Coyaa zipped the leather suitcase with a sharp, metallic tug that sounded entirely too loud in the quiet flat. She stuffed an extra pair of wool socks into the corner and pushed the lid down with her hip. Outside her apartment window, the permanent crimson moon cast a bruised, unnatural glow across the brick walls. Every shadow seemed to stretch outward, bending toward the baseboard heaters like living things looking for heat. She checked her watch for the fourth time in two minutes and felt a familiar tightness in her chest. Leaving behind the only life she knew for a town wrapped in perpetual twilight felt like a terrible mistake. Yet the glowing letter still sat on the kitchen table, pulsing with a faint, steady heartbeat of light.
She picked up her canvas coat and slung it over her arm, walking slowly into the hallway to wait by the heavy oak front door. Her fingers traced the brass deadbolt, testing the lock mechanically while she listened to the low hum of the refrigerator. Minutes dragged by like hours while the crimson light outside shifted from a deep ruby to an angry copper. A sudden, violent rapping rattled the doorframe, making the paint chips flake onto the floorboards. Keshia and Charmaine did not wait for an invitation before pounding again, harder and faster this time, demanding entry against the strange stillness of the hall.
Coyaa threw the deadbolt back and pulled the door open, letting both women tumble breathlessly into the narrow entryway. Keshia kicked her sneakers off with one heel while brushing dust from her denim jacket, her dark eyes wide and bright. Charmaine followed close behind, carrying a large burlap sack that smelled sharply of dried mint and crushed iron. “Tell me we aren't driving into a ditch tonight, because my suspension is already shot,” Keshia said, marching past the coat rack. Coyaa stepped back and let them walk in, locking the door firmly behind their backs to shut out the crimson glare of the street. The tiny hallway suddenly felt crowded with the scent of herbs and the restless energy of three women about to make a very reckless choice.
“We aren't driving into any ditches if I'm navigating,” Charmaine said, dropping her sack onto the floor with a heavy thud that rattled the umbrella stand. She sniffed the air suspiciously and looked toward the kitchen where the glowing parchment lay abandoned on the counter. “What is that smell? It smells like ozone and old pennies in there.” Coyaa gestured toward the kitchen archway, her hands tucked deep into her pockets to hide the slight tremor in her fingers. “It's the letter,” Coyaa said. Keshia was already moving down the hall, her heavy boots clicking against the linoleum as she zeroed in on the glowing table. “Well, don't just stand there guarding the silver,” Keshia called back over her shoulder. “Let me see the letter.”
Keshia reached the kitchen island first, leaning over the wooden surface with her hands planted firmly on either side of the glowing parchment. The wax seal cast a sickly red light across her cheekbones, highlighting the sharp angle of her jaw.
“This is proper old-school magic, the kind you only read about in sealed texts from the academy,” Keshia muttered, squinting at the faint script. Coyaa walked in slowly behind her, watching Keshia's fingers hover just an inch above the surface without actually touching the paper.
“Can you read who actually sent it, or is it just more riddles about blood and inheritance?” Coyaa asked. Keshia did not answer right away, her gaze fixed on a smudged watermark near the bottom edge that seemed to shift every time she blinked. Charmaine leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest while she chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip.
“Give me a second to actually read over it before you start cross-examining me,” Keshia said, her voice dropping into that low, concentrated register she used when she was untangling stubborn hexes. She leaned in closer until her nose was nearly touching the glowing wax, her breath fogging the air above the desk. The script began to writhe under her gaze, the black ink lifting off the cellulose fibers like tiny, drowning ants trying to reach higher ground.