Divorce, Divination and Destiny

by Melinda Chase

  “Well, call her up,” Mom urged, pressing Grams up from the seat and ushering her off to the kitchen to make this call.

  I sat back on the couch, though, trying to quell the bit of anxiety that had risen within me.

  This woman was rumored to have fae blood in her veins. And she knew about hybrids. For the first time, I might actually get some answers about why I was the way I was, and to be completely honest, it was terrifying to me.

  But also exhilarating. Even if Marcella was hundreds of generations removed from her fae ancestors, she was still like me in some way. She’d be the first one I’d ever met.

  Three days later, we were all standing on the porch, waiting for Marcella to arrive. She’d agreed to come immediately when Grams explained the multi-layered situation and had promised to arrive at our cottage at precisely three o’clock on Sunday afternoon.

  How she could be so exact, none of us really knew.

  Grams was fussing with the skirt and blouse she’d donned that morning, flattening her hands along it over and over again, as if there were some invisible wrinkles she’d missed with the iron. I wasn’t entirely sure what about Marcella had made Grams so nervous, but Mom had told me not to ask.

  “Your Grams doesn’t really associate with people from her childhood,” Mom had explained. “She won’t talk about why, but I remember the one time her cousin had visited us. I thought she was going to have a psychotic break any minute.”

  I was looking over at Grams out of the corner of my eye when I suddenly heard a big rustling in the woods next to us. It was as if a windstorm had picked up but only made about three trees shake with its force. The rest of the woods were perfectly still, untouched by the strangely selective wind. I watched as the green leaves started to bend together and whirl around, creating a portal in the very tops of the trees.

  “Here she comes,” Grams said.

  Suddenly, two feet appeared, clad in black leather combat boots, and followed by a giant squealing. “Wheeee!” The voice was high pitched and childlike and completely threw me off. And then, out popped the rest of the woman, feet forward with her arms up in the air like a child coming down a favorite slide.

  Bang!

  She slammed to the ground, having fallen at least twenty feet, and kicked up all sorts of dirt as she did so.

  “Oh, my God!” Mom and I both gasped at once. The two of us rushed over to see if she was alright, but Grams just stood there, laughing to herself.

  “You always did know how to make an entrance, Marcella,” Grams announced.

  Marcella popped up, brushing dirt off of her ensemble as if the twenty-foot tumble she’d just taken was absolutely no big deal.

  Once I got a good look at her, my jaw popped open, and I had to force myself to stifle a gasp. The woman didn’t look a day over forty-five. But it wasn’t even the fact that her face definitely did not match her age that made me gasp. It was the entire ensemble she wore. In fact, she looked like the Wicked Witch of the East, straight out of Oz. Save for the ruby slippers, of course.

  Marcella wore a long, black dress with wide sleeves that swung down her sides, catching grass and burrs in it. The dress had a deep V-neck crisscrossed with a piece of thread, showing off her very pale skin. Striped, purple-and-black leggings covered her legs, and the black combat boots on her feet added a dark, emo touch to the entire outfit.

  Marcella had long, thick, brown hair that reached all the way down to her waist, and dark, smooth, brown skin. Her lips were a deep purple to match her stockings, and her eyes sparkled with the mirth of a child.

  “Hello, hello!” she sang, approaching Mom and me with a massive smile. “You must be Elle and Shannon. I can’t believe I get to meet you!”

  “Me neither,” Mom replied, sticking her hand out for a shake.

  Marcella ignored it, though, and instead went straight in for a hug, wrapping her arms around Mom in a vice so tight it almost looked painful. Mom’s green eyes went wide, and she silently pleaded at me for help over Marcella’s shoulder.

  Before I could do a thing, though, it appeared it was my turn to receive a deathly tight hug.

  “And Shannon!” Marcella gasped, spinning around and grabbing me.

  The moment her skin touched mine, my entire body was shocked, as if a bolt of lightning had shot down from the sky and went straight to me like I was metal.

  “Ah!” I cried, pushing away from the witch in annoyance. “What did you do that for?”

  “Me?” Marcella laughed as if the fact that I’d just been basically electrified was absolutely no big deal. “Well, I didn’t do a thing. That’s the fae blood, dear.”

  “The fae blood?” I asked. “I didn’t feel like that when a real fae touched me.”

  “Of course not,” the witch waved her hand at me as if that response were obvious. “That’s because she was a pure fae. You and I aren’t. Although, from the way you just jumped back from me, I’d guess you have a lot more fae blood in you than you realize.”

  “No, I know exactly how much,” I retorted. “A quarter. My grandfather was a fae.”

  “Oh, Adora, you little devil!” Marcella squealed, skipping over to Grams like they were two old besties. “You landed a fae!”

  “And then lost him,” Grams replied.

  “Dear, that is sad.” Marcella patted Grams’s cheek, and for the first time, I could tell that she was much older than her looks let on. “Well, shall we go inside?” With that, Marcella marched into our cottage like she owned the place.

  I was starting to really like her. She’d cultivated a devil may care attitude that reminded me a lot of my mom. Although, judging from the expression on Elle McCarthy’s face, she would not appreciate that comparison.

  Half an hour later, we were all gathered around the kitchen table sipping on Diet Cokes and listening to Grams and Marcella wax poetic about the 1940s.

  “Oh, and the parties!” Marcella was saying, looking dreamily up at the ceiling. “Do you remember those, Dora? They were so much fun!”

  “More fun than that horrendous nickname,” Grams replied. “You know, I met the boy I lost my virginity to at one of those parties.”

  “Grams!” I gasped, slapping my hands over my ears. I didn’t care how old I was. There was not a single cell in my adult body that wanted to know anything about my grandmother’s sex life.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she chuckled.

  “Let an old woman reminisce,” Marcella ordered. “Those were some good times.”

  “Yes, they were,” Grams replied with a soft smile.

  Silence fell over us, and Mom and I exchanged a look, trying to figure out just when it would be a good time to bring up the issue at hand.

  “You want to know about the halflings,” Marcella said suddenly, looking at Mom and me with knowing brown eyes.

  “Yes,” Mom nodded without hesitation. “Mama told us you knew one?”

  “A long time ago,” Marcella nodded. Then, she looked straight at me. It was like everyone else in the room had disappeared, and it was just the two of us. She was talking only to me now, and I could tell. “Halflings are very different than what I am, you know. My fae blood is generations removed. In truth, the only evidence of it appears in our ages. The members of my family live to be around four hundred, generally. That’s nothing compared to a fae’s life, though, and I would suppose the same would be true for a halfling.”

  “So is the one you knew still around?” I asked. My breath was so shallow it was nearly nonexistent now. It was one thing to have read about another like me. But to meet one? That would be another thing entirely.

  “No.” Marcella shook her head, dashing my hopes away instantly. “He died. The Council hunted him, just as they will hunt you if they have not started already.”

  “The Hunter’s Council,” I replied.

  “Yes.” Marcella finally looked away from me. “I suppose I should start at the beginning, though.” Marcella paused, picked up her soda, and downed it all in one go lik
e it was a shot. Then, she slammed it back down onto the table and met each of our gazes with her dark brown eyes.

  “I knew you were a halfling because our blood shares a bond,” she started, “but that had only happened to me once before. I met a woman in the late nineteenth century. She showed up at the ranch that I owned with my late husband, ragged and exhausted. The moment my skin touched hers, lightning shot through us both. And, at that moment, I knew. She said she’d been on the run for over a century, ditching the Hunter’s Council the entire time. Of course, at the time, I was still a witch who didn’t know very much about the world, and I assumed she had to be fae.”

  “But she wasn’t,” I sighed. “She was half-fae. And that was why they wanted her dead.”

  “Yes,” Marcella nodded grimly. “The Council isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Actually, as it turns out, they’re kind of a bunch of jerks. And they don’t like what they don’t know. Halflings are unknown to them and to everybody. But one thing I know for sure: if you’re anything like Alessandra, you’ve got more power in your pinky finger than any other witch will ever hope to have.”

  “Wait!” I gasped. “Alessandra? That was her name?”

  “Yes,” Marcella nodded. “Do you know who she is?”

  “I read about her in a diary,” I explained. “A Hunter named Rudolfo was supposed to kill her over a hundred years before you ever met her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

  “She mentioned him,” Marcella said sadly. “He was a real stand-up guy, according to her. The Council killed him for dissenting.”

  “Some Council,” Grams growled.

  My head was spinning at a million miles an hour. Alessandra had been alive almost a hundred and fifty years ago. She’d already spent almost two centuries on the run.

  Was it possible she could still be alive?

  “She’s not alive, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Marcella said, catching onto my thoughts.

  Tears pricked my eyes. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d gotten my hopes up in those few seconds.

  “What happened to her?” Mom asked, her voice slightly shaky.

  “She killed herself,” Marcella replied, biting her lip and trying not to get too emotional over what I was sure had to be a terribly difficult memory. “About three years after she came to us. You have to understand that she was alone in the world. She’d never found anyone else like her, and the people she loved kept dying. Some were killed, and some were just old. Nearly immortal beings aren’t meant to be in this world.”

  My heart pounded in my chest, and emotion threatened to overtake me. I heard my breath catch in my throat, but I didn’t feel it happen. It was like my body was somewhere else, like my mind had detached from my physical being and just floated off into space.

  Nearly immortal beings aren’t meant for this world. The words rang in my head over and over again. Alessandra wasn’t meant for this world.

  Which meant that I wasn’t, either.

  13

  Marcella let her words just hang in the air, probably having figured out that there really wasn’t much else she could say on the subject without sending me spiraling into my thoughts.

  “Well, that’s very helpful information,” I finally said, smiling at her graciously. It was totally fake, but I hoped she wouldn’t notice. “Now, Grams mentioned you’d be able to help us find our grimoire. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Sure.” Marcella nodded and stood from the table, probably just as anxious as I was to put that conversation in the past.

  “Our tools are out in the back,” Grams said, leading Marcella toward the backyard.

  “Hey,” Mom whispered, grabbing my shoulder and stopping me before I could follow.

  “I’m okay, I promise,” I told her, preempting the question I knew was coming.

  Mom analyzed my face with her bright-green eyes, trying to find some way to call me on the lie.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Because I know this whole halfling thing’s been weighing on you, and what Marcella said wasn’t exactly comforting.”

  “I’m sure,” I told her seriously. “Just because all the rest of my kind seem to have a miserable time, it doesn’t mean I will.”

  “Of course, but Shannon—”

  “Nope, don’t go there,” I told her seriously, my voice thick with emotion. “We know Laslow’s alive, right? At some point, I’m going to find him, and I’m going to take something from him, jewelry or clothing or a lock of his freaking hair, and I’m going to bring it to you and Grams. You’ll do the binding spell she did to you, and all of this will be over. Simple.”

  I could tell Mom wanted to say a lot more. She probably wanted to tell me that, no, it wasn’t nearly as simple as that.

  But she chose not to. She and I both knew this wasn’t the time. We couldn’t do the binding spell if we didn’t even have the grimoire, so for now, there was no point in continuing the discussion.

  I could feel her eyes on me, though, as we walked out to the garden shed. She was trying to stare a hole into the back of my head so she could unlock it and read all of my thoughts, but it wouldn’t work.

  Alessandra hadn’t had people who loved her, but I did. And for the sake of Grams and my mom, I was determined not to let the same things that happened to her happen to me.

  Marcella was already hard at work by the time Mom and I got into the shed. We’d only been a few minutes behind, but it seemed like we must have been hours late to the little party she and Grams were having. For a second, Mom and I both stopped in the doorframe to watch the two seasoned witches work.

  Grams had the widest, brightest smile on her face, and it instantly smacked all of the dark thoughts from my head, sending them far, far away.

  The center of the shed had been magically cleared away, and there was now a big, burning fire right in the middle, complete with logs and a little stand for the large, black cauldron boiling over it.

  Yes. An actual cauldron had appeared right in my garden shed, like something straight out of Shakespeare.

  Marcella and Grams were having the time of their lives, dancing around the cauldron in all of their witchy glory, throwing in ingredient after ingredient, and then stirring it with a giant iron spoon.

  “And a dash of pixie dust!” Grams announced, tossing the dust into the pot like a chef tosses salt onto a dish. “What’s next?”

  “Hmmm,” Marcella hummed, consulting a fat, old book splayed out on the table next to her. I knew just by looking at it that it was her grimoire.

  It struck me as funny that we needed her grimoire to find our own. Magic could be so strange sometimes.

  “Ahh, Shannon, there you are!” Grams cried out, spotting Mom and me in the doorframe. “Come here and learn from one of the best!”

  “Oh, hush, Adora,” Marcella chuckled. “I’m not the best.”

  “I did say one of, Marcella,” Grams shot back with a smirk. “We all know you’re not the cream of the crop just yet.”

  “Who is?” I asked as I stared over the edge of the cauldron. It bubbled and fizzed like some strange mix between boiling lava and soda pop and started to creep up over the edge toward me. The color was a deep burgundy, like a good pantsuit or a fancy set of curtains.

  “Careful!” Grams gasped, yanking me away from the edge. “That thing’ll eat you alive if you let it.”

  “What?” I demanded, admittedly a little freaked. I turned my wide eyes on Marcella, who glanced over the edge of the pot and shrugged like it was no big deal.

  “Yeah, I added some goblin venom to it,” she replied. “They’re not really fans of witches. They do have a song about us, though!”

  “Uh-uh, that’s not a song,” Mom pointed out. “More like a war cry.”

  “How’s it go?” I asked her curiously.

  Mom clapped her hands and started to sing.

  Witches, witches, good to eat

  Right from their heads way down to their feet


  Catch some witches and you’ll have a feast

  But careful not to forget the beast.

  “Forget the beast?” I laughed. “What does that mean?”

  “No one really knows,” Grams replied. “Goblins are dumb fools. And, by the way, I’ve never known one that eats witches.”

  “Known many, have ya?” Marcella asked with a quirked brow.

  “One or two,” Grams shrugged, hiding a smirk.

  The old woman had a million untold stories in her.

  Marcella spun around and gave the cauldron another stir, knocking down the bit that had started to crawl up toward me.

  “You guys didn’t answer my question,” I reminded them. “Who’s the number one witch?”

  “My mother,” Marcella sighed.

  Suddenly, her stirring became a lot faster. Actually, it sped up so much that the potion inside the cauldron turned into a whirlpool, spinning around and around and around like the eye of a storm.

  If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that Marcella did not enjoy talking about her mother.

  Before I could even make a polite attempt to change the subject, though, she yanked the iron stirring spoon from the pot with gusto, sending bits of burgundy potion flying in every direction. One bit nearly hit Mom in the face, but she ducked to avoid it. Another little droplet smacked right into my hair, bringing with it the most horrible stench, like someone had opened a sewer and dumped it right over my head.

  Quickly, I ran two fingers through my hair and tossed the potion out. It stuck together like a glob of glue and found a new home right in the center of the fire.

  “It’s done,” Marcella announced ominously, holding the tip of the iron spoon up to her mouth like a microphone.

  “Awesome,” I grinned, glancing down at the potion and expecting something to happen.

  Which it didn’t. Mom came over, too, looking into the cauldron before she looked back up at Marcella in confusion.

  “What’s this supposed to do, exactly?”

  “It’s a tracking spell,” Marcella replied. “Have you never done this before?”