Sixpence & Whiskey Read Free Page B

appropriate adjectives.
    The fairy’s tiny fingers extend from between those teeth like a prisoner reaching out from the bars of her cell. Her mouth is open wide in a scream that sounds tinny and unreal, ramping up the whole disturbing vibe.
    That’s Carly’s freak gift—the things she paints kind of come to life. Kind of because it doesn’t always happen—and usually not completely—or for long. Thank the horned one, they tend to stay confined to the surface they’re painted on, but sometimes they’ve been known to get free.
    “You like it, Seph?”
    “It’s great, sissie.” I sidle down the hallway, keeping one eye on the bear whose massive head turns to track my movement. His eyes are deep and brown with gold highlights. Just like Georg’s. I watch him swallow the still screaming fairy whole, repressing a shudder. The bear seems to wink as I slink out of sight.
    Jett trails me into the dining room. “We really should put a stop to her painting in the house.”
    I roll my eyes. Like the rest of us, Jett has a soft spot for Carly a mile wide. Nobody is gonna tell her no, even if it means having the occasional nightmare wandering about. Though if that bear gets free, I may change my mind.
    Our house is in Congdon Park, an area of Duluth that used to mean old money and history. Now it mostly means genteel turn-of-the-century homes renovated into apartments for the college kids attending UMD. Ours is one of the few single family ones left. We’ve left the architecture pretty much as is, minus knocking out a few walls here and there, Carly’s ever-changing murals and the odd magical enhancement.
    The dining room is long and narrow, with soaring plaster ceilings (a bright idea in a town that has had recordable snow in every month except August), but it’s warm enough thanks to the roaring fireplace at one end.
    Flames crackle merrily, but otherwise it’s quiet. Ana is rearranging the mantelpiece when we enter, lining up her collection of carvings in a tidy row with her typical OCD analness. Her slim frame is held with ruthlessly correct posture, not the slightest give in that delicate spine.
    My eldest sister, Ana. Or Anastasia, if we’re being proper—which she always is. She’s blond like me, only her hair is even paler than mine, and she’s got actual curls instead of just waves. No pink streak, of course. She’s a major ice princess and as much of a hard-ass as Jett.
    She’s also quite the master carver, as her sculptures attest, even if her medium is rather morbid. Ana carves things out of bone. Human bone mostly, though shifters have been known to make the cut. Her carvings are tiny, but perfectly formed. The old woman in her shoe house; kids hanging out of every window, blackbirds trying to escape their pie, Jack (not my Jack) jumping over the candlestick. Like Carly’s paintings, Ana’s art has a savage edge to it. The old woman has a belt in her hand, the blackbirds have teeth and Jack’s on fire and screaming.
    We’re a happy, well-adjusted bunch, I know.
    “Any word from Mom?” I ask the question out of habit, and maybe some latent OCD of my own. I don’t expect any change in the answer. Mom’s been MIA for over three years now.
    I know she scries for Mom every day, but so far nada. Mom’s blocking her—or something is.
    Ana’s a seer, a psychic of sorts. It’s called remote viewing. With a bit of focus she can direct her energy and magic to a certain person or place and bring it into view on any reflective surface, with the ability to watch everything going on at said point as it happens.
    Like Google Earth, only in real time and with much better graphics.
    “No.” Ana turns from the mantel to give me an impatient look, examining me from head to toe, and as always, finding me wanting. I try not to care. We can’t all be the perfect sister, and god knows, I’ve never even been close. “You look a fright. Slumming again, Persephone?”
    Jett loiters around the edges of the room,