by Kayti McGee
Again, she nodded.
To my relief, horror was not dawning on her face. Horror might have been easier to understand, though. I couldn’t penetrate her patient, opaque expression.
“I’ve been around for a long time,” I added. Now it was my turn to try to explain my colorful sex life—and my efforts were equally amusing.
Her lips twitched.
I frowned and lifted her before she could laugh. I carried her back to the desk, set her in the chair, and retrieved Four Quartets from its place on the shelf. I laid the book open in front of her. I pointed to an underscored line: Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name.
By way of explanation, the poem was the best I could do.
“I don’t know,” I told her sincerely, “what that feels like.”
I closed the book and pushed it aside. We dressed in silence, though I had barely undressed and she had only my shirt to pull back over her head. She caught my eye and I smiled warmly at her. The cat seemed to have gotten her tongue.
“What have you been reading?” I prompted.
“Oh, everything useful I could find.” She showed me her selection of books and her impressively extensive notes.
To her pile, I added a dozen books: The Elder Futhark, The Psychic World, Navajo Witchcraft, Sorcery and the Occult, and books on Latin, essential oils, herbs, tarot cards, astrology and astronomy, lunar phases, minerals and crystals, and druidic history. She pulled the stack closer as if she might start reading right away.
“You’re keen.” I chuckled.
“You have no idea. My whole life, I feel like I’ve been in the dark. For other people, it seemed like everything made more sense as they got older. For me, life just made less and less sense. Sometimes I thought I was going crazy. But now I get it. This”—she laid her hands on the books—“is what I’ve been waiting for.”
I sat on the edge of the desk and regarded her with interest. She was right; I had no idea what that felt like. Knowledge had never been withheld from me.
She lifted the topmost book, opened to a random page, and stared at the heading: Organs and their magical uses. Her nose wrinkled.
“Are you a necromancer too?” she said.
“A death witch is what we would call you,” I said, because necromancer was nearly a slur among witches, “and no, I’m not. Most of the Blackmanes are blood witches.”
“What does that mean?” The way she looked at me, her lips parted and her expression eager, made me glad to have the desk between us.
“Not very much. Witch typing runs along family lines, but any witch’s gifts can extend across the gamut, especially with practice and study. Your natural gifts will lean toward necromancy, death magic, séances. My natural gifts have always involved telekinesis, birth rites, blood rituals... sex magic.” I smirked. “But I have a talent for psychic magic, too, which is really the province of shadow witches.”
“How many kinds are there?”
“Too many to list. Earth witches, celestial witches. Some with a talent for shape-shifting, conjuring, elemental magic, divination. It’s more of a gradient than a hard and fast classification system.”
“Are vampires real?” She hopped out of the chair and came around the desk. “What about werewolves?” She put her hands on my shoulders. My shirt rode up on her thighs.
“Yes, all manner of—” I cleared my throat. Her nearness made my voice go husky, my thoughts haywire. “All manner of mythologies have their basis in reality, though I believe the latter prefer the term lycanthropes.”
Her nipples brushed against my arms. I looked away deliberately.
“You need clothes,” I mumbled.
“Well, I bought—”
“I mean now. You must be cold.” I took her hand and led her to the bedroom. I began rummaging through my drawers for anything suitable.
“I’m not actually feeling cold.”
I gave her a flat look. “Fine, looking at you is making me feel cold.”
“Oh, it is?” Rose smiled impishly and put a finger to her lips—a gesture that told me she knew exactly what she was making me feel. “Sorry. I can just wear my stuff from yesterday.” She bent over very slowly and collected her bra and underwear from the floor. I didn’t even try not to stare.
“You...” My mouth was dry.
She shimmied into her underwear, clasped her bra, and looked over her shoulder. She was game for round two, which pleased me, but we had more important issues to discuss. I kissed her mouth and pressed her sweater dress into her hands.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I said.
Rose dressed and freshened up while I laid out lunch—smashed chickpea and avocado salad sandwiches. She shuffled in and perched on a stool at the island. I pushed the plate in front of her.
“How does that look?”
She peeked under the bread and smiled. “Looks delicious. I, uh, poked through your fridge a little earlier.”
“Good. Did you get breakfast?”
“Yeah, I had toast. Are you vegan?”
I sat beside her and cradled a mug of coffee. “Not strictly. A witch’s relationship to nature demands respect. That includes respect for animals. Sometimes we use meat in spellwork, though. Eating meat is sacred, especially raw meat or organ meat.”
She gagged a little. “Oh.” She noticed that I wasn’t eating and lowered her sandwich. “Not hungry?”
“Not at the moment.” I smiled and grazed my fingers up her back. I was hoping to distract her, which I did. I wasn’t yet ready to have that conversation: The conversation in which I explained how little I ate or slept, and how truly inhuman an old witch could become. Losing touch with life’s simple pleasures was a nightmare. Even sex, until Rose, had become meaningless to me in the last decade.
I wouldn’t be able to avoid that conversation for long, though. She would notice, I would explain, and then she would realize fully what she meant to me. I wondered if I would seem desperate then, like a vampire trying to suck the life out of her.
“You okay?” She tugged on my finger.
“Yes. I’m sorry. There’s a lot on my mind, and I’m not used to”—I gestured between us—“sharing my home. I’ve been alone for a long time.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” Her grin was infectious. “You’re very serious. Very broody.”
“Mm, and you’re just the opposite. It’s refreshing. Please, eat. There are some things I need to explain.”
She munched on her sandwich and I enjoyed vicariously. I took another minute to consider how to proceed.
“When we spoke yesterday,” I began, “at the café, I wasn’t entirely...” Honest? Forthcoming? She was staring at me, a piece of tomato dangling from her lip. I brushed it away. “Ah, clear. I need to be clear. You know I went to see the head of my coven today. Marion. The Maven.”
Rose’s expression was solemn. “You two are together?” she half-asked, half-stated.
I laughed. “What? No, Rose. She’s my aunt.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. I’m... single.” I stumbled over the weird mortal classification. “It’s different for us. Witches do pair off, we even marry sometimes, but it’s rare. A witch might not find a mate for decades, if ever. Sex is used for magic, or as a pleasant pastime.”
Watching Rose process that information, I decided not to detail my hedonistic youth. The combination of infinite wealth, boredom, and libido creates some interesting results.
“Anyway, my aunt—”
“The Maven,” Rose pronounced.
“Yes.”
“That’s badass,” she said. “Is she like, a witch queen? Are you a prince?”
I raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, Rose’s understanding of the coven was more accurate than I cared to admit.
“Sort of,” I allowed. “Covens are matriarchal. Most witches are female. Warlocks abused their gifts in the past. They lost their power to the church and government.”
“Rosemary and Sage said something like
that. Some stuff about Catholics.”
“Yes.” I summoned my patience. It wasn’t time for a history lesson, and yet there was no time like the present. Rose needed to know these things. She also needed to know that she was in mortal danger. “Mysticism once had a place in all religious and civic orders. There are connections between the freemasons and the ancient Egyptians, and of course between pagan rituals and Christian festivals. When it became fashionable to ignore the occult, to pretend that it was never a part of our creation, our gifts slipped away. Well, it was more brutal than that. We beat them out of ourselves, didn’t we? Self-flagellation, the witch trials, the burning of heretics...”
I began to pace alongside the island.
“Men were primarily responsible for that. Men ran the governments. Men ran the church. The women who kept the craft alive were forced to hide it. They wove it into legends and stories so that it became like the whisper of a ghost.” I gathered a breath. “You asked if all the Blackmanes were my family. I said no, but most of them are. When a witch wants a child, she can sleep with any mortal—it doesn’t matter. If the child is a girl, she usually possesses our gifts. The boys just... don’t. The only way to get a warlock is from the male issue of two full witches—that is, from a witch and another warlock. And even then, it’s not a sure thing.”
Rose followed me back and forth with her eyes.
“I told you my parents died.” I paused. “In a land dispute. And that your family made enemies with connections to my family. It didn’t seem important to tell you, since you were leaving.” I frowned at her. “The dispute was here, with my family.”
Her expression was blank.
“So,” I said cautiously, “your family, your coven—”
“Killed your parents,” she finished.
I grimaced. I had been hoping to avoid putting it that bluntly.
“It means nothing to me. I didn’t know them. Besides, Rose, the same is true for you.” I took her hands. “Your parents died in that dispute too. My family killed yours.”
She searched my eyes. Hers were fathomless. “That’s why you were supposed to kill me.”
I nodded.
“And it was your aunt who sent you to do it.”
Again, I nodded.
“But you weren’t the one at Rune’s cabin.”
“It was supposed to be me. It should have been. Marion got impatient and sent Rue instead. If I had gone—”
“Rue,” she whispered abstractedly, speaking the name of her victim for the first time. She looked at my chest, although she didn’t seem to see me. “She was your family too. I should never have come here.”
“Be that as it may, I’m not sorry you did.” I tugged her off the stool and gathered her against my chest. She was wooden in my arms. “I wouldn’t change anything. If I had gotten to your uncle first, I might have found a way to save him. I was trying to buy you time to get out of the state. It doesn’t matter, though. What happened was always going to happen. It was Rune’s time. It was Rue’s time, too—and we weren’t close. I don’t share the same bond with my family that other witches do. Mine wasn’t a... nurturing upbringing.” I shrugged. I hadn’t thought about these things for many decades, and the thoughts were not comforting or welcome. “It was educational. My earliest memories are of spellwork. I was often alone.”
She laid her hands on my chest and peered up at me. “When did you start...”
Murdering. She wouldn’t say it.
“Sixteen,” I said simply. “I was good at it. My psychic gifts lent themselves to”—I moved away from her, turning toward a painting—“making people want to...” I gestured.
“Want to what?”
“Do it themselves.” I felt absolutely nothing. “To take their own lives. That’s what I was planning to do to you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I smiled faintly, considering how small a thing had saved her.
“Your name, at first. I thought that I would be cursed if I killed you. That day at Ella’s, I was watching you from across the street. I was waiting for you. And when I felt your ward in the café, I assumed you were a witch or some witch’s property. I used that as an excuse to delay, but I think I had already made up my mind not to do it.”
Rose hugged me from behind. I flinched; I had neither heard her coming nor expected the affection.
“Oh, Thorn,” she whispered against my shoulder blade. She rubbed my back and side, the way one might soothe an animal or a child. “Did you think I would hate you because of what happened to my parents? Did you think I would be afraid of you because of what your family made you do?”
The answers to her questions were yes and yes. I stared resolutely at the painting above me: Ophelia lying in the river, looking like an angel, a part of the reeds and flowers. I was too proud to admit to those fears.
“My aunt is hunting you,” I said. “I told her I was searching for you. She thinks you’re hiding in Juniper Hollow, plotting revenge against our coven. She’s determined to kill you. That’s why you mustn’t go out—not ever. You’re barely safe here. I warded the house; other witches shouldn’t be able to get in, and they shouldn’t be able to hear us. Don’t make a fire when I’m not here, though. Don’t even go near the windows. And don’t cast, if you can help it.’”
Rose moved around to hug me. I didn’t know how to interpret the gesture—as fear, pity, forgiveness, or something else. I tucked her hair behind her ear. She touched my hand and then the side of my face.
“I’m not sure if I could ever hate you,” she said quietly. “I don’t care what happened between our families. I always thought... biological children must have this special bond with their parents, and I felt like I was outside of that. I don’t think so anymore though. I didn’t feel anything but pity when I met Rune. I wanted to, but I didn’t. And my adoptive parents have been so good to me, probably better than a lot of people’s biological parents. Honestly, the only time I’ve ever really felt like I belonged somewhere”—she slid her fingers into my hair—“has been here, with you.”
I held her face and lowered my lips to the top of her head. “You do belong with me.”
We held on to one another and I listened to her heart and her soft, sure breaths. After a while, she released me and looked around.
“So, I’m under house arrest,” she said.
“With me. Is that so bad?”
She pretended to think about it. I smirked and took her hand.
“I’ll show you around. I won’t go out often, though I do need to pretend to search for you. Eventually, I’m hoping Marion believes you’re gone.”
But what then? I couldn’t hide Rose in Juniper Hollow forever. She would never be able to live here, to work or practice magic here, and my life was in the valley. We could leave together, but Marion would be suspicious if I broke ties with the coven, and rightly so. She would seek me out. I would lead her directly to Rose.
One look at Rose told me that she was contemplating the same questions. I smiled and shook my head. No point thinking about that now.
She followed me from room to room, lingering over the art and photography, the carved masks and ceremonial relics. My home contained the worth of a small museum. She was silent until we reached my ritual room. By the way she hesitated, I knew she had explored the room earlier.
“Nothing bad will happen to you in here,” I said. “It’s all quite harmless.”
She lowered her eyes guiltily. “It seemed private.”
“Yes and no. Come in.”
As we entered the room, I sensed her earlier intrusion. A glance around confirmed that she had touched nothing, although I wouldn’t have cared either way. She released my hand and drifted toward the altar in the center of the room. Her eyes fixed on my athame.
“Thorn...” She knelt and reached for the black-handled blade.
I intervened swiftly. Last night, in my rush to ward the house and get back to her side, I hadn’t cleaned my blood from the knife.
Dark, dried flakes clung to the gleaming surface. I snatched the athame and deposited it in a chest of drawers, which contained my other casting implements.
“It’s a tool,” I explained quickly. “It’s not even used for cutting, strictly speaking.” I wondered if she had seen the blood. “It’s the, ah, masculine principle.” I returned with a chalice. “The feminine principle.” I offered the chalice, but Rose continued staring toward my chest of drawers.
“I saw that knife in my vision. You stabbed yourself with it.”
“Rose.” I laughed. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know; you tell me.”
“Okay, maybe in another hundred years I go mad and sacrifice myself. Maybe the vision was a portent. You’re a death witch. Visions like that aren’t unheard of.”
She didn’t look convinced. Frowning and pale, she ran her fingertips over the items on my altar: A few dried flowers and herbs, a mortar and pestle, candles, crystals, a boline, and a silver pentacle. The two halves of the citrine were there. I crouched beside her.
“I used this to find you.” I touched the broken crystal. “When you were in Boulder, staying with your friend. It helped me concentrate my energy.”
“Oh.” She nodded vaguely.
“You were in a bath. Imagine my... surprise.”
She gasped. A reluctant grin tugged at her lips. “Surprise, huh?”
“Pleasant surprise.” I brushed my mouth against her neck. “I was not indecent.”
“So you’re a gentleman?” She gave me an arch look.
“Wouldn’t go that far.” I chuckled and pulled back. The ritual room was not a place for sex, unless the sex was for spellwork.
Rose sighed wistfully and resumed trailing her fingers over the implements on the altar. “So I can’t even practice magic here?”
“Not in the house. Your gifts are new and unpredictable. If you cast something like you did the woods, Marion will feel it. Anyway, you wouldn’t want to practice magic in a house—not when you’re learning. Nature is the best place for meditating and casting.”
“Great.” She huffed. “Then I really can’t practice.”
“No?” I helped her up and led her to a painting on the wall. It was a large, long vista. The gilded frame matched the gold and green tones of the scene. A quicksilver stream wound through a forest of honey-colored leaves, dappled light, and ferns. The details were so vivid and the view so lush that the image seemed to breathe as we gazed into it. A small animal flitted from branch to branch. A dragonfly spun upward and temperate wind fanned our cheeks.