by Teri Harman
Willa turned.
A tall, thin, severe-looking woman stared at her with large dark eyes. Her angular jaw line was made even harsher by her short blond hair, like some sort of warrior helmet. Obviously a serious professional, she wore an expertly fitted suit—neither flattering nor unflattering, just practical; low-heeled, but expensive shoes; and carried a Loius Vuitton laptop bag.
“Yes?” Willa said, scouring her mind to see if she knew this woman.
The stranger blinked once and stepped closer. “Willa Fairfield? From Twelve Acres?”
Willa frowned, took a tiny step back. Various scenarios rushed in her head of who this woman might be, the most unsettling of which included a witch sent by Rachel to kidnap her. She looked around, took her hands off her bag, and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Cynthia Howard,” she said evenly. “Simon’s mother.”
Willa’s heart stopped and then raced off in shock, ready to beat out of her chest. Never in her wildest dreams would she have come up with that scenario—and she’d had some wild dreams. Simon rarely talked about his parents, and the few times he had he emphasized their non-existent relationship. Nothing but hurt and bitterness remained inside Simon for his parents; Willa had never expected to meet them. She was too surprised to think of an intelligent reply. “You’re Simon’s mom?” was all she managed.
Cynthia stepped closer. “Yes. Do you mind if we talk for a minute?”
Willa blinked, her surprise mounting by the second. “Umm . . . sure. Okay.”
Simon’s mom, who looked absolutely nothing like him, except maybe a little in the eyes, gestured to a bench under a large oak tree. Willa numbly sat. Cynthia sat on the opposite end, keeping her distance. She cradled her designer bag on her lap.
“Simon said you were very pretty,” she began. It sounded more like a general statement of fact rather than a compliment. Willa could only half smile and gaze at the woman. “I’m sorry to catch you like this,” Cynthia continued. “Are you on your way to class?” Willa shook her head. “Good,” she said and then fell silent.
Willa looked at the side of her face, studying the jagged lines and angles that made up Cynthia Howard, no warmth
in her person, no kindness. Everything about her was business-
like, more machine than human being. How could she be anyone’s mother, let alone sweet Simon’s? Willa looked closer. No, not even in the eyes.
The silence became uncomfortable. Willa swallowed. “How did you know who I was?”
Cynthia nodded, flicked her eyes to Willa and then back to her bag. “Simon showed me a picture once. The last time I saw him.”
“When was that?”
Cynthia looked up. “Last September, I think. I also looked you up in the student directory.”
Willa’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly closed it. When Cynthia didn’t continue, Willa tried to guess at what this meeting might be about. “Simon’s doing really well. He’s top of all his pre-med classes. A few medical schools have already contacted him, encouraging him to apply.”
Cynthia frowned and looked away.
“We are moving in with some of our friends soon. Did he tell you that?”
Cynthia shook her head. Willa exhaled, suddenly frustrated with the strange woman. “Is there something you wanted, Cynthia?” It felt weird to use the woman’s first name—too informal.
After a breath, she finally turned and looked at Willa. “I never told him about what happened before he was born.”
Willa held her breath, her stomach twisting.
“The animals that would come.” She scoffed. “At all hours of the day and night. They’d touch my belly, be healed of whatever ailment they had. They drove me insane.” She looked down, remembering the swell of her son that had once been there. “Then the night he was born . . .” Her voice broke. Willa waited, leaning forward, her heart racing.
Cynthia made a face, repelled by her memories. “A woman came to my door in the middle of the night. I remember a full moon—the light made it hard to sleep. The woman—if you can call her that—was deformed, decaying and came scratching on my front door.” She shuddered. “She came in the house. I fell backwards. She fell, too. She . . .” Cynthia’s eyes had glazed over, and she lifted a trembling hand as if to touch a phantom in front of her. “She touched my belly, my baby. He . . . reached out for her. A rush of terrible heat came from inside me. It went out, and then another rush came back in.” She swallowed, blinked. “I was terrified,” she added in a whisper.
Cynthia paused again, inhaled a shaky breath. She turned her haunted eyes on Willa, wide and unsettling. Willa withdrew slightly.
“Then that old crone died,” Cynthia spat out with venom. “Right there in front of me. On my floor!” She pulled back, took a long breath, and blinked her eyes back to normal. She adjusted her bag on her lap. “Simon was born a couple of hours later, but we didn’t realize until he was a little older how strange he is; how wrong.”
Willa’s heart jumped, and she had to bite down to keep from snapping back in anger. She took a breath and then carefully said, “You are very wrong about Simon.”
Cynthia looked up, her brow lowered. “I’m not often wrong, Willa.” She bit down on the words, full of condescension.
Willa had no idea what to say next, her mind spinning. Cynthia looked at her as if she should say something, or understand or—worst of all—sympathize. The event with the old woman sounded like magic of some kind. The animals coming to be healed made sense. That still happened. But the woman dying? What did that mean?
Had Simon ever told his parents about what he’d discovered last fall? It certainly wouldn’t be Willa’s place to tell his mother that her son was an extraordinarily powerful witch. Willa looked at Cynthia and knew she wouldn’t believe or accept it.
Finally, Cynthia decided to fill the silence. “I’ve never told anyone that, but, for some asinine reason, I felt I must tell you.” She narrowed her eyes at Willa. “And I will never speak of it again.” She lifted her bag into her hands. “Do with it what you will.” With that, she stood and walked away, her sensible heels clicking rudely on the sidewalk.
Willa blinked after her. She shook her head, feeling dazed. Thoughts bounced around her mind, ricocheting. Two of those thoughts were desperately trying to come together, to form a connection, but there was too much interference from her amazement.
She sat back against the bench, and one question shoved its way to the front.
How do I tell Simon?
Chapter 25
Waxing Gibbous
July—Present Day
All the breath burst from Willa’s lungs and the sides of her vision went gray and blurry. From the moment Rowan said they must connect minds, she knew she was in trouble. Now she had to come up with a legitimate excuse for keeping the meeting a secret. But what could she say?
Willa pulled her head away slightly so that Simon would take his hand off—she didn’t like what that gesture reminded her of—and then said, “Simon, I . . .”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean to see that.” His body slumped toward her. “Willa, I’m so sorry!” he said. “I don’t know how . . . I never wanted . . .” Distress broke his face into pieces, and he looked away.
The pain and frustration in his eyes pushed aside her worry about how to explain her secret keeping. What happened during that spell? Everything had been fine. They were about to see what was coming over the tree, and then came a blinding flash in her head, the sensation of flying through the air, and hitting the ground—hard. She grabbed his sweat-soaked shirt. “Simon, I’m okay. What went wrong?”
He shook his head vigorously, still not meeting her gaze. “I have no idea. But I can’t handle . . .”
His voice dropped off, and his eyes darted everywhere but her face. Willa tugged on his shirt, trying to get him to look at her. “Hey! What? What happened? Talk to me.”
Simon opened his mouth but was interrupted by Rowan limpi
ng over and placing a hand on his shoulder. Simon looked up into the Luminary’s pained face and then, with a grimace, lifted his hand and touched Rowan’s. After a moment, Rowan sighed in relief and then sat in the dirt next to them.
“What happened, Simon?” Rowan asked quietly.
Simon let out a shaky breath; he wouldn’t meet Rowan’s eyes either. “I don’t know. It came out of nowhere. Just like last night, and the clock.”
His body began to tremble, and Willa moved her hand to his cheek. “Simon, look at me,” she demanded. His eyes flittered around, like a hummingbird hungry for nectar, and then finally focused on her face. “I’m okay. Rowan is okay. Breathe. You have to calm down so we can figure out what happened.”
He shook his head. “I’m dangerous. I hurt you.” The pain in his eyes increased. “I hurt you, Willa. How do I live with that?”
Willa’s heart missed a beat, clogged by the expression on his face and the tremor in his voice. “It was an accident,” she offered weakly.
Locking eyes with her, he said, “I can’t handle any more accidents.”
A bird cawed loudly from overhead, and Willa looked up to see the underbelly of a large black crow. Chills slithered down her back.
Rowan cleared his throat. “Simon, tell me what happened.”
Simon looked away from her and said to Rowan, “As we waited to see what would come from behind the trees, the thing that frightened the owl, this huge burst of power built inside me and then exploded before I even realized what was going on.” He shook his head. “I have no idea where it came from or why.”
Rowan nodded. “Was it like the cave?” He whispered gently.
Simon stiffened, and his jaw worked before he answered. “No, not quite. But it happened so fast . . .”
“We were so close. Do you think we could try the spell again?”
Simon jerked, and his jaw dropped. “Absolutely not! I just assaulted both your minds and nearly threw you off the cliff.” He shook his head. “No. No way.”
“Aye.” Rowan dropped his chin to his chest and exhaled. “Well, at least we know it was some kind of presence, something that scared the owl, the trees. But I’m not sure how that helps us.” Rowan shook his head.
Simon pulled Willa a little closer to him, and she put her hand on his arm for comfort. He said, “What’s wrong with me, Rowan?”
Rowan rubbed at the back of his neck and took another long breath. He looked over at the group of their coven-mates, who had gathered under the trees, trying to stay out of the wind and the beginning of a frigid rain. After a long moment, he said, “Wynter and I couldn’t have children.”
Willa started, surprised by his seemingly random response. She and Simon exchanged a look and then focused on Rowan.
“We wanted them so badly, but it just wasn’t meant to be.” He looked over at Wynter, who smiled sadly in return. “It was hardest for Wynter. She’s so nurturing and would have made an incredible mother.” He folded his hands in his lap and looked down. “When you two came into our lives we . . . we felt like the magic had given us the children we’d never had.”
He looked up, eyes misty. “I know you have your own parents, of course, and certainly aren’t children anymore. All I’m saying is, we love you like our own. It’s been our pleasure to teach and guide you—something we never got to do with our own children. I mean it when I say we will do all we can to help you.” He placed a hand on Simon’s knee. “I don’t know why these things keep happening to you. My only guess is whatever made you the way you are has made it difficult to keep your powers in check. That the more you learn, the more powerful you get, and the harder it is to control.”
Simon’s eyes were glassy. Willa spoke, “We need to find out why he has two gifts. If we can, then maybe we can help him. Maybe even fix it.”
Rowan nodded, and Simon looked down at her. “But how?”
Willa looked at her hand on Simon’s forearm and rubbed absently at the cords of thick muscle. She inhaled. “I’m not sure exactly, but I think your mother gave me a clue.”
Simon’s eyes pulled wide. “What?” he breathed.
“I need to tell you what she said.”
Thunder growled in the distance, echoing down the mountain. Simon looked up at the sky briefly and then back at Willa with desperate eyes. “Tell me, then.”
“I think we better get off the mountain first,” Rowan cut in. Lightning flashed to validate his words.
Simon hesitated, “But . . .”
“Let’s get to the cars,” Willa said. “I’ll tell you as soon as we’re there.” She touched his face and then moved herself off his lap.
“No!” he said through his teeth. “Everyone else can go, but I need to hear this now.” The anger on his face melted into a plea. “I’ll go crazy waiting as we hike back down.” He looked up at Willa, dark eyes pleading, begging. “Please.”
“Simon . . .” Rowan began and then stopped at the look on his face. He turned to the others and called out, “Get down the mountain! We’ll be right behind you.” They hesitated, passing looks of confusion, but Wynter pushed them toward the trailhead, and they soon disappeared around the rocks.
Willa sat in front of Simon, missing the warmth of his arms. The wind was freezing now, and she shivered. “Cynthia found me on campus just before school ended.” She knew he needed to hear this, but it was still a herculean effort to push the words across the short distance between them. “I thought she might want me to tell her about you, about how you were doing in school and stuff like that, but she needed to tell me something.”
Simon squinted in confusion. “She’s never even met you. What was it about?”
“The night you were born.” His brows lifted, and Willa took a quick, steadying breath. “When she was pregnant, animals came to her to be healed. They would touch her belly, and you’d somehow heal them. Then on the night you were born . . .” She swallowed and focused on Simon’s hands, now balled into fists on his thighs.
“An old woman came to the door,” she continued. “Your mom said she was hideous, crone-like, and that she was deformed and decaying.” Willa shivered. “This woman came into the house and touched your mom’s belly. Then she died. The old woman just dropped dead there on the floor in front of Cynthia. You were born a few hours after that.”
Simon blinked, his face white. “What does that mean?”
“Your mom said she felt a powerful rush of heat when the woman touched her and then another right before she died.”
“Magic,” Simon whispered. “So does this crone have something to do with my powers?”
Willa shook her head. “Maybe.”
Rowan spoke up. “I think it could.” Willa and Simon turned to look at him. “Simon healed her and she died, which means she needed to die.”
“I’ve done that before,” Simon said in a small voice.
“Done what?” Willa asked.
“Healed someone and they died.” He kept his eyes on the dirt. “My grandma had cancer. I was ten and wondered about the limits of my healing ability. So I tried to heal her.” He exhaled shakily. “She died. I thought I had failed, or done something wrong. It took me a while to understand that she needed to die.”
Willa’s mouth hung open. She couldn’t even imagine how that must have made Simon feel. “I’m sorry, Simon.”
He shook his head, still not looking up. Rowan frowned and said, “The big rush of heat sounds like more than just the healing exchange. Perhaps some kind of power transfer occured.”
“Can that happen?” Willa asked. Something in her mind was trying to form a connection, a buzz of instinct begging for her full attention.
Rowan shrugged. “Temporary transfers are possible, like when Ruby’s ghost helped you rescue Wynter; and sometimes a bit of magic will leave a dying witch and go into a family member, but none of those cases result in power like Simon’s. So, it’s a working theory.”
A snap of thunder overhead announced the storm’s imminent arriva
l. A few drops of rain hit Willa’s cheeks. She bit her bottom lip and tried to focus on the buzz in her mind. What is it? What am I missing?
“So, you think I might have that old woman’s powers? That she was a witch?” Simon asked incredulously. Another snap went off, but this time in Willa’s mind. Holy moon! Simon turned to her, “What is it?” he asked, sensing the change in her.
“Amelia! Amelia Plate.” Willa’s heart picked up speed. “The ghost who helped us find you and Wynter last fall. She’s Ruby’s granddaughter. Remember?” Simon and Rowan nodded. “She said something really strange to me that night when we talked in the room at Darby’s house. It might mean something.”
“What did she say?” Rowan asked, leaning closer.
Willa pressed a hand to her jittery stomach. “She said that Simon is a part of her and a part of a dear friend.”
Simon’s eyes grew wide. “So you think the old woman was Amelia?”
Willa shook her head and inhaled. “I don’t know, but maybe. Why else would she say you were a part of her?” She looked from Simon to Rowan, whose faces were pinched in thought. “And the timeline fits. Amelia would have been an old woman when you were born.”
“More guessing. Is there a way to find out for sure?” Simon asked. “Does Amelia have a grimoire somewhere?”
Willa narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know of any grimoires, but there was one way to find out. The idea ran cold in her blood. “I know a way,” she said quietly, looking at her hands, now cold from the wind and nascent rain.
“What?” Simon asked eagerly.
Willa brought her hands to her mouth and blew warm air into them. She looked up. “I have to go back to the cave and talk to Amelia.”
Chapter 26
Waxing Gibbous
July—Present Day
Simon’s mind ran at top speed. The hike down and drive home were a complete blur, the soggy, gray scenery whizzing past his eyes unnoticed. Willa watched him, and all her worry leaked out, spilling into his mind. He searched her feelings for fear or anger about what he’d done to her up on the cliff, but he couldn’t find either. Which only made him feel more ashamed. It might make more sense if she were mad at him.