Essex [the bad familiar]

9: Essex

The puff of white and black feathers banged against a garbage can. The lid rolled along the ground as the bird regained its balance, dark talons curled unsteadily on the stained barrel. Sandelene grabbed the screen at once, started to set the bottom frame against the sill.

The sharp sting of a razor's edge split the skin between her thumb and forefinger. Crimson flooded the grungy sink. The edges of the frame, now steely and razor sharp and glistening wet where they'd cut her, clattered back against the stainless basin with the woman's startled yelp.

That's what you get, insolent wench, the bird cawed, hopping back onto the faucet. Blood beaded its white underbelly.

Sandelene had always known birds could be smug, arrogant little minions of the car wash industry. They stained the sidewalk up and down the street, hidden away behind yellow poplar leaves, rear ends edging closer and closer to a hapless victim down below...

Crap, this hurt. She grabbed a paper towel, wiped the sheet of blood off her hand and pushed down a flap of skin.

Don't feel good to be attacked, does it?

Shit, this bird was really talking. In her mind, as this sharp intrusion of darkness, as if a light somewhere in her brain had gone out and that bird was perched there, clenching her neurons, its hooked beak gleaming as it bent to pluck a thread of grey matter.

I'm in your head, sweetheart. Living rent free for all eternity. Or until you die, whichever comes first. And I'd bet my cozy new house you're smart enough to figure which contract ends first.

Nerves from her thumb to her elbow pulsed with every crimson squirt. Hands shaking, Sandelene wrapped a washcloth around the injury, trying not to look at the bird, trying not to let her eyes finalize what she knew in her brain to be real. The blackened end of its forked tail flicked against her wrist.

I brought you a housewarming gift, Sandy. A small thank-you for releasing me, for opening up your heart to me. No one's ever done that since, well—orange-rimmed eyes regarded her with hawkish intent—ever.

"Get the hell away from me." This cut was similar to the one on her throat; burned, hurt like she'd left her hand on a gas stove, but there was way too much blood. It wasn't all hers, couldn't have been all hers.

A wet drip from the pot rack over the petite kitchen island. Dark, smelly liquid spattered the formica countertop. In an easy motion, the bird landed up beside the handles of rattling pots.

Far enough?

He was sitting beside the porcelain bud vase her grandmother had given her a few years ago, a gift for passing her GED test. A wilted chunk of wildflowers had been stuffed into the hand-painted vase. Her grandmother had purchased it in some desert market in Rajasthan. Sandelene suspected it was not worth nearly half as much as her grandmother claimed.

You really want to know its origins? Let's pay a visit to dear old Dida and ask her.

"Get out of my head," Sandelene said, hefting the broom again.

Can't do that. You invited me in.

"Then I rescind my invitation."

Oh, if only I had fangs, the bird said, clacking its beak as it leered down at her, one wing hovering against the vase. That's for vampires, dipshit.

"Look," she said then, throwing up her wrapped hand. "I'm not doing this today. My shops in tatters. I'm due at the police station to give a statement, oh, probably two hours ago, which means I'm probably gonna get my ear chewed off at the station from Officer Hot Bod. So, whatever the hell you are—Essex, your familiar— you can show yourself the window. This isn't even my house. For all I know I ate the wrong kind of brownie for breakfast."