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.
Frank focused in on the pairing and it was like the Call heard. Like She wanted an audience. Maybe wherever She was, the demon liked to watch Her subjects open their gifts along with their ribcages. A morbid mother. He could hear his father and Jean like he was sat front row at their play, the Call a score behind the unfolding scene.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” said Richard, his face not betraying any sort of regret. “But may I have a cup of that coffee?” Jean tried to pull her hand out from under Richard’s, but his grip held fast.
“Sure thing, hon.” She smiled through grit teeth. “But this pot’s all stale. Let me get you a fresh one from the back.”
Richard clicked his tongue. “Don’t be silly, Jean. You know I’m not picky.”
Jean raised an eyebrow, incredulous even as they were bullshitting each other.
“Richard.”
“Jeannette. The coffee. Now. It’s the perfect time of year for it.”
“I know. I’d planned to enjoy some for myself. Finally.”
Richard looked at her, pitying. “Jean, buddy. There will be time for you. But not now. Not tonight. The seeds have already been planted.”
“Only a Vines needs to worry about seeds, Rick.” Jean smirked, glowing in her candor. Her visage was begging for a cigarette between her teeth with a coupe full of absinthe balanced in a leather-gloved hand.
“Clever. But how far has clever ever gotten someone like you? The storm won’t last forever.”
Jean blew a kiss in the air. “My break’s coming up soon. And you of all people know how much I can get done in ten minutes. How are the family coffers, Rick?” Jean pulled at her hand again. It slid an inch on the counter.
He smirked. “No one could run the numbers like you. Help us now and you’ll have a place in the New World. I think it’s only fair that a second chance be on the menu,” said Richard. “But not a third.”
“Is that what you told Lil?” There was a serrated edge in Jean’s voice, and the pain one would cause. Tears gathered in her eyes. “I know what you did to her.”
Across the diner, Harlow moved to stand but Frank caught her wrist, eyes pleading.
“It is what it is, Jean.” Richard’s voice fell from its loft in Chelsea charm. His next words came from somewhere deeper; in his throat, right where his tongue melted into the trachea he’d torn out all those years ago.
Frank couldn’t understand the words. They sounded like skinning your knee.
The diner door flew open again, collapsing the warmth within. Another laughter-filled scream from the crowd. A brave soul, still wrapped up in their coat, wrestled with the door. They leaned against it, waving to everyone, ensuring it would stay closed.
Jean looked at Richard, smug.
“Rusty?” she said, dressing him down with a pout. Her wrinkled lips suddenly looked fuller, satiated. “Wilted? Poor Big Rick cut down to size.”
Jean yanked her arm again and Richard lost his grip. She squared up with him, non-slip shoes firmly planted shoulder width apart. Richard met her gaze, but not her posture. He grit his teeth, the muscle in his jaw working hard enough that Frank could hear them squeak from his ‘theater’ seat.
The waitress searched Richard’s eyes, her own gaze darting all around like she could smell the gas leak but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. After a few seconds, as Richard’s face turned from red to a bruised purple, Jean’s eyes caught on something over his shoulder. She froze, her face a pond that had just frozen over.
Frank looked too. Was there something outside? Someone? He pressed his face to the window, sheltering his eyes from the diner’s lights with both hands. Outside, the world was TV static. A worsening storm, until… The world rippled as he looked.
No, not the world.
“Merry Christmas, Jeannie,” said Richard.
Her eyes went wide and she ducked. Too late.
The bells got loud.
On the first loud chime, all five of the plate glass windows cracked. Everyone screamed at the crystalline fractures and jagged shards that popped out of their moorings. Frank only saw someone grabbing their neck in the booth by the front door before Blevin ducked on top and pushed him down. With his other hand, the librarian reached over to shield Harlow as best he could. She batted away his arm and swooped under the table. The boys followed. Above them, only screaming. Shuffling. A shower of jagged glass mixing with the snowfall.
“What happened? What’s happening?” shouted Frank. Legs stampeded towards the front door. He peeked out from under the table. A slick of blood was dripping down from the first booth. All he could see was a twitching hand with a friendship bracelet around its wrist.
“Frank. FRANK.” It was Blevin. His voice had lowered too, but wasn’t subterranean like Richard’s. “We need to go.”
Frank nodded and moved out from under the table, cautious. Three seconds, four tops; but everything was different.
A bloody tornado had wrecked the diner. It was empty, minus the bodies. A crowd gathered outside, still shouting. The fry cook, Lester McCroy, was holding his grease rag to Jean’s stomach. A shard of glass the size of a slice of their famous nine-layer cake was wedged an inch north of her apron strings.
“Just keep breathing, Jeannie,” said Lester. Behind him, someone was on the phone with the firehouse down in the square. Frank still had the instinct to look for his dad. To make sure he was alright. To ask Dr. Vines to help Jean and that first booth. The hand stopped twitching. Frank stood and started towards the front door but felt like he was moving in slow motion. Blevin and Harlow moved past him, Harlow’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him along.
There were screams outside. Another crashing as one of the windows at the far end of the diner gave way. Under it all, still, the bells. Her Call. Frank saw him when he looked back.
Richard stood in the kitchen, shaking his hands out at either side. He still wanted his cup of coffee.
With his back to the window, Richard took an empty coffee pot and judged it. Was he deciding if it was a worthy vessel, or just good enough for what he needed? Careful not to burn his hand, he dunked the pot into the boiling fry oil. It cracked from the temperature change, but didn’t shatter. Good enough, then.
The oil bubbled in the glass, steaming and leaking from growing fissures. The pot’s plastic collar started bubbling, but it should hold. Richard dodged a few drips, careful of his slacks, before he raised the pot to eye-level and looked to the corner of the room, head titled.
He’s listening, thought Frank. Making sure.
Richard brought the pot to his lips, opened his jaw as wide as it would go and pointed his chin to the sky.
“Hail.”
The pot shattered as he turned it over and poured the boiling oil into his mouth.