Page 90 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Delia didn't answer right away. Her eyes stared directly through me, like I was nothin' but a ghost in her house. "Death," she said, her voice a low, raspy whisper.

The word sat between us, a cold, heavy thing. I felt somethin' tighten beneath my ribs, a cold knot of dread that I couldn't seem to shake. "Whose?"

Delia smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was a slow, spreadin' thing that didn't quite reach her eyes, a glimpse of teeth in the dim light. "Now, don't go askin' questions you ain't ready to hear answers to," she said, her voice a low, hypnotic chant.

"Delia."

"Death ain't always polite enough to knock," she said, her voice a low, hypnotic purr. She stirred the tea, the spoon clinkin' against the side of the pot. "Sometimes it slips through a crack."

She reached across the table and took my hand, her fingers cold and bony, like the claws of a bird. "Listen to me, boy."

I did.

"There's a death walkin' towards the holler," she said, her voice hadn’t changed. Still soft. Still that slow mountain drawl. But there was somethin' underneath it, somethin' ancient and powerful. "And it ain't the kind you're expectin'."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll know when you see it."

"That ain't an answer."

"It's the only one you're gettin'."

She let go of my hand, her fingers leavin' a cold, clammy print on my skin. Then, just as suddenly, the darkness left her voice. The ancient power that had been coiled in the room seemed to dissipate, leavin' only the smell of herbs and old wood. The silence that followed was heavy.

She reached for the kettle, her knotted hands movin' with an unnervin' grace. "Now," she said, her voice a low, hypnotic chant. She poured the tea into a chipped ceramic mug, the liquid a dark, murky green, the steam a ghostly wisp in the dim light. "You take this home to your wife."

I stared at her, my mind a whirlwind, my heart a cold, steady beat in my chest. "That's it?"

"That's it," she said, her voice low. She pushed the mug toward me. "Have her drink it while it's warm. It'll settle her nerves." She added another spoonful of honey, the thick, golden liquid a slow drip from the spoon. "She ain't been sleepin' proper."

"How do you know that?" I asked, my voice a low, gravelly rumble.

Delia snorted, a dry, rattlin' sound. "Boy, I'm blind, not stupid."

I picked it up, the warmth of the mug a small comfort in the cold, heavy air. Steam curled against my face, the scent of herbs and honey. "Delia."

"Hm?"

"What did you see?"

She went very still, her body tense, the air around her cracklin' with a sudden, sharp energy. For a moment, she looked old. Older than I'd ever seen her. Then she smiled. "Go home, Blythe."

Her cloudy eyes lifted toward me, the milky orbs seemin' to focus on something. "And don't be late."

The next day was a real October day in the mountains. The sky was low, a heavy blanket of gray, and the air was thick with the promise of winter. It wasn't pissin' down yet, but it was gonna soon, and the fog was clingin' to everything, a damp, cold thing. I pulled my ball cap down low, the brim hidin' my face, and went to make sure the big top was secure.

I moved through the midway, my hands workin' on autopilot. I threw heavy canvas coverings over the game booths, the fabric dull and heavy. I checked the ropes on the Ferris wheel, my fingers testin' the knots, my eyes dartin' over the wood, lookin' for signs of rot. The fog was clingin' to me, my stubble beard felt heavy and my hair, flat on the back of my neck, felt like it was plastered to my skin.

My mind was on Rory. The tea Delia gave me worked. She'd slept, really slept. Her body went slack against mine, her breathin' deep and even, a small sound that was almost peaceful. I watched her for a long time.

The fog was a shroud, thick and wet, clingin' to the canvas of the big top like a second skin. It muffled sound, stole color, and turned the world into a watercolor left out in the rain. I was wrestlin' with a stubborn tie-down, the rope slick and heavy in my hands, when a voice cut through.

"Well, look what the spirits dragged in. Happy All Hallows' Eve, you stone-faced bastard."

Knox. He was a big silhouette against the gray, his voice a familiar, low rumble that usually meant trouble was brewin' or he was bored enough to stir some up. I didn't turn, just kept pullin' on the rope, the fibers diggin' into my palms.

"We gotta talk," he said, and the playful tone was gone, stripped away like old paint. It was just three words, but they landed in the quiet air with the weight of a tombstone.