Bound

by Kirsten Weiss

  An ancient librarian set me up at a microfiche machine with a stack of plastic cases. I spun through the newspaper archives. The blur of glowing words made my eyes ache, dizzying.

  But I knew where to look now, and it didn’t take long to find the articles I wanted. Lots of people got lost in the woods, but most were found — either their decayed bodies or alive and not-so-well. But Nick had been right. Every seven years, someone disappeared in the Doyle woods and was never seen again. I went back fifty years, listing the names, dates, locations. And then the archives ended.

  The most recent disappearance had been Nick’s sister, Emily. I re-imagined his hikes in the Doyle woods. Along every bend in the path: Did my sister walk here? Beneath every tree: Did my sister rest beneath these branches? Beside every stream: Did my sister drink here? My heart ached for Nick and all those other wondering families.

  The only break in the seven-year cycle was 1995. Nobody had disappeared then, unless you counted Ely, and I didn’t. Ely had run from the law. Or could he have run into the woods, been hiding there all this time, perhaps joined whoever was responsible in picking off hikers?

  I walked to the front desk and returned the microfiche to the librarian.

  The woman could have stepped from central casting. Her silver hair piled high on her head, a cameo broach pinned to her high-necked collar. She looked over her cat-eye glasses at me. “Did you find what you were looking for, dear?”

  “I think so, thanks. Do you have access to any newspapers that go back farther in time?”

  “There’s the Doyle Gazette. It went out of business seventy years ago, but we have some of its old issues on microfiche.”

  “I’m looking for summer issues for particular years.” I slid a list of dates across the gleaming, wood counter.

  The librarian adjusted her glasses. “I might have some of these. Just a moment.” She disappeared into a back room and emerged five minutes later with three boxes. “Here you go: 1925, 1918, and 1911. I’m afraid that’s as far as we go.”

  “It’s perfect. Thank you.” I hurried to my carrel and inserted a plastic case into the machine.

  The disappearances continued. Every seven years.

  I caught sight of a familiar name and sucked in my breath.

  Dante Cunningham.

  That was the name of the old woman I’d found in the woods near the hospital.

  Dante had disappeared from a picnic in 1911. She’d been thirty-six.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tiptoeing into my aunt’s house, I peeked into her bedroom. Ellen lay beneath the coverlet, the top half of the bed angled upward. Her eyes were shut, her chest rising and falling in slow, regular breaths. The late afternoon sunlight winked through the witch’s ball dangling in the window.

  Soft voices drew me into the kitchen. Jayce and Lenore sat at the butcher block island, sipping tea.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “She’s been asleep since I called you,” Jayce said.

  My shoulders slumped in relief. At least I hadn’t missed any opportunities to talk with Ellen because of my library diversion. I set the grocery bag between them. “The bakery was out of lemon bars.”

  Jayce opened the bag. “This will work. I could make the bars from scratch, but I don’t have the energy.”

  “Or the lemons,” I said. “I’m sorry. I should have come home sooner.”

  “It was your turn for a break.” Rising, Jayce opened a moss-green cupboard and pulled out a mixing bowl. She turned on the oven, whisked the powdered mixture with eggs and oil, each movement a smooth dance. The loose fabric of her emerald tank top shifted with her motions. When she’d finished, she popped the mixture in the oven.

  “Want some tea?” Lenore asked.

  “Sure,” I said. Jayce’s tea mixes were as divine as her coffee, infused with her natural magic. I sighed. It all came so easily for my sisters, while I was stuck spinning spells into knots and straining to figure out what the wind and clouds were saying. On the other hand, I could practice more.

  “What’s wrong?” Lenore tilted her head, her blond hair cascading down her front.

  “Nothing. I ran into Brayden today,” I said, off-handed.

  Jayce froze, tea cup raised. “Oh?” She set the cup down.

  Rising from her stool, Lenore selected a canister from a shelf, filled a wire-mesh tea strainer with the leaves.

  “He was looking at a house off Main Street,” I said. “With Sunny.”

  Jayce quirked a brow. “Sunny. I suppose she asked about Ellen?”

  “She knows Ellen’s sick,” I said. “Sunny was only being polite.”

  “Sunny was looking for another commission,” Jayce said, color suffusing her cheeks. “She wants to get her claws on this house and on Brayden.”

  “Let’s not talk about it now,” Lenore said quietly. She poured steaming water from the teapot into a cup.

  Jayce looked away, breathing hard.

  Lenore handed me the mug.

  “Have you heard anything from your lawyer?” I asked.

  “No.” Jayce’s smile drew taut. “But no news is good news, right?”

  Disappointed, I stared into the mug of hot water. Coils of brown snaked from the tea strainer, staining the clear liquid. The colors twined together, formed a knot, and diffused, turning the water a deep, nut brown.

  “I’m going to look in on Ellen.” Mug warming my palm, I left the kitchen.

  I stopped in the doorway to the front bedroom, and my ribcage squeezed. Ellen’s mouth was parted, her face relaxed, innocent. I looked away, blinking back tears.

  As a child, cloistered as we were, I’d still been aware Ellen was older than the other mothers. And I’d worried, had spent my life worrying that I’d lose Ellen, had prayed that when it finally happened, I’d be old enough to cope.

  And now it was happening, and I was an adult and had my sisters beside me. I could cope with this loss. But I didn’t want to cope. I couldn’t lose the only mother I’d known. Not yet.

  Ellen’s bedroom darkened, the sun sinking behind the pines. A starburst of sunlight gleamed on the edge of the sapphire-colored witch ball, winked out.

  Her cancer had spread so quickly. We’d been in the hospital a month ago, and she’d been fine. It didn’t make sense. But little was making sense lately — Alicia’s murder, the strange behavior of the forest, the attack at the spring. It was as if the town had come alive with dark magic. Or had it always been there, and I’d been too numbed by Ellen’s binding spell to notice?

  I drew a quick breath. Was magic taking Ellen before her time? I shivered, remembering that malice I’d felt at the spring. Someone was causing our troubles, had singled my family out, maybe had gone after Ellen as well.

  Something had changed. The resurgence of Ellen’s cancer. The appearance of Dante Cunningham. Whispers of a rose rabbit. Could they be connected? A part of the curse?

  For answers, I needed to go to the source material — that antique spell book I’d returned to the attic. I sped upstairs. Pulling the steps down, I clambered into the attic and felt along the wall for the light switch.

  I beelined for the old secretary. The key to the case was in the lock, and I opened the glass. I removed the leather-bound book, set it on the open writing desk, drew up a chair. This witch’s cookbook was my heritage. It held the story of the curse, and Ellen had asked me to read it for a reason.

  Careful, I thumbed through the fragile pages, yellowed with age. The words were written in old script, and I had to squint, strain to read. A nine-herbs charm for treating wounds and infections. A ceremony to bring fertility to the land. A charm to cure “water-elf” disease, whatever that was. A ritual to learn the healing properties of a plant. A calendula salve for infections and love potions. I turned the page. Was this what our ancestress, Belle, had used to lure her lover to the fairy spring? If so, the effects hadn’t lasted.

  Rituals to break bewitchments, to protect the home, to find lost items.
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br />   The light in the attic dimmed, a cloud passing before the lowering sun. My skin prickled. I turned in the chair, feeling someone behind me.

  No one was there.

  The boxes stood, dusty. The trapdoor leaned, open. A hinge squeaked, and I swiveled. The glass door to the secretary’s bookcase swung slowly shut.

  Shaking myself, I returned my attention to the old book.

  Sun, Moon, Venus, Mercury, Mars, Saturn, Jupiter, I charge you anon to gard this hause and land from all Desorders and evil spirits, and to grant those who dwelle herein good Welth and Ealth.

  Interesting, but the spell (spelle?) wouldn’t help Ellen. I rubbed my eyes, kept reading.

  My finger paused at the top of a worn page. A Ladder to Binde the Soule to the Flesh.

  Heart banging, I read on.

  Yes, this was it — an old knot spell. The incantation was simple enough. All I needed was a length of black string for a braid, and my aunt’s hair to bind nine crow feathers to it.

  I slumped in the chair. Where was I going to get nine crow feathers? They weren’t on sale at the local grocery store, and I didn’t have time to order them online. Crow feathers… Crow feathers…

  Was I really going to try this? Healing was never a talent of mine, and something this big… Was it right to play with the forces of life and death? Just because someone had written the spell in a book, it didn’t mean the spell was a good idea.

  But if my aunt’s illness had a magical cause, I’d need magic for this battle. The only thing stopping me were nine crow feathers. Crows lived in these mountains, and they had to drop feathers on a regular basis. Nine crow feathers. Where would I—

  The attic window thunked, shuddered.

  I gasped, starting in my chair.

  Hesitant, I rose and walked to the window, stared at the dark smear.

  Blood.

  I hurried down the attic steps, down the stairs, racing outside and around the side of the house.

  In the waning twilight, a crow lay behind a clump of white, matillja poppies. The bird’s neck canted at an odd angle, broken. The poppies swayed, their sunshine stamens a cheerful mockery of death.

  I recoiled, fist pressed to my mouth. Had I done this? Called the bird to its death? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Sickened, I looked away.

  The bird’s death was an omen, the spell an abomination. I had no more right to bind Ellen’s soul to earth than she’d had to bind my powers.

  And this was the lesson my ancestress, Belle, had learned too late. This was why Ellen had kept a portion of my powers bound when I was too young to understand. When you played with the dark arts, there was a price. Wanting to save my aunt’s life might not be evil, but…

  How I wanted to save her.

  I had to save her.

  I stepped closer, peered past the flowers at the bird. The crow’s obsidian eye stared, glassy. Three feathers lay loose on the ground. If I wanted six more, I’d have to pluck the carcass.

  Bile rose in my throat. I bent, reaching for the feathers scattered beneath the flowers.

  A door opened, footsteps sounding on the porch.

  “Karin?” Jayce called.

  “Coming.” Hands clenched, I strode around the corner and leapt up the porch steps. Perhaps the interruption had been no coincidence either, pulling me from the brink of red-hot insanity.

  “Ellen’s awake,” Jayce said. “She wants to talk.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We arranged chairs around our aunt’s bed. Ellen seemed to have shrunk since they’d brought her from the hospital. Her eyes were half-closed, her flesh sagging between the bones in her arms and skull. She bunched the blue coverlet beneath her clawed hands.

  “Not the overhead light,” she said, shielding her face.

  “Sorry.” Jayce switched on the bedside lamp and hurried to turn off the overhead, casting the room into gloom.

  “You three need to take care of each other.” Ellen’s words came in short gasps, her breath wheezing.

  I rose, sat again. Ellen was saying goodbye, and I wasn’t ready. My hands were clammy. I rubbed them on the leg of my pants.

  Jayce glanced at Lenore.

  Lenore smoothed the stomach of her slip dress and shook her head. Ellen wasn’t dying yet.

  I started to breathe again.

  I took Ellen’s gnarled hand. It felt birdlike, insubstantial. “You don’t have to worry about us.” My voice broke. “We’ve always been close. That’s not going to change.”

  “Everything changes. You three are the first… siblings in a hundred and… fifty years. Change is coming.”

  Eyes tearing, Jayce took Ellen’s other hand. “You’ve done so much for us. You’ve taught us and loved us better than any mother could. We’ll be okay.”

  “The spell book,” Ellen said. “Get it for me.”

  “I know where it is.” I hurried from the room, dashing tears from my cheeks and suddenly unwilling for my sisters to learn what I’d been reading.

  I raced up the attic ladder and to the antique secretary, snapped the book closed.

  The cabinet’s glass door stood open. I moved to shut it, paused. The massive Bible, thicker than the spell book in my arms, lay on the bottom shelf. On impulse, I grabbed that as well and picked my way down the steep ladder.

  I entered the sick room.

  Lenore thumbed through a handful of papers. “If this is what you want—”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Ellen’s wishes for her burial,” Jayce choked out.

  “I bought a plot years ago at Greenwood Cemetery, where your parents are.” Ellen wheezed. “Everything’s paid for.”

  My vision grew watery, and I hooked my toe in a blue rag rug, stumbled. I didn’t want to talk about this. But Ellen did, and that was what mattered.

  “Watch your step,” Ellen said. “I see you brought the spell book. What else have you got?”

  “The family Bible,” I said.

  “Where did you find that?” Ellen laughed, and the sound twisted into a cough. “It must be falling apart. I haven’t opened that Bible since...” She looked away. Since she’d recorded the deaths of her brother and sister-in-law and our births. “I regretted opening it then. I may have damaged the spine.” Ellen reached out, and I handed her the spell book.

  Ellen’s arm thunked to the bed, the spell book sliding from her grasp.

  Jayce grabbed the book before it could tumble to the floor. “Here, let me help you. What are you looking for?”

  “There must be some… clue,” Ellen panted. “Something I missed, a way to break the curse.”

  “Ellen,” Jayce said. “Forget about that damned curse.”

  “No.” Our aunt set her jaw. “I want to keep looking, if it’s the last thing…” Her eyes drifted shut, and her breath grew heavy. Her eyes snapped open.

  “What can you tell us about the rose rabbit?” I asked.

  Lenore shot me an accusing look.

  “Rose rabbit?” Ellen’s eyelids cracked open. “What’s that?”

  “Forget it,” Lenore hissed. The muscles corded in her neck.

  “Do you know Dante Cunningham?” I asked.

  “Dante Cunningham?” Ellen frowned. “Who’s she?”

  I backed away and sat, cradling the Bible, in a wing chair in the corner of the room. Maybe Lenore was right, and the rabbit had nothing to do with anything.

  Jayce leaned over the bed, flipping the pages in Ellen’s lap.

  So this was how Ellen’s life would end. In a bed, searching for answers. Lips trembling, I opened the Bible. The spine cracked, a corner slipping sideways, and I flinched, chagrined.

  Its front pages were covered in names, births, weddings, deaths. Every generation, the last name changed. And in every case, the births and deaths were paired. A girl born, a mother dying in childbirth, the father dying shortly before or after. Mary and Meredith, June 6, 1891. Meredith and Edna Rose, April 12, 1869. Edna and Grace Elizabeth, Aug
ust 23, 1850. Grace and… No one. Grace’s mother had lived. Grace was the first of the twined deaths, the first to die in childbirth.

  I ran my finger down the thin paper, its colorful borders a simulacrum of a medieval manuscript. There was no Belle listed. All the way to the beginning of the recorded entries in 1792, no Belle, no Annabelle, no Marybelle, no Clarabelle.

  Brows drawing together, I looked to the top of the page. Yes, this was our family, my sisters’ names inscribed alongside mine in our aunt’s handwriting. Beneath that, our mother’s name and grandmother’s in black ink.

  “Belle’s not in this Bible,” I said.

  The lamp made a popping sound, and the room plunged into darkness. I stiffened, my finger digging into the open page.

  “What now?” Jayce asked, exasperated.

  “Hold on,” Lenore said. “I’ll get a new bulb.” There was a crash. “Whoops. Sorry.” A few minutes later, she returned with a flashlight and bulb, and replaced the light.

  “Tell me that wasn’t the curse.” Jayce gesticulated, pacing the room.

  “It’s just a light bulb,” Lenore said.

  “Belle’s not in the family Bible.” I leaned forward in the chair.

  “What?” Jayce asked.

  “Belle, our evil ancestress,” I said, excited. “She’s not in here.”

  “Maybe they took her name out after she screwed up with Nathaniel,” Jayce said.

  “How?” I asked. “There was no white-out in the nineteenth century. Belle’s birth would have been recorded. Maybe they’d have scratched it out, but there are no cross-outs on this page. The line of births and deaths is unbroken. There are no missing links.”

  “Belle may have been a nickname,” Ellen said.

  I rose, carrying the book to the bed. “You can’t get Belle from the name Grace Elizabeth. She was the first to die in childbirth, in 1850. Her mother, Sarah, outlived her, dying in 1868. The curse began with Grace and her husband, Nathaniel.”

  Ellen’s brow wrinkled. “How could I have missed this? Where did you find the Bible?”

  “In an old trunk in the attic,” I said.