My name was yet to be written.
There was a space for it, but it was blank. My mother’s name was alone too. No paternal branch listed.
It was like I had no father.
At all.
What I found particularly strange about this was that there were other “reg u lar” people who’d married into the Families. I mean, think about it, you kind of had to go out of your group now and again or we’d all be inbred and weirder than we already were. But they were all listed. The book was extremely complete.
Sometimes there was a name, after which was written “May Child.” That was a witch way of saying “one-night stand.” It had to do with an old practice of wild sex on Beltane, May 1. But even the May blessings were all written down. I knew because I’d noticed even some who died before they turned sixteen got to be named.
Not me.
I was a blank waiting to be filled.
Yet, everyone assumed I’d be there eventually. Whenever Elders showed me the book, they would say, “Here is where you’ll be, Ana, after the Initiation.”
No pressure or anything.
“I’m going to try a spell when I get home,” I told Bea. “You know, to see if Thompson was a fluke or what.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said. “You’ve been so nervous about this. It’ll be good to have some confidence. You know, attitude is half of magic.”
Another favorite claim of Bea’s, but I just rolled my eyes. She looked ready to give me crap for my reaction, but we’d come to my house.
I JUMPED OUT WITH A quick thanks to Bea because Mom’s car was parked out front. It was very recognizable: a bright blue MINI Cooper.
It was weird for her to be home this early. She was an adjunct professor of women’s studies. This semester she had more than a full load, and taught at a bunch of different colleges and universities in St. Paul and Minneapolis. She had classes almost every day, and a couple at night. There were office hours to keep and syllabuses to prepare. Plus, there was the constant research and she ran a “study group” on women’s mysteries and Dianic (read: feminist, women only) Wicca. I didn’t see her much, especially during the beginning of the year.
I approached the house cautiously. Our house was a funky old Victorian, heavy on the funky—a painted lady in need of a fresh coat. The wraparound porch sagged, shrouded in ivy and overgrown mulberry trees. A wrought iron fence made the whole thing look formidable. As silly as it was, I often hesitated before crossing into the yard. Our house was protected by wards that were meant to keep strangers out, but they always worked their magic on me a little bit. I often paused, as if wondering if I were invited into my own home.
I shook off the feeling with a deep, steadying breath.
My garden had been a huge success this year. This was the first year I’d really taken over all the gardening, and I was extremely proud of the results. The glory had faded a bit, but there were still large shocks of bright purple coneflowers and painted daisies in pink, lavender, and baby blue. In the shade, my favorite section grew: forget-me-nots, hostas, and Solomon’s seal. If Mom weren’t so controlling about having nonwitches to the house, I could have entered in the Summit Avenue Tea and Garden Show.
I always got a lift when people stopped and hung their heads over the fence to point and remark. If I had any magic at all, it was with growing things.
Smiling, I ascended the steps.
Even two steps up the porch, I could smell a cake baking.
Aw.
I let myself into the house. “Hey, Mom, I’m home!”
“Shit!”
There was crashing and bashing as I hung my backpack on the hook by the door. I pulled off my boots and left them in front of the built-in parson’s bench by the bay window. More swearing came from the kitchen.
I wondered whether I should go in. I mean, was it better to sit out here and pretend I hadn’t spoiled the cake surprise, or to go in and make a joke about how she usually bought from the store, which would make it all okay?
I wanted to be the sort of person who could make everyone laugh and forget all about the awkward, but I never quite knew what to say or had the joke ready. Anyway, while I was considering my options, Mom came out. She shut the door behind her, which she almost never did. She smoothed her sundress and shook out her long, curly blond-gray hair. “You’re home early.”
“Bea gave me a ride,” I explained.
Mom adjusted her glasses, examining me like I was one of her students come to beg out of a bad grade.
“Well,” she said, matter-of-factly, “I’m not ready for you. You’re just going to have to busy yourself elsewhere.”
“Oh,” I said. My mom was like this, very coldly pragmatic, but it still always surprised me. And anyway, what did she expect me to do, exactly? Should I go to the coffeehouse? Take a walk? I glanced at the polished wood banister of the open staircase that led up to my room. “Can I hide out in my room?”
Mom considered this for a moment. “Yes,” she agreed with a curt nod. “That would do nicely.”
I TOOK MY BACKPACK TO my upstairs exile. My room was one of three bedrooms upstairs. My mom got the largest one, just off the top of the stairs. Mine was straight ahead. Mom and I shared the other room for our various crafts. She sewed. I . . . well, dabbled with a lot of stuff. I had mask-making materials, oil and water paints, charcoal sketches, colored-pencil doodles, hot-glue-gun messes, and other art junk I’d collected over the years.
Everyone always figured I’d end up at MCAD, the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. True Witches had an affinity for the arts, or at least that’s what I’d always heard among the Inner Circle types. Half the boards of various art institutions were populated by our Elders. Me, I wasn’t so sure. Theater called to me, and, secretly, so did biology . . . and math.
Not that I’d ever confess to being a science geek. Not on pain of death.
It was another secret I hid. Well, Mom could see I got good grades in science, and I was clearly in the advanced math classes, but . . . she could understand the theater stuff better. It suited her image of a True Witch.
I tossed my backpack on my bed. Mom had made the quilt. Each square had an ancient goddess image. There were strange snake women, bird ladies, and flat-perspective lion-headed Egyptian goddesses. Honestly? I found it a bit “political,” but the fabric was wonderfully soft and warm, so I kept it.
In the dormer, I’d situated my desk. I got great afternoon sun to do my homework by, though sometimes the glare sucked for my laptop. My mother and I had fashioned crude bookcases from cinder blocks and boards that fit snugly in the awkward space. In them, I had all my favorite books, manga, and graphic novels.
I sat down in the chair, thinking I might tackle some homework before acting surprised when Mom pulled out the cake. The message icon flashed on my phone. Pulling it off the charger, I read it. “Do ur homework.” It was Bea’s way of reminding me to try out my spell. She’d finished it with, “Zap!”
Spinning in my chair, I chewed my fingernail. I sent back, “What if I can’t?”
The question had been eating me up inside.
I stared at the screen for a moment, waiting for an answer, but nothing came. Either she didn’t get the message (not likely) or Bea didn’t know what to say.
Well, I supposed I should get it over with. One more time, with feeling!
I stood and faced my smaller bookshelf. On the top, I had my personal altar. It was pretty simple. Thing was, I couldn’t quite bring myself to invest in expensive candelabra or velvety altar cloths when I felt like no one was listening to my desperate prayers.
Still, more than once, I’d been complimented on it by Elder Witches. Simple was closer to the heart of the divine, they’d said.
Bea had been so jealous, and said that maybe laziness was close to the heart of the divine too.
That had been unfair. After all, despite how I might feel about the absence of real magic in my life, I’d put a lot of effort into making m
y altar nice. I’d made the cloth from the back of an old purple silk shirt and added some golden puff paint. After finding a Celtic knot design in a craft book of Mom’s, I’d carefully cut out a stencil and painted the edges in the pattern. It was kind of cool, if you ignored the frayed bits where I hadn’t gotten the hem right.
The only items I kept on the surface of the altar were three candles, an incense holder, and a small statue of Bast, the Egyptian cat goddess that Bea had bought me after our cat Mr. Snuffles died.
I stared hard at the wicks the way I’d seen Mom do, and then snapped my fingers. The room remained dark, the candles unlit.
Well, I still couldn’t do that trick. To be fair, conjuring fire was an advanced spell. Even Bea couldn’t do it reliably every time.
With a sigh, I removed the matches from their hiding place on the shelf behind the cloth, and lit the candles the traditional way. They glowed warmly. I took a deep breath and tried to find my “inner stillness.” I had to concentrate to keep my toes from tapping and my fingers from fidgeting. But I could do it. It just took serious effort.
At last I felt a calmness settle over me, like a warm cloak. This was the point that always gave me hope. I felt relaxed but alert. Energy hummed along points on my body, my chakras. Magic seemed imminent. I could feel it in me.
Slowly, as though not to frighten away a timid beast, I lifted my right hand. All I had to do tonight was call forth the energy of air, as part of a circle casting. Just a little breeze or shift in air pressure was the only thing I needed to conjure. My face tightened with effort as I tried to push all that hopeful stillness out into some kind of manifestation of wind.
“Come on,” I whispered.
The window was open. A few minutes ago the breeze flapped the curtains playfully. Now . . . now that I needed a sign, nothing. The cloth lay ramrod straight, not even a flutter. It was almost laughable. Whatever I wanted, I swore, the universe gave me the opposite. I needed a bit of air, but I got a perfect nothing.
Hopefully, I waited for several heartbeats more. Then I finally gave up and flopped back onto the bed.
“Crap,” I muttered.
The very second I gave up, the candles flickered and the curtain lifted slightly.
“It’s like you mock me,” I told the breeze that brought a slight, cool kiss of moisture to my cheek.
Rolling over, I looked out the window. Through the gnarled branches of the massive, ancient pine, the sky had faded to a dusty purple. A blue jay flitted onto a branch and screeched a complaining song before fluttering off again. A large shadowy something slunk across the vine-covered fence.
Wait, what?
I looked closer. There was nothing but the cedar planks and massive, broad leaves of the hops plant that spread out of control in long, twisted vines that ran along the side of the house. No, it must have been my imagination playing tricks. No one would lurk around our house; we didn’t have anything worth stealing. Besides, this was St. Paul. St. Paul might officially be a city and the capital of Minnesota, but it was much more like a sleepy little burg . . . especially after dark.
Could it be Thompson coming to toilet paper my trees or something? “Hey,” I yelled out the window. “If that’s you, Matt Thompson, I see you!”
But he didn’t know where I lived, did he?
I didn’t have time to consider that further, because Mom called cheerily up the staircase, “Time for dinner!”
“Coming,” I said. Feeling like a prisoner marching to my last meal before execution, I moved slowly down the open staircase. My long, black polished nails trailed on the cherrywood.
Of course, our house was built well over a hundred years ago, and, in keeping with its advanced years, it creaked and moaned constantly. With the popping and groaning floorboards, sneaking around was next to impossible. Not that I did that—not much, anyway.
It’s just that it would be nice, you know, occasionally, to be able to slip out the back door without anyone hearing all the hinges screeching, doors banging, and all that. Like now, for instance, it would be great to have white spongy, soft wall-to-wall carpeting like at Bea’s, and one of those glass doors that slid open silently onto a pine deck, an overgrown backyard, and freedom.
“I said, are you excited for tonight?” Mom repeated, louder this time, from where she stood leaning on the banister, wooden spoon in hand.
“Huh? Sorry, I was miles away,” I confessed. Like in Iowa. Anywhere but here.
“Ah, you’re thinking about tonight,” she said with a smile. Her eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “No need to be nervous. I know you’ll do great. All the Parker girls do, you know. It’s in your blood.”
How many times did I have to hear that? It was destiny!
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Mom said, but she had a smile on her face to show she was teasing a bit. “Come on, dinner is on the table. I made your favorite.”
My mouth watered at the tangy scent of curry.
“I even put the apples in last. That way they’ll be crispy just the way you like them.”
Well, Mom was trying, at least. It was sort of sweet. Impulsively, I gave her a huge hug. “I love you,” I whispered intensely, though what I really wanted to say was “I’m sorry for tonight.”
“I love you too, sweetie,” she said, sounding a bit baffled at my sudden burst of affection. I could only hope Mom would feel the same way about me after the Initiation disaster. “Will I get a kiss if I tell you I made chocolate birthday cake for dessert?”
“Surprise?!”
“Yes,” she said with a smirk. “Surprise.”
Mom had changed into a T-shirt that proclaimed WITCHES DO IT SKYCLAD, which was the lamest in-joke I’d ever heard. It was like saying witches do it naked, which was what “skyclad” meant. And didn’t everyone “do it” in the nude? Not that I had any real experience with that either, because, well, being a strange, geeky witch girl didn’t make a person terribly popular in a high school full of cheerleaders and jocks.
I sat in my customary spot at the dining room table. I always felt a little silly sitting in the huge, cavernous room. There was a gigantic mirrored, carved buffet along the far wall. We rarely turned on the overhead light. It was a huge chandelier with a zillion bulbs, great for those parties we never hosted, but way too bright for an intimate dinner. So we ate by the illumination of a floor lamp that cast a circle of light on the corner of the table.
I spooned out a large helping of rice and smothered it with the chicken curry. “So . . . uh, about tonight,” I started, but petered out, uncertain. Did I opt for the truth?
The doorbell rang.
Saved by the bell? I looked to Mom, but she had an equally confused expression on her face. “That can’t be Bea,” she said, checking the clock on the wall. “She knows when we’re going, doesn’t she? That mother of hers is always so anxious. Will you go tell her we’re eating dinner?”
“Sure,” I said, curious who it could be.
The bell rang again when I was halfway there. It wasn’t like Bea to be quite so insistent. “I’m coming!” I shouted.
When I got there, I whipped the door open, ready to give Bea a piece of my mind. But it wasn’t Bea after all. In her place stood—or, more accurately, swayed—a man I’d never seen before in my life.
He had pale-as-a-ghost skin, and haunting eyes that flicked across my face as though searching for something. He was handsome in a broody, gaunt sort of way, but he looked sick. One of his hands clutched at his side, and the other gripped the doorframe with a white-knuckle grip, like it took all his effort to remain upright.
“Anastasija? ” he asked, pronouncing my full name smoothly and gracefully, almost like music. Not like when anyone else tried.
“Yes,” I answered. “Do I know you?”
“Will you let me in? I’m Alexander Ramses. I believe I’m your father.”
Four
My father?
Ramses was my middle name, but . . .
I blinked
unbelievingly at the pale form wobbling at the threshold. His hair was so dark it could have passed for a shadow. Much, I thought, like my own. His eyes that stared questioningly at me were the same ice-cold blue of my left iris.
But . . .
It just couldn’t be my father.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have a father,” I explained. My voice sounded hollowly polite even to my own ears, like I was patiently putting off an encyclopedia salesman.
“I’m sure that’s what you’ve been led to believe.” His mouth quirked into a smile, but it quickly collapsed into a grimace as he clutched his side tighter. His voice sounded strained, urgent. “Tell me you haven’t gone to the Initiation yet. Tell me I’m not too late.”
“Too late for what?”
His intensely blue eyes gripped me in his gaze. “You have no idea, do you? She never told you.” He shook his head, as though arguing with himself over some point. Then his jaw flexed. “Well, there’s no time now. I’ll have to explain it to you on the way.”
He took my arm as though he was going to lead me out the door. I pulled back. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even know who you are.” Over my shoulder, I shouted for help. “Mom!”
“Your mother? Amelia? No!” the man said, clutching my arm so tightly it caused me to gasp.
“Hey. Let go of me,” I insisted. Then, looking down at the hand wrapped around my forearm, I noticed the smear of black between each of his fingers. Blood? “Oh my God, are you bleeding?”
He looked down at the bloody imprint he left on my arm and quickly retracted his hand. “Yes,” he said, looking behind him again into the darkness outside the still-open door. “Our enemies are gathering. You’ve been discovered. You cannot go to the Wiccaning. I’ve held them off as long as I could. But we’re wasting precious time. We must go, Princess.”
Princess? What was that? An awkward attempt at a term of endearment? “Go? Where? Anyway, I can’t go. I’ve got school tomorrow.”
Almost to Die For Page 3