Servants of the Storm by Delilah S. Dawson

Author:Delilah S. Dawson [Dawson, Delilah S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781442483804
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 2014-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

17

BAKER FOLLOWS ME TO THE front door and taps his fingers nervously against his leg while I reach out to knock. Before my fist hits the door, it swings open.

“It’s about time, Billie Dove,” Gigi says, her creaky old voice halfway between a tease and a tantrum.

“Yes ma’am, Gigi,” I say, leaning down to kiss her withered cheeks. Her arms wrap around me, and it’s like hugging a bag of brooms held together by rubber bands. Baker’s right, though—she looks older than God. Just like she did in my dream last night. And she’s wearing the same sweat suit.

“And you done brought me a present,” she says, peering around me at Baker. “He grew up in a year, sure enough. Come here, Joshua, and give Gigi her due.”

He shuffles around me awkwardly, like a puppy with big feet. Her thin black arms meet around his waist, and he grunts in surprise as she squeezes him. She pulls away and looks up at him, adjusting her bifocals.

“You got tall, boy,” she says to him. “You takin’ care of my Billie Dove?”

He blushes and mumbles, “I’m trying to.”

Her face cracks into a big smile, showing dentures. “But the wind, she’s a changing. Y’all come on in. I got a cake set out. And sweet tea, oh yes.”

Baker looks at me doubtfully, but I smile and walk inside. Some things never change, and Gigi appears to be one of them, still hard as a nut and quick as a whip. Part of me was scared that she would have fox ears or acid-green eyes or be missing her pinkie. Or that I’d get out here and find her house as broken and dark as everything else Josephine left behind. But there’s always been something magical about her. Her house feels like the safest place I’ve been in months, even if the state claims it’s on top of a ticking time bomb.

We walk past the living room, where everything that’ll hold still is covered in doilies and afghans. I recognize a bony nest of gray fur on a ripped-up ottoman and have to smile at Tyrus, her cat, the only thing in the world that looks older than she does. One yellow eye opens and stares me down as if promising to bite me for real this time. Gigi motions me to a chair at the dining room table, and I sit down at my usual place. A slab of her chocolate cake is waiting for me on a china plate next to a tall, icy glass of sweet tea with sweat on the sides. A place is set right next to it for Baker. She sits at the head of the table and grins smugly at us. Gigi loves to be one step ahead of everybody. Always has.

“Eat up, y’all,” she says.

It’s always like this. She won’t talk to anybody until their stomach is full and they’re letting out their belt. So I start eating, and Baker is one forkful behind me. The whole time I’m eating and drinking, I can feel Gigi’s sharp eyes on me.

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