The scent of coffee made her flare her nostrils and lick her lips. The pungent aroma mixed with the dream that even now, in the first few seconds of consciousness, had faded, leaving her with its vague impression. In its wake was that familiar emptiness of having been robbed. She knew the setting from past episodes. The tiny parcel of land stuck between Ronan and Hot Springs. A decaying trailer house surrounded by winter wheat fields. They called it a farm with irony, for it possessed only a small garden, untouched for years, and a chicken coop that hadn’t seen occupants since the last owners. Neither she nor her father had a green thumb, nor were they any good with animals.

If not in this dream, then in her memories, he was always out working on the truck. His laptop on the picnic table he’d dragged up next to the rig was connected to a data port under the hood via a long cord, his red toolbox open like a surgical tray, an array of useful tools at hand as he attempted to decode the error messages on the jerry-rigged grid interface. He would run a hand through a shock of ginger hair, starchy from sweat and grease, leaving it to stand on end as a flag of his frustration. He had loved the truck, loved the mechanical work when it had an internal combustion engine. Now, he was always stressed, and he drank and smoked too much, forced to give up diesel for electric, forced to choose desperate and dangerous routes as the grid of autonomous shipping continued to expand.

Coffee was their solace. They would sit together on the porch in the early mornings before the world woke up. Under the twilight of the Big Sky, they’d listen to music or nothing, watching the dippers rotate over the Mission Mountains, year by year fading against the urban sprawl, rarely speaking, like silent monks at morning prayers.

This was a past that was dead. She resented how it followed her slumber in images and in her waking life as an angry longing. She yearned for those untarnished years when he had tried to make everything golden by encouraging a belief in things like Christmas or the ritual of baking a turkey once a year.

She needed to pee.

A faint morning blue from the small, rectangular window illuminated the pile of clothes that was the Greta in the corner of the room. The voiceless woman slept in her patchwork dress and mask. She wondered about her. She must have sustained those scars in the fire. What had that been, like fifteen years ago? The gathering of a hundred thousand Gretas in a field east of Modesto. One hundred thousand women covered in dry polyester and cotton on a dry day under a high sun. How the fire started remained a mystery, full of conspiracy and accusations, but a rogue spark carried by the Santa Ana winds caught a sleeve or a hem, a shawl or cowl, and not one could scream to warn the others. It had been on the news for weeks. The large gatherings stopped after that. These days, the ritualistic cuttings—to take the voice away in solidarity with the Earth Mother—were done in small, secret gatherings with security details carrying firearms.

She pulled on the leggings she’d discarded on the floor next to the bed along with the oversized t-shirt bearing the logo of a brand she didn’t recognize and let herself out of the room. She crept down the hall and closed the bathroom door behind her. When she was done, she tiptoed by the room where Carter Nash bunked with Bridger. The two men had become fast friends. Last night, she’d fallen asleep to their muffled voices. It was good to hear them laugh.

In addition to the two bedrooms and the bathroom, the basement of Katelyn’s house had a living room where the boys were passed out on a plush sofa from another era. It was planted in front of a giant television running a soundless cartoon of a cat chasing a mouse. In their peaceful slumber, Ty had an arm flopped over Francis, who had kicked a leg over Ty, at least one scar upon each puppish limb. She pulled the French doors together, separating them from the kitchen and her quest for coffee.

The kitchen-dining room was done up like an old 1950s diner, complete with the black and white checkered floor and a corner booth where Alan now slept in a forced crescent, an empty wine bottle on the table above him.

She watched him in the morning glow from another small window covered with azure curtains, worried that her movement could wake him up. The man wasn’t so much a drunk—it was that he drank to fall asleep. Her father was like that, toward the end. Christ, she’d done it, too. Something about haunted dreams… No, it was the memories, not the dreams, haunted memories, or rather memories that haunt, that was what kept you awake at night. Nonetheless, the wine-drunk sleep was deepest in the early hours before waking with a pounding headache, so she proceeded on her coffee mission with confidence.

The cupboard revealed a small package of Ceylon teabags wrapped in cellophane and another bottle of wine. She didn’t know if Alan had taken the house wine or if he’d brought it from the Jiffy Stop.

She put on her shoes and went up to the backyard. The brightness of the morning and a nip of frost made her eyes water. Behind the house was a covered patio full of shelves crammed with items that looked as though they could have been contenders in an antique roadshow. Two barbecues, one large and green, the other black, smaller and older by maybe fifty years, were dusted with snow. She stepped past these out from under the roof and lit a cigarette.

A large cottonwood rose from the center of the yard, its branches reaching into the gray sky like skeletal arms. From behind the tree, the little mop dog pranced around and kicked up snow like it had just taken a crap.

“Moby!” Katelyn called from the screen door. “Oh, I didn’t see you there, dear. Ms. Wolf, is it?”

“Just Gwen is fine,” said Gwen. “I thought I’d come up and get the circulation going.”

“Ah yes, the circulation of the humors. Cycles, circles, the repetition of things. It makes perfect sense. You were an early riser in your girlhood. Not afraid of cancer either, it seems.”

Gwen looked at her cigarette.

The woman stepped out in her robe and slippers. From one of the boxes, she retrieved an empty dog food can and set it on the tray of the black barbecue. “Don’t throw your butts in the yard. And maybe smoke by the back gate. Come on, Moby.” She picked up the dog and headed back inside. At the door, she turned. “My manners. I suppose I could offer you some coffee. I just started a pot. Come on in if you like. Mind your shoes.”

----------------------------------------

They sat in the dainty living room. Next to her, the large tabby, aptly named Moose, colonized half the sofa. When she tried to pet him, he woke from his coma long enough to take a half-hearted swing at her with his claws. The mop dog sat in the corner, eyeing her and issuing small growls now and then under its breath. She sipped from a dainty coffee cup, the darkest, richest coffee she’d ever tasted. It scalded her tongue, and the caffeine surged to her head.

“This is amazing coffee,” said Gwen.

“It’s nothing, dear. I’ll give you some to take downstairs. There should be a coffee pot underneath the sink. I had a boarder once, but he—” She stopped herself and studied Gwen. “Never mind him. It’s all about the quality of the ingredients and the care taken in preparation. I doubt your generation will ever understand that.”

“I suppose.” She thought it better to change the subject. “It’s a lovely little house.”

“It’s old. It’s falling apart. I’ve been here most of my life. It is my prison.”

“Well, at least you have a house. No one can afford one anymore.”

“You won’t believe what it took me to get this.” Katelyn’s voice rose with emotion. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Then as a single woman, you know how we need to fight. No one ever handed me anything.”

She took another sip of the strong brew.

Against the far wall by the door was an upright piano stacked with books. To avoid the awkward conversation, she rose and inspected them. The pages of the one she picked up and opened were aged brown and brittle, written in an alphabet she’d never seen.

“It’s ancient Sami. From the top of the world.”

Gwen jumped. The woman stood next to her. She hadn’t heard her get up. She took the book from her hands and returned it to its place.

“You won’t find any of that smut you read in this house.”

“What makes you think I read smut?”

A furious tension crossed Katelyn’s face. “It’s very old.”

“What’s it about?”

“A ren carries a princess between the realms of the dead and the living.”

“A ren?”

“Reindeer.”

“It sounds interesting.”

“It’s magnificent.” Katelyn’s wrinkled hand touched the leather cover, as if to reassure the tome it was safe from the ignorant.

On the wall above the piano was a series of glass shelves populated with miniature glass figurines of children, some of them fishing, some of them angels.

She leaned in to get a closer look. A small mermaid in blue and yellow crystal appeared to gleam with a light of its own.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Don’t touch them. They’re so delicate.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

The old woman sighed at this reproach and returned to her rocking chair. “You’re the first guest I’ve had in… a long time.”

There were other shelves with dark, titleless books and knickknacks such as the resin statuette of a crimson dragon and a pair of neatly beaded baby booties. A large oil painting of a boat out at sea occupied the wall where any normal person would have put a television. Next to it, by the kitchen, hung the watercolor portrait of a beautiful woman, incomplete or never meant to be finished.

“Is this you?”

“Oh, that?” Katelyn placed a proper hand upon her chest. “Once upon a time, I suppose.”

The artist had captured a sense of grace and beauty, lips that could have been ravished by a lover and the flesh of a full breast and naked shoulder. It was in the eyes that she recognized her—dark, intense, furious.

“Who was the artist?” Gwen asked.

“You are a good cop. Full of questions,” said Katelyn.

Gwen turned to see her set her cup on the delicate glass saucer that rested on the delicate glass coffee table. “I’m not a cop anymore.”

“I realize. My brother told me of the situation.”

“Thank you for helping us.”

A stress wrinkle crossed her brow. “Help?” She laughed. “I would hardly call it help.”

“What I mean is, you gave us a place to stay. We really appreciate that. I really appreciate that.”

“We do what we can. I just hope nothing happens.”

The noise of a car engine on the street caused her to get up and open the blinds just a sliver. “Come here,” she said. “Look. Do you recognize that car?”

An old beater was cruising down the street. “I don’t. Looks like some kids out joyriding.”

Katelyn let the blinds fall. “Do you really think that’s all it is?”

“Can I be frank with you?” Gwen asked.

“Obviously, you can be frank with me,” replied the woman.

“We’ve just been through a shitstorm.”

Katelyn chuckled. “You think you’re through it?”

“I’m fully aware—”

“You’re Maji now.”

“Pardon?”

“The boy down there…” Katelyn pointed at the floor. “…is a freak.”

“Excuse me?” said Gwen, immediately defensive of Francis. “He’s just a boy.”

The woman cackled, causing the dog to turn a nervous circle on the floor and the cat to lift its head.

“We were attacked. Francis—”

“Oh, he didn’t consent to it, but that’s what he is. And White Owl is using him like she uses everybody else.”

“White Owl?”

“The great White Owl. Sorceress from beyond the Veil. She’ll wring you out, and when you’re dry, she’ll ask you why you couldn’t do more.”

“So she’s real.”

“Real? A real cunt. I could tell you a hundred things that are as real as the nose at the end of your face, but you’d never believe them.”

“Give me one.”

“You are Maji. Ma-jee, Ma-hi. However one chooses to pronounce it. Or choose another name. We are known by many, but we’re all the same.”

“I’m me. Scots Irish—”

“You heard his music?” Again, she pointed to the floor.

“How does that mean anything?” asked Gwen.

“It’s in you now, and you can never take it out.”

“Fine. I heard his music. It doesn’t change anything. We need to clear our names.”

“It changes everything. Now you are the hunted.”

“The wolves?”

“They’re not wolves. Please, show some respect for Canis lupus.”

“The hunters. That’s what Francis calls them.”

“And you are the prey.” She was wringing her hand nervously.

“I should go. The others are probably getting up.”

Katelyn closed her eyes. Heretofore, her hair had been tied in a tight bun atop her head. She removed a pin and let it fall. It streamed across her bosoms and onto her lap. It was mostly black infused with strands of gray. The old woman was handsome, regal; no doubt she’d been breathtaking in her youth.

“Dear, I’m sorry. Listen, LJ brought you here because he didn’t know what else to do with you. I said I would help. I know you were a cop. I respect that. I’m going to dump some information on you and hope you can process it.”

“I’ll try,” said Gwen.

Katelyn poured them more coffee. “Woman to woman. Maji to Maji. Certain times in our lives, it is necessary to suspend our disbelief.”

“I’ve seen a lot as a cop,” said Gwen.

“I trust you have. I am Maji, as are my people going back into stories that are long forgotten. We have always known fear, and we’ve been taught how to hide and how to control our urges. But there are places and times on this earth when we can weave our enchantments without fear of attack. Auspicious days such as equinoxes and solstices, and other days that would seem random to you, but rest assured they are not random in the least. These are precious few. Once or twice in a lifetime. But that is enough, right? Not every living moment needs to be infested with magic. Once or twice to witness the great sublime. It must be this way as a matter of survival.

“About twenty years ago, something changed, and I wasn’t the only one to notice it. A group of young people who were not of Maji blood started to show symptoms. As they neared puberty, they began to manifest certain traits, the most concerning being the ability to pull from the Veil. This is what alerted them to the hunters.”

“Pulling from the Veil? What does that mean?”

“The Veil is of the primal matter. There are physicists and philosophers of our kind who can give you more sophisticated answers, assuming you can track them down. For our purposes, we just need to understand that it augments our… abilities. But like setting a beacon, it alerts other forces of the Maji’s whereabouts.”

“The hunters?”

“Indeed, and other… agents, other Maji. Don’t think for a moment that just because someone has Maji blood, they are your friend.

“The first person I met who exhibited these traits was a girl by the name of Marissa. She was a young, beautiful climate refugee living in a slum on the outskirts of the BAT. She had a way with animals. She could enter their minds and see through their eyes. She had no idea she was pulling from the Veil. I felt her very first enchantment wash over me like a tsunami. I found her easily enough and begged her to stop. But I was too late. To enchant is an addiction. A few nights later, her magic did stop, but not of her own volition. The hunters found her. They nailed her to the wall and pounded iron stakes through her eyes.”

“Jesus.”

“The newspapers called it gang violence. Not inaccurate, I suppose. Such extremes ensure death. There are others like her. I fear for them, but I also fear finding them. They are getting smarter as they develop, better at controlling their enchantments. From time to time, I sense their ripples, and often after, their signatures end forever. No doubt at the hand of the hunters.”

“How many?”

“It’s hard to say. In Billings alone, I have felt the presence of at least a hundred unique signatures. How many come from the old Maji bloodlines, and how many have… developed? It’s impossible to determine without conducting the kind of research that will get me killed.”

“What do you mean, ‘research?’” Gwen asked.

Katelyn looked at her fiercely. “Research. It’s a matter of developing your sensitivities. You ought to try it. I had a partner once, a woman by the name of Lethe Vonnix. It was she who discovered the link between the Maji and the Escape drug.”

“Wait,” said Gwen. “Vonnix? Dr. Lethe Vonnix?”

“You know of her?”

“Black hair, white face, looks kind of like a ghost?”

“Exactly like a ghost. You’ve met her?” asked Katelyn, leaning in toward Gwen.

“She found Alan and me at a Halloween party up in Polson.”

“Oh, she’s a tenacious investigator, takes the ethnographic approach to fieldwork. She thinks she’s fucking Indiana Jones. She’s as old as me, you know. Makes you want to book her plastic surgeon in advance. Yes, we were research partners once upon a time. We did sorrowful work back then with the Viking and White Owl. But in the end…” The woman trailed off, her dark eyes sparkling and remembering. “In the end, we could not get over certain stumbling blocks. I’m sorry to be vague. Perhaps another time. May I ask, what did Lethe want?”

“I remember,” said Gwen, “she wanted to know how Alan intended to help Francis.”

“Of course. The boy concerns her greatly. The fact that she has taken the risk and returned to the United States, no doubt drawn here by White Owl’s activities, is ominous news.”

“You said the Escape drug turns someone into a Maji?” Gwen inquired.

“There’s a strain, dark work indeed. We suspected a chemist from the Den, perhaps the Sisters, but we couldn’t verify it. The addict must be pregnant.”

“Not of Maji blood,” Gwen echoed Katelyn’s words.

The woman nodded gravely. “Freaks. I do not approve. But what can be done? These new Maji stumble into their so-called chants and fuck up, pardon my language, before they even realize what they’ve done. No one is there to teach them how to behave with their abilities. No one is there to teach them how to hide.” She laughed. “Vonnix is calling herself a doctor now, eh? Back then, Lethe took it upon herself to help these poor creatures. She got into some very deep trouble with the Den. I suggest you avoid her at all costs.”

“What’s the Den?” said Gwen, “And who are the Sisters?”

“Oh, officer, my, my, you really are in over your head. In very simple terms, the Den is where the hunters come from, and the Sisters are a sect therein. That’s neither here nor there, dear. Politics, you know. You can no more influence the machinations of the Den than you can the war between the Western Allies and FEEN. Our job is to stay alive.”

“How many… Escape Maji are there?” asked Gwen. Bridger’s wife had died due to her Escape addiction. This must be why the hunters wanted Ty.

“It’s hard to say. Hundreds? Thousands?”

“But Francis can help them. You should have seen the sheriff’s station that night. They came, so many. They needed him.”

“That boy’s music—” Katelyn pointed down. “It’s a double-edged sword. His music will encrypt—I believe that’s the word White Owl uses—but it will also infect people who are clean. People like you.”

“You talk like it’s a disease.”

“Isn’t it a goddamn disease?”

“If it’s a disease, then Francis is the cure,” said Gwen.

“No, he just makes the sickness harder to find, that’s all. Most Maji will never pull from the Veil in their entire lives. Their enchantments consist of growing record-winning squash or causing harmless pulses of light to infest translucent objects, reading the stars, cozy magic. You get the picture. Still, they may be hunted and killed. There is no justice in this world… or beyond.”

Outside on the street, the car was back revving its engine. Katelyn jerked the blinds open. Moby snarled and raised his hackles; the cat slept on.

“What are you afraid of?”

“My dear, there’s a lot to be afraid of when you are the hunted.”

“Yeah.” She sipped her coffee. They were being hunted. Now, like the fawn in the forest, they were lying low.

“The Chaos,” said Katelyn. “This is the real fear, the existential threat. That is when the Veil falls, when suffering is at the most, when nothing makes sense, and a ruler of darkness prevails.

“Jesus, it’s every bad horror movie I ever watched as a kid.”

“I’m quoting scripture, dear. It’s dogma in the Den. It is the righteous cause of the Sisters and their hunters. You need to know your enemies.”

“Yesterday, at the Jiffy Stop, Francis said he would pull from the Veil to help Ty. And that hunters would come.”

“And you fled, and you’re here. It’s been the plight of the Maji for longer than there’s time to tell.”

“I was never religious,” said Gwen.

Katelyn lifted her dainty coffee cup in salute. “Today, I will make fake IDs for everyone. I have a feeling you’re going to need them.”

“You’ll do them?”

“Of course. I make the best fake IDs. A gal needs a side hustle.”

The car’s music thumped through the walls.

The old woman jumped to her feet, threw open the door, raised her fist, and shouted, “People are trying to sleep!”

“Fuck you, lady,” one of the kids shouted, and the music faded down the block.