by Kayti McGee
If this was the last time I got out for another couple of months, I wanted to enjoy it. Too soon, though, I was there. And then, despite all the hours spent in the painting, time telescoped. Even though the fallen leaves were hidden by several inches of powder, I could still see that poor pit ripped apart in his yard.
His door was closed, but I could still hear his broken voice inviting me in.
I was alone, but I could still feel the terror of being greeted by a witch that planned to bring death—and for one of us, did.
Knowing that I, too, was a death witch didn’t absolve the fear of being thrown beyond the veil at someone else’s hand. Knowing that there is an afterlife didn’t make the terror at the coming death of the me that was me any less.
Remembering that here, on these plain pine boards, I took a life, didn’t make me feel powerful. It made me feel like the kind of monster I wanted to hide from. But how can anyone hide from themselves? I supposed that was what mortals and muggles did every day. Echoes of the past reverberated in my mind as I explored the cabin. Sometime since that night, the heat had been cut. My breath solidified in the air as I walked around.
A house is only truly haunted by the past. Mine was staring me in the face in here. Failure, killer. Killer, failure.
Somewhere in this haunted house, a grimoire awaited me, if I was lucky. But what claim did I have to luck? A failure, a killer. Responsible for two deaths. What would Thorn say? That fate had set me on my path; the gods had plotted this. That it wasn’t me, it was Fate. Standing here, in the remnants of the sticky red mess that once was Rue, I couldn’t believe that.
I had done this.
Me, alone.
Fate may have brought me to Thorn, but after that, we alone were responsible for destroying the lives in our paths. We weren’t good witches. We weren’t wicked, either. Maybe there wasn’t such a thing as either one. Maybe all anyone could do was walk a middling path, trying to do less harm than not. I blinked, and the corpse of my imagination vanished from the floorboards in front of me.
They became as blank as the walls.
No more runes, in Rune’s home. It broke my heart that he had worked so hard on them, when they had been so powerless.
That he had been so powerless.
I wasn’t completely certain that my newfound powers would make it obvious when my fingers touched a grimoire, but as the only remaining member of Rune’s family, I figured I had a decent chance. I began in his bedroom, trailing my touch along everything.
Here was were he slept. Here was where he must have dreamed of his dead sister. Was there power here? No, the pillows contained only sorrow. Same with the blankets.
The photo albums took time. Not only because I felt I had to place my hands on each picture, but because I wanted to memorize them as well. It would have been so easy to have stolen them, but it would also have been obvious. And this Maven that Thorn was so reluctant to tell me about would certainly notice if all the mementos suddenly disappeared.
Of all times of year, this one had to be when I was here. When my heart felt rent in two between my witch blood and my mortal family. When I knew I needed to reach out to my adoptive family, but also that doing so would only put them in danger. When all I really wanted was to take all of my clothes off and howl at the moon until I felt the balance between humanity and nature discover a tipping point within my body.
The kitchen’s coffee cups were not spellbound.
My uncle liked good coffee, despite his obvious poverty. My eyes filled and spilled over. He hadn’t deserved this.
The crocheted afghan was not spellbound.
That one was a disappointment, because it had seemed like a really solid possibility. Hiding in plain sight, handmade. I wrapped it around my shoulders anyways while I kept touching things. It felt like a hug.
Nothing needed to be hidden in plain sight, though. If my childhood diet of Nancy Drew novels had taught me anything, it was how to find a hidden compartment. I walked around the living room, knocking on the walls and pressing on each knot in the wood. Nothing. And I was running out of time.
A bell rang in my memory.
Time.
What had Rune said to me? His last words. Something about time. “Just in time.” I hadn’t been, of course, and he knew it as well as I did. On the wall, across from the sofa, hung a clock. It wasn’t an antique, wasn’t beautiful. It looked like the same kind of clock that hung in every classroom I’d ever been in. Functional and boring. Designed for the singular purpose of telling time, no thought to aesthetic. I walked over and took a deep breath before placing my hand on the glass front.
It shattered beneath my fingertips, but it didn’t feel like shards of glass breaking. It felt like a wave breaking on the shore, and as the feeling receded, so did the glamour. Pinned between my hand and the wall was now a small, thick, leatherbound book that looked old as hell. Bingo.
Time was up, I had to leave before Thorn got home from his ritual. The small matter of explaining how I’d gotten the grimoire was a matter I could think about as I shadow-hopped my way back up the mountain.
Yet I couldn’t stop myself from opening the book of shadows. I just wanted one little glimpse of my magical family history. I held it in my hands, relishing the feel of the butter-soft leather, and let it fall open.
To Call Upon the Sidhe: A Receipt By Bridget Brennan
I closed the book. As independent a woman as I liked to think myself, I wasn’t calling upon any of the Fair Folk without Thorn’s explicit instruction. But now I knew a new secret. My family name was Brennan. Rose Brennan. It sounded poetic, something I was becoming more and more prone to these days, it seemed like. I only let myself jump and squeal once before I tucked the little book into my waistband like a gun.
And in some ways, wasn’t it?
I didn’t know that much about grimoires, exactly, but between my readings and Thorn’s vague monologues, I’d gathered that not just was it a collection of tried-and-true spells, but that it almost functioned as a battery, collecting remnants of the power expended in casting them, storing it and powering the magic.
And what was a fully-powered spell but a loaded gun? Except this kind, my clumsy ass wasn’t likely to accidentally trigger.
Back outside, I repeated my spell to blend in. I located a dark shadow to slip into. From there, I’d take the same sliding, darting path I took down. Except the shadow disappeared. I looked up, expecting to find the moon had disappeared behind clouds, but it shone down as brightly as before. I returned my gaze to the ground to find every shadow was gone. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
This wasn’t natural. And I knew the feeling of being watched. Could Thorn have gotten home early and decided to scare me? The second I thought it I knew it wasn’t true. Even when he was angry with me, his eyes still held kindness. The holes being drilled into me were pure malice.
On cue, two new shadows appeared, people-shaped and darker than night. They glided towards me as I tried to simultaneously keep my emotions at bay and also climb out of my skin in fear. My heart began to race. What spell, what words? I tried to remember my Latin, decided fuck it, tried to remember my English. That didn’t work either. My thoughts were paralyzed.
They grew closer. I pressed my fingernails into the palms of my hands and squeezed until the pain blocked overrode my fear. “Vive et vivas,” I murmured, the first words that flew into my head. Live, that I might live. I felt the tattoo on my chest grow warm, Thorn’s protections growing stronger. They wouldn’t be strong enough, I could feel the power coming off of these witches in cold, sharp-edged waves.
I should have spent more time practicing.
I shouldn’t have come here at all.
I tried to remember how I had killed Rue, with an outstretched hand and a feeling of rage. I held up a hand towards the witches that were only a few yards away from me now and waited to feel the humming that meant the power had channeled down to my fingertips.
It didn
’t come, and I could feel the black creeping into my mind, blacker than night, all the missing shadows. It was in my vision, bleeding in from the edges.
They chanted and I couldn’t hold out any longer. My hand stayed outstretched as I fell into the blackness, only the name of my lover left in my mouth as all my magic failed me.
Nineteen
Thorn
I arrived at the egregore late, midway through the mummer’s play. A forest bonfire spit sparks toward the canopy. About forty witches and a smattering of warlocks formed a loose circle around the fire. The air in the clearing was summer warm, the work of Marion’s will. Most of my family members had shed their coats and shirts. We were indistinguishable one from another. Even Marion, standing in the ring of onlookers, was simply dressed in a linen smock.
The scent of ale and cakes filled the air, the richer tang of blood beneath it. Several witches sang to accompany the play. Those watching swayed and chanted and their eerie, spellbinding tune drew me in. I shrugged off my coat and tossed my shirt to the earth. No one so much as glanced at me as I slid into the crowd.
Gavin was playing the doctor and a young witch named Meshia was the sacrifice. Over the years, our coven had elaborated substantially on the mumming play, and we did not perform it exclusively at midwinter. We had added a number of characters to our rendition: Angels, devils, forest animals, and old gods. At present, fourteen witches representing the Suit of Swords were performing an elegant sword dance around the fire. The flats of their blades flashed in the firelight. On many occasions, I had partaken in that dance. We dancers all agreed upon one thing: That it was almost impossible, at the time of the sacrifice, to resist actually plunging our blades into the actress.
The dancers whirled like dervishes, their costumes flaring and twisting perilously close to the fire. Meshia, in convincing terror, flitted away from them. Her muslin skirts licked at the points of the blades. Gavin pursued the ring of dancers, a flask clutched in his hands. When Meshia was slain, he would use the potion to resuscitate her. But not yet. Not yet. The play’s whole thrill was this dance of death, and its climax would come when the sword-bearers encircled and impaled their prey.
Someone pressed a glass of ale into my hand. I nodded my thanks without taking my eyes off the play. I could not help but think of Rose in this dangerous valley, dancing one step ahead of her enemies. In shrill, increasingly discordant couplets the witches sang Meshia’s lines—lines of fear and resignation, fight and fate. The sword-bearers snatched at her garments, tearing away long white strips. Theirs were lines of lust and death. The pageant was frankly erotic. Meshia would be bare by the time of her sacrifice. Already, she wore only scraps.
Some of the witches around me embraced and kissed. Others pawed at each other on the forest floor. Rose, I thought, my head full of longing. If only I had Rose with me here. I would have pressed her against a tree and hiked up her dress.
The sword dancers had cornered Meshia and now circled her like wolves. They dragged their weapons along her skin. She was lambent, vibrant. I pushed toward the front of the throng. The urge to rescue her compelled me; the urge to see her blood on the ground constrained me. For me, the height of desire was exactly that: A mad place between life and death. Without casting, the Blackmanes had already summoned a vast amount of energy to the clearing. Our collective strength sang through me.
I stared, entranced, as the dancers drew back their blades. If all things went according to plan, they would not in fact impale Meshia. They would impale an illusory likeness of Meshia while she slipped into the woods to rejoin us later. Most of the time it worked. Sometimes there were accidents. I held my breath. The air in the clearing became cool and still, jerking me away from the spectacle. Pain circled my wrist. Rose! Her face burst into my mind. She was in danger. She was alone in the dark. She was falling, my name on her lips.
I left the gathering of witches instantly, melting into the shadows. My heart fluttered strangely as I followed the beacon that was the bracelet I had given Rose. A circle of bone and a strand of yarn... wake me in my grave if she should come to harm...
If she should come to harm. She had lied to me and snuck out of the house, or else our game was up and Marion had sent witches to search my home. But no, I hadn’t felt my ward failing. It was Rose—Rose had disobeyed me.
The tattoo that I had given her and the bracelet guided me to her. With the strength of the egregore still rushing through me, I moved doubly fast. I cut out of the darkness in time to see her falling.
“No,” I snarled. Sometimes, a spell is cast. Other times, it is an order. Still other times, life itself is the spell. I had been living in a spell since meeting Rose. Our dance was like the mummer’s dance. It was a death dance. I knew that now.
Rose’s body ceased to fall; she hung in the air as if she were falling through water, her hair floating around her. I saw the book clasped in her hands. Anger rumbled in my chest. I placed myself between her body and the approaching figures, whom I immediately recognized as Angelica and Eilus. They were two of Marion’s most talented colleagues. They had steeled their minds against an attack from Rose, but not from me. I felt the moment their confidence and casting hitched, the moment they recognized me, and in that fragment of opportunity I tore out their thoughts.
“Sine mente,” I said. Their minds turned to empty eggshells. I crushed them with one motion of my hand. It shouldn’t have been so easy, but the witches’ love and trust toward me had opened their minds to my influence. I did not allow myself to second guess the action. I gave no ground to guilt as Angelica and Eilus dropped, lifeless, to the earth. I had already made the choice between Rose and my family.
I lifted Rose from where she was suspended in the air.
“Thorn,” she whispered, her voice thick. Two miles up the mountainside, the swooping and screeching sword dancers stilled. The lovemaking, casting, and chanting scraped to a stop. My spell had sent out a dark wave—as had the fall of Angelica and Eilus. And those two witches were not dead. Not exactly. They were worse off, perhaps: Empty, never to think or cast again. They were husks. If I’d thought I had a moment to spare, I would have finished the job. Instead, I was fervently spelling the clearing to rid any trace of my presence. I spoke the words beneath my breath and walked my footfalls backward. I stepped over Angelica’s body and winced. She had always been kind to me. She wasn’t remote and demanding like Marion or fanatical like Imogen. Nevertheless, her life was the cost of my fealty to Rose.
Having finished my spell, I spoke the word for home and carried myself and Rose there without taking a step.
It was exhausting, demanding spellwork, and I’d had no time to prepare for any of it, and my work wasn’t even done. I laid Rose on my bed and pried the grimoire from her fingers. That woke her. Her eyes snapped open and fixed on my angry face.
“No!” she said, reaching for the book.
Rage squeezed at my throat. We were in trouble now, in real and imminent danger, because she had disobeyed me. I had effectively killed two of my family members. Marion would no longer honor my request to keep Rose a secret from the coven, I knew that much. I might even be implicated in the ensuing manhunt. And it was all for this, a book of spells Rose shouldn’t have been worried about needing.
I regarded the strange little tome in my hand. Ah, but we might need it now—that grim possibility passed through my mind.
“Hey, give me that... it’s...” Rose sat up and steadied herself. She reached for the book again. I shuddered and pressed her back against the headboard. At last, she seemed to grasp my expression. She shrank slightly. “I had to...”
Whatever paltry excuse she made for her behavior, I didn’t hear it. My head swam. My vision blurred and cleared and spun once about the room as if I’d had too much to drink. Too much casting, too little meditation, and not enough sacrifice. I was in no state to face my family, which was exactly what I needed to do.
“You have placed me”—my voice shook, my teeth clenched
—“in an impossible position.”
“What... what happened?” She tried to touch my face. I recoiled. Instead of saying something I would inevitably regret, I withdrew from the room and locked the door behind me. I spelled it shut with a simple, sure incantation. It was my house, after all, and it responded to my will. The room would never let her out.
I glared at the door, then at the grimoire in my hand. It was small enough that I could clasp it against one palm, but thick and stout so that it threatened to topple open. It resisted my grasp, radiating a clammy aura down my arm. I scowled at the book, but I couldn’t deny its ancient strength and my own profound jealousy. Rose had found something I would never possess.
The doorknob jostled.
“Thorn!” she called. The knob shook again, then the door rattled in the frame. “What the hell? What are you doing?”
I still didn’t trust myself to speak, so I walked away. She could throw a tantrum as loud and violent and magical as she wanted. Without her grimoire, she had no hope of even being heard in my room.
For the time being, I hid the grimoire in plain sight, wedged on a shelf among the many books in my library. Then, with the same urgency and dread as before, I stepped back out into the cold dark and spirited toward Rune’s cabin.
For me, the cabin had become a nightmarish place—a place where I had nearly lost Rose, twice, and a place where witches died. It might be the place I died, if I wasn’t careful. It had also become the latest addition to Juniper Hollow’s impressive list of “haunted” locales. The area around the cabin was cordoned off with police tape. News stories about Rose’s charred car, and the mysterious deaths of Rune Underwood and Rue Blackmane, were proliferating wildly. There was gossip around town, too, and online. People spoke about old grudges and supernatural vendettas, and the rumors, at times, circled curiously close to the truth.