Christopher didn’t leave his bedroom for two days, keeping a locked door between us. On the third day, he made it downstairs, fed himself a bowl of cereal, then didn’t move from the couch except to use the facilities.
I went as far as to turn on the TV, queue up Netflix, and give him the remote. But he didn’t watch anything, except for the glimpses of the future playing out in his mind’s eye.
My future. Christopher’s magic simmered, spiking every time I drew near. He suffered in silence, but I could actually feel his energy tracking me around the house, far more intensely than it usually did.
It rained. The house was cold. I cranked the heat because Christopher was the only one who knew how to make a fire without smoking us out.
I brought him tea and ginger snaps. I tried to coerce him into the barn by shooting short videos of the chicks that I played back on the TV. I’d had to figure out how to take care of the three-week-old chickens myself, carefully filling in the daily log that Christopher had started in a wire-bound notebook.
Keeping ourselves perpetually organized was one of the ways we’d learned to combat all the darkness that continually threatened to take up residence in our minds. In our souls. Not that we discussed it. I made an effort to not even acknowledge it. Because it wasn’t something I could fix or solve.
On the fourth day, I took Christopher’s phone from his room, charging it so I could have the option of scrolling through his address book. Then I layered up, went outside, and sat in the Mustang parked in the barn. Paisley joined me. Though I knew she would have preferred to watch over the chicks, I didn’t tell her to leave.
I had never missed the balance of having the other three around quite so acutely as I did that fourth day. If the rest of the Five had been with us, Christopher’s magic wouldn’t have been so tightly tied to me.
I had long suspected that he had phone numbers or email addresses for the other three. I knew that he had maintained at least some level of contact with Bee.
“Amanda,” I murmured, gazing down at the phone and correcting myself, using the name on her passport rather than the nickname Christopher had given her before he’d even had a name himself. Because when we were young, her magic had felt like bumblebees in his head.
I paused, hoping, breathing, believing that the telepath would hear me. That somehow, no matter how many hundreds or thousands of kilometers separated us, she’d feel my need through our blood tattoo connection.
Christopher wouldn’t have been on the couch and I wouldn’t have been stuck in the chilly car if the other three were with us. Even if it was just Bee who was with us.
If we’d been the Five, we would have found Hannah in minutes, not hours.
Actually, no.
We wouldn’t have looked at all.
Hannah might have died, of exposure or starvation. And I wouldn’t have cared.
The person I used to be wouldn’t have cared. Because I wouldn’t have taken the chance, or even have had the chance to know Hannah at all.
I wanted to care. I was glad — happy, even — that we’d gone out into the rain, hiked through the forest, and come out with Hannah.
Then we’d come home. Christopher, Paisley, and me. I had parked the Mustang in the barn and we’d climbed into our beds.
Under our roof. Our house. Our place in the world.
And that was worth much more than a few moments, or even days, of discomfort.
Bee didn’t magically reach out.
I set the phone aside, its address book unexplored. I crushed my insecurities. I could take care of Christopher for however long it was going to take for him to become more than simply a conduit for his magic.
I got out of the car and went back inside.
Christopher was watching an action movie. Something set in space with a talking raccoon. It looked good, fun. Funny.
I went into the kitchen, wrestled dinner out of a can of tomato soup and the toaster, then settled on the opposite side of the couch. Christopher nibbled on his liberally buttered toast and restarted the movie.
His magic reached out and caressed my cheek. I ignored it and it left me alone.
Perched on the edge of the red-vinyl booth, I gazed at the piping-hot tuna casserole Melissa Wilson had just set before me, identifying mushrooms, peas, and what appeared to be leeks among the cream-coated penne noodles.
Melissa laughed. “You bite it, dear. Not the other way around.”
The owner and operator of the Home Cafe was in no way old enough to be calling me ‘dear.’ But she was trying to be friendly, so I didn’t complain.
“It smells good,” I murmured, spreading my paper napkin across my lap and picking up my fork.
“Fresh-grated parmesan,” Melissa said, rather jovially for someone discussing a baked cheese topping.
The front door of the diner opened. Lani Zachery entered, smiling as she cast her gaze across the counter, then over the full booths.
I turned my attention back to the steaming pile of food in front of me, so that I didn’t appear to be staring at her. I’d selected the farthest booth in the far corner of the diner. The window to my right, the wall at my back. If attacked directly, I’d have more than enough warning. Enough to exit the booth and vault the counter, if not time enough to confront the assault head-on. If someone or something tried to come through the window, I could roll away before it had even cracked.
And yes, I recognized that those were odd thoughts to be having over lunch at the local diner in a town of three thousand people — none of whom were powerful enough to even scratch me.
Lani settled her gaze on me, then started walking my way. I could actually feel the tiny shift in her latent magic as she did so. Witch power, Christopher had classified it. Lani paused, murmuring greetings to a few locals who had eyed me when I arrived. But Melissa had greeted me by name exuberantly, and the other customers’ wariness had eased.
An article from the local newspaper was clipped out and pinned to the bulletin board by the door. It detailed the rescue of a local woman by new residents, Emma and Christopher Johnson, and their dog, Paisley. According to the article, Hannah Stewart had gone hiking and gotten lost in the woods.
Hannah hadn’t pressed charges. Not yet, at least. At least not in any way that was public knowledge. And even if it wasn’t any of my business, the idea that Tyler was going to walk away from it all bothered me, quietly festering in the back of my mind.
The day after the article had been printed and posted online, casseroles and baking had started appearing in the broken-down farm stand at the end of our drive, which I kept gated always. I was fairly certain that it was Melissa’s banana bread that finally got Christopher off the couch and back into turning over and mulching the garden.
“Emma,” Lani said, pausing beside my booth.
I looked up, offering her a smile. “Lani.”
“I was thinking we should set a date.”
“A date?” I echoed.
“For you to bring by the Mustang.” She grinned at me. “Unless you want me to just drop in.”
The offer to just drop in sounded loaded. But with what, I wasn’t certain. “Actually, the car is due for a tune-up.”
“Perfect. Tuesday? Drop her at the shop by 9:00 a.m.”
“I will.”
She hesitated, a lick of magic coiling around her as she eyed me. Then she laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask to join you.”
Her magic was intriguing. Manifesting as intuition, perhaps. Though I wasn’t certain how that would tie into the air force or the mechanic side of her life, so perhaps it was more than that.
I smiled. “Another time.”
Her grin widened as she stepped back to the counter, her gaze sweeping over me. “Count on it.”
Then she sat down, turning her back on me and ordering a turkey burger with Havarti.
I nibbled at the tuna casserole — ordered because Melissa had recommended it and I’d never eaten anything like it — and found
it exceedingly tasty.
On my way back to the house, I noticed that someone — or multiple people, perhaps — had come by and fixed up the farm stand at the top of the drive. It was now painted white with a red metal roof, matching the main house. A sign had been attached to it, seemingly declaring the property to be White Owl Farm.
My breath caught in my throat, and some sort of emotion seized my chest. For a moment, I thought I was suffocating. Then I realized I was overwhelmed.
With … joy.
I forced myself to breathe. In and out. Steady, steady. Then I reached up and touched the carving of the owl on one side of the lettering — a white owl. Possibly a reference to the color of Christopher’s hair? Possibly because we’d found Hannah Stewart in the forest at night?
In the aftermath of that night, I had waited for three days after the newspaper article came out, my blades near to hand though I didn’t open their wooden case. I’d waited for someone to come for us, even though we hadn’t been pictured, just named.
But no one came. And Christopher had been right about stepping up when we’d been asked. About being accepted by the community in which we wanted to make a home.
Paisley appeared at my side, gently relieving me of the second order of tuna casserole Melissa had insisted I bring back for Christopher, ‘since everyone knows he’s a slave to the garden right now.’
Even cloistered on our property, the community saw us. And accepted us.
Paisley slipped through the gate, leading the way back to the house.
I paused at the mailbox, retrieving a package I’d been waiting for. I’d intended it to be a birthday gift for Christopher in August, but he needed it now.
I was laying out tea when Christopher entered the kitchen through the French-paned doors. He left his jacket slung over the railing, having removed his gloves and washed his hands and feet in the barn sink that he’d just replaced. The old one had been leaking.
We both ignored the way his magic spiked when it keyed in on me. It ebbed as quickly as it had swelled.
“Tea?” he asked absentmindedly. His gaze fell on the small rectangular package on the island. It was wrapped in brown paper and addressed to him. “A gift?”
“Yes.” I set the kettle on the stove and lit the gas burner.
Christopher picked up the package, carefully peeling the paper open and enjoying the ritual of doing so. Even after seven years, gifts were still a novelty. Owning anything at all was still something to celebrate.
Christopher freed a plain white box from its wrappings, opening it to reveal a set of cards. He carefully allowed them to fall out into his open palm, gasping as he closed his hand over them.
Witch magic.
I couldn’t feel it myself. My senses tuned into people more than magical things, unless the artifact or casting was particularly powerful. But I’d had the cards designed and inked by a witch, so I knew what Christopher felt when he held them.
He plucked the top card from the pack, flipping it over to reveal a black-inked botanical drawing of a sunflower. The word ‘Freedom’ had been hand-lettered below the image.
“Oracle cards,” I said, continuing to set out mugs, napkins, and ginger snaps to accompany our tea. Then I carefully measured out the perfect amount of Quanzhou milk oolong into the strainer, setting it into the previously warmed teapot. Keeping myself occupied instead of watching Christopher too closely. He didn’t need to feel extra pressure from me.
“Crafted by a witch,” he said. His voice was hushed, almost a whisper.
“Yes. A witch skilled in herbology. I commissioned the cards just after we arrived here. I was going to build you an entire set for your birthday. This is just the first twenty-two. So you can add to the deck later.”
He reverently flipped over cards that were labeled Manifestation, Wisdom, Development, and Security. “It follows the basic tarot suits. But it’s been adapted to include corresponding plants, and tied to individual intention?”
“Yes.”
He grinned at me. Then he shuffled the deck three different times, three different ways. His magic struck, encompassing the cards in his hands and flooding through his eyes. Then the power settled into its regular hum.
He laughed, delighted.
The kettle whistled. Which gave me an excuse to turn my back for the moment it took to retrieve it and turn off the gas. Time to hide my relief that Christopher’s clairvoyance had accepted the cards, claimed them.
I poured the hot water through the strainer in the teapot, setting the timer so it would steep for exactly five minutes, as I preferred for the milk oolong.
Christopher shuffled the cards for a long while. Then finally, he drew three, placing them side by side next to the plate of ginger snaps.
The cards came up Ginger, Strawberry, Rose.
Manifestation. Movement. Partnership.
Humming in the back of his throat, he collected the cards, shuffled, then drew from the top again.
Ginger. Strawberry. Rose.
He stared at the cards for a moment. Then he looked up at me.
“What does it mean?” I said.
“Well, ginger is obviously you.”
I glanced at the card titled Manifestation. “How so?”
“Action. Awareness. Concentration … a boost of power. That’s you.” He scooped up the cards and reshuffled, drawing again.
Ginger. Strawberry. Rose.
Manifestation. Movement. Partnership.
Christopher threw back his head and laughed. “Three times. Well, I’d say that’s pretty set in stone.”
The timer went off. I pulled the strainer out of the tea, setting it aside. Then I turned off the timer.
Christopher was still grinning at me. “Don’t worry, Fox in Socks. It will be a short fall and a soft landing. I’m looking forward to it immensely.” Chuckling to himself, he scooped up the cards, tucked them back in the box, then slipped them into his back pocket. He poured the tea.
I had no idea what he was talking about. Except I was fairly certain — based on my conversations with the witch I’d commissioned the cards from — that rose most often stood for love, usually romantic. And strawberry? Paired with the rose and the ginger … it could stand for victory or luck or … pleasure.
Christopher eyed me over the top of his tea mug, silently goading me to ask for clarification.
“Downton Abbey?” I asked archly, picking up and placing the ginger snaps, the teapot, and my mug onto a tray. Then I exited through the dining room, crossing into the front sitting room without begging to know what he’d just glimpsed of my future.
I was more than happy to take each step believing that it came with some freedom of choice. I’d deal with whatever — or whoever — the strawberry and rose cards represented when it was time to do so, not fret about it beforehand.
April 2018.
For two months, I had weighed the thought of hunting down Tyler Grant.
I had mulled over how I might track a mundane that Jenni Raymond was undoubtedly already on the hunt for via all the nonmagical channels available to her. Credit card activity and all that. Instead, I’d settled on getting Christopher’s help to set up basic perimeter warning spells at Hannah’s apartment and thrift shop. We’d contained the spells to the exterior doorways, worried that anything else would be too complicated for us to cast with any success. Christopher had more of an ability with witch magic than I did, so he’d done the actual casting. I was perfectly suited to be the one to extricate the hair sample needed from the Grants’ house without Tyler’s father even knowing I was on the property.
I had doubts that the spell would work. Tyler wasn’t magical in the least. But though it was still really none of my business, the entire episode had felt unfinished. Raw. Exposed.
Hannah still hadn’t pressed charges.
Tyler Grant tripped one of the perimeter spells just after two in the morning. I found him pressed up against Hannah’s exterior apartment door fifteen minutes later. H
e was still in the begging stage of trying to talk her into opening the door, though as I slowly climbed the painted wood exterior stairs, I had no doubt he’d start pounding on it soon enough.
His timing couldn’t have been better. Hannah wasn’t home and the night was dark. Cloudy, raining.
Paisley, wearing her regular pit bull form, prowled alongside me until we stepped silently onto the well-lit top landing. Then she wandered off along the shadowed exterior walkway to our left, likely casing the neighboring apartments. Or she was looking for cats. Christopher had decided the demon dog wanted a pet, and that coincidentally, we needed a barn cat. I hadn’t given in to either of them yet.
Tyler was completely oblivious to my presence, cooing something incoherent to the doorjamb.
I could kill him.
Snap his neck.
He’d never see me coming. He’d never even hear death stalking him.
But catching a hint of the stale beer and unwashed stench with which he was polluting the fresh night air, I realized I preferred to extract a lingering, more gut-wrenching retribution. Even though I had no right to such retribution myself.
Good thing I was comfortable operating in absentia.
So Hannah Stewart would never have to face her abuser again. No matter how capable she was of doing so, it would still hurt her.
“Hannah’s not here,” I said, pausing a few steps away.
Tyler Grant flinched, spinning around and sloshing some of the beer in the open can he held onto his torn jeans and light-brown work boots. Boots that didn’t appear to have ever seen a day of work on an actual job site. Three other cans of beer were still held in a six-pack plastic holder, set on the floor next to the door.
He eyed me. I was the same height as him, wearing an oversized wool sweater over a dress and sneakers, with my hair pulled back into a low ponytail.
“Who are you?” he slurred. “New neighbor?”
“Something like that.”
“Where is she, then?”
I didn’t answer, even though I knew Hannah was visiting her mother for the weekend. She’d mentioned it at the diner two days before.
The Amplifier Protocol (Amplifier 0) Page 18