by J. Kowallis
Dad jogs down the stairs, all while Angie and I keep staring at each other like two dogs vying for the alpha role.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Would you mind helping me test these?” She hands me each of the four potions and sets her book to the side, pushing herself to her feet.
“Absolutely,” he smiles.
“You sure seem happy to swallow a bunch of risky potions,” I joke with him.
“Oh, no, Taran,” Angie holds up a finger. “I think you’ve misunderstood. You’ll be the one swallowing the ingestible ones. We’re just going to be here to keep you from dying. In case you got them wrong.”
My stunned face settles into a firm irritation as I set two of the sachets and one of the bottles on the kitchen table. “Fine.”
“No, the antidote first,” Alaric says, reaching over for some fresh, concentrated hemlock paste. He hands me a spoonful of it and takes the antidote potion from my hands.
“You two do realize that if I did the antidote wrong, this could kill me. Right?”
“Did you do it wrong?” Angie tilts her head.
Out of mere insolence, I stick the spoon in my mouth and swallow. The soft turnip-like taste of the mashed greens isn’t so bad. It’s the disgusting smell of dead mice that wafts from it that nearly makes me vomit. The moment I have it swallowed, Dad hands me back the antidote bottle. I unscrew the cap and down the liquid contents like it’s a shot of tequila.
If I was almost going to throw up before, it’s nothing like the sensation I have this time. My tongue rolls up in the back of my throat, my stomach flip flops, and the worst acid reflux of my life travels up my throat—burning knives scraping up the delicate muscles of my esophagus.
“Oh, spirits,” I gag, choking back and burping up the foul savor of what I can only assume rodent corpses taste like, and the remnants of my partially-digested porridge.
After a few moments, the feeling wears off, though I struggle to ride out the revolting discomfort by staying frozen in the same stance: right hand over my chest, left hand tightly gripping the rounded back of one of the kitchen chairs—white knuckles, wide eyes super glued to the floor feeling like a wild animal frozen in terror.
“Well, she’s not in a coma,” Angie drawls.
Dad leans forward to look at my face. “Pupils aren’t dilated and she’s not drooling. Although, she seems to have a loss of speech. Taran, are you all right?”
“Go screw yourself,” I rasp.
Dad grins and stands up. “Looks like the antidote worked.”
“Good,” Angie uncrosses her arms and reaches for the magic binding potion. “On to the next.”
“Can I take a breather?” I ask, my voice much rougher and harsher than I’ve ever heard it. Kind of like James Earl Jones if he swallowed a cheese grater.
Angie looks to my dad and he clears his throat. It’s a look of exasperation mixed with just a dash of chagrin. “No, you cannot take a breather. You rushed through this lesson so you could help me find a solution for Coll, so let’s rush through it.” She shoves the second potion into my hands. “Take it.”
“How long should this bind her magic for?” Dad asks, rubbing his neck.
Angie looks at me, to which I swallow down some of the foul lingering tastes in my mouth. “It should only bind my powers for three hours. If I did it right.”
“And if you did it wrong?” Angie prods.
“Could be fifteen minutes, could be two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Dad’s eyes widen.
“It’ll only be three hours,” I mumble, annoyed.
“Let’s hope.” The “p” on the end of that word almost pops from Angie’s mouth like a cap gun.
I uncap the bottle of binding potion and pause, the rim of the bottle resting on my lips. If I’d have known I was going to have to drink these, I would have added some mint or sugar to them.
I take a deep breath and knock back the second potion. The taste of mustard seed shocks my system more than anything else, and then the soft floral taste—almost sweet—of boiled white rose water. However, the two together leave behind a taste far from desirable. As the liquid works its way down my throat and into my stomach, I feel a shift in my body. An energy I don’t typically notice. One that rests like a blanket over my chest and starts to collapse, fade.
Ten seconds, twenty, and then thirty. The diminishing energy finally disappears altogether, and I feel like I’m standing in the kitchen naked.
I swallow.
Silence.
“How do you feel?” Dad asks.
I roll a shoulder back uncomfortably. “Bare. Like I’ve been stripped. Something’s been taken.”
“It’s not gone,” Angie says. This time her voice is a bit more . . . understanding? Reverent. “Your magic is simply bound. But I will say, the feeling is painful in a way. Not pained, but it makes you feel—”
“Spiritless,” I finish.
She nods. “You’ve strangled the very thing that sets you apart from the rest of the world. Snuffed out something very special. You’ll feel this way until the potion wears off. So, in the meantime, perhaps it might be best for you to use the two pouches. Make sure we can keep you protected for the next few hours.”
“Agreed,” Dad jumps in.
“Wait, I thought I was going to help look for a solution for Coll.”
“You will. But for now, we’ll go upstairs, hang the pouches on your headboard and see if the draught will put you to sleep.”
“I already slept!” I protest.
“For how long last night?” Angie folds her arms. “Or should I say, this morning?”
I glance at her, quickly doing the math in my head. “Five hours. And I successfully managed on less before.”
“Managed. Not thrived. Now,” she claps her hands. “Upstairs.”
I sigh resentfully and snatch up the two small bags. Without another word, I lightly jog up the wood staircase, Dad and Angie following closely behind. Six feet making a racket up the rickety construction and onto the wood floor of my small bedroom. Using the small ties at the top of the sachet bags, I hang them at the top of the wood railing headboard.
With a playful glare that’s actually less playful and more glare, I hesitate before sitting down on the bed. The scenes from last night flash back in my mind again. But eventually, I lay down, and place my hands over my stomach. Taking a deep breath in, I can smell the contents of the sleeping draught, as well as the protection mixture. Passionflower and valerian root for the sleep, and myrrh, sage, pepper, and other scents for the protection.
Another deep breath. Both the magic and the herbs swirl around in my olfactory senses, slowly seeping into my mind and my bloodstream with the oxygen I’m breathing in.
Before I know it, my once-energized mind is groggy. Heavy. And the room becomes very, very dark.
* * *
My heart beats slower than I’ve ever felt it.
Complete calm. Not a touch of anxiety as I find myself standing in the middle of Bryden. The feeling of being home wraps around me like a hug, despite the horrible things that happened the last time I set foot here.
“Taran.”
I turn around at that familiar, Irish accent and squint. Coll sits casually on the stone table, gripping the edge of the surface, his legs resting comfortably apart. That look in his eyes is equal parts derisive and warm.
“This is weird,” I answer him.
“What is?” He cocks his head.
I lift my finger and point at him. “You’re not Coll.”
He smiles. It’s a little dopy, but completely genuine. “What makes yeh say that?”
“You’re Ruhmactír.”
“And how much have yeh had to drink today?” Coll lightly jumps off the table and brushes off his pants.
“Nothing,” I look around, “I don’t think . . .”
“What makes yeh think I’m Ruhmactír?”
“The potion. The spell. I tested you and you . . .” my words
trail off again, confusion setting in. “Didn’t you?”
Coll grins again. “I think you’re nuts, woman. Come ‘ere.” He steps forward and beckons to me.
Without question, I breathe a chuckle and close the gap between us. Coll gently brushes the loose curls of my hair over my shoulder and gazes into my eyes. Splashes of rust, gold, even hints of tiny green flecks dance in his irises. Beyond that . . . I look even deeper. The moment his fingers graze my neck, I shiver.
“Coll?” my voice squeaks.
“I’m here.” He grabs my shoulders and pulls me in, lightly brushing up and over my shoulders and cupping my jaw. When he kisses me, I feel him. Him. Coll’s lips. Coll’s fingertips. I feel just like a drop of water. Trickling, uncontrollable, and running down a gentle mountainside of absolute warmth.
Brilliant sunlight beats against my face as Coll tilts his head and kisses me again, his teeth lightly dragging on my bottom lip when he pulls away. “There. Would Ruhmactír do that?”
Would Ruhmactír do that?
I open my eyes. Tears soaking my hand. I close them again and wish away the day. I want to go back to sleep. I want to go back.
Downstairs, the front door roughly closes followed by a light set of footsteps. Again, I open my eyes, this time even slower than the steady beat of my heart. If it’s possible, I feel like I weigh nearly seven hundred pounds. Or maybe like there’s seven hundred pounds of pressure resting its fat ass on my body. I struggle to take a breath. I have to force myself to think about it, but when I finally get a full breath, a jolt of energy floods my system.
My craft has been unbound. Still, my tongue feels like its sitting in a tightly-wound knot at the back of my throat.
Coll didn’t die this time. Every other time I dreamed about him in the last few months, he always died. It’s the same event in Bryden over and over. Only this time, it wasn’t even the same event. It was just the two of us. And he was there as himself.
Slowly, I sit up, pressing my hand to my bottom lip. My pulse rushes for a moment. I look around the room, wondering if I’m possibly still dreaming, but everything seems to be right. Everything seems normal. It’s still daylight outside, but not quite as bright as before. Maybe five or six in the evening.
Each breath is labored. Like I just dragged myself up from the depths of the sea. As the tightness in my chest dissipates, I stand and start falling to the left. I reach out and grip the chair next to the vanity to steady myself, rubbing my eyeballs with both my thumb and forefinger.
“Wake up, wake up,” I moan.
Bursts of color and firework-type light explosions go off behind my closed eyes as the dizziness fades. I grip the chair tighter and open my eyes, looking around.
Would Ruhmactír do that?
My mind briefly wanders back to that night months ago in my hotel room. The night Coll came to apologize for leaving me behind.
Would Ruhmactír do that?
I close my eyes and take a quick breath, pushing every thought out of my mind. I need some water. Something.
I exit my room and head for the top of the stairs. Only, something catches my eye, and I turn around. Angie’s door is open. Only by a few inches. I’ve never looked inside her room. The memory of last night’s spell, whatever words she’d been whispering, and the information Dad told me all build into a deep curiosity.
She’s trying to access something; look into something she can’t open.
I don’t think it’s something she wants to open.
I look downstairs, listening closely.
Whispering. I can hear Dad and Angie downstairs talking with each other. They don’t know I’m awake yet.
Turning on my heel, I quietly pad toward Angie’s room and push the door open. Once inside, I leave the door open by a couple inches and look around. It’s surprisingly dark, but the life that saturates every inch of fabric, every square foot of ceiling and wall makes my blood rush. The ceiling is painted a rich goldenrod hue while the walls are a dark forest green. Real trees of eucalyptus and olive grow out of pots on the floor—one at each corner of Angie’s full-sized bed, their branches magically formed into an arched canopy. A red chandelier that reminds me of something I would have seen in a 1970s hookah lounge hangs from the center of the ceiling along with bundles of sachets and drying herbs. Floral patterned pillows flood the blood red coverlet on the bed and unlit candles sit on pretty much every flat surface.
Using what limited time I have, I start to look around for anything that might look forbidden. Although, I can’t think of what that might actually look like. It could be a cardboard box, or a cigarette case and I would have no idea.
I approach the bed, carefully moving pillows aside, feeling around the bedspread. Then, I look inside the nightstand table. Only one single drawer, and the only thing inside is a collection of lavender bundles and a container of—I pick it up and smell it—home crafted hand cream. It smells like patchouli. I crinkle my nose and put the container back.
When I step back, I bump my heel on something sitting on the floor. I inhale like a snake, knowing I just made more noise than I should have. I look down and see what it is I kicked. A book. An extremely large book. I pick it up quietly and look at Angie’s bedroom door. Luckily, I don’t hear any movement downstairs, so they must not have heard me moving around.
Setting the book in my lap, I settle down on the bed and study it. Black leather on the front and back cover. Six thin straps of leather lace through the spine, connecting the three portions of the cover together: front, back, and spine. Hammered iron has been attached to each corner of the cover while a worn, hinged, hammered lock wraps from the back to the front and clasps using zero key holes. The pages, looking at them from the side, are browned and much more worn than I’m used to seeing from anything in the last thousand years. Recognizing this chills my skin. I don’t even think I can place this within the last ten centuries. In fact—I lift the massive book and examine the pages—they’re made of parchment, but it looks different. What animal skin contributed to the making of these pages, I don’t know.
I run my hands over the cover, looking for any indication of age or ownership, but there’s nothing. My fingers rest on the lock and I rub the iron. Surprisingly, it actually feels warm.
Despite the warnings I have in my chest, there’s another sensation. Greater than the fear, more potent than even my curiosity. It grows deep in my gut. Duty. Why, I don’t know. All I feels is that I need to open this book.
I glance under the bed, wondering if the keys to opening it are somewhere underneath, but I don’t see anything. Downstairs I hear feet shuffling around and I quickly gather the book in my arms and rush to the door.
Dad and Angie mutter something back and forth to each other while I slip through Angie’s bedroom door and back into my own room. If I can bank on the fact that they still think I’m asleep, I might actually have a crack at getting this thing . . . well, cracked.
The giant leather-bound book engulfs my lap when I sit cross-legged on the floor. Across the latch is a gentle sloping pit. Not really indicative of a typical lock. Obviously not something written and bound by human historians. At first glance, I thought the cover was made of black leather, but the closer I look at it in the natural light of my room, I realize it’s not. I run my fingers over the rough fabric and feel my stomach drop when I start to recognize the small pores and even darker spots that look like freckles.
“Well, it’s hexen, definitely,” I whisper to myself.
A fist knocks on the door just seconds before it opens and my heart lodges in my throat when I look up.
“Taran, your father and—what are you doing?” Angie’s voice cuts through my room.
My mouth hangs open and I look back and forth from the book I’ve obviously stolen out of her room, and her horrified face.
“What are you doing?!” she asks again, this time more panicked. Angie rushes toward me and snatches the book away. She dashes from my room, the massive book tight in her
arms. I quickly stumble to my feet and follow after her, entering her room just in time to see her shove it into the wardrobe on the far side of the room. She slams the door shut and locks it for good measure before turning to face me again.
“I’m sorry, Angie. I can’t tell you how—”
“Are you that insane? That . . . disrespectful?!” Angie’s eyes are wide, her nostrils flaring.
“What’s going on?” Dad asks, walking up the stairs behind me.
Angie just stands there, gaping at me. Fear, fury, and a full range of other emotions carve into her face.
“I—” I stammer, my heart pounding. “I woke up, and I’m so sorry. My curiosity got the better of me. There’s . . . there’s absolutely no excuse.” I stagger to my feet, using the bed as a brace. “Angie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in.”
“You’re damn right,” she growls, eyes still wide.
“What happened?” Dad asks again.
“A-angie had a book . . .”
“Hellia Morrigan’s grimoire,” Angie’s voice rumbles with a violence I’ve never heard before.
The look of shock on Dad’s face hardly matches the surprise I feel. “What?” he asks.
My own blood chills and my jaw locks. I was just holding the grimoire belonging to the woman whose life and death altered the very purpose of my own existence. What’s more, the spells in that book . . . the blood magic, the four evils, everything that could possibly free Coll are in those pages.
“Bound in leather stripped from the flesh of a Ravn child thought to be a changeling. Pages formed from the skin of human slaves of the ancient Ravn clan.” She pants shallow and harshly. “No good can come from that grimoire. Do you understand?”
For a while, I’m quiet. Then, stupidly, I respond with, “No good? Then why were you attempting to read it last night?”
Angie takes a small but deadly step toward me. “Reading is not the same as opening.”
“How?” my voice lowers. “Obviously the key to saving Coll is in that book and if we just—”
“NO good!” she nearly screams. “Don’t you ever reach for that book again.”