by Chase Connor
Visiting the cellar and the well the first time—a decade prior—had been my choice, even though Oma had warned me against it. Going back to the cellar and jumping into the well in the middle of the night had been my choice, too, even though she had warned me against it. Oma didn’t have a plan for what would happen if I came back to Point Worth and reversed what I had done in the first place because she never thought it would happen. She had stuck with the route of going along with the whole “Rob was a teenage runaway who became a big Hollywood star” scenario for the rest of her life if she could have. She had known that not all magic was powerful enough to shield us forever, but she had hoped. She certainly hadn’t counted on wishes having an expiration date, either.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Oma glared at me for a moment, then her expression softened.
“Well, if that solved the world’s problems, I’d make a call to Washington, D.C., wouldn’t I?” She snorted.
I smiled wanly.
“I thought your advice was you being bossy and trying to control me,” I said. “If I had known then what I know now—”
“I told you what you know now.”
“I know.” I sighed. “I should have listened. But…where would we be now if I listened to you ten years ago, Oma? Would we even be here? Alive, I mean? We’d all be dead because we would have fought.”
“Well…that, I don’t know.” She relented. “Things might have gone poorly either way, I suppose. But all this done did is delay the inevitable, Robbie. We was gonna end up here one way or another, wasn’t we?”
“I suppose.” I nodded. “But I’m not a sixteen-year-old kid anymore, either. I’m not scared and weak and impulsive.”
Oma cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Well…not as impulsive.”
She nodded. “We can only speak about this broadly, mind ya’, I don’t want to say nothin’ out loud about what was…”
She glanced at the floor.
“…or say a certain name. But we do need a plan, Robbie.”
“The pack will have to be dealt with obviously.”
Slowly, Oma started nodding.
“You should have dealt with that the other night.” I rolled my eyes. “You had the chance. I wish I remembered then so I could have said something at the time.”
“You wanna hide that many bodies and vehicles?” She was amused at my callousness. “And what would your boyfriend have done if he saw me murder a bunch of puppies in front of ‘im? Huh? Never mind that—what would you have done? You didn’t have your mind about you then like you do now.”
“Point taken.” I agreed. “But they’re going to expand their membership. You know that. I know that. They may not remember…things…but they obviously remember enough to know what they are, why they are, and that they were tasked with creating a gang, right?”
“I’d say so.”
“So…they’ll keep searching out members.” I shrugged. “They have ten now?”
“Dozen, I think.”
“Have they gotten the attention of anyone besides us?”
“The were-community is always keepin’ tabs.” Oma rolled her eyes. “But don’t expect The Council to do jack shit until it’s too late. Like me, they ain’t too fond of takin’ on a pack that big at one time. Too many chances to fuck it up.”
“Well, picking them off one by one is going to prove difficult, Oma.” I chuckled angrily. “That’s a dozen different chances to get caught, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” She leaned in. “But it’s what we gotta do. People ain’t as powerful if they don’t have their armies, Robbie. Cut the legs off your enemy.”
“I don’t know how I feel about this, Oma.” I shook my head, feeling sick. “I didn’t like it ten years ago, and I don’t like it now.”
“You got somethin’ else to suggest?” She held her hands out. “Wanna invite ‘em over for tea and reason with ‘em? You done seen how Jason acted just ‘cause you went and rightfully defended yourself.”
I sat there and thought about that. Jason and his “puppies”—as Oma liked to call them—were a pack of werewolves. They had been after Lucas to join them before because they sensed his abilities—though I would certainly never talk about those abilities out loud. They had managed to break into Oma’s house and nearly get to him the night…well, everyone in the house had lost something. Some lost more than others. Jason and his pack had forgotten that they were after Lucas—or why they were after him at all. The magic that had been summoned the first time I jumped into the well ten years prior had reached every inch of the house. Those closest to the well got the brunt of it. Others…well, that was tricky. Magic is fickle and unpredictable. I knew that Jason and his pack remembered enough about what their main goal was since they had only been six that night ten years prior.
“Do you think maybe Jason remembers everything but is playing dumb because he’s scared to really take us on before he has a bigger pack?” I suggested. “Maybe he wants to double or triple the size of his pack before he comes knocking on our door again?”
Oma waved me off. “He’s dumb as dog shit. He’d try to take us on now if he remembered everything. ‘Try’ being the operative word.”
I nodded.
“Do you think…everyone will slowly start remembering now that I…did what I did?”
Oma thought on this.
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head slowly. “The first time was a…release…this time, well, it’s all gone now. The river’s run dry—if you catch my drift, Robbie.”
“Got it.” I thought about the fact that the well in the cellar was gone for good—the source of all my family’s magic. No future generation would have to endure what we had—if I ever lived long enough to have kids—if I even wanted them some day. I didn’t let myself think too long or too hard about it for fear of what that might summon. Who that might summon. “You think that pack’s like a Hydra?”
“What the fuck’s that mean?” Oma twisted up her nose.
“Cut off the head…will two grow back?”
Oma stared at me, surprised I would think of such a solution.
“Well,” She finally began to speak slowly, carefully, “in my opinion, Robbie, you can never be too damn careful. Why take a chance that a plan won’t work and you’ll just have to follow through with your original plan anyway? Havin’ said that…it might work. If Jason ain’t around, flappin’ his yap and playin’ Billy Bad Ass, the rest of ‘em may scatter to the winds. Maybe.”
“I’d like to see if that will work.” I was more asking permission than making a statement. “I don’t want to hurt anyone…but if I have to, Jason would be my first choice. Or Andrew.”
Oma frowned at me and waved a hand at me.
“Andrew ain’t done nothin’ but be a goddamn idiot.” Oma chastised me. “He may be a damn fool and hornier than a toad, but he ain’t got nothin’ to do with any of this mess here.”
“Fair enough.” I shrugged. “He’s still a dick. He told Jason about Lucas and me hitting him with a truck, though. He knew what would happen—even if he didn’t know about our history with Jason.”
“Being a dick ain’t no crime. Otherwise, the two of us would done been locked up by now. Agreed?”
I waggled my head for once.
“Don’t you bring no trouble to him!” Oma growled. “Just let that sleeping dog lie. Andrew ain’t no part of none of this. He just ignorantly got involved.”
“Correction.” I held a finger up. “You got him involved.”
Oma started to launch in on me.
“But I won’t bother him unless he bothers me. Let’s not argue, okay?” I stopped her. “We have enough to worry about, right?”
“Fair enough, Robbie.” She gave a firm nod.
“We bought that tiller for nothing, I guess.” I sighed and sat back. “No point in planting a garden anymore, is there?”
“Well…no. I suppose not.” Oma mimicked my actions, saddened by the s
udden realization. “Won’t be long before the woods start to reclaim the land anyway.”
My eyes grew wide.
“How long?”
Oma rolled her eyes and waved me off.
“We’ll both be long dead before then.” She chuckled bitterly. “Even if we manage to die of natural causes. But that mag—it’s all gone. All we got is what’s inside us. Everything we done is gonna eventually give up the ghost, I suppose.”
She glanced around nervously.
“The others will be the first to go.” She leaned in to whisper. “Without…that…they’ll slowly fade, too.”
I looked up at the ceiling, willing my eyes to not water as I thought of Ernst—my only real friend throughout my mid- to late childhood.
“But…they’ll probably last as long as us, I’d say.” She sighed. “Everything here will eventually fade, though, Robbie. It’s just a matter of when.”
“There’s no way to fix that?”
“Unless you wanna go back in time, ya’ asshole.” She snapped at me, but her heart wasn’t in it.
I just stared at her.
“Look…Oma…I can’t say I’m sorry enough. As you pointed out, it won’t fix a damn thing anyway. But you tell me one person in our family who had to make that choice at sixteen-years-old and I’ll apologize until I lose my voice, okay?”
“Not since the old days.” Oma shook her head.
“I knew that.” I snipped at her. “It was a rhetorical question. Hell, it wasn’t even a question. I wish you’d find it in yourself to remember that while I may have fucked things up—this was forced on me—when I was a child. I made the same choice any child would have made. I chose to not see everyone I know die before I bit the bullet myself. It wasn’t fair, but it is what it is.”
“Perhaps.”
“If mom and dad had just—”
“You shut your mouth right now, Robbie,” Oma warned me, then glanced around nervously. “Don’t say one more word ‘bout them. I’m warning you.”
“Fine.” I reached up to squeeze the bridge of my nose. “I guess that’s settled, too. But I’ll never forgive them. I want you to know that. There’s nothing they could do. Ever.”
“Well,” Oma looked at me, her eyes sad, “I don’t think no one would blame ya’. Most of all me. We both got bent over and greased up, didn’t we?”
Nodding, I glanced over my shoulder towards the living room.
“Book still in the same place?” I asked, having a thought.
Oma assessed me for a moment.
“It’s still there.”
“What’ll happen if I open it?” I asked, shifting in my seat. “To refresh me?”
“I don’t know.” Oma shrugged. “I ain’t opened it since you left. I certainly ain’t opened it since last night.”
“You think it’s empty, too?”
“Hope not.” She replied evenly. “You didn’t exactly finish your education before you ran off, didja?”
“I didn’t run off.” I snapped at her. “Well…Robert Wagner didn’t run off. A version of Robert Wagner ran off.”
Oma stared at me for the longest time, her eyes not leaving mine as she took me in—her actual grandson sitting before her instead of some version of him. I wasn’t Robert Wagner pretending to be Jacob Michaels. Or vice versa. I was Robert Wagner, back home, ready to finish what he had avoided. My memories restored—of everything before—made me a complete person again.
“You pretending for Lucas?”
“How do you mean?” I squinted angrily.
“Ten years is a long time.” Oma rested her forearms on the table. “You seen a lot of the world. Met a lot of people. He still as appealing as you’re actin’? Or does that situation look different with more time and wisdom under your belt? Maybe things have changed?”
Slowly, I pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair squealing against the linoleum. I stood from my seat and gave Oma a firm look.
“No one is that good of an actor, Oma.”
“I hope you’re right. Because if you ain’t bein’ honest, it’s best to sever that cord now, Robbie. That would solve another problem. Make you less likely to make the same dumbass mistakes later.”
“Lucas isn’t a mistake.”
“Makin’ choices based on your heart instead of your head is.” She snapped.
Shaking my head angrily, I turned away, shoving the chair back under the table roughly. I stomped over to the kitchen door before I finally turned back to Oma. She was still sitting there, watching me.
“My choice wasn’t based on the love of one person, you old hag,” I growled at her. “I didn’t just make my choice for me. Or my love for Lucas. I made it for this place and everything that involves. Even you. Though, now I truly know I made the wrong choice.”
Oma smiled.
“Fuck you.” I snapped.
Oma was cackling to herself as I stomped through the living room to the bookcase. I fell to my knees in front of it, angry, but my eyes threatening to leak. I did my best to ignore my feelings as I reached down and pulled away the panel at the bottom of the bookcase, revealing a small slot underneath. When I shoved my hand into the hole, my fingertips touched the smooth leather of an ancient book. I closed my eyes, giving myself a moment before I pulled it out. Lowering myself to my ass, I pulled my legs in “lotus style” and laid the book in my lap. The book, thick as an encyclopedia written by a writer with mental diarrhea, bound in darkish brown leather, the cover mottled in dark spots, looked up at me. It took a moment, a long sigh to steel my nerves before I tried to open the book. The cover didn’t budge.
Shaking my head and smiling to myself at my ignorance—a memory that had been lost naturally, unlike the others, coming back to me. It took a few seconds, but I found the corner of the book that had the sharp sewing needle sticking out less than a fourth of an inch, and pushed the tip of my index finger firmly against it. I winced as the needle pierced my skin. When I pulled my finger away and turned it over to inspect, a single drop of blood, barely more significant than the head of a sewing needle, sparkled up at me. Without another thought, I pressed my fingertip against the book cover. The book vibrated ever so slightly in my lap. When I pulled at the cover again, it opened with ease.
The book was blank.
I wasn’t all that surprised, but I was utterly disappointed. Maybe a little bit worried as well if I was being completely honest with myself. Now that I had my memories back, knew the things that I knew, and what was to come, it would have been nice to have the book. I could have picked up my magical education and learned a lot more before the shit really hit the fan. But the blank parchment-like paper in the book just stared back at me, offering nothing. Sighing, I closed the book gently. When I tried to open it again, it stayed shut.
Why did it still want blood if the pages were empty?
“Oma!” I hollered from my spot on the floor. “Book’s being an asshole!”
“Well,” she hollered back, “what did you expect?”
Then I heard the water running and the sounds of our morning meal being cleaned up. Signing to myself, I gently returned the book to its place under the bookcase, though I wasn’t sure there was any point in hiding it away now that it was blank. Something inside of me told me that the book still needed to be kept from prying eyes, though, so I returned it to its spot. When I slid the panel back into place, pounding against it with the side of my fist to make sure it was secure, I stared off at nothing.
What could be done now?
Spring was announcing its arrival outside, gusts of wind whistling against the house as Oma clanged around in the kitchen, and I rose from the living room floor. Doing my best to not think about things I wasn’t supposed to think about or people I wasn’t supposed to think about, I tried to go through the details of the night before. In the cellar.
Going through what I’d seen, vision by vision, a few people came to mind. One of them I could never go talk to—unless, maybe, someone’s life
depended on it. The other…I wasn’t so sure. Instead of standing in the living room, wracking my brain for an answer that wouldn’t come easily, I walked over to the kitchen and stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. Oma was standing at the kitchen counter, her hip against it, resting while Lena stood on the step stool, elbows-deep in dishwater. Another Kobold was sweeping the floor with a dainty broom.
“Hi, Oskar,” I said automatically.
Oskar started and looked up, the “swish-swish” of the broom going silent as he turned to look at me. His ears were slightly more elongated than the other Kobolds, drooping at their tips. Small fleshy bags of skin hung under his eyes, and his skin was somewhat mottled, as though he had liver spots. He was the oldest of the Kobolds—and I had forgotten him for a decade. He looked older than he had ever before. His little brown cloth bib-style overalls hung limply from his shoulders, and the Kobold-sized t-shirt underneath looked baggy as well. His tiny slippers, always clean, clung lightly to his feet, the heels popping away from his foot with each small step he took. It was sad and precious at the same time. If I had to bet which Kobold would be most affected in the future by what I’d done…
“Master Robert.” Oskar’s eyes were slow to light up as a smile crept up his face. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you again, Oskar.” I smiled back.
“This house always needs tidying up.” Oskar shook his head, the broom restarting its dance across the floor once more. “Seems there’s always something that needs tending to around here.”
Oskar spoke more eloquently than the other Kobolds, but he had more years to practice, I supposed. Returning his smile for a moment as he worked, I didn’t bother to respond verbally to him. He had basically been chastising Oma and me for having so much space for the Kobolds to clean and essentially being slobs. It wasn’t true—but that’s what some Kobolds did. They accused their human counterparts of living like animals simply because a crumb was found on the floor. It was their way, and there was no reason to argue with it.