Part 29: Avon Calling

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— With three pieces of Feenuín confirmed, Blevin explained how each storm, all the pieces are up for grabs. “First come, first served.” With that knowledge, the gang resolved to somehow get a piece for themselves. But how to know when it was the right time to do a ritual?

As if in answer, they heard the bells again: Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum.

One cycle, chiming in the auditory vacuum. Frank looked at Harlow first. Could she hear it? Was he going mad? But she nodded, breathing heavy with wide eyes. He tapped Blevin’s leg and he affirmed too, his mouth half-open. Then, in an instant, Sound came back. The world had switched off mute. Frank sighed, relieved. He wouldn’t have to face it alone this time.

“I’ll be back with the check,” said Jean the waitress.

She turned on the spot and spilled a steaming hiss of coffee on her forearm. The trio winced but Jean carried on, bumping through the sardine-packed diner, like it was nothing.

“Excuse me,” she said, first soft and smiling as she eased her way through. Then, louder. “Move.” She jabbed not-so-subtle elbows into low-backs, dashing forward in the openings she created. 

“What is she doing?” said Frank. 

“You mean how,” said Blevin. “It’s time. Avon’s calling.” 

“The bells,” said Harlow. 

“The Call.”

Jean had made it to the most crowded part of the diner, right next to the front door, and worked her way towards the kitchen. Dying in front of a guest, even if you were soon-after resurrected, was bound to have consequences. 

“No, the food was great. We did see our waitress bleed out, but she got back up really quick. Can I make a suggestion, though, that staff doesn’t eat in front of us? Just really off-putting. It reminds me that they go pee-pee and have bills they might not be able to cover depending on my mood.”

“Should we stop her?” said Frank.

“With what?” said Harlow.

Frank’s mind was frozen. Was it the cold wind, or the bells taking him back to the pines? He looked out the plate glass windows, half-expecting to see the Woods Woman staring in at him. 

Jean made it around a family of particularly robust gentlemen by leveraging one shaking arm on the diner counter. As she pivoted off the ground, impressively limber on hour fourteen of her shift, she tripped. Staggered. She’d gotten caught on something.

Turning back, Jean could see a familiar face. Richard Vines, sr., with his hand clamped firmly on top of her own.