The Witch Collector Part I

by Loretta Nyhan

  “No, not your spellbook,” Miro huffed. “Your family book.”

  I shook my head. What?

  “Where did you say you were from?” Shelley asked, her mouth curving downward. She was beginning to doubt me.

  “Oregon. We didn’t interact much with the other covens. We lived in the country. I don’t know what other covens do.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Miro said, his voice quieting. “Closed covens. Like a . . . commune.”

  “But I’ve never heard of a witch without a family book,” Shelley insisted. “Maybe you call it something different there?”

  “I have a spellbook,” I said lamely. “Is it different?”

  “Very. A family book is usually small, a leather-bound notepad, like the size of a cell phone,” she explained. “It lists the remedies and herbs that work for your bloodline. It’s incredibly helpful when a witch is transitioning, because the tisane recipes have been perfected over the years. Without knowing what works for your line, I can only give you something that boosts your whole system. I can’t address specific symptoms. Also, I could add an ingredient that could hurt you. The family book will list those dangerous herbs as well.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.” I sighed, frustrated. How many other important things didn’t I know? “Can we work around it?”

  Neither of them responded. Instead, I watched Miro’s eyes skip over my neck, ears, my hands. “Wait . . . where’s your talisman?”

  His question shouldn’t have shamed me, but it did. I did know the importance of a talisman. Why hadn’t my parents given me one? They knew my magic was coming—how could they have left me so defenseless? My cheeks grew hot and I looked at the floor.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Shelley said. She brought her face closer to mine. “You must have one. How old are you?”

  I forced my chin up. “Sixteen. But please, listen—”

  “She’s lying,” Miro growled.

  Careful, I told myself. You don’t know where you are.

  “Breeda, I want you to tell us what you think just happened to you,” Shelley said softly, as if she were talking to a small child.

  What had happened? I could breathe now, but my lungs still quivered from the aftershocks of oxygen deprivation. The muscles in my arms and legs felt tender, as though someone had pummeled them with a stick. “I’m getting my magic, I think? People get sick when that happens. Or, my mom just got sick when we were coming out here, and I caught whatever she had.”

  “Of course your mother is sick,” Miro said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “She’s transitioning!”

  “Like you are,” Shelley added. Her voice contained none of Miro’s anger. “You’re pulling your new powers from your bloodline, so your parents are feeling the impact. The magic will make you sick at the start, but it might make your parents even sicker. When you all come through the other end, they’ll be weaker. You know that, right?”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to cry. Roll up into a little ball and sob. “I’ve—I’ve never heard it explained like that,” I finally managed. “I’ve never heard it called that word—transitioning.”

  Miro’s eyes seemed cold suddenly, so I could hardly remember the warmth I’d seen in them just a few moments ago, when he leaned over me. “What do you call it, then?”

  My mind whirred, the events of the past few days forming into mismatched puzzle pieces. “We didn’t have a . . . name for it. At least I don’t think so. When the other kids showed signs of getting magic, they were sent to a training center in Seaside.”

  “What kind of signs?” Shelley asked.

  I thought about Brandon complaining that he didn’t feel well before he left, and about Sonya’s sudden asthma. “They got sick.”

  “Yes,” Shelley said, nodding. “That kind of announces the beginning. What did they say when they got back from the training center?”

  “No one said anything,” I said, a feeling of dread taking hold in my belly. “My friends were the oldest kids in the coven. Everyone else was an adult—mostly our parents.”

  “This was a new coven?” Miro asked, his forehead scrunched in thought.

  “Yes,” I said, though the thought felt foreign to me. My coven was all I’d ever known. It never felt new, or old, or anything other than home.

  “Do you know anything else about what the transitioning process involves?” Shelley asked me.

  “Not . . . really.”

  “Well . . .” She opened her mouth to say more but changed her mind and looked to Miro for help.

  “This is ridiculous,” Miro said. “Next thing she’ll have us explaining is where babies come from.” He turned away and walked toward the door. “I’m going to make sure Donna isn’t looking for us. We can’t go to anyone with this until we’re sure of what we’re really dealing with.”

  Shelley watched him leave.

  “Donna?” I asked.

  “My mom. She owns this restaurant. By now she’s pretty wiped, so she usually spends an hour before bed watching TV.”

  I thought of my own mother, of the new lines on her face, of the deep bags under her eyes. I was worried about her. “Could you tell me what you know about the transition?”

  “You’re really pretty clueless, huh?”

  “I guess so.”

  Shelley took a breath, squared her shoulders, and addressed me. “The first year is the worst—”

  “The first year?”

  “It usually only takes two,” she said almost apologetically. “Miro and I are nearly done, or at least we think so.”

  “How do you know?”

  Shelley gestured to the pendant around her neck. She was careful not to touch it, grasping the bronze chain instead. I leaned forward, and up close I could see the smooth lines of her talisman, a bright crimson stone called red jasper. It complemented the golden hue of her skin.

  “I know I’m near the end because I feel like this is truly mine now, a part of me as natural as an arm or leg. Do you know what this talisman does?” she asked.

  “It helps to direct your magic, like a conductor,” I said, grateful Gavin had at least explained that to me.

  Shelley looked like she felt relieved, too. “Exactly. In the beginning, it’s very hard to control your magic, and it’s impossible to predict how it’s going to affect you physically. What happened tonight was pretty intense. How many times did you use your gift?”

  The bird in the alley. The fireball. The priest’s phone. How many times had I opened the door to our apartment?

  “Five or six, I think.” And four different gifts, I neglected to add. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her. It scared me, and I needed to understand what was going on one step at a time.

  Shelley’s eyes widened. “With no talisman? Oh, Breeda. You could have died.”

  My head felt suddenly light, like all the blood had drained from it and was pooling at my feet.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to frighten you,” Shelley said quickly. “But you have nothing to guide you through this right now. You need to find your parents, or at least your coven leader. I don’t know why they haven’t explained these things to you, but they must have your family book. It’s basic self-preservation.”

  “I don’t even know where to begin to look!” I cried. “I don’t know what happened to them!”

  Shelley’s face softened, and she pressed one hand to my shoulder. “Why don’t you begin by telling me everything? We can figure out what to do once I understand what’s happened.”

  “I . . .” But I needed to think about what I could tell them. My parents could be in real trouble—I had no idea what really happened in Oregon. Would Shelley bring me to the police? I thought of the demon in a police uniform and shuddered. Would she get angry for my bringing more trouble, like the priest, and kick me out? What would I do then?

  Shelley squeezed my shoulder and smiled. In that instant she reminded me of Sonya reassuring me at another time, in another life.
It was impossible to truly fear anything when confronted by a smile like that.

  I took a breath, opening a path in my lungs. “We left Oregon in the middle of the night . . .”

  CHAPTER 8

  “We’ll help you,” Shelley said without hesitation after I finished my story. “Let me go fill Miro in on what’s going on, and then we’ll come up with a plan.”

  “Miro doesn’t seem to like me much,” I said, understating the obvious.

  She shrugged. “He’s afraid, is all. He’s angry because he doesn’t like to admit to it.”

  I almost laughed. “He’s afraid of me?”

  “He’s afraid of what’s happening to you. I was serious when I said the uncontrolled magic could be fatal, and not just to you. It happens more often than you’d think.”

  “Why aren’t you afraid?”

  Shelley took a blanket from the cot and wrapped it around my shoulders. She smiled again. “I’m terrified,” she said matter-of-factly, “but I’m also crazily optimistic.” Her voice, friendly and easygoing, despite her admission, felt like a balm. “We’ll find your parents, Breeda. I can feel it from my toes to my nose.”

  We. The word filled me with an enormous sense of relief. Still, I had no idea what I was getting Shelley involved in. “That demon police officer I told you about—I wasn’t making that up. I’ve never seen a demon before, but I knew that’s what he was. Every campfire story stars a demon.”

  Shelley blanched. “His eyes were black, right?”

  “Like tar.”

  “I’ve never seen one,” she said. “But I’ve heard stories, too. Still, I don’t think Chicago usually has many demons skulking around.” Her expression grew serious. “Are you worried the demon took your parents?”

  My spine turned to ice. “I hadn’t been, but could that be a possibility?”

  “Not likely. A demon would have killed them on the spot,” she said gently. “There wouldn’t have been much of a struggle. Demons destroy everything in their paths, indiscriminately.”

  I thought about the demon’s face so close to mine and shivered. “I knew he wanted to hurt me, but he was in no hurry,” I said. “Are there mellow demons?”

  Shelley laughed. “Um, no. Unless it was bewitched. But only rare witches can bewitch a demon, and it doesn’t last long. Once it wears off the demon tries to destroy the witch who did it.”

  “He was dressed as a police officer.”

  “Definitely bewitched,” Shelley said. “I can’t imagine a demon doing that willingly.”

  “I ran up to him because I was so afraid. My coven stayed far away from police officers.”

  “That’s where we’re similar,” Shelley said. “We shouldn’t seek help from the police. They’ll treat it like a regular robbery and kidnapping, if they take us seriously at all. Even here in the city, where we live shoulder-to-shoulder with regular people, witches are still thought of as creatures from fantasy books. Some people are more aware—but most try to explain away whatever magic they happen to witness. Cops usually think we’re fakers, charlatans—criminals, even. If you tried to explain what happened, they’d probably put you in Child Protective Services, with people who would have no idea what to do with a transitioning witch.”

  It would be terrifying to go through the experience of getting my magic with people who didn’t understand what I was—but I was still nervous about getting Shelley involved when I couldn’t fathom how dangerous my situation was. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I promised we’d help and we will,” Shelley assured me. “Sit tight, okay? I’ll be back in a minute. While I’m gone, why don’t you make a list of everyone your parents know in Chicago. That’s probably a good place to start.”

  After Shelley left, the room felt colder. I wrapped myself in the blanket and rubbed my chin against the soft cotton while I tried to think of everyone my parents knew in Chicago. I’d been so young when we left, and they never mentioned anyone from our original coven. As far as I knew, my list would have only one name on it. My aunt Evie.

  When the door finally opened, I jumped to standing. The big blond boy from the alley walked in, his presence even more intimidating when we stood in the same small room. Shelley followed him, trailed by Miro, his expression unreadable.

  “Before we do anything else, we need to find your family book. You’ll be no good to your parents if you aren’t breathing,” Miro announced.

  “Easy,” Shelley warned.

  “I don’t know where it is,” I said, looking at Shelley.

  Miro stepped closer, right in front of me. “Are you Polish?”

  “What?” What did being Polish or not have to do with anything?

  He sighed, exasperated. “Levitation is your gift. That gift usually belongs to us Poles. If you’re Polish, that will suggest what may have been in your book. It’s better than nothing.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not Polish.”

  His eyes showed disappointment. “Whose marks do you have, then?”

  “Marks?”

  “Whose side do you favor?” he asked impatiently.

  A panicky feeling fluttered through me, and my breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Who do you look like?” he said after a moment, his tone a shade gentler. A bit of the warmth returned to his strange eyes. “Your mother or your father?”

  That was another difficult question to answer. I had dark mahogany hair, a mix of my mother’s black hair and my father’s reddish brown hair. My mom was short and slight, my dad massive—I was thin and of average height. I had my dad’s light complexion but my mom’s dark eyes. “I look like both of them. . . .”

  “What’s your father’s last name?”

  “Fergus.”

  “Irish.” Miro nodded and stepped behind me. His fingers lightly brushed the nape of my neck.

  “What are you doing?”

  Instead of answering me, he pulled out the rubber band holding my braid together and began sifting through my hair. I shivered.

  “He’s looking for a Celtic stripe,” Shelley explained. “Every witch has a bloodline mark, and the mark shows up on different parts of the body. If we know what line you’re from, I can be more precise when I make your tisane.”

  His fingers combed through my hair slowly, moving back and forth along my scalp. Then he leaned over and said, “Do you dye your hair?”

  “No,” I said.

  “She’s not a Celt,” Miro said to the others. He stepped around me again and handed over the rubber band. “I’ll let you put it back together,” he murmured. His low voice hummed against my ear.

  Shelley rolled her eyes and stepped closer to Miro and me. “Most witches marry within their line, but maybe your parents didn’t. What was your mother’s name before she married your dad?”

  “Soledad.”

  “Okay, then. Mexican, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Perfect. I can get closer to the correct tisane ingredients. It’ll be—”

  “We should be sure, shouldn’t we, Vadim?” Miro interrupted, turning to their enormous friend, who leaned impassively against the far wall.

  “It always pays to be certain,” the blond one—Vadim—answered solemnly.

  Miro’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. “Can you unbutton your jeans, turn around, and bend over?”

  I gulped. “Pardon me?”

  “Don’t worry,” he purred. “I’ll help.”

  Shelley swatted at him. “Miro, stop. Leave, and I’ll look.”

  Shelley shooed the boys into the hallway, Miro obviously fighting the urge to laugh.

  “They’re really not that bad, once you get to know them,” she said, after slamming the door on their heels. “And Miro is right. We should be sure. There were a lot of things you weren’t told. . . . I’d feel better if we definitely knew your line.”

  She took another step closer. “Okay,” she said, “I’m not being weird, but Mayan markings lie at the base of th
e spine. It’s symbolic, really, and beautiful because, um, when you’re sitting, your markings are closest to the earth, drawing power from nature . . . I mean, sort of . . .”

  I turned quickly and lowered my jeans slightly, halting her nervous rambling. When I was certain she’d seen what she needed to see, I turned and faced her again. “Now can we start looking for my folks?”

  Shelley’s skin looked like milk, the color all but drained from her face. Her eyes were round with shock. “There’s . . . nothing there,” she said. “You don’t have any marks. At all.” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if protecting herself.

  I fought the urge to hug myself as well. “Is it really that weird?”

  “Yeah . . . but . . .” She caught herself and began speaking quickly, finding her ground. “I don’t think it’s unheard of. And anyway, maybe another line runs through your family? That must be it.”

  “My parents are first-generation Americans, so I doubt it,” I admitted.

  Shelley winced, as though my answer stung. “Maybe you’ve never noticed? Some bloodlines mark witches in weird spots.”

  I started taking off the rest of my clothes. Shelley turned around, embarrassed. “I didn’t want to ask you to do that,” she said.

  “I need to know,” I said, hoping she’d spot something. “Turn around and look quickly, okay?”

  Red-faced, Shelley gave me the full once-over. “What’s the thing on the back of your shoulder?” she asked hopefully.

  “Mole.”

  “And on your knee?”

  “Hiking accident.”

  “Oh, Breeda, put your clothes back on. There’s nothing.”

  I took a breath and slipped back into my clothes. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Marks, talisman, a family book. These are the things a witch needs to survive the transition.”

  “I’m missing all three.”

  “Basically,” she sighed, and hugged herself tighter.

  This girl was nice, and I suddenly felt guilty for drawing her into my problems. “I don’t know what I’m involving you in, do you understand? I need your help, but how can I ask for it when I can’t tell you what’s going on?”

  In response, Shelley reached into her jeans pocket to pull out a long silver chain. It held a pendant the color of a summer storm, a swirling mix of grays and greens and violets.