by Amelia Blake
“Ciara. Right.” Then I remember everything. Ciara refusing to help us. Ciara attacking me with a spell.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“I think so.” I tell Jessie about my conversation with Ciara and how she used magic to attack me.
“She knocked you out?” Jessie asks, incredulous.
“Well, she spelled me out, if that’s a thing. It’s not like she punched me in the face or anything.”
“Oh, I’ll punch her in the face,” Jessie says angrily.
“I don’t think that will endear her to us or convince her to help. And after this, I’m pretty sure she does know something. She got really upset when I suggested coming over to her house and talking to her grandmother. I think she’s been lying to us about a lot of things.”
“Oh, I know she has.” Jessie reaches into her bag and, for the first time in my memory, gets something out without fumbling for it first.
“What is it?” I ask, examining a large book she produced. It looks old and tattered, with a dark brown cover. The embossed title is written in ornate script. “The Founding Families of Mystic Hollow?” I read the title. “I don’t remember seeing this book among the ones we had to scan.” Besides, all those books were new, and this one most definitely isn’t. It looks like it’s a hundred years old.
“Um, well, it’s because it wasn’t there,” Jessie says somewhat cryptically.
“What do you mean? How did you find it then? And how does this book confirm that Ciara has been lying to us?”
“I’ll be able to answer all of your questions.” Jessie sits on the floor next to me and opens the book on her lap. “But first you need to hear this.” She finds a page somewhere in the middle of the book and starts reading. “The Grenaux family’s tradition of burying its women with a witchlight—a mysterious amulet purported to have magical properties—dates back to 1600s. The family’s history suggests that the amulet was placed with the body to help the deceased gain access to supernatural powers on the other side, in the world of shadows, or the afterlife.”
“Wow,” is all I say when Jessie is done reading. I’m not sure how to react to this. “Wait, but how did you find this book? I thought that there was nothing in the database, and I’m pretty sure that all library books are listed there.”
“Oh, yes, they are. And so was this one.” Jessie waves the book in front of me. “You see, when Ms. Duncan went to make herself yet another cup of coffee—without as much as offering me one—she left her computer unlocked.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yes, I did,” Jessie says with a grin. “I pulled up the database, searched for a witchlight, and this is the book that came up. I found it and hid it before Ms. Duncan returned with her coffee.”
“You stole a book from the library? Do you have any idea what Ms. Duncan will do to you if she finds out?”
“First of all, I didn’t steal anything. I borrowed it.”
“That’s like what every villain ever said. You need to actually sign for the book when you borrow it from the library.”
“Okay, Emmy, who’s side are you on?”
“I’m on the book’s side,” I say defensively.
“Well, the book is pretty safe with me. And it’s actually being used, as in being read, and not sitting on a shelf, collecting dust. But don’t you find it suspicious that Ms. Duncan lied to us about the witchlight when she searched the database?”
“Maybe she made a mistake?” I suggest in her defense, although I don’t really believe it myself.
“Oh, come on, Emmy. Open your eyes. The woman is evil. She lied to us on purpose to make us scan all those books. Just because she’s a librarian and works with books doesn’t make her a saint.”
“I know, I know. It makes perfect sense. So now that we’ve established that Ms. Duncan is the embodiment of evil, I suppose we can keep the book for a little while. But how do you know that what’s written in it is even true? It could be just a legend or a rumor. And even if it is true, how do we find these Grenaux people? And, what I would really like to know, is what do they have to do with Ciara?”
“Uh, I’m glad you asked that.” Jessie smiles.
“Asked what exactly? I’ve asked like a million questions so far.”
“All of them, actually. But first, let me ask you this: do you remember what Azzie’s broken witchlight looked like?”
I nod. I remember it perfectly well.
“Now look at this.” Jessie turns the book around so that it’s now facing me and points at a picture captioned, “Isabelle Grenaux, 1867”. I gasp. Then cringe. Isabelle Grenaux was photographed in a coffin, her eyes closed, and her hands crossed over her chest. She looks very peaceful, probably because she’s dead.
“Is she—?” I don’t finish the question.
“Dead as a doornail.” Jessie waves my question off like it’s not important.
I shake my head. “Who takes pictures of dead people in coffins? And then puts them in books?”
“Actually, it was pretty popular in the 1800s. Not the putting pictures of dead people in books, but the actual taking pictures of dead people. But that’s not the point. Look at what she’s holding.”
I lean forward and take a better look at the picture. I notice that Isabelle’s hands are crossed over an object. An object that looks awfully familiar. “A witchlight,” I whisper. “But how is this possible? Azzie said that they were supposed to be kept secret, and the way this looks, it’s like any demon could just stroll into a library, read this book, find the witch’s grave, and just get the witchlight for himself. Or itself. Or whatever pronouns demons use.”
“I don’t think this book was a bestseller, and I really don’t think that any demon would just stroll into a library and check out a book on witchlights. Especially with Ms. Duncan for a librarian. She’d scare the hell out of any demon.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with Ciara? She’s a Richards, not a Grenaux.”
“Uh, but this is where you’re wrong.” Jessie grins.
“No, I’m pretty sure I’m right about this part.”
“Ciara might be a Richards, but guess what her grandmother’s last name is?”
“No. Really?”
“Yep.” Jessie nods vigorously. “My mom mentioned Ciara’s mother a few times. They were in school together. Her maiden name was Grenaux. She became Richards after she married Ciara’s father.”
“Okay, that makes a lot of sense. So are you saying that Ciara’s family has a tradition of burying its women with a witchlight, and Ciara swears she’s never heard of a thing with that name? Oh, I so knew she was lying. But what does this mean? We’re not going to rob a grave to get a witchlight, are we?”
“No, of course not,” Jessie says. I’m a little relieved. Okay, a lot relieved, because it’s not a stretch for Jessie to get really excited about something like that. “Well, we’ll leave it as a last resort.” Yep, there it is. “The graves could be protected by spells.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t. It’s just a hunch. I mean, if I buried a relative with a powerful amulet that could attract demons, I would definitely protect it with some kind of magic.”
“I guess that makes sense.” I’m mostly just happy that we are not going to rob any graves anytime soon. “So, if we’re not stealing a witchlight from a dead witch, how are we going to get it?” I ask.
“The only other way we can—from a living witch. Tomorrow is the big game. Ciara is going to be at the game the entire time, and I’m pretty sure her grandmother is going to be there as well. That gives us an opportunity to break into her house and snoop around for a witchlight, or better yet a spell on how to make one. Then we’ll be able to make as many witchlights as we want.”
Breaking and entering? Awesome. That is so much better than grave robbing. “But don’t you think that if their graves are protected with magic, then any spells or witchlights they have in the house will be protected as well?”
Je
ssie’s enthusiasm wavers for just a fraction of a second, and then she grins at me. “Well, we only have one way to see if that’s the case, don’t we?”
“I guess we do.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jessie gives me a ride home, during which we agree that breaking into Ciara’s house is irresponsible, reckless, and dangerous. Therefore there’s no way we are going to miss an opportunity like that.
When I get to my room, I lie on the floor, simply because I’m too exhausted to get to my bed. I shut my eyes just for a second, and when I open them, Azzie’s face is right in front of me. He doesn’t look happy.
“I’m hungry,” he says.
I prop myself up on my elbows. “Didn’t you find something in the fridge while everyone was out?”
“Fridge, freezer”—Azzie starts counting on his fingers—“cupboards, pantry, garage freezer.”
“Garage freezer? Are you kidding me? I told you not to leave the house. You know, it’s for your own good, right?”
“It’s for my own good to die of starvation?” Azzie squints his blue eyes at me.
“Starvation? You eat more in one sitting than my entire family eats in a week. How could you possibly die of starvation?”
“Easily.” Azzie’s stomach grumbles as if to support his argument.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re faking it.”
“How can you fake a grumbling stomach?” He sounds genuinely offended.
“How can you eat all the food in the house and still be hungry? We had a dozen pounds of meat in the garage freezer. And enough ice cream to last us a year. Are you seriously telling me that you ate all of it?”
“Talking about ice cream, I really liked that mint flavored one with chocolate chips. You should get more of that. And cookie dough flavored one. Actually, just get me some raw cookie dough.”
“G-I-I-I-R-L-S!” Mom yells from the kitchen.
“Is there anything else I need to know? Apart from all the food being gone?”
Azzie’s eyes turn to the ceiling. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Right,” I say and trudge downstairs.
“I think we’ve been robbed,” Mom says when both Chloe and I are in the kitchen. She has the fridge door open, as well as all the kitchen cupboards. There’s not a crumb of anything edible in sight.
“Someone stole our food?” Chloe asks, looking around. “Is anything else missing?”
“I’m not sure if anything else is missing, but this is quite suspicious as it is. Who would break into a house and steal all the food in it? I should probably call the police. And your dad. Or should I call your dad first and then the police?” Mom walks around the kitchen, scratching the back of her head. For one thing, she doesn’t seem worried, more like puzzled and a little bit surprised.
“Wait, police? Here?” Chloe says. “Are they going to look through our stuff? I’m not letting them into my room.”
“What if there’s a burglar hiding in your closet?” I decide to taunt Chloe just a little bit, but she obviously isn’t taunted that easily.
She huffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why don’t you just tell the truth and confess that you ate all the food?”
“I so didn’t!” I exclaim indignantly. I do eat a lot, but not Azzie a lot. Although we really don’t need police in the house. What if they decide to be vigilant and check every closet to make sure there are no burglars hiding there?
“Who else would? You’re the only one who eats that much.”
“That’s not true. You eat as much as I do.”
“Girls, stop arguing. You’re giving me a headache,” Mom says.
“This makes no sense,” Chloe says. “Who would break into someone’s house just to eat all their food? I say Emmy did it. Just admit it so we can all go back to what we were doing.”
If looks could kill, the one I’m giving Chloe right now would send her into the fiery pits of hell. “You do realize I came back from school like two minutes ago? I didn’t have time to eat anything even if I wanted to."
“Your sister is right, Chloe. Obviously someone else did it,” Mom says in my defense.
I stick my tongue out at Chloe, who reciprocates with a more offensive gesture. Mom doesn’t see it, because she’s kneeling in front of one of the bottom cabinets, probably scavenging for something she can make us for dinner.
“Fine,” Chloe says. She strolls to the sink and pours herself a glass of water. At least we won’t die of thirst, because even Azzie can’t drink all the tap water. “So if no one in this room ate the food, then who did?”
“A raccoon?” I suggest.
“Pff.” The water comes out of Chloe’s nose. “So a raccoon opened the door, walked into our kitchen, climbed on a chair, opened the top cabinets, then grabbed all the food in its tiny little paws and dragged it to its lair?”
“Do raccoons have lairs?”
“That’s the part you have a problem with?” Mom asks. She looks funny with half of her body inside the cabinet and the other half sticking out of it. “The lairs part? How about the dragging all the food in its tiny little paws?”
Chloe and I giggle.
“Maybe it dragged the things out one at a time? And used its teeth instead of paws,” I suggest.
“Or maybe there was an entire gang,” Chloe says.
“Do raccoons gather in gangs?” I ask.
“Definitely not.” Mom emerges from the cabinet, clutching a few boxes and jars. Chloe and I clap our hands.
“Yay, dinner!” Chloe shows her enthusiasm by jumping. Cheerleading is not good for her.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Mom says as she examines a jar of applesauce. “Judging by the date, your grandmother might have bought it.” My grandmother, who died before I was born.
“Ew,” Chloe’s enthusiasm wanes somewhat, but not enough to get her to stop jumping. “Why did nobody throw it out?”
“Okay, this spaghetti sauce hasn’t expired yet.” Mom ignores Chloe’s question as any mother who doesn’t like cleaning out kitchen cabinets would. “And with this”—Mom examines another jar whose label has faded and is unreadable now—“er, you know what, I think I’ll call your father and ask him to pick something up on his way home.” She tosses the jars into the waste bin, together with the antique applesauce and a few boxes of expired oatmeal. “You girls go upstairs and do your homework,” Mom says absentmindedly. I figure the applesauce jar might have upset her. She’s been looking through Granny’s photos just the other night, and now this. Although, maybe I am just imagining things. Maybe she is just upset about the missing food.
“What about the raccoons?” Chloe asks.
“Oh, I’ll make sure to close the door next time.”
Chloe and I both gape at her.
“Which door?” I ask. “The patio door or the front door?”
“Yes,” Mom says, picking up the phone and dialing Dad’s number.
“Have you found a date for Friday yet?” Chloe asks me once we’re upstairs.
“Are you kidding me? You’re not seriously expecting me to play along, are you? I have better things to do than go to some stupid parties,” I say, annoyed. I really don’t think there’s anything else my little sister can do to make my life even more complicated than it already is, so why bother making her happy?
Chloe steps so close to me that her face is barely an inch from mine.
“If you don’t get a date yourself, I’ll set one up for you, and you won’t like it,” she threatens.
“A blind date? Are you serious? I simply won’t go.”
“Oh, yes, you will, if you ever want to get your books back. Or get any allowance to buy new ones.”
“You’re not in charge of that.” Oh, she could so make that happen. My parents seem only too happy to get me away from my books and into the arms of some horny teenage boy.
“One way or another, you are going to be at that party. With a date. You still have one day to find one yourself, otherwise—” Chloe d
oesn’t finish her threat either because she thinks it’s self-explanatory, or more likely because her phone starts vibrating. I decide to use this distraction to get away from her and from this annoying conversation.
“I have to do my homework,” I say and retreat into my room before Chloe can finish her threats. Besides, I don’t even care what she comes up with this time. There’s simply no way I will go to some stupid party with some stupid boy I don’t even like.
“How was your day, honey?” Mom asks my dad as she places another slice of pizza onto his plate. He’s already stuffing his second slice into his mouth without even chewing it. We are all doing pretty much the same. Even Chloe, who has been acting like she absolutely loves Mom’s new culinary creations, is very focused on her meal right now.
Dad mumbles something unintelligible in response.
“What was it, sweetie?” Mom asks, cutting her slice with a knife and fork. She’s the only one using the utensils. The rest of us look like we belong in a pigsty.
“I said it was pretty boring, as usual,” Dad manages to enunciate through a mouthful of pepperoni. “So what exactly happened to all our food?” Dad asks tentatively. It’s clear that he doesn’t mind the situation. So why ask? Adults.
“Oh, I left the patio door open when I left for work,” Mom says. So it was the patio door after all. “Some animal must have crawled in and ate our food.”
Chloe and I drop our slices of pizza—and our jaws—simultaneously. We exchange a look, but don’t say anything. Mom is pretty scatterbrained, but the raccoon story was a joke. Wasn’t it? I shake my head.
“So are you going to Chloe’s game tomorrow?” I ask.
Chloe almost sputters her pizza out.
I give her a shrug as if it’s a completely normal thing for me to show interest in her life.
“Yes, of course,” Mom’s eyes light up. “It’s the first game of the season, isn’t it? We wouldn’t miss it for the world, right Charlie?” she says when Dad doesn’t say anything because his mouth is too busy chewing.
“Mm-hmm,” Dad murmurs in agreement.
“And we could go to a restaurant afterwards to celebrate,” Mom says cheerfully.