Sticks & Stones

by Merdith Medina

  12

  I was in the bath again. Chamomile flowers floated in the steaming water and I lay still, trying to take stock of my injuries.

  The punch to the jaw had split my lip, and I knew it would be bruised when I woke up in the morning. Everything that hurt now would hurt like a motherfucker in a few hours.

  I winced as I took a sip of wine. Inspecting my wounds had been the least annoying part of this evening, but it also hadn’t been the most pleasant. My bloodstained shirt lay on the bathroom tiles. That had been a bitch to pull off. The Malleus’ blade hadn’t cut too deeply, but the damage the leader had done when he’d shoved his fingers in the wound were what worried me.

  My body was covered in bruises from where I’d parried blows and taken hits. My shoulder felt like it was on fire.

  I sank down in the bath, groaning as I tried to find a more comfortable position. Damn this short bathtub, there was no way to get all of me into the bath. I needed an aquarium tank.

  But there was something else.

  All of the protections, all of the wards. They should have kept the Malleus out, confused them, at the very least they should have led those bastards astray. But they’d failed.

  Something must have been degrading my spells. I remembered the cracks around the spells I’d cast over the coffee shop. And the choking ash that had accompanied the first Malleus that had come in. I had nearly given myself away. So easy. So vulnerable.

  Furious tears sprang to my eyes and I dunked my head underwater.

  Fuck.

  I was too complacent. It had been too many years since I’d had to run for my lives. Too many years since I’d been in hiding. I’d used my magic; I’d taken a lover. I’d flouted Hecate’s Laws, thinking that there would be no punishment.

  Maybe this was it.

  I sat up in the tub, wiping water out of my eyes and smoothing down my hair. I needed to fix my shit. And fast.

  If one group of Malleus had been able to follow me here, who would be next?

  I got out of the tub as it drained, bracing myself against the bathroom wall, being careful to avoid kicking over the bottle of wine beside the bathtub. I’d done that too many times to count, and I had the scars on the bottoms of my feet to prove it.

  I looked in the bathroom mirror, touching the dark bruise that was developing on my lip and chin. It looked like I would be adding more scars to my collection. The cut on my cheek had already sealed over. It would heal quickly. My mother used to tell me that when we were injured, Hecate would heal us quicker than those who had not felt her touch. I’d never been injured gravely enough to test that theory; I just assumed that I was a quick healer.

  I twisted gingerly to examine the wound on my ribcage. The Malleus had purposefully opened it wider, doing more damage than his knife had. The wound was raw and had begun to bleed again.

  “Lovely.”

  I opened my medical kit and set it on the edge of the vanity. I knew that I needed stitches, but I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to do it myself.

  Suki was in the bathtub, rolling around in the damp porcelain, purring.

  “For once,” I said. “I wish you were a shapeshifter. I could really use an extra set of hands.”

  I decided against stitches. I could poultice this with no problem. I knew I had fresh yarrow in the fridge, dried hanging from one of the lines in the kitchen. It would do the job. Maybe a sprinkle of cayenne pepper.

  Besides, I still wasn’t sure if the blade had been poisoned. Or worse... witched.

  I knew that the Malleus were witchfinders. But that didn’t mean they were above using magic. That was the only explanation I could come up with for the way they had been able to bypass my ward spells.

  I grunted as I pinched the wound shut and placed a wide bandage over top. I had to re-set my spells. When they were in place, I would feel safe enough to make my poultice and get started on the tiresome business of healing.

  * * *

  It was well past 2am, and I stood in the hallway in my bathrobe, my hands raised and my lips moving silently as I re-set my spells. I had started with the building foyer and the front door. The banisters. The mailboxes. The third creaky stair, and the fifth. The landing.

  I stripped away all of my old workings and laid new foundations. New protections. By the time the sun was rising, I was laying the final layer over my front door. I pushed it open gently and reached down to gather Suki into my arms. She purred loudly and draped herself over my shoulder, kneading her claws into my bathrobe. I muttered my final spell over my familiar before kissing the top of her head and cuddling her tightly.

  “It’s just you and me, fuzzbutt, I promised that I won’t let anything happen to you.” I rubbed Suki’s ears and she gnawed affectionately on my shoulder. This little troublemaker had been with me for a long time, and I hoped that her lifetimes were just as long as mine. I knew that she was a gift from the Goddess, and even if she was the only one I ever received, I would be eternally grateful.

  I gave Suki one more squeeze and then set her down on the bed. My furry friend yawned and stretched and I grabbed a new bottle of wine from the wine rack and opened the fridge.

  All of my herbs and roots were arranged carefully, and everything I needed was within easy reach, which was a good thing, because every time I reached for something else, the knife wound flamed with pain.

  I drank my wine and mashed my yarrow root, letting some of my magic flow into the paste as I went. Every little bit helped, and no one liked being in pain, least of all me.

  With my poultice mashed and applied, the comforting coolness of the herbs soothing the heat of the wound. Suki was curled against my ribs, adding her own special brand of healing magic to the equation. After a few bottles of wine, and the general ‘what the fuck’ nature of the day, sleep was all I wanted, and for once, it came easily.

  The smell of the pottage was what woke me, or maybe it was the sound of Hannah’s laugh. I sat up, listening to the crowing of the rooster outside. I was home. Home in England.

  “Hannah! Hannah, come now, inside with those eggs!”

  My mother. I swung my legs over the bed, my bare feet hitting the uneven wood floor. I slid down the ladder; it seemed so much shorter now that I had grown into my height. Maybe I was taller than my aunt. Taylor women weren’t petite; it was part of what made us stand out. Tall and brazen, with their flaming red hair, my aunt and my mother had been the talk of the town whether they wanted to be or not. My throat tightened as I saw my aunt bent over the fire, stirring the pottage that was always bubbling there.

  I knew what came next, the sharp knock at the door. My mother’s head whipped around, her red hair flying as she stared at it with surprise on her face.

  “Were you expecting anyone?” my aunt asked.

  “No,” my mother murmured in reply. I was frozen on the ladder that led up to where I had my bed.

  “No!” I shouted, running forward to stop her from opening the door, but my hand passed right through her arm. Tears ran cold down my face, and my heart hammered in my chest as the stranger outside bashed their fist against the heavy wood door again.

  But I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t stop her from placing her hand on the iron latch and pulling the door open. I couldn’t stop the rush of people who pushed their way into the house. I couldn’t stop the men from accusing my mother of witchcraft. I couldn’t stop them from dragging my sister by her hair across the floor. I couldn’t stop the man who hit my mother across the face, knocking her to her knees as she tried to pull Hannah into her arms.

  I couldn’t do anything.

  I heard a thump outside, and looked quickly to see a small redheaded child duck down below the window.

  Me. Hiding. Staying alive.

  The tears poured down my cheeks, and my heart hammered in my chest as I watched as my mother, my aunt, and my sister were dragged away.

  I reached out, uselessly, desperate to slow their progress, desperate to make it all stop.

&nbs
p; But the door slammed shut behind them, bouncing open again on the dented latch. The contents of the pottage cauldron had been spilled over the floor, the eggs Hannah had been collecting were broken and the door to the garden was open, letting the chickens inside.

  The world spun.

  I opened my eyes, blades of grass tickled my eyelashes, and I breathed in the fresh scent of the garden. The chickens burbled and clucked around me, picking at my hair and tugging at my clothes. One pecked a freckle on my ankle.

  “Ow.”

  I sat up and the birds scattered, flapping and squawking irritably at being interrupted. The house was quiet, but I knew why it was quiet. It was empty and I was all alone. Little Ophelia, secret and alone. Protected by my mother’s magic.

  There was a roar from the marketplace and I got to my feet carefully, wincing as a bolt of pain lanced up my side. The crowd in the marketplace cheered again and I lurched to the garden fence.

  I knew what was coming.

  Just like in all of my dreams, I could touch the surface of the objects around me, I could open doors, push objects, but people… a small knot of women walked past me, and I reached out to touch them, but my hand passed through their flesh as though they were made of smoke.

  I followed them, even though I knew the way almost as well as I knew the streets of Brooklyn. As the market opened in front of me, the smell of spilled beer, pigs and horses in their pens, and cooking meat that hit me first. Transporting me back through the centuries. I was 9 years old again.

  On the platform that had been built expressly for this purpose, a figure with a long, gaunt face and a curtain of moonlight colored hair stood with his hands raised as women stepped forward one by one to accuse my family of witchcraft. Cursing their crops. Witching their babes to die in the their cribs.

  The tears came again, cold and furious, and I struggled to stay silent. I wanted to shout, to scream for them to stop. To run to the platform and untie the ropes that held my mother to the stake.

  The torches were thrust into the dry bundles of sticks that had been piled at the feet of the accused, and my mother’s voice echoed in my head.

  “Run.”

  I was rooted to the spot, unable to move as I watched the flames catch and lick hungrily at the bottom of her dress.

  “RUN.”

  “RUN!”

  The crowd jostled and moved, elbows that would have jabbed into my side melted harmlessly away like smoke where they touched me.

  My eyes filled with tears as I stood still, staring at the platform. The man with long silver hair and pale eyes glared out over the crowd, his arms stretched wide as the fire began to climb. The smoke stung my nose and I covered my nose with my hand, trying to block it out.

  I knew it was a dream. It was always the same dream, and every time, the smoke hit me, making me choke. I would cough, I would wake up, and I didn’t want to give in this time.

  Tears streamed down my face, and my throat was hot, everything blurred… and then something crashed into my hip, knocking me off balance.

  I stumbled, looking around to see what had happened, and saw the back of a red head as it bobbed through the crowd, pushing people out of her way, her hair flying behind her as she ran.

  It was me.

  I was running away. Running away to live.

  There was a shout from the platform, and I looked back to see the witchfinder, his hand raised, finger pointing in the direction I had gone. His pale green eyes were hard and cold and they filled me with fear, just like they had when I was 9 years old.

  Tall men in dark cloaks and hard boots ran after me.

  A woman stepped forward from the line of judges. She had long, loose black hair that blew in the hot wind the fire created. Her eyes were dark. Endlessly black, like her hair. She stood near the witchfinder, speaking to him quietly, her lips barely moving.

  I was transfixed by her, the way she moved, the way the men on the platform reacted to her: deferential, reverent. It was unexpected, almost improper, but she seemed not to notice them at all. They were nothing.

  My aunt was screaming, engulfed in flames. My mother’s head lolled against her chest, overcome by the smoke, and I sobbed aloud as what she was experiencing washed over me the same way it had when I was a child. I wanted to run away, I wanted to follow the path I had taken to the docks and fling myself into the bottle green water and never surface.

  The woman on the platform stepped away from her companion, coming closer to the crowd, her eyes scanning for something. It was as though she did not even register the tragedy playing out so close to her. She was looking for someone… for something.

  I was deeper into the dream than I had ever come before. Each time I had run, I had followed my child-self to the docks and jumped into the water, waking just as the cold liquid closed over my head.

  The fire surged, wrapping itself around Hannah’s waist and nipping at the ends of her long red hair. Hair the same color as the flames that would consume her.

  “Hannah!” I screamed, unable to stop myself in time.

  I clapped my hands over my mouth, but it was too late. The woman on the platform opened her pale lips wide, revealing sharp white teeth and a mirthless grin. She pointed at me, triumphant. Her black, fathomless eyes devoured me. She had seen me. She had caught me, and I would burn next.

  Her hands stretched towards me, and all at once she was standing right there in front of me, her hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing tighter and tighter. I tried to fight her but my hands passed through her shoulders and through her face as though they were made of smoke.

  “Daughter of Hecate…” she hissed the words into my face and her breath smelled like ash.

  * * *

  I sat up in bed, coughing, soaked in sweat.

  My hands were shaking and the knife wound in my side throbbed. The witchmark on the back of my thigh burned and itched.

  I hate that dream. It had been years since it had been that intense.

  I pressed a hand to my side, groaning to feel warm wetness there.

  “Great,” I muttered. The sheets were stained with blood. It looked black in the half-light of the early morning and I shuddered. “Fucking great.”

  Suki stretched languidly on my pillow, purring and flexing her paws.

  “I bet you had the best dreams ever, didn’t you?”

  My familiar yawned and rolled off the pillow. She rubbed against my back briefly before jumping down to the floor and padding to the kitchen to stand by her food dish.

  I rubbed my hand over my face and sighed. “Fine. Business as usual. I know the drill.”

  No rest for the wicked.

  Or the eternally paranoid.

  13

  I spent the next few days dodging calls and texts from Lacey and the other girls while I tried to figure out what my next move was going to be. After years of feeling safe and invisible in New York, the last few weeks had been riddled with nightmare after nightmare. Had I blown my cover somehow? Had I gotten too complacent? It could be anything. Maybe it was that last whiff of magic I’d put into someone’s triple white chocolate peppermint latte that had done it. I’d been lazy about hiding my magic in the last decade.

  My glamour had slipped on public transit for fuck’s sake.

  I was getting sloppy. I needed to reboot myself, start over somewhere new.

  What would I pack? I didn’t need much; it was Suki who was high maintenance. It had taken me years to get established enough that I could function mainly unseen. David paid me under the table at Haven, I only took cash for the things I pawned or sold to private antique dealers, I paid cash for my rent; my phone was on payment cards I bought from the bodega on the way to work. Even my power bill was in someone else’s name. I just went into the bank and paid it cash.

  I was a ghost and that was the way I liked it. Moving would make everything harder. Resetting all of my old patterns in a new city would be tough enough, but I’d adapted to the world as it changed and found new
ways to stay hidden. San Francisco was unfamiliar, and Las Vegas would be even worse. I know Eli would prefer Vegas… it was the perfect place for a vampire, after all.

  But Eli was busy being an asshole. I hadn’t seen him in three days, and while I barricaded myself in my apartment trying to figure my shit out, he’d only come by once, leaving a rose on the fire escape like he always did.

  I would have softened a little, if it wasn’t a rose off the same bush that the cops had found Rachel’s body under.

  I mean, it might have been a coincidence, but I had a sneaking feeling that it totally fucking wasn’t.

  My knife wound was starting to heal properly, and I packed the poultice with an extra dash of cayenne pepper to keep the bleeding down. Every morning I’d wake up to blood stained sheets, and I was getting tired of washing everything on my bed every goddamned day. The building laundry room wasn’t my favorite place to hang out at the best of times, but I was especially jumpy about it now.

  I could have just whisked the stain away with my magic, but I was gun shy, and the thought of using it for anything mundane made me nervous as hell.

  Over the last few days I had tried to distract myself by working on my spell book, but I was still too nervous to try another potion. The last one had been a disaster, and I didn’t need to do any advertising, especially when it was highly likely that I was being watched.

  The boots I’d put to the Malleus that had tracked me to my apartment should have been enough to keep them away, and if it wasn’t, the new wards and blinder spells I’d dropped over the building should do the trick.

  It didn’t matter if they knew what I was. If they couldn’t find me, they couldn’t burn me.

  I was sitting in the living room window, balanced comfortably on the ledge as the sun went down, my book on my knees and a bottle of wine beside me. It was just easier to drink and then go to bed. It guaranteed no bad dreams… Well, fewer bad dreams, anyway.

  The rose Eli had left me the night before was sitting in an empty milk bottle I’d left on the apple box that served as my makeshift patio table.