Madison Mosby and the Moonmilk Wars Page 11

  Chapter 18

  Fists pounded against the mansion’s heavy oak door. Madison opened it with the same melancholy she did last month and the month before that. She didn’t even bother to look through the peephole. She recognized the rapid, impatient knocking rhythm of Kenneth Wells.

  “Where’s Langston?” she asked.

  Kenneth leaned against the side of the doorway, glowing in the morning sun, like a lonely cowboy propped up by a fence post. He had that same stupid straw Panama hat, old-school Ray-Ban sunglasses, and white linen shirt. His face was cratered with acne scars and he wore a permanent grin that irritated Madison to no end.

  “Don’t like waiting, Miss Mosby,” he said with a southern Virginia drawl. He held up a paper bag bulging with cash and gave it a shake. His way of saying “pretty please, go get my shit and I’ll be on my merry way. There’s a good girl.”

  “No, where’s Langston?” This was the only thing she ever asked him. Not, how much you want? Not, how’ve you been? Or, want to come in and have a cup of coffee? Or, you coming back next month? Just, where’s Langston?

  Langston Stavro was the man who’d known Nancy Mosby, the man who’d gotten her into all this mess—if you called selling Moonmilk for millions of dollars a mess. He’d given her the bare minimum, or told her what to look for, was a better way of putting it, and then split.

  “Time’s wasting. Got to get going soon.” Wells rarely made eye contact, as if he couldn’t be bothered to interact too much with the help. Getting to know customers was largely a waste of time, but Wells was a connection to the only person she thought of as a true friend in this world, save for Sarah.

  “Can you tell him to call me?” She sounded like a pathetic schoolgirl, begging her best friend to tell the cute boy from class to text her.

  “Don’t want to go back and tell him you’re slipping.” Wells picked a blond hair off his shirt and flicked it away.

  This could go on for half an hour if Madison let it, but she had more important things to do and arguing with the taotie that was more like an automated phone tree was a waste of time. “Press three, for another surly response. Press four, to be told to fuck off in Español.”

  “Wait here.” Madison didn’t keep product in the house, with the exception of Langston’s supply. Wells had been unwilling to discuss another delivery spot, so his gallon jug was stashed in the freezer, dutifully placed there by Margaret every month.

  A moment later, she returned to the foyer, white one-gallon jug swinging by its handle. A label reading Sharpe’s Pudding, complete with nutritional information, competed the disguise.

  Wells smirked and handed Madison the bag with the cash, two hundred thousand dollars. It was a discount, which Madison was beginning to regret. But a deal was a deal. And, she had no way of renegotiating the deal in Langston’s absence. She couldn’t dwell on that now. Sarah waited in the basement for her, and Han was waiting in the garden for her signal to start the Iron Ravens’ flight.

  ***

  “What’s got you in such a bad mood?” asked Sarah as she ladled emulsified plum pudding into the storm brewer’s special mason jars, with the metal plug in the bottom. Each was then placed in a neat line on the chrome countertop of the workbench in the storm brewer room. The massive, stainless-steel spider-looking thing waited with outstretched arms on the other end of the room.

  Fragrances of brandy, nutmeg, and candied fruits filled the space. It was hard not to feel a certain warmth with the air smelling like Christmas all the time. But, like kennel workers getting used to the smell, Madison hardly noticed it all anymore.

  Each jar was then passed to Madison for the Brushite to be added.

  Sarah pressed the issue. “Nerves? It’s nerves. I can see it.”

  “No, it’s just Langston. Why doesn’t he call me? I worry about him. You know? The magical world is still dangerous, even without Trask. You’d think he would care enough to at least call me, tell me he’s still alive. Is that too much to ask? I just…” She put her jar down. “I guess I just miss talking to him sometimes. Oh god, stop whining, Madison.”

  “Yeah,” said Sarah softly, “I lost a lot of friends overseas. You just learn to deal with it.”

  Madison didn’t know how to interpret that with Sarah’s history. Lost them in a suicide bomber attack, or school friends moving away because their parents were in the military?

  “Okay, that’s the last one,” said Sarah. She began securing the jar lids, mindful that the first time they tried this they didn’t know to put the tops on and everyone ended up covered in shattered glass. She then took the jars and placed them, one by one, on the shiny platters that surrounded the storm brewer. Each one had a clasp for holding the metal plugs at the bottom of the individual jars.

  “I’ll go get Han started,” said Madison. “Can you handle the rest?”

  “I got it, just go.”

  As Madison trudged up the stairs, she considered how mundane this task had become. What had once been the most exciting time of her life, learning the secrets of making Moonmilk, was now just a daily chore.

  From the kitchen window, Madison waved to Han who began his ritual of stirring up the Iron Ravens, in order to produce the lightening needed to power the storm brewer. He wore a red and yellow checker-patterned vest and carried a pair of white flags. He made a raven call and began his twirling dance in the back yard. Eventually, a cloud of screaming birds would be swirling over the house and soon after the lightening would begin firing down into the metal rods on the roof. This took about an hour to get the birds completely going. More than enough time to secure all the jars on the platters.

  “Need any help, hun?” asked Margaret as she shuffled into the kitchen.

  Madison had saved her from a lonely summer of cleaning and eating alone in her room, while her mother gallivanted across Europe with her “gal pals.” The thought made her wonder if she and Sarah would do that someday.

  “We’ve got it,” said Madison. “Thanks though. The caterers will be here this afternoon. You can help get them set up.”

  Margaret’s head tilted up and down as she tried to find the right position of her thick, progressive lenses to see Madison. “Can do. You talk to your mom, lately?”

  Ugh, no. “Haven’t heard from her in a week or so.” That was the beauty of Helen Cross traveling abroad: those blasted time zones never seemed to make for a convenient time to talk.

  Damn, those time zones.

  Chapter 19

  The clothes and messenger bag from the library, along with the ring and the dormant Scout Munk, lay on the bed. Madison stood in the master bath doorway, drying her hair. She felt a rush of excitement as she looked at everything. The sight made her want to go back to the library and take Sarah with her. The two of them could spend the weekend there, well a minute actually, lost in the four rooms, playing dress up like a couple of little girls at a sleepover.

  Grow up, Madison.

  “So, all these were Nancy’s?” asked Sarah. She reached out and stroked the pinstripe jeans, before pulling her hand back as if the denim was going to sting her.

  “I guess. I don’t see any name tags. I think there’s notes in the bag I brought back. The little guy there had instructions, but I don’t know about the clothes.”

  “Oh my god, these...these are from the Shiloh Library, aren’t they?” Sarah rummaged through the messenger bag and found the tags that came with the clothing. She read them. “Spirit Suit – Face shifting jeans. Spirit Suit – Sand Metal jacket, Spirit suit – Vamp dress. These don’t tell you much. Well, whatever. We’ll figure them out. Tell me everything.”

  Madison finished drying herself off and tossed the towel on the floor, before finding some underwear and her favorite Iron Man T-shirt. Sarah looked at the towel for a moment, probably wanting to dart after it and place it in to the laundry basket, but she didn’t.

  For the next hour Madison described the trek into the Blue Ridge Mountains, the twins, the disappearing cabin
, the library and its treasure-filled rooms to a rapt Sarah, who got so worked up she had to light a joint just to calm down.

  “Oh Maddy. Can we go up there? I want to see it.”

  “We can. But, we’ve got a lot of things to sort out before then. Mainly, what the hell do these things do? What the hell does Sand Metal jacket, here do?” She picked up the leather jacket and examined it.

  “I mean, if these are magic,” said Sarah, “should we be messing around with them in the house?”

  That was actually a valid question. What if these things projected flames or acid, or flaming acid? They could inadvertently burn down the mansion.

  “Way to go, Sarah. I was already a little scared of putting these on.”

  “Wait, do you wear the chipmunk somehow?”

  “No, but I know what he does. I’ll show you in a minute.”

  Madison could feel the muscles in her stomach tighten as she tried to decide which to try on first. “Okay, jeans first.”

  Madison pulled on the pants as Sarah took another drag off her joint. They were tight, but fit well enough. In fact, they felt pretty good, worn soft in all the right places. Smoke shot out from Sarah’s mouth as she went into a furious coughing fit.

  “Oh shit, Maddy!”

  “What?” Madison’s hands ran all over her body as if she was bleeding. What could Sarah possibly be gawking at? She didn’t feel any different.

  “You...” All Sarah could do was point. “You ain’t you.”

  Madison ran over to the mirror. A woman she had never seen before stared back. She had big hair and high cheekbones, olive skin, and brown eyes. Madison screamed, clasping her new face in her hands. She turned back to Sarah, and let out a bellicose fit of laughter.

  “Holy shit! I mean who the hell am I?” Madison blurted out.

  “What are you asking me for?”

  The urge to rip the jeans off overwhelmed her, and she jumped onto the bed and pulled them off as fast as she could.

  “Careful with those, Maddy.”

  With the jeans bunched up on the floor, Madison lunged back over to the mirror. What would she do if she still looked like that strange woman? She saw her face looking back at her.

  Thank Christ.

  “Oh, that’s trippy,” whispered Sarah. She was kneeling down, next to the jeans. When she stood up, she held a piece of paper, no bigger than a playing card.

  “What?”

  “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun with these.”

  “What?” Madison whirled around and reached for the paper. Sarah yanked it out of Madison’s reach. Damn, she’s fast.

  “Look familiar?” Sarah held up the paper so Madison could see. It was a photo. A photo of the woman she saw in the mirror. She had the same big curly hair, same high cheekbones and although the photo was old, the woman’s brown eyes were clear as day.

  Sarah handed over the picture and she returned to the bunched-up jeans. She picked them up and rifled through the pockets. “There’s nothing else here. Pretty obvious that the picture is what made you change. Let me try.” She held out her hand for the picture.

  Without hesitation, Madison handed over the picture, wondering if it was magic too. At this point, anything was possible. Sarah gently slid the picture into the back pocket and pulled on the jeans. In a second she had gone from a young, pale blonde girl, to a thirty-something woman with Mediterranean looks and yes, big hair.

  “Did it work?” Sarah asked.

  “See for yourself.”

  Sarah turned to the mirror and gasped, which really wasn’t warranted in Madison’s mind. She kind of expected that would happen, but it was still really cool.

  “I just want to walk around like this all day,” said Sarah. She fluffed the curly black hair and turned to look at herself in the mirror.

  “You look like a Jersey chick, on the way to a Springsteen concert.”

  “Who cares. You can hide in plain sight.”

  That was true, and there was no doubt that they could put these to good use.

  Sarah turned to look at Madison. “Let’s see what happens with a different picture.”

  ***

  Forgetting there were other, possibly magical garments upstairs, the two of them ran through the mansion looking for pictures that would fit in the jeans pocket. Madison insisted that none of the original pictures be folded. She promised Sarah that they would get a Xerox machine to make copies. With that, they could turn themselves into anything they wanted.

  Neither of them had any proper photos in their purses and they agreed that their cell phones shouldn’t go into the pockets, at least not yet.

  A small part of Madison wanted to find a picture of Nancy Mosby as fast as possible, but she was stopped by the thought that she didn’t want to look at herself as her grandmother in front of Sarah. Deep down, she knew she would probably break down and start crying at the sight of her. It would be too real seeing her standing in the mirror, like a cruel trick or a dream, something that feels real, but isn’t. Maybe someday she would do that, when she was alone, after she was actually the Rose Widow and not someone just chasing a legend.

  “I wonder what happens if you put a picture with more than one person in the pocket?” pondered Sarah as they stood in the downstairs hallway.

  “Only one way to find out,” said Madison as she pulled down a picture of two of Nancy’s proteges from the early Blue Petal days. They stood next to an old woman beside a steaming wok. People in long robes bustled about in the background. She pulled the back off the frame and placed it on the floor.

  “What are those numbers on the back?” asked Sarah.

  “Date, I guess.” Madison didn’t really care.

  “Let me see that, real quick.”

  Madison handed over the photo.

  “I think these are geographic coordinates,” said Sarah.

  “So.”

  “So? So, no one does that. Do they?”

  “I don’t know.” Wanting to try the jeans and not worry about some stupid numbers on the back of a photo from God knows when, Madison tuned Sarah out. She looked for another photo.

  Can we turn ourselves into men? Would we have...dicks? It was a stupid thought, Madison knew, but still, would they? That might require a bit of alcohol to deal with. Strike that, a lot of alcohol.

  Madison found another photo. This one was of the first female Blue Petal board member, Angela Danielson, with her big ears hidden behind wavy, permed hair. She was standing next to her daughter, holding up an award. With less care than the first trial, the picture was slid into the jeans. Madison slipped them on.

  “Nothing,” said Sarah disappointedly. “Maybe you’re confusing them.”

  Madison let out a sigh and removed the picture. Who the hell knows who these people are? With that, she ripped the picture in half, separating the mother and daughter, and put the half with the mother in the back pocket.

  “That answers that question,” said Sarah. She was smiling now. “I think you looked better as the other woman though.”

  Chapter 20

  Madison opened the door to Blue Dreamz bakery to see Dana sitting behind the counter of the empty shop.

  “You’ll need to take a number,” said Dana without looking up from her phone.

  “How about number one,” said Madison, holding up her middle finger.

  “What?”

  “So, whatcha doing tonight?” A wide grin crossed her face.

  “Going home and watching the Nats play the Cubs.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Dana got a curious look on her face. “Then what am I doing?”

  “You’re going to the Nats game. I got the Blue Petal box seats from Dad.” Madison threw a thick envelope onto the counter. The tickets and parking pass slid across the glass.

  Dana shot up from her stool behind the register. “Get the fuck out of here. This is for all three games of the series against the Cubs.”

  “No shit. Right? Dad even told
some execs from the Japan offices to pound sand, that they weren’t going. He was using the box for himself for a few nights.”

  “Oh my god, he never lets us use those tickets. Not that he ever goes.”

  “Yeah, well if he wasn’t such a total pussy with the assholes that actually run the company, maybe we’d get to go more often.”

  “So that’s it—you just called and asked?”

  “Well, I told him you were a huge Cubs fan and he relented.”

  Dana frowned. “I fucking hate the Cubs. He knows that.”

  “Apparently, he forgot, because it didn’t take much convincing. So, tonight, you love them.” Madison produced a Cubs hat, pulled off the price tag and handed it to Dana. “Put that ugly hat on and hold up the tickets.”

  Madison pulled out her phone, snapped the picture of Dana with her phony smile and sent it to her dad.

  “Delete that fucking picture,” said Dana as she threw the hat in the trash.

  “Done. Okay, you have fun tonight. I’ve got shit to do.”

  “Wait, you’re not coming?”

  “No, I’ve got to meet up with Sarah to talk about some of the new recipes for this place.”

  “Why bother? No one comes in here.”

  At that moment, the bell chime rang and Shelby entered, cell phone to her ear. “Just see what you can turn up. I need it quick.”

  She pointed to a strawberry shortcake, with frosting and glazed fruit ringing the top. Dana reached for a box and removed the cake from the top shelf of the display case.

  “It was from”—Shelby looked up at Madison and Dana, and her speech slowed— “a crime scene up in Maryland. Can you unlock the phone or not?” She paused, mouth twisting. “Huh. Okay. Let me know. See you tomorrow.” With a tap of the finger, she ended the call.

  Shelby went still, her nose in the air. “Is that Grandma’s old plum pudding recipe?”

  “Yes,” replied Madison. Her eyes narrowed, darting over to Dana.