Mark of the Wicked

by Georgia Bowers

  Officer Powell smiled. “You read my mind.”

  He rolled his eyes and slammed the door closed, then hurried through the drizzle, disappearing into the darkness of the late hour.

  Officer Powell turned to Matilda.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. Matilda shrugged, the blast from the car heater not doing anything to thaw out her bones. “Matilda, I think it might be a good idea if we—”

  “Please, you don’t need to speak to my mom.”

  Officer Powell shook her head. “I do think we should speak to her, but that’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Oh,” said Matilda, folding her arms.

  Officer Powell searched Matilda’s face, looking for something she knew was there, but not quite knowing what it was. She glanced at Erin, who was watching the exchange like she was glued to her favorite TV show.

  “The boy you were with at the party? Oliver, wasn’t it?” Matilda’s stomach twisted at the mention of his name. “He your boyfriend?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. He was.”

  “Okay.” Officer Powell nodded. “He’s not around anymore?”

  “No, he … we…” Matilda’s voice cracked as she fought to say the right thing.

  “Matilda, if you’re trying to cover for him…”

  “I’m not,” said Matilda.

  “Matilda,” said Erin, “maybe you should—”

  “I’m not,” snapped Matilda again, glaring at Erin.

  The officer lifted her hands. “I said if. Sometimes people present a version of themselves they think will help them get what they want. People like that can have a gift for twisting up others’ lives.”

  Matilda looked at her hands as the truth of the officer’s words sank in.

  “You know about Ivy, right?”

  Matilda straightened up. “What?”

  “Ivy, as in Ivy-down-the-witching-well? What they did to her was just … anyway, some of the things I’ve seen, I always wonder whether there’s a little of that left in this town, the ruthlessness of people, of men, to get what they want, to feel like they’re in control. Seymour thinks I’m irrational, but I really believe it.”

  She looked into Matilda’s eyes, then turned and put the car in gear.

  “Right,” she said, “we have another stop to make before I get you both home.”

  * * *

  Matilda stared out of the window as Officer Powell drove them through the quiet streets of Gravewick. They passed hushed houses, all closed up and tucked in for the night, and Matilda’s stomach knotted with resentment at the warm glow from upstairs windows, cozy beds soothing their inhabitants to sleep, not a care in the world.

  She looked down and unfolded her arms again, holding her hands out in front of her. They were still trembling, and she folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself in a hopeless effort to warm her bones, but she knew the cold wasn’t the only reason she was shaking. Matilda could still feel something deep in her soul, something magic that had come out of the well with her, but she couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d gotten down there. Had Oliver planned to push her down the well when he asked her to meet him? Was that why he’d brought a flashlight? Had he stayed and watched as the police helped her climb out or did he value her life so little that he’d just gone off and left her?

  Officer Powell slowed the car down and pulled over. Matilda looked around and recognized the street as one of the older parts of Gravewick. It was a short cul-de-sac and wouldn’t get much traffic unless people wanted to visit one of the small boutique shops that stood shoulder to shoulder with the terraced houses.

  “We’re here,” said Officer Powell, glancing back at Matilda and Erin before she turned off the engine and opened the door.

  “Where do you think we’re going?” whispered Erin as she undid her seat belt, watching Officer Powell walk around the car.

  Matilda sighed. She wasn’t sure she had the energy to open the car door, let alone go on some secret expedition around Gravewick’s forgotten streets. She shrugged at Erin and looked out the window as Officer Powell opened her car door.

  “Thank you,” said Matilda, swinging her legs around and pulling up.

  “Don’t thank me,” smiled Officer Powell. “These doors don’t open from the inside, guys.”

  Erin followed Matilda out of the car, then slammed the door shut behind her. The sound made Matilda jump, and she frowned at Erin, who mouthed the word sorry. Both girls stood and blinked at the police officer, awaiting the next instruction. Officer Powell hooked her thumbs inside her vest and looked between both of them and narrowed her eyes.

  “Can I trust you girls?” Matilda and Erin looked at each other, then back at Officer Powell, and both nodded. “I thought so. Follow me.”

  Old-style lights dotted either side of the road, humming as they cast shadows on what felt to Matilda like the only three people in the world. She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders and followed Erin and Officer Powell as they walked silently down the path. Her feet were frozen. If it weren’t for the sound of her footsteps squelching across the pavement, she wouldn’t have known whether her legs were working properly.

  They turned left, and Matilda followed Officer Powell into the relative warmth of an alley beneath an archway that protected them from the biting wind. Matilda put her hand out to feel her way along the brickwork in the dim light, her other senses picking up the sound of trickling water. The alley opened up into a small, square courtyard that had a round brick wall sitting in the middle of it, ivy tangled over the sides and a small but determined fountain bubbling in the middle of it.

  There were three doors and three shop windows on each side of the courtyard, and Officer Powell walked to the red door next to a window that was crisscrossed with streamers in the Witching Well Festival colors, as well as books sitting on top of pumpkins and sticking out of cauldrons. Déjà vu tapped Matilda on the shoulder, and she turned to look around the courtyard again, wondering whether she’d seen it before or maybe her senses were all over the place from the trauma of the well.

  “In here,” said Officer Powell, her voice making Matilda jump.

  “Is this a bookstore?” asked Erin, pushing her face up against the window. “How did I not know there’s a bookstore in Gravewick?”

  Officer Powell pulled a bunch of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door with a clunk. They all filed through, and immediately the smell and quiet of the books in the shop enveloped Matilda like a warm hug. There was a click, and Matilda squinted as the small shop floor was bathed in light. She turned around to take it all in, the long wooden desk with posters of children’s books stuck to the front of it and the rows and rows of books with cracked spines down one side of the shop. At the front were shelves beneath the window stuffed with a rainbow of books in different sizes. On the floor was a big, book-shaped rug, well-worn and well-loved where hundreds of children had probably thrown themselves onto the beanbags and spent Saturday afternoons flicking through the books before begging their parents to buy them.

  Officer Powell gestured for them to follow her to the back of the shop, but Matilda was rooted to the spot.

  “Hey, Matilda, you with us?” asked Officer Powell.

  Matilda walked over to the counter and ran her hand along its wooden front, her fingers exploring the dents and scratches that crisscrossed it as if she were searching for a message hidden in the grooves. She looked up as Erin put her hand on her shoulder and managed to retrieve her voice back from where it had been hiding, along with some misplaced memories.

  “I … I think I’ve been here before,” she said.

  “Really?” said Erin, looking around with wide eyes, still in disbelief that there was a bookshop hidden in Gravewick.

  Matilda nodded. “I think … my mom used to bring me here.”

  Officer Powell smiled. “Well, she has good taste,” she said. “This is the finest bookstore in town. And also the only. Shall we go through?”

  Of
ficer Powell turned to a small door at the back of the store, and Erin followed, leaving Matilda alone in the memory she’d uncovered. She remembered bounding through the door with her mom on a Saturday and throwing herself on the big book rug, sitting on her knees as her hungry eyes searched for books that hadn’t been there the last time. She swallowed a lump, the closeness to her mom in her memory like an intruder, then turned just as Officer Powell opened the door with a creak, revealing a whole other room. Matilda left the smell of secondhand books and hurried after them.

  She craned her neck to see past Erin and realized why she hadn’t moved any farther forward. They stood in a small room with a scratched wooden table in the middle and four worn chairs tucked beneath it. A green velvet armchair sat in the corner with a cushion and crocheted blanket of black, green, pink, and blue draped over it, ready to embrace someone’s tired bones, and a table with a pot of lavender stood next to it. Four small windows lined the wall opposite them, set just below the ceiling, each of them a jigsaw of stained glass. Matilda looked at each one, losing herself in the colors and black lines, each depicting one of the elements in the form of an animal: a mole for the earth, a butterfly for air, a snake for fire, and a seahorse for water.

  A lamp next to the armchair cast the room with a warm glow and sent shadows up the cast-iron staircase that curved up from the wooden floorboards. Dark timber shelves snaked around all four walls of the room, the knots on the shelf edges staring out at Matilda like tiny little eyes. The books around the walls and the rug the table stood on seemed to soundproof the room, keeping any whisperers or secrets from being overheard.

  The books weren’t facing spine out as they would in a bookshop or library. Instead, their spines faced inward as if they were keeping their subjects secret, and the battered corners and yellow curled pages of the books faced outward. Matilda pushed past Erin and glanced at Officer Powell, who nodded, and Matilda reached out to one of the long black chains, following it from an iron loop attached to the underside of the shelf all the way up to another iron ring pierced through the corner of the book. It jangled as Matilda let go gently, her eyes tripping over themselves to take in the rest of the books on the shelves, all chained just like their neighbors.

  “Um,” said Erin, her voice as quiet and measured as Matilda had ever heard it. “What is that?”

  Erin was staring up at the ceiling, and Matilda followed her gaze. There were five shapes painted in thin black lines curving across the ceiling: a circle flanked by two more circles, each one with half the space inside it blacked out, and two more crescent shapes on either end.

  “Phases of the moon,” said Officer Powell.

  Erin blinked at her. “Oh, of course,” she said, rolling her eyes a fraction. “How silly of me.”

  The room felt alive with a heartbeat, and Matilda could feel its energy seeping into her pores until her heart beat along with it. She felt heavy; her knees started to buckle as if something was pushing down against her. She swallowed and lifted a hand to her head.

  “Matilda?” said Erin, moving to her side.

  “Whoa, sorry,” said Officer Powell, rushing to Matilda and putting an arm around her waist. Matilda gratefully gave up trying to stand and slumped against them as they walked her over to the armchair. “I’m so used to this place I forget how it can affect us. Sit down for a minute. You’ve had a big night and now this. It’s a lot to process.”

  “Now this? What is this?” asked Erin, looking around the room. “Why are the books all chained up like that? And why do I feel like I’m standing next to a magnet?”

  Matilda let her head fall back into the armchair as Officer Powell unfolded the blanket and tucked it over her knees. Between the cold from the well and the energy in the room, her body felt as though it needed to hibernate for a year.

  “They’re spell books. Right?” said Matilda, looking at Officer Powell, who nodded. “That’s what I can feel, like I’ve walked into a cloud of magic, ancient, powerful magic. I can feel it on my skin. Nonwitches can feel it, too?”

  “Those without our gifts can also feel the magic in this room,” came a voice from the top of the spiral staircase. Matilda managed to look upward as the owner of the voice traveled down each step, her pink manicured nails trailing along the handrail. “A secondhand book can be a powerful thing, its owner leaving a part of themselves between each page: a thought, a revelation, a first love. But a book of spells, the magic from the fingertips of our ancestors on every page, in every curve of their handwriting? Even your nonwitch friend can feel that kind of power.”

  She stepped off the bottom step and walked over to Matilda. Long white hair hung to the woman’s shoulders, and her orange skirt swished across the floorboards as she walked, making her look like she was floating. She stopped at the chair and bent over, and Matilda looked into the woman’s bright blue eyes and felt something soft drop into her cold hands.

  “Put these on; I’ve just finished knitting them,” she said. Matilda looked down to find a pair of purple socks in her hands. She looked back at the woman, who winked at her. “It’s Shetland wool; your toes will soon warm up.”

  As the woman embraced Officer Powell and kissed her on the cheek, Matilda noticed a small tattoo of a pentacle on her left hand.

  “Hello, darling. How’s the crime fighting going?”

  “Fine, Mom,” said Officer Powell, unzipping her bulletproof vest and taking off her belt. “Long day.”

  Officer Powell hung the vest and belt on one of the chairs, and Matilda noticed the same tattoo peeking out from one of her sleeves.

  “And who have you brought with you?” said the woman.

  “This is Erin and her friend Matilda. I thought they could do with a visit,” said Officer Powell, looking between the girls. “This is my mom, Maura.”

  Maura peered at Matilda, her eyes twinkling in the orange glow of the lamp. “You’re a Hollowell, Lottie’s girl.” Matilda blinked but didn’t respond. Maura nodded. “She’s a good witch, part of a good coven.”

  “You know my mom?”

  “I do. She comes to the shop from time to time, not as much as she used to, but she’s always welcome.” Maura peered at Matilda and raised an eyebrow. “You come from a strong bloodline, but you go down your own path, don’t you? Be careful you don’t get lost.”

  Matilda swallowed, unprepared for such insight, and decided to ignore the question.

  “How … I mean, how do you know her?” she asked.

  “I know all the witches in this town,” said Maura, then gave a small smile. “Those who want to be known, anyway. Tell me, my dear, you must be of coven age?” Matilda nodded. “I take it you’re yet to join one?”

  “I just … I haven’t decided yet,” said Matilda, folding her arms awkwardly.

  “Well, it’s your decision to make, but joining a coven not only makes you part of a powerful group, it connects you with our wider fabric of magic.”

  “How many witches are there in town, then?”

  “You wouldn’t need to ask me that if you were part of a coven, my dear, but I’m not just talking about the witches in Gravewick. I’m talking about much farther and wider than that. Now, it’s not my duty to lecture young witches—” Officer Powell coughed and Maura raised an eyebrow at her. “It is my duty to lecture, my dear daughter, but as I was saying, I don’t wish to lecture you, but the strongest move a witch can ever make is joining a coven.”

  “Thank you, but I … I have all the magic I need,” said Matilda, shrinking down in the chair.

  Maura narrowed her eyes as they ran across Matilda’s face. She held her breath, sure that Maura could see all the names hidden on her skin.

  “So it seems, or so you believe, anyway.” Maura lifted a finger. “But a coven is about so much more than magic, my dear, so much more. Wisdom, support, safety. The list is endless. We are misunderstood, but our power is desirable. A witch always has a target on her back. Your coven would help you look over your shoulder.”


  Matilda shivered at Maura’s words and pulled the blanket tighter around her.

  “Officer Powell, what is this place?” asked Erin.

  Matilda was glad of Erin’s incessant questioning for once, as Maura finally turned her attention away from Matilda. Her head was firing with her own questions, but she didn’t have the energy to ask them. She felt as though she and the room were still getting to know each other, and the socializing was exhausting.

  “Please, call me Emily,” said Officer Powell. “And it’s just a place. Our place.”

  “You’re a witch?” said Erin.

  “That’s right, my dear. A living, breathing, not-so-wicked witch,” said Maura, glancing back at Matilda.

  “Cool. Sorry, I’m not a witch, but my girlfriend is, so…,” Erin babbled.

  “You are very welcome here,” said Maura, her eyes crinkling as she walked over to Erin and squeezed her shoulder. “Both of you. Now, what is it that brings you here?”

  “Well, technically, Officer—sorry, Emily—brought us here after Matilda’s psychopath ex-boyfriend threw her down the well,” said Erin, shrugging when Matilda glared at her. “What? I know that’s what happened. He did, didn’t he?”

  “I picked them up and thought they could maybe do with a little detour before they went back home alone,” said Emily.

  “So, Emily, are you a witch, too?” asked Erin, not noticing Emily’s neck muscles tensing at the question.

  “I am, technically, I mean, by blood, and I do practice, but…”

  Matilda recalled being surprised that Emily remembered questioning her in her garden room about the dead animals, despite Lottie giving her a brew to make her forget. Emily must have known exactly what she’d been given to drink and dumped it the moment Lottie turned her back.

  “Not as she should and not as I wish she would, but she has chosen her path and I accept that,” said Maura.

  “I just focus my energy on the job. There are a lot of bad people out there, magic or otherwise, but there’s no way the department has the knowledge or the open-mindedness to know what they’re dealing with half the time. I keep my ear to the ground and volunteer to attend any cases where I suspect magic is at play. I can usually spot when someone’s misusing the craft a mile off and we stand half a chance of putting a stop to it.”