Hexen's Binding

by J. Kowallis

I know how I feel.

  I shake my head.

  But I can’t admit it. Even now. Even with a thousands-of-years-old prophecy, Angie and Dad both made me realize that Coll may not make it through this. If we do manage to rip Ruhmactír from his body, and Coll is still in there, there’s a chance he may not live through it. And if I were to admit to myself how I feel about him, and he died, or he wasn’t the same, I don’t think I could handle it.

  I lean forward and brace myself with a hand on the edge of the piano as I slide onto the bench. The absolute stillness of the apartment chills me to the bone.

  The more I think about what Angie told me and the longer I soak in the solitude of Coll’s empty apartment, I think I’m becoming even more muddled than before. At least before all of this happened, I could look back and remember the times I had with Coll with this memorable longing. Like thinking back on some long-lost life that merely left me with some memories and a lingering afterimage in my mind. I could dwell on my hate for him and my pity for myself, thinking that as soon as this whole ordeal was over, I could go back to my real life, the classroom, my office, and just let things be.

  I can’t do that anymore.

  I shake my head, resting my elbows on the keys, and cupping my face. A clatter of echoing notes clash and resound throughout the room.

  I don’t know how long I sit here, but when I finally raise my head, I’m nowhere closer to figuring out my own feelings than I was when I got here.

  The only benefit is that I’ve been able to get a grip on my anxiety. I can finally breathe, and I’m ready to go back.

  I should be angry at Angie. I should be furious that she hid this from me, but I’m glad she didn’t tell me. I actually wish I hadn’t asked, hadn’t made her tell me. If only because now I feel like someone took away my choices, wiped away my agency.

  “Put it away,” I whisper to myself. It won’t help Coll if I’m wallowing in my own miserable angst. And there’s still the matter of finding a Druw and a Geri to help with the ejection.

  I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and grip the piano as I stand up. Knuckles white, I connect with my inner energies and travel back to the cottage in Ireland, directly into the bedroom I slept in the last couple weeks.

  When I arrive, Dad stands in the arch of the doorway, his arms folded. He looks slightly startled to see me appear, but he quickly settles in again and stares at the bed. “Are you all right, bug?”

  “Yeah. Well enough, I suppose. Did Angie tell you?” I whisper.

  He nods, glancing to me.

  “Told yeh what?” The “t” at the end of that sentence snips at me like a pair of shears. I slowly turn around, glaring at the source of the voice.

  Coll, or should I say Ruhmactír, has his head straining against the leather bond across his head, trying to look at me.

  “He’s awake?” I ask.

  “For the last two minutes,” Dad answers. “He’s been screaming like a little girl.”

  Ruhmactír smiles, showing off Coll’s glistening teeth. “Ironic.”

  “What’s so ironic?” I ask, folding my arms.

  His smile deepens. “My screams were nothin’ compared to the sounds your da made when I killed ‘im.”

  Pictures and sounds flood my memory. Me in a cupboard. Dad answering the door and the flash of red deathly light. My own simpers that I tried so hard to hide because my dad asked me to stay as quiet as possible. His shriek cutting through the sound of my beating, beating heart.

  My face stills. Like stone. Inside I want to rip him apart. “Just wait. I hear the ejection process is a bitch.”

  He stiffens.

  I turn to face my dad and step closer, whispering, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s all right,” he mutters under his breath, keeping his eyes on Ruhmactír behind me. “Are you all right to stay here with him while I go find Angie? She needs to know he’s awake. And that you’re back.”

  I nod and hold the door for him while he steps out. He turns the corner and I watch as he jogs down the stairs slowly. When he’s out of sight, I pivot to look at Ruhmactír again. My bare feet pad across the floor as I maneuver toward him. All the while, he watches me with an animalistic focus.

  “Was it you who snuffed out my magic? Or that bitch, Angelica?”

  I don’t answer him. Keeping my mouth shut, I pull up a chair and sit about four feet away from him.

  “I knew yeh knew.”

  “Knew what?” I finally reply.

  The corner of his lip twitches. “The night of our ‘date,’” he mockingly emphasizes. “I felt somethin’—that somethin’ wasn’t right. Did yeh dose my wine?”

  This time, it’s my turn to sneer. “My lipstick.”

  “So, I did that good, eh?”

  “What do you mean?” I cross my legs.

  “Yeh were that daft? Couldn’t tell it was me?”

  “Ruhmactír,” I lean closer and his eyes darken at the use of his real name, “I could have sniffed you out of a line of wet dogs. That being said, I needed confirmation. The last thing I wanted to do was condemn Coll for something he didn’t do.”

  This makes his face contort into a hateful grimace. “Is that right? Tell me, did yeh get that mercy from Frig because we both know Woden was a murderous bastard.”

  Frig?

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about murderous bastards. I lived my entire life without my father because of you.”

  “And I’d do it again,” he snarls. “Just like I’m goin’ to do to yeh. I’ll peel your feckin’ skin from your bones and torture yeh until yeh beg for death.”

  “Not if I don’t kill you first.” I stand up from my seat, a brilliant idea sparking in my mind, and head for the door.

  “I really get under your skin, don’t I?”

  I pause, my hand resting on the door frame. Forcing a smile to my face, I swivel around again. “You do nothing to my skin. You aren’t even worth it.”

  With that, I step out of the room, and around the corner until he can’t see me. A few deep, concentrated breaths help to push out the anger and I’m finally able to think. After a few seconds, I push myself away from the wall and snap my fingers. My jeans that I changed out of and left in Dad’s room replace the boxers I’ve been wearing as I quietly trod down the stairs. In the kitchen below, Dad whispers something to Angie. The moment he hears me approaching, he stops midsentence, and looks at me.

  “You left him alone?”

  “I couldn’t take it anymore. More importantly, I think I have idea of where we can find a Druw.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  I look at both Angie and my dad. “Frig and Woden were a bound pair. They are both my ancestors. Our ancestors.” I glance at Dad. “Knowing what I do about human DNA, there’s a chance that someone, or more than someone, received more Druw abilities than Grim.”

  “Explain,” Angie nudges.

  “Well, a mother’s DNA houses a billion different varieties of genetic makeups based on her own ancestry, right? The same thing is true for the father’s DNA, as well. Dad,” I turn to him. “Wasn’t oldefar Tomas rumored to have a special gift for being an oracle?”

  “I think I remember something like that.”

  “According to the story Móraí told me, everyone at the time thought that his mother, Anthea, had, had an affair because he didn’t show the typical gifts of a Grim hexen.”

  “That’s right. And her father and husband subjected the child to paternal hexen tests.”

  “All of which proved he was Grim. They didn’t understand why Tomas had such a firm grip on communication with long-dead ancestors. See, there has to be someone in our family, maybe myself, who has a high concentration of Druw blood in them.”

  Dad’s eyebrows pinch together. He gauges Angie’s reaction and then thinks carefully before he says, “That’s . . . very possible.”

  “Yes,” Angie thinks, playing with the long, beaded necklace resting on top of h
er breasts. “Only I can guarantee that you are not the Druw you’re looking for.”

  “Why would you say that, Obi Wan Kenobi?” I ask, not about to pass up the opportunity.

  Angie gives me an annoyed look. “You have too much Grim in you. With your powers at controlling the weather, nature, the environment. It’s too telling. It would have to be between your father, grandmother, and your two sisters. However, I’ve seen Alaric work his craft. He’s also Grim, through and through. He’s a bit more connected to the earth than the sky and water, but the world practically shakes when he walks on it.” She elbows his rib and his fakes a grimace.

  Not wanting to get in between this very weird ribbing of my dad, I change the subject and say, “Then, it would have to be Móraí or my sisters?”

  “Mamor would die if I ever hinted to her that she was Druw. I think we should find out where your sisters stand before we go prodding a proud, stubborn, Grim woman.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.” I steel myself, not quite ready to accept the steps we have to take now. That leaves only Lotte and Alina. Neither of which I’ve spoken to much in the last two years. Mom told me most of the things I know about them. According to this time line, our relationships aren’t all that different from the former life I lived. Lotte attends Stanford because I was able to get her a discount on tuition. But other than that, Alina’s husband keeps a tight leash on her magical life, and Lotte has been extremely wrapped up in college. Not much different than I was at her age, except she’s more about the partying than the library time like myself.

  This is not going to be easy.

  “So?” I ask. “Who do we brave first?”

  Dad takes a deep breath. I can see something in his eyes that I can’t quite read, but he shakes it off and looks at me. “Let’s try Lotte first. And we’ll pray to the ancestors she’s able. And willing.”

  “Why Lotte?” I ask.

  He purses his lips. “Because I think I know how things will go down with Alina if we have to ask. And I’m not sure she’s ready for that.”

  Twenty-One

  “So, this is Lotte’s college dorm?” Dad asks, looking around the hallway.

  “Actually, it’s a residence hall. Slightly different,” I answer, checking the clock on my phone and stepping up to my sister’s door. It’s been one hour since we captured Ruhmactír. I sigh. We’re moving too slowly. “For upper classmen only.”

  “As a professor, are you allowed to be here?” he asks over my shoulder.

  “As a professor, I’m technically supposed to be on sabbatical right now. But we’re breaking rules all over the place this week.”

  I shove my phone back into my pocket and lift my knuckles, rapping on the older-looking apartment door. The number “17” looking back at me. Behind me, dad sucks in his breath and I turn to see him look down the hall nervously, tension in his shoulders and his fidgeting hands keep rubbing together.

  “It’s been a while since you’ve seen her. Hasn’t it?”

  Dad meets my gaze. “Haven’t seen or talked to her since she was a baby. She probably doesn’t even know me.”

  I pinch my lips together, thinking, and then knock on the door a second time. “Do you want me to tell her who you are?”

  For a moment, Dad goes silent. He looks at me with a wary trepidation. “Not right now. That might be easiest.”

  The door opens and a voice immediately barks at us. “Dude, did you not see the—”

  I turn to find myself looking at a young college kid, his hair messed up and his collar askew. By the look on his skinny, angular face, he must realize neither my father, nor I are particularly happy to see him standing there. Due to the glare in my dad’s eyes, the boy smooths down his hair and quickly reaches for the fuzzy pink sock hanging from the doorknob. The sock I obviously chose to ignore.

  “Please tell me you’re here borrowing milk for your Lucky Charms . . . from Lotte’s roommate,” I say dryly.

  “Taran?” Lotte’s voice comes from behind the door and she comes to stand next to the creep in her doorway. Lotte’s black hair, like mine, is wrapped up into a tight topknot on the crown of her head, and her violet eyes are stark and wide.

  “Hi,” I probably look just about as shocked as I feel. My eyes darting back and forth between my sister in her tank top and skinny jeans and the boy in his blue tee and . . . skinny jeans.

  “Um, Taran,” her face has flushed a deep red, “this is Dakota. Dakota, this is my oldest sister, Dr. Grim. She teaches history on campus. And I thought she was on sabbatical this semester.”

  I clear my throat and offer an olive branch. My hand. I hold it out to the kid and shake his hand. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, but I’m afraid I have some things I need to talk with my sister about.”

  “Can it wait?” she asks. I notice her fingernails—polished to a high pink sheen—digging into the corner of the door.

  “No. It can’t. Will you excuse us? Dakota?” I tack on his name. Almost like it’s a joke. I’m not entirely sure why, because he’s definitely not the first Dakota I’ve had in my classes. But for some reason, as I stand here, looking as his face with the lingering teenage acne pimpled along his chin mingling with the random ingrown hairs on his face, I just can’t help myself.

  He purses his lips and dares to take another look at my dad. Faster than before, the kid looks away again. Dad must have murder etched into his eyes.

  “Um, I’ll see you later, Lotte.”

  “Dakota, you don’t have to—”

  “Yeeesss, he does,” I interrupt her. “See you later, kid.” I pat him on the shoulder as I push my way through into her apartment, Dad on my heels. The boy avoids my father like the plague and then speed walks down the hallway.

  “Oh, my hell!” Lotte says when she shut the door. “What was that all about? I was on a date!”

  “A date? In the morning? In your apartment? How long have you been seeing that guy?” I ask, thumbing in the direction of the exterior hallway.

  Lotte folds her arms. “None of your business.”

  I hum in disagreement but open my mouth to change the subject. Before I can say anything, Lotte glances at Dad and says probably the most horrifying thing I will ever hear in my life.

  “And who’s this? Your shag tag?”

  Dad trips on his own foot, or the air, while I press my fingers over my mouth, guarding the bile that involuntarily rose into my throat. I pause only a moment before I hold up another finger. “First of all, it’s ‘shag hag’ and secondly, don’t ever say that again.”

  I exchange an appalled look with Dad, who stays silent.

  “No.” I reiterate. “Hell no. This is,” my voice trails off and my mind spins. I can’t tell her his actual name, and Dad wasn’t all that ready to tell her who he is either. Enough time passes that both Dad and Lotte get terribly uncomfortable. The next thing I know, Dad leans forward with an outstretched hand.

  “I’m a friend. Of your sister’s. And trust me, not that kind of friend.”

  Lotte takes his hand, apprehensively. “And what’s your name, Taran’s friend?”

  “You can call me Barnett,” Dad tightens his lips. I lift an eyebrow. Barnett was Oldefar Grim’s name. Dad’s father.

  I brush past it and address Lotte. “But what is important is that I need to talk with you.”

  “About what?” Lotte looks at me.

  “Our craft.”

  I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting from Lotte. She’s never shown any real interest in our hexen roots and while I know she uses her magic from time to time, she’s been sparser and more disinterested about it in the past. So, when she folds her arms and squints her eyes at me, I still struggle to read her.

  “And?”

  “Have a seat,” I finally say after a long pause. The two of us take up the single couch while Dad pulls over one of the bar stools. I take my time, running through the events of this past summer, the change in time and history (excluding
anything connected to Dad), and tell her all about Coll. When I finish telling her that a three-thousand-year-old hexen possessed Coll and now he’s chained to a bed in Ireland, Lotte lifts an eyebrow.

  “Kinky,” she says with a light voice.

  “So, the reason I’m here is because I need to find out if you lean more heavily Grim—Dad’s side of the family—or Druw—our other ancient family line.”

  “No,” she holds up a finger.

  “No?” I ask.

  “That’s not what you’re here to ask. Like, you may need to find that out, but what you’re really asking is if I’ll involve myself if I’m a Druw.”

  “Right,” Dad answers for me.

  Lotte looks at him with studious eyes. “Sure. Whatever. I’ll let you test me, I’ll even, like . . . let you drag me to Ireland. It’s actually on my bucket list to go there.” Lotte pauses. She leans forward, glaring at Dad. “But first, tell me who you are.” Her voice drops, and in this moment, I know she knows. Or at least, I think she does.

  Dad can’t help but gauge my reaction. He wants help, but I don’t know if I can give it to him. I spent twenty plus years of my life without him, and in this life at least. In the other, I spent twenty plus years mourning a person I idolized and put on a pedestal for so long. At least with me, he formed some sort of a relationship before he disappeared, but with Lotte, he had nothing. Nothing aside from a few months of diaper changes, bedtime songs, and midnight feedings. And she remembered none of it.

  “I think,” Dad chokes on his own spit and coughs into his hand, “I think you already know.”

  “I think I do. But I want to hear it from you.”

  I grit my teeth, waiting for the words. When Dad finally says them, they hang in the air like bubbles that might explode and kill us all if we touch them.

  “My name is Alaric. Grim. I’m your father.”

  Lotte watches him with unblinking eyes. The silence seems to stretch on forever. I feel like my own mind is frozen, my skin, my energy.

  “I thought so. You look like Taran.”

  I glance at her and hold her gaze. “He looks like you too.”

  “Yeah, but,” she fingers her stubby nose carefully, “I’ve got this thing from mom.”