."

Claire's comment startled Brigitte, and she almost dropped the santoku knife she was currently cleaning. Brigitte glanced down. Sure enough, while Tama remained curled between Brigitte's white tennis shoes, her large, blue eyes were fixated on Claire. Brigitte gave a little laugh before she looked over to see Claire wiping off the windowsill with the dish rag.

"What are you doing?" asked Brigitte.

"Nothing." Claire switched back to cleaning the marble counter tops. She glanced up at the old dreamcatcher before saying, "There was a big snake outside the window today. I think it was a cottonmouth."

"A snake?" A shiver ran down Brigitte's spine. She could see the thick branch of the neighbor's live oak, swooping low over the fence. "I thought cottonmouths didn't climb trees."

"Maybe not then." Claire shrugged. "Tama hissed at it. Seems she doesn't like snakes either."

There was something odd about that information, though Brigitte couldn't quite put her finger on what. Instead, she found herself once again recalling the warped window of Noah's car and the white hand with nails that dug into the glass.

"Brigitte?" Claire's usually lazy voice was soft with concern. "You alright?"

"Yeah, something weird happened to me too." Brigitte could see her mother smiling and nodding as Jorge spread his arms wide to emphasize whatever he said. Brigitte made sure to keep her voice low. "And Remy almost got run over by a horse carriage this morning."

"Oh yeah. She messaged me about that. Good thing it missed her." Claire sent a scowl in the direction of the dining room. "Just don't tell Mom. She'll be insufferable. The shaman's going to come again. You know I just about died of embarrassment last time."

Brigitte rolled her eyes at her younger sister. Everyone's moms had embarrassing habits. "Is it really that big a deal?"

Claire sent her a pleading look.

"Okay, okay," said Brigitte with a sigh. "It's just weird. That's all. A lot of weird things happening in one day."

"Hm."

There was nothing to say after that, and they finished cleaning the kitchen in silence. Then, Noah brought out a board game, and Brigitte got to witness yet another showdown between Jorge and Claire as to who could screw the other over the most. The evening drifted into night, and it was sometime past 10:30 when Brigitte heard the front door open and close. All eyes watched as Remy emerged from the front hallway.

Her waitressing uniform was rumpled and stained, while strands of black hair had slipped free from her ponytail. Her upturned eyes were usually her best feature, but right then, they suffered the strain of exhaustion. Brigitte had to blink to recognize her own sister. Remy glanced left, then right, before ducking her head slightly to look at the kitchen window. At last, she focused on the people seated at the dinner table.

"You're back," said Jorge with a wide grin.

"We saved you some Winn-Dixie pie," added Noah.

"Thanks. I'm just going to grab something." After giving her mom a kiss on the cheek and her uncle a quick hug, Remy disappeared into the back hallway, leading to the bedrooms.

"Bad day at work?" Eliza called out after her.

At first, Brigitte thought her sister had gone to change, but then, a mere minute later, Remy emerged from the hallway, still in her black button-up and dress pants. She held her left hand, curled into a fist, close to her chest.

"Same old," said Remy in a flat voice.

"Did your coworker give you a ride?"

"Mm."

Eliza's eyes narrowed. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine."

Brigitte watched as her mother's lips pressed into a thin line. An awkwardness settled about the table as everyone waited for Remy to say more. Of course, Remy wasn't the sort to give people what they wanted.

In the end, it was Jorge who tried to relieve some of the tension. He gave a warm smile and asked, "Did you at least make good tips tonight?"

Remy hesitated. Her gaze flickered to Brigitte, and the two sisters held each other's stare. Then, Remy said, "Not really. Slow night. At least the weather cleared up from this morning. Otherwise the restaurant would've been empty."

"Dinner's in the fridge," said Eliza.

Brigitte followed her sister to the kitchen. She watched as Remy threw a wary glance in the direction of the dreamcatcher and the window before opening the fridge. However, Brigitte didn't say anything until she noticed the bandages on Remy's palms.

"Fine my butt," muttered Brigitte. "Look at you."

With trembling hands, Remy started dishing up the leftover chicken onto a plate. "I fell when the carriage almost got me."

"Have you been shaking like that all day?" asked Brigitte.

Remy shoved the plate into the microwave then glanced down at her hands. The right one trembled slightly as she pressed the buttons on the microwave. The left hand was still clenched into a fist. Remy uncurled her fingers to reveal a bracelet made of two, intertwined pieces of black rope. Where the thin ropes separated, they held a rectangular piece of black tourmaline.

Eliza had bought each of her daughters a piece of protective jewelry, but only Brigitte wore her fluorite necklace. Both Remy and Claire had left their gifts in some drawer or the bottom of their closets, long forgotten. Or so Brigitte had thought. She watched now as Remy slipped the tourmaline bracelet over her left wrist.

"You should've come home sooner," said Brigitte. "I can't believe they let you work like this—"

"Have you heard of 'Talise Dang?'" asked Remy.

The microwaved beeped, but no one moved to open it. Brigitte stared at her sister's grim expression. It was from their mythical dad that Remy gotten the delicate nose and soft features that caused strangers to mistake her for a teenager. But right then, Remy's skin was clammy and shadowed, making her seem older than her twenty-three years.

"Who?" asked Brigitte.

"It wasn't a carriage," hissed Remy, her voice low and urgent. "What tried to run me over. There was a horse with white eyes. And a rider holding a sword. And his helmet—"

"What you two whispering about?"

Remy jumped before turning to glare up at the youngest Lemelle sister.

"Sorry," said Claire, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "Brigitte, stop your fiancé from talking about boring-shit taxes."

Brigitte's heart hammered in her chest. She took a deep breath to calm herself before turning to the dining room. Sure enough, Noah chatted away, while Eliza listened attentively and Jorge had a glazed over look in his eyes. Only her mother and her fiancé, Brigitte thought, could talk about taxes with such enthusiasm.

When she turned back, Brigitte saw that Remy had taken the plate out of the microwave. As she scarfed down pieces of chicken, Remy kept her eyes down and refused to look at either one of her sisters.

Remy was scared, Brigitte realized. It took a lot to rattle Remy, but something—this rider on a horse—had frightened her.

"Is he following you?" asked Brigitte at last.

Remy's head jerked up. Then, she nodded.

"What?" asked Claire. "Who?"

"A rider with black armor," said Remy. "His helmet had antlers."

"A street performer?" suggested Claire. "They wear all kinds of whacky costumes."

Brigitte nodded. "Shouldn't we call the police?"

"He followed me to work," continued Remy as if she hadn't heard her sisters. "And he asked me if I was the daughter of Talise Dang."

"Who the fuck is that?" asked Claire.

Remy took her time responding, chewing on a piece of chicken. Finally, she said, "I don't know either. He was… He's not a street performer. I don't know how to describe it. He just felt wrong. The horse with the white eyes is the one that almost ran me over this morning. Not the horse pulling the carriage."

There was something hard-set in Remy's dark eyes, and Brigitte shifted uncomfortably. She couldn't quite put her feelings into words. Everything felt odd, off-kilter, but also familiar in a way.

"Weird things happened to Claire and me today as well," Brigitte found herself saying.

Claire rolled her eyes. "A snake is hardly weird, Bri."

Brigitte couldn't exactly argue with that, so instead she said, "When Noah and I were driving home from work, the glass on the passenger window warped and then I saw a white hand. But as soon as I cried out, the hand was gone and the glass was back to normal."

"Come on," said Claire. "Y'all are as bad as Mom."

Brigitte winced. "It could've been a pedestrian, I guess."

Now that she'd voiced what she'd seen aloud, Brigitte felt embarrassed for even speaking. Of course, she'd imagined it. The hand and warped window…she had blown everything out of proportion. She hadn't gotten enough sleep last night and was seeing monsters in every little thing. Living with her mother could do that. Every howl of the north wind was the angry bear, Ya-o-gah. Every black horse could take her on a journey from which there was no return, like Cheval Mallet. Every fox might be Hồ Tinh, trying to lure women to his cave. It was enough to drive anyone crazy.

"I should go to bed early tonight," said Brigitte, forcing herself to laugh.

Claire rolled her eyes.

"We should tell Mom," said Remy.

Brigitte and Claire both turned to gawk at their sister. Was this really Remy? The same Remy who had scoffed at their mother's bedtime stories and said she'd rather read a fantasy book.

"Come on," said Claire. "Y'all are overreacting. Don't tell Mom. The shaman's going to come again."

"Maybe she knows who Talise Dang is," said Brigitte.

"Who?"

A crisp, clear voice cut through their conversation. Brigitte turned to see her mother standing beside the kitchen sink. Eliza clutched an empty coffee mug, while her sharp gaze focused on Claire.

"Tah-leez Dahng," said Claire, pronouncing the name slowly. "I don't know. Remy ran into some weirdo asking if Remy's the daughter of Talise Dang."

Brigitte didn't know how she expected her mother to react, but she certainly didn't anticipate Eliza slamming the coffee mug on the counter, turning to the dining room, and shouting, "Jorge, get the gun."

Conversation came to halt when Jorge heard this. All trace of humor vanished from his dark eyes. He rose from his chair and disappeared into the back hallway before Brigitte could even register what Eliza had said.

"Gun?" asked Noah from his seat at the table. "Why do you need a gun?"

"I didn't know you owned a gun," said Remy.

"Mom?"

The word came out soft and fragile. Brigitte stared hopelessly at the woman she'd known all her life. Right then, Eliza didn't look anything like her mother. She wore her usual strict expression with narrowed eyes and a stubborn jaw, but still, something seemed different about her. There was a flash of anger in her stare, and she stood taller than usual, on the balls of her feet, as if she'd need to run at any moment.

Just then, in her usual drawling voice, Claire said, "What the hell."

Brigitte followed her line of sight to the kitchen window. The dreamcatcher that had hung from the curtain rod for as long as Brigitte could remember had been ripped to shreds. Pieces of leather, willow wood, and blue yarn lay on the spotless, white windowsill.

When Brigitte looked back at her mother, Eliza had picked up the cook knife from the drying rack.

"Mom, what the hell?" cried Claire.

She barely got the last word out before the kitchen window shattered.

Shards of glass flew in all directions. Brigitte dropped to the floor as she felt stinging pain in her left cheek, wrist, and shoulder. All around, she could hear clangs of glass raining down onto the kitchen tile.

And then, when the glass had stopped falling, she heard a deep voice say, "I told you they would find you again, Talise."

There was a dull thud.

Brigitte opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was Remy, crouched down on the floor next to her. Several small cuts on Remy's right side were red with welling blood. A shadow fell over Remy's cold face, and Brigitte looked up to see a barefoot Claire standing just out of reach of the fallen glass. Claire's left hand gripped the marble counter as she leaned forward, shoulders slightly hunched.

Neither Remy nor Claire cared about the broken window in the slightest. Their attention was fixed on the edge of the kitchen where the tile switched to hardwood floor. Only then did Brigitte see the intruder.

Black boots bound with buckles, a sword sheathed at his waist, black breastplate engraved with vines, a short black beard, and eyes the color of the sea. The intruder wore a faint smile as he looked down at the cook knife with its blade buried in the wall two inches from his neck.

It took a second for Brigitte to process that her mother had thrown the cook knife at him.

This man. A man Brigitte had never seen before. The window had shattered and this man had appeared in the kitchen and then her mom had thrown a knife at him.

Brigitte glanced in the direction of the dining room where Noah had half-risen from his chair. Their eyes met, and Noah twitched slightly. Brigitte gave the barest shake of her head, and her gaze darted back to the stranger in the kitchen.

Everything about this man from his ever-changing eyes to the green tint of his skin to the pointed tips of his ears was unnatural. At first glance, Brigitte had thought him in his early thirties, but now she wondered if he was older than her mother. It must be the makeup, Brigitte reminded herself. A costume. First a street performer had been stalking Remy, and now one had broken into their house.

The man nodded at the cook knife before saying, "You have become sloppy over the years."

"What are you doing in my house, Mac Fiáin?" Eliza's voice was cold. She had picked up the santoku knife from the drying rack now.

Brigitte opened her mouth but she found she had no words. Her mother knew this man, this Mac Fiáin. No, more importantly—her mother had just thrown a knife at him.

"I told you, you could not hide," said Mac Fiáin. His sea-green eyes swept over Claire, then Remy, and at last came to rest on Brigitte. She flinched under his cold stare. He turned back to Eliza and asked, "Which one is the Bride?"

"None of them," said Eliza.

Brigitte frowned. The bride? She was getting married next year, but she didn't think she counted as a bride just yet. She hadn't even set a date or bought a wedding dress.

Irritation flashed across Mac Fiáin's face. "The Folk are here. Your defenses are impressive, but they cannot hold against all the Folk. You cannot flee this time. But perhaps I can take the Bride to safety—"

Eliza threw the santoku knife. This time the blade buried itself in Mac Fiáin's shoulder, just missing the leather strap of his breastplate and finding the flesh beneath.

Mac Fiáin snapped something in a language Brigitte didn't understand and then said, "Talise, do not be a fool."

"Ms. Eliza!" Noah cried out from the dining room.

Brigitte's throat tightened as she twisted around to see her fiancé. Noah wasn't looking at her, but in the direction of the back hallway. Jorge had returned. In horror, Brigitte watched as her uncle threw a handheld gun across the dining room and her mother caught it with ease. In a single, practiced movement, Eliza released the safety and aimed the gun at Mac Fiáin.

Mac Fiáin bared his teeth at Eliza. "Which one is the Bride?"

A gunshot.

Glass shattered. Brigitte shrieked as she watched the broken shards of the dining room windows pour down on Noah. He threw his hands in front of his face and staggered backwards.

Brigitte lost sight of him as a massive black wing filled her vision. For a single mad moment, Brigitte wondered who let a bird in the house, but then she saw the red mask with a long nose and she knew it was no bird.

Another gunshot.

The black wings and red mask disappeared. Brigitte saw a deep crack running through the mirror in the dining room, half of the silver frame broken off. Then, her gaze landed on a dark serpent coiling on the tile floor. Its jaw opened wide, revealing a pink mouth and white fangs.

"Mom!" Claire's voice rung out through the chaos.

The back door flew open. A wave of blistering heat filled the house as flames licked at the edges of the door frame. A woman's mouth curved into a smile.

An icy had touched Brigitte's bare shoulder. She was struck by the feeling of a thousand needles burying into her skin, and she fell back onto the broken glass. Gray eyes, as harsh as the winter winds, stared down at her.

"Brigitte!" Noah's cry came from somewhere far away.

The yowl of a cat pierced Brigitte's ear, and she felt soft fur against her ankles.

The last thing Brigitte saw was her mother. For once, Eliza wasn't wearing a stern expression. Instead, her eyes were wide with panic and her lips slightly parted. She still held the gun her right hand, but her left hand was extended, reaching out towards Brigitte.

Then, Brigitte was pulled backwards, and the world around her went dark.


A/N: I hope y'all are enjoying this story. Please leave a review!