by J. Kowallis
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Dad lays a longer length of chain across Ruhmactír’s feet and holds the end out under the bed for me.
I grunt, leaning down to pick up the end. “Well, it is.” I toss the end back to him. Actually, I purposefully drop the heavy chain across Ruhmactír’s shins hoping they’ll bruise, until I realize they’re Coll’s shins. I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. Dad gives me a concerned look, his mouth slowly closing. I ignore it. I don’t want to talk about it. The fact that Ruhmactír knew what I did. That I sat across from him as he threatened me and broke my wrist. He could have killed me. If that potion hadn’t worked faster.
We wrap the chains around his wrists and across his chest, then continue to lash his legs and ankles. I snap my fingers once more and summon a final leather strap, laying it across Coll’s forehead.
“Is that really necessary?” Dad asks.
“You?” I put my hands on my hips. “You’re asking me if this is necessary? The man who murdered you and is currently inhabiting Coll’s body, and you think I’m going overboard?”
At that, Dad glances at Ruhmactír and purses his lips. “How tight can you make it?”
“As tight as we need. Better to be safe than sorry.”
When all is secured, Dad rubs his hands together. An expression of disquiet blankets his face as he watches me. “Bug, are you sure you’re all right?”
I look at him incredulously. “Of course.”
“All right,” he sighs, obviously not believing me. “Watch him for a while. I’ll be back.”
I nod and plop down into one of the two chairs in the room, watching Coll’s chest rise and fall. Up and down. Slowly and deeply. It doesn’t look like he’ll wake up anytime soon. Still, I keep my eyes glued to him. In part, because I want to know when this bastard wakes up, and secondly because I’m worried. I know I’m safe here. Even with Ruhmactír. Uncertainty churns my thoughts, but the real worry is Coll. Angie said there was a possibility that Coll still lived and remained conscious inside his own body. But what if he’s not? What if we went through all of this for nothing? A fool’s plan from the very beginning.
My stomach pits at the thought.
She takes my breath away.
He said that to Sera. About me. The ancestors know I haven’t entirely pushed myself into a relationship with any man. If anything, I’ve pushed back. Even pushed myself away from men that were truly good. Perhaps not the best men for me, but Coll?
I lean forward in my chair, my hand pausing mid-air, above Coll’s hand. A thousand thoughts buzz in my head, many of them telling me not to do this, but my own curiosity, my own desire, wins out. I place my hand over Coll’s and squeeze it. Maybe somewhere in the corners of my mind I was hoping for some sort of magic jolt, or “chosen pair” type of electricity that might make all of this go away. Like a fairy tale.
But this isn’t a fairy tale. And nothing happens.
“Coll,” I whisper. I swallow, realizing just how sticky and thick the saliva in my mouth is. “Coll, can you hear me?”
My breath quivers out through my nose.
“I wish you could do something, show me somehow that I didn’t completely screw this up. I just want to know if—”
I turn around at the sound of one of the floor boards squeaking. Angie grits her teeth in an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“No,” I sit back in my chair, a little shaken and embarrassed, “you didn’t. I was just—” I shake my head, allowing the words to stop right there. I don’t know what I was just doing. Pretending that Coll was still there and could actually communicate with me while his body was in a comatose sleep? Brilliant, Taran.
“I know what you were doing. And I don’t blame you.” Angie pulls up the other chair and sits next to me. “Tea?” she asks.
I study her and lift my brow. “We’re sitting here in the same room with a three-thousand-year-old hexen who has the power to end our lives where we stand, and you want to know if I’d like some tea?”
Angie takes a small breath and holds it. “Taran, I know you’re nervous. We all are. But his powers are bound. And if we need to, we can make more potion to shove down his throat. In the meantime, we need a little bit of normalcy. I thought some tea could help to steady you. And me.”
I purse my lips and nod. “Where is it?”
“I prepared it downstairs. Didn’t want to bring it all the way up if you didn’t want it.”
At that, I offer a tight smile. “I’d love some.”
Angie holds out her left hand and snaps her right. A single clay coffee mug appears in her outstretched hand and I take it from her. Swirls of steam rise from the surface. I bring it to my nose and inhale the fine scent. It makes my heart jolt.
“Earl Grey. Is that Coll’s blend?” I ask.
Angie’s eyes twinkle without the need for a smile. “I thought it might give you something to hold on to.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. I look back at Coll and despite what happened with Ruhmactír in Coll’s bedroom, there’s a part of me that wants to shake him awake. If just to see Coll looking back at me. But it wouldn’t be Coll. Not yet, at least.
“Can I tell you something?” Angie asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I hum in response, blowing over the surface of the tea, mentally repeating a chilling spell. With the tea sufficiently cooled, I sip from the mug, allowing it to warm me.
“That shirt?”
“What shirt?” I ask, looking at her.
“The one you’re wearing.”
I look down at the worn Adidas shirt I changed into when Dad and I returned from the café. Just the shirt, and a pair of old men’s button-fly boxer shorts I’ve had since I was a teenager.
“What about it?”
Angie’s smile appears this time and her eyes dance. But behind them is just a touch of sadness. I don’t understand why until she actually talks. “I’ve had that shirt in my house for the last fifteen years. Give or take. It was Coll’s.”
The hair on my legs prickles and I stiffen.
“He used to wear that all the time when he was about seventeen. Back then it was the style, I suppose, to wear tent-sized t-shirts and baggy jeans, and I swear he lived in that shirt for about seven months.”
My lips part and I look down at the thin, faded shirt. My chest tightens and I grip the fabric over my pounding heart.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper.
“Because I know how comfortable you feel in it. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Ever since you arrived, you called and conjured up clothes from your own closet, but I never see you wear anything else to bed except that shirt. You came back from that night with him,” Angie nods her head toward Ruhmactír, “and the first thing you climbed into was that shirt. Even now, after picking him up, it’s only six o’clock at night and you changed into that grubby thing the moment you arrived.”
I study my hands as I grip the worn t-shirt. I’ve never actually thought about it. Not consciously, at least. For some reason, this piece of clothing is comfortable. Safe. I feel like I—
Angie takes a deep, slow breath. “Be honest with me, Taran. I once asked you how you felt about Coll. I’m going to ask you again. For the same reason.”
I purse my lips, and blink back the heat burning in my eyes. Each breath becomes a little harder than the last. I’ve been so angry at him, angry at myself, and just overwhelmed with the knowledge that he and I were thrown together and forced to be the two prophesied hexen saviors that I haven’t allowed myself to actually think about what my true feelings for him even are.
I’ve hated him, been annoyed by him, surprised by him, and genuinely touched by him (in more than one way). Still, how do I feel? Sitting here, right now, looking into his face and talking with his foster mother in this time line—or simply, the woman who helped him develop his craft in my own timeline—I feel drawn to him. Rather oddly, but I do.
“I car
e about him. Very much,” I whisper.
“How much?”
I sigh and take another sip of tea. The liquid runs down my throat and I can feel its warmth spreading throughout my core. “Angie,” I moan at her question as I swallow it all down.
“This is important, Taran. I know it sounds like I’m fishing for gossip, but I need to know.”
I turn to look at her. “Why? Why do you need to know?”
“Because your feelings, whether you acknowledge them or not, will have a very strong impact on the outcomes of this ejection ritual. The magic must be allowed to flow freely, and repressed feelings, thoughts, or emotions may surge or hinder the natural progression of the spell. The same is true for most spells. And I think that’s something you already know.”
I feel my throat closing off and I take another, larger, swig of the tea. One, two, three difficult breaths. All the while, Angie waits for me to admit the one thing I haven’t wanted to admit to myself. It’s the same reason I was so hurt when Sera told me to leave and never come back. The same reason why I hung up on Coll months ago and refused to call him back. It’s the very same reason why I begged and pleaded with the spirits that night at Coll’s as he touched me, kissed me. I just wanted him to be right, to be him.
“Angie, I don’t,” my throat closes off, and I choke on my words, “I don’t know why I feel this way. I feel like if I say it out loud, then the impact of my words, of my feelings for or about Coll will turn around and—”
“Bite you in the ass?” she asks.
I huff a sorry excuse for a laugh and nod.
“I’ll tell you what,” she responds softly. “I won’t make you tell me right now. But you need to face this head on before we attempt to eject Ruhmactír from Coll’s body. It was important to get him bound. Especially since he knew you’d given him that first potion. But, we’re already two steps behind.”
I set the coffee mug on the floor since Angie cautioned us against having anything else in the room aside from the bed and a couple chairs and there’s no vanity or side tables.
“What do you mean?”
“‘Four of the same and one of each.’ As of this moment, we have me and we have you.”
I nod. “We need a Geri and a Druw.”
“Precisely. Now, the binding potion that you gave him will keep his magic repressed for a time.”
“For a time?” I frown. “I thought the potion I made was the same strength as the one Sera and Emilia took.”
“It was,” she admits. “But they were young and had not yet come into their powers, it is your first time making it, and Ruhmactír is three thousand years old and his craft is much more developed. I can’t say how long he will be bound. Though, I can guarantee it won’t be as long as we’d probably like. Hence, why we might have to make more.”
I take a deep breath. “No. I won’t leave Coll in there longer than necessary. We need to find our Geri and Druw now. Like, within the next hour.”
Angie nods. “Preferably females.”
I squint, thinking about her words. I swear I heard about that once. The details are a little foggy. Something about female hexens and their craft, but I can’t quite place the details or where I heard it. So, I guess they’re foggier than I thought. Angie must see the thought in my features because she clears her throat.
“While Woden Grim may have been high hexen, even our ancestors understood that the combined powers of an integrated clan of female hexens—”
“‘Integrated’ meaning?” I prod.
“A member of each clan. Drew, Geri, Grim, and Ravn. A group like that always overpowers the deepest magics cast by male hexens. Same goes for the males in the reverse. For example, if Hellia managed to possess the body of another before her death, it would have taken an integrated clan of males to eject her. No one understands why this is, it’s simply been a natural course of hexen craft. Perhaps a balance between the sexes. A natural opposition.”
“Then,” I think through it, “why not prophesy that an ‘integrated clan’ of female hexens or males would be called to prevent the end of our race? Why me and Coll?”
Angie hesitates, but in that awkward pause, I sense a tender and sappy smile trying to break through. “I can’t, or I don’t think,” she corrects herself, “you’re ready to talk about that just yet.”
I lick my lips, a slow and measured nod answering her. “I hear you. I respect you and your opinion. But this is going to be one of those moments that I choose not to listen to you. Tell me, Angie. Why me and Coll?”
Her face pinches, concern painted all over her expression. “Because an integrated clan cannot protect the door to the afterlife. Only a bound hexen couple can do that. An equality. It’s why Frig presented her husband with Craniarann thousands of years ago. The day of their binding.” Angie picks at the hem of her odd tribal-ly, floral-ly print tank top. Though her hands—knotting in her shirt, tensing in their movement—betray her softness and calm voice, her eyes are timid but locked on me.
“A hexen binding is more powerful and lasting than a human marriage ceremony. Its magic lasts not only through our life here, but through the afterlife as well. And that binding is nearly unbreakable. And the responsibility for guarding the gate of the Himilæsa should have passed from one bound couple to their successors. Only, Woden died. And Frig was unable to complete the transfer to the new guardians. Why, I don’t know.”
“So, that’s why . . .” If I’d thought my voice was choked off before. It’s nothing compared to what I feel clamped around my voice box right now.
“Taran, I told you. I told you it was important for you to come to terms with your feelings about Coll. But, like I said, you don’t need to voice your feelings to me right now.”
I clear my throat, wide eyed. “Then, my acknowledgement of my feelings isn’t just about allowing my magic to flow freely during the ejection. Is it?”
Angie doesn’t even need to answer. I can see it in her face.
Coll and I are meant to be bound. Through a hexen binding. Married.
I press my hand against my chest and focus on my rapidly increasing breath. “I can’t breathe. Excuse me.”
“Taran, you need to stay here!” Angie belts out as I stand up, nearly knocking the chair over and bulldozing my way out of the room.
Twenty
With no bedroom of my own to hide away in, at least in Angie’s home, I jog down the stairs, ignoring my dad’s brief question about “where in the world” I’m going. Outside, the chilly Irish weather hits my face with a mild wind. It seems the weather is already responding to my own emotions as the clouds above shift and curl and morph into knots and shapes. They’re just as panicked and confused as the thoughts in my head.
“Taran!” I hear Angie belt in the house.
I have to get out of here. But where?
I glance back toward the house just as I see the door begin to open. The tiaseal spell pops into my mind at the same time the image of Coll’s apartment flashes behind my eyes. The tingle in my body follows and I clench my fists nervously as I look around, finding myself standing in the living room of that bare, modern London home.
I don’t know why I picked here. But I did. You’d think this would be the last place I’d want to visit again. Coll’s living room engulfs me, glaring at me in some accusatory way. I just need someplace I know I won’t be bothered. Somewhere I can think. A place I can get a grip on myself before I circle the drain and flush myself completely away.
Images of the other night flash through my mind again. I remember how hard my heart pounded in my chest, how flushed I got when Coll—when Ruhmactír touched me. When I pled with the ancestors that I was wrong. Oh, I wanted to be wrong.
But I wasn’t.
Not much has changed. It’s still immaculate. Cold. Barren. Too stark for my taste.
Why? Why Coll? Why do I even need to bound to anyone at all?
We’re nothing alike.
I slink around the couch, my legs feeling w
eighted down, and sink into its leather surface. Actually, I should take that back. I don’t sink into anything. It’s hard. And cold. And completely uninviting. Perfect for a quick make out and then an invitation to the bedroom.
We’re so wrong for each other.
I sigh, I slouch in the seat, looking up at the ceiling.
“Well, well, well,” he once said to me, looking down from the balcony above. So irritating. Yet, looking back now, I’d kill to have that same man looking down at me.
I close my eyes, breathing in the light scent of cedar. Ginger. It’s so faint, I barely catch the notes of it in the air. I listen to the air conditioning kick on, a light wind blowing through the baseboard vents.
Coll.
Collens . . . oh, shit. I don’t even know if he has a middle name. Collens Michael Donovan? Collens Patrick? Yes, Patrick is the only other Irish name I know. So, sue me. But, hell, does it even matter?
I lift my head and look around. Moonlight streams through the large bay windows and shines on the gorgeous grand piano sitting there. I push myself off the couch and move towards its shining white keys. My finger hits the first key, middle C, rather softly and the sound pierces the air, sounding like a cannon blast. I cringe and wait for the sound to dissipate before peeling my eyes open again.
I remember the opening melody he played like it was yesterday. It was so graceful. Ghostly and tender with all the hopeful desperate desires of unrequited sentiment. I wish I could hear it all over again. Each note that kissed my eardrums and drifted across my cheek like Coll’s tingling energy did the night he taught me how to travel for the first time.
The stillness.
The feverish fury of the central section of his music.
A storm of passion, confusion, desire, and madness.
Everything I feel when I’m with him. Yet, at the same time, everything that disappeared when he held me that night in the library. After I’d woken up from my nightmare. It was Coll who put me to sleep, who made the fear and the panic leave.
Dr. Grim?
I open my eyes and look at the piano bench. I swear, he could be sitting right there.