“Protection.” Gram directs her answer to Andrew.
“For or against?” Tate asks.
“Will someone take pity on the new girl to this secret society?” Sam’s moving past shock and grief into anger.
“We can explain more details later,” I console her. “What you need to know now is that Sarah’s the most powerful witch in Salem, Andrew’s father put a hex on him to keep him from finding love, and Tate is an empath on overdrive.”
“Oh.” Her eyes bug out. And we’re back to shock.
“And Andrew can start fires with his hands,” I add, because it’s cool. “Among other things.”
“Okay, sure. This is all perfectly fizzing normal.” Sam never swears so I translate the f word in my head to another one.
“For some of us, it is,” Andrew says.
“Oh sherbet-pants. I’m the Muggle, aren’t I?” Sam’s tears of disappointment spill down her cheeks.
“I’m not magical either. Neither is Gram.” I cast a glance at my grandmother, who turns her head to avoid my eyes. “Right, Gram?”
“Nothing good comes from magic,” she says. “Better to be ignorant than to invite evil to the dining table.”
“Not all magic is dark or negative,” Andrew speaks up from his spot opposite her.
“Tell that to Giles Corey who was pressed to death. Or his wife, Martha, who was hanged.” Gram uses her stern teacher voice. “Caught in a net of panic and hate.”
“Unfortunate, but they lived long, productive lives, didn’t they?” Tate sits up.
Gram’s expression at the comment could pickle cucumbers.
“Um,” I speak, but have no idea what to say next.
“Only one thing good came out of the Coreys being ensnared in the hysteria,” Gram continues, not answering Tate. “Their children had enough sense to get the hell out of Salem and move to this area to build a house and clear the land for a farm.”
“The Corey descendants? I thought this was the Bradbury farm.” Andrew scratches his cheek, leaving behind a sooty trail of ash from the poker.
“No, my husband moved in with my family after we married. We’re of the generation when a woman took her husband’s name, so I can understand your confusion. Ask the current locals about the Corey farm and you’ll get a blank stare, but this is my family’s land.”
“Well this is all very interesting, but the question I want answered is if Madison is witch.” Sam returns to her obsession. She’s a cat with a laser light on the floor.
“You want to say I told you so,” I mutter.
She hums as she studies my face. “Something about you is different. Maybe I have an intuition about magic, even if I don’t have my own powers.”
“I’m with Sam,” Andrew says from beside me.
“Me too,” Tate concurs.
“Traitors,” I grumble. “If words are spells and I’m a witch, you should all be afraid of the thoughts I’m not sharing right now.”
My friends chuckle at my expense. All of them. But Gram.
“I think this is a topic for the bright light of morning.” She pats the padded arms of her chair. “Instead of all this talk of witches and magic, we should play cards or something before dinner. I’m not making anything fancy. Grilled cheese and homemade soup with the last of the season’s tomatoes.”
“Always my favorite,” I say, standing. “Thank you.”
In my head, I’m grateful she’s changed the subject. It makes my heart ache seeing the hurt in Sam’s eyes. I’ve betrayed my best friend.
“It’s tradition. Now if you don’t mind, take Andrew into the cellar and pull a couple of jars. My knees hate those narrow steps.” Gram leaves no room for argument, rubbing her perfectly good kneecaps to emphasis her story.
I’ve always hated the basement here.
As a kid I refused to go downstairs after one of the cats closed the door at the top of the stairs behind me. The small windows only allow enough light to outline the monsters and ghosts lurking in the corners. Complete with two bare bulbs that stretch shadows rather than chase them away, the cellar is the creepiest room in the house.
Beside the attic, aka the room where disturbing dolls go to die.
Luckily nothing of importance, like tomato soup, is stored up there and I can pretend it doesn’t exist.
A shudder passes through me when I open the basement door and click the ancient switch to illuminate the bulbs. When I inhale, dank, fungal air fills my nostrils. I wonder if I can still hold my breath long enough to retrieve the soup.
In contrast to the chill that rises from the gloom, Andrew’s body warmth feels hot against my back.
“Is it as creepy once you get down there?” he asks softly near my ear.
“More so. When I was younger I’d hold my breath, run to the chest freezer, and back up the stairs before exhaling. All while trying not to touch anything and hopping across the rough floor like it was lava.”
“So she sends you down here to challenge you.” His voice holds admiration and a touch of nerves.
“Definitely. She kept the popsicles and ice cream down here on purpose.” The old wood squeaks when I hit the third step. Same as always. “Nothing to fear but fear itself.”
Thankfully, nothing scurries or slithers into the shadows when our feet hit the floor. Not that I look closely. I cross the small room with the low beamed ceiling as quickly as possible.
Bowed shelves line the far wall, each struggling to support the weight of all of the glass jars. Some hold sliced peaches and raspberry jams in pints. Larger quarts of beans, tomatoes, pickles, and asparagus rest on the bottom shelves. Soups and sauces take up the top of the case.
Stepping closer, I scan the labels. In the gloom, it’s difficult to differentiate the colors or read Gram’s scratchy lettering.
“Is this the original cellar?” Andrew stomps his foot and toes the packed earth floor with his boot.
“I’ve never asked, but the dirt and stones would say yes,” I answer without facing him. “Minestrone, navy bean, carrot … I’m not sure she even has tomato. This might be a trick. Why would she send us for soup if she knows she doesn’t even have it? Is carrot soup even a thing?” I peer at the lettering, trying to transform the word into tomato.
Warm arms wrap around my waist. His voice is low and impossibly sexy when he murmurs against my hair, “Or maybe she knew how badly I wanted to get you alone.”
Andrew’s scent envelops me as he places soft kisses on my neck. At the contact, I lean back to keep myself from turning into jelly.
Between pecks, he continues, “I don’t know the woman well, but you’re more than capable of carrying a couple of jars.”
“Hmm,” I hum with pleasure as his hands slowly turn me to face him.
“Probably the least romantic place imaginable, but I’m dying to kiss you right now.” Even in the darkness, his crystal eyes are visible enough for me to see his desire. His tongue peeks out and licks his full bottom lip.
Placing my hands on the soft wool of his sweater, I arch up to press my mouth against his. With my eyes closed, I forget about the cellar around us for the moment and lose myself in Andrew. The spark between us I always feel when we kiss or touch grows. With each tangle of our tongues and press of lips, I imagine it illuminating the room in beautiful soft blue light like a good fairy in a cartoon.
Curious, I open my eyes, and gasp.
Five
Andrew and I are still standing in my grandmother’s spooky cellar, but the room appears different.
We’re the same. Mostly.
The blue light I imagined in my head fills the small room with a soft glow. If I didn’t know to look for it, I could easily attribute it to the dust in the hazy light.
That’s not the only thing that’s changed.
Slowly, I shift my eyes to the walls of the room. Faint outlines of shelves now line the rest of the walls. Over my grandmother’s garden harvest are the ghosts of past jars. Above us, dried herbs and flow
ers line the beams in bundles of varying sizes. Every surface is covered with unfamiliar layers of objects.
I blink, hoping to clear the strange images from my vision.
“What do you see?” Andrew asks, his voice barely a whisper.
We’re alone down here, but I reply with the same quiet tone, “I’m not sure.”
“Describe it,” he softly commands. “Try.”
“The air has a blue shade to it and I can see the outlines of things that may have once been in this room, but aren’t now.”
“Like what?” He glances behind me.
“Bundled, dried herbs and jars containing liquids and more dried things. If I blink, I see the glass containers of soup and jams.”
“Anything else?” His fingers lightly skim my arms, sending warmth and goose bumps spreading throughout my body.
I step away from him and turn in a circle, studying the entire space. “The dirt floor is the same, but there’s a small, wooden table and three-legged stool in the corner that I’ve never seen down here before.”
Footsteps in the kitchen pound across the floor above us. Must be Tate’s heavy boots. Dust motes parachute down from the ceiling.
“Look up.” Andrew points to the ceiling.
Specks of dirt land on my face and in my eyelashes when I tilt my head back.
Blinking a few times, I try to unfocus my eyes. “Beams.
In the corner, something cream tucked between the beam and the stone of the foundation catches my attention. “What’s that?”
Andrew follows my finger to the beam. “I don’t see anything.”
“It looks like there’s a piece of paper tucked into the space between the beam and the floorboard above.”
“Show me.” He gently presses my lower back, encouraging me to walk.
I cross the room and reach my hand up, touching the very real beam. When I reach for the paper, my fingers touch the sticky threads of a spider web.
My eyes focus on the empty space. “Whatever was once there, is gone now.”
Andrew stands beside me. “Does anything stand out? Or seem brighter?”
“The herbs and the table are more clear, if that makes sense. And the paper seemed to glow brighter, but I don’t know if that’s because it’s white against the brown.”
“Do you see anything else?” With his height, he can more easily search the ceiling for hidden secrets.
Softening my focus, I let my gaze wander again. “What about the small leather book to the right of your fingers? It has a black cover bound by leather straps. About the size of your hand.”
He slides his palm along the rough-hewn wood. “Nothing there.”
I blink and the book disappears. “Gone.”
Wiping the dust on his sleeve, he states, “We’ll have to ask your grandmother. If she uses this room for storage, she’d know if something has gone missing.”
“If you haven’t noticed, she gets cryptic if you try to push for information.”
“That’s why I called my mom. As soon as we arrived, my powers faded away. I went outside and opened the gate to test the theory.”
“And?”
“Once I passed the stone wall, they returned like blood to a limb that’s fallen asleep. Crossed back across the gate. Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods, solemn. “Someone or something is protecting your family farm from magic.”
“Why?”
“That’s why I called Sarah.”
“What did your mom say?” My mind can’t process this.
“She’s on her way.” His lips curve in a shy smile. “Hope that’s okay.”
This is not the weekend I planned. I’m both relieved and a little disappointed. “The more the merrier.”
“Good. She’ll be here for dinner.” He softens the surprise with another sweet kiss.
If anyone can help us figure out what’s going on, it’s Salem’s most powerful witch.
* * *
Tate and Sam are pretending to play cribbage at the round kitchen table while Gram fusses around with a few dishes in the sink. It’s all completely normal. No blue haze, no visions of the past. The soft lights and warm fire make the room as cozy and homey as ever.
Needing to sit as I process what happened in the cellar, I pull a wood stool from the counter and perch on it.
“Let me do that for you, Mrs. Bra—Celeste.” Andrew corrects his error and flashes a warm smile at my grandmother.
She steps aside and grins at me. “Your grandfather liked to do the dishes, you know. Sign of a good man.”
“What took you so long in the basement?” Sam asks with a knowing grin. “You’re covered in dust smudges. Is that a spider web in your hair?”
Spider web equals spiders.
I frantically brush my hands over my head, discovering the sticky clumps.
“It’s only dust.” Andrew reassures me.
“Canoodling in the cellar? I can’t think of a less romantic room.” Gram shakes her head and tsks. “In my day, we took a walk. Or snuck off to the barn.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Tate says, laughing.
Sam’s eyes widen and she fights a smile while her cheeks heat. Glad my best friend shares my current state of embarrassment.
My eyes cut to Tate who looks too amused. When he glances at me, my mouth curves with a smile.
“Stop,” I tell him.
Pressing his lips together, he lifts his eyebrows in faux innocence.
A sharp knock at the front door followed by a gust of cold wind that makes the fire dance startles all of us.
“Hello?” Sarah’s familiar voice calls out from the mudroom at the front of the house.
“Who’s here? Did someone leave the gate open?” Gram grips the knife she’s using to cut cheese a little tighter.
Andrew turns to greet his mother after turning off the faucet. “We’re back here.”
“Andrew left it open for his mother after he called her,” I explain to my grandmother.
With a heavy sigh, her hold on the knife loosens and she rests it on the wood cutting board. “And so it begins.”
No one else hears her words, and before I can ask what she means, Sarah steps into the room.
Her bright eyes, twins to Andrew’s, crease in the corners when she smiles. The bun she usually wears is gone and her loose dark hair drapes over her shoulders, making her appear younger and more innocent than usual.
“Sorry for the unexpected late arrival, but the snow’s started sticking and the roads are slick. I didn’t want to wait until the morning. Winter is officially tomorrow, you’d think Mother Nature would be more patient,” Sarah continues as she removes her coat and drapes it over the couch near the fire to dry.
I glance at Andrew.
“You must be Sarah Wildes,” Gram says, stepping around me and extending her hand. “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“Always?” I ask, confused.
Sarah rubs her hands on her arms to warm them before gently grasping both of Gram’s with hers. “The pleasure is all mine. To meet the descendants of the Coreys is a dream. Madison introduced herself as a Bradbury, so I didn’t know the connection until today.”
I watch their exchange while trying to process their warm greeting and mutual fangirl gushing. As far as I know, Gram has never hung around Salem, and I doubt Sarah spends her free time driving two lane country roads and stopping by random old farmhouses that aren’t even visible through the woods.
“You two know of each other?” I interrupt their conversation.
Sarah waits for my grandmother to answer.
“I have an interest in history.” Gram’s reply and voice are clipped.
“Oh, Celeste. The clock is ticking. I think we both know the time for pretending has passed.” Sarah pats Gram’s arm and then greets Sam and Tate, who’ve stopped playing their game to observe us.
Like a gusty breeze, Sarah blows around the kitchen, filling the electric kettle and turn
ing it on. “Are those jars of tomato soup? My favorite. This year’s garden bounty blew my mind. So much abundance.”
Sarah rambles on about vegetables while Gram sets a large enameled cast iron pot on the stove to heat the soup. Sarah helps open the Mason jars with the dull edge of a butter knife.
Feeling overwhelmed, I rub my temples with my pointer fingers.
“How’s your head?” Sarah asks me, setting down a hot cup of minty smelling tea in front of me. “Andrew mentioned you had a headache after my unsavory ex showed up the other night. Has it returned?”
“Surprisingly, I haven’t thought about my headache since we arrived on the farm.” I mentally poke around my head to see if it still aches. “Seems fine now.”
She presses her hand against my arm for a few seconds. “I have a very good feeling everything will be better soon.”
Andrew brushes his hand down my arm. “Did you lie to my mom? Or is your headache still gone?”
“My brain feels a little bruised, like I have a headache hangover, but otherwise, I’m fine. Except. You know.”
Sarah turns from the table, her face filled with concern. “What happened?”
“I saw something in the cellar. Objects that weren’t there. And a blue haze.”
Glass shattering on the wood floor echoes in the silence of my statement.
Gram’s inhale is audible. “Impossible.”
Tate and Sam jump from their chairs to assist with the cleanup.
“Are you hurt?” Moving to get down from the stool, I place a foot on the floor, ready to help.
“I’m fine.” Gram’s voice shakes. “I’m a silly old woman with slippery fingers.”
Her tongue and words try to reassure us, but I see a panic scurry around behind her eyes.
“Gram?” I ask, worry coating the single word as tears burn in the corners of my eyes at her sudden nervousness.
She shakes her head. “Fine. I guess we don’t have a choice anymore. Our family has done everything to keep the past from hurting anyone now, or in the future. History won’t repeat itself. Not while I have a say in what happens to my family.”
The steel in her spine is evident as she resolves herself. With a quick glance at Sarah, Gram continues, “It would appear now is the time to share our history.”
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