The Witch Collector Part I

by Loretta Nyhan

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, waiting for the rosemary to calm me, and tried to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. I was doing what I should be doing. Finding my parents. I thought about Brandon’s face, his crinkly blue eyes and easy grin. Earlier, I’d been convinced I’d really seen him. I knew he wasn’t a vision, but what did I really see? Shock and exhaustion had addled my brain. In the bright light of midmorning, the thought of Brandon in Dobra’s garden seemed somewhat ridiculous. Was it real—or had my desire guided my imagination?

  I opened the medicine cabinet, relieved to see that witches across the country could at least have in common the inability to throw anything away. I squinted, reading the carefully written labels until I found what I needed.

  The bottle of angelica oil was nearly full. Apparently, Miro and Dobra had found no reason to relive their dreams.

  Angelica oil had an elusive fragrance, like the fine petals of a flower right before it blossomed and died. I poured a few drops of the oil onto my fingers and rubbed it onto my temples, my third eye, and at the place where my hairline met my neck. Then I laced my hands together and gently covered my eyes.

  Oh my dreams,

  The art of night,

  Catch each image,

  Burning bright.

  I repeated the spell three times and waited. Nothing. The subconscious held tightly to its secrets, and this spell was weak. I pleaded with the magic. Please. Please. Please show me.

  An image slowly came into focus. It was my mother, her form softened by the dream haze, standing at the edge of a forest. She clutched her talisman, eyes closed, shouting words I could not hear.

  “Mom?” I whispered. But the dream faded at the sound of my voice. I wanted to scream, to call her back, but instinct told me to keep silent. What else was there to see?

  Definitely more. Sonya laughing in a circle of witches. Shelley standing at a stove, then suddenly at a beach, building a castle made of ruby-colored sand. My parents lighting a birthday cake with sixteen candles and then tossing it in the air. These images had flown through my consciousness, snippets of real life contorted by sleep. Then . . . darkness. I never saw Brandon.

  Either the spell didn’t work, or I hadn’t dreamt seeing him—Brandon could be in Chicago. But how on earth did he find me here, where we didn’t know anyone? And why did he leave? When would he be back?

  What did he know?

  “Breeda? Are you almost done? I need to talk to you.”

  Miro.

  “Just a minute!” I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth. I threw on the gauzy purple skirt, white embroidered peasant blouse, and gold cardigan sweater Shelley had given me. I glanced in the mirror. The soft, bohemian style of Shelley’s things didn’t match the sharp, intense look in my eyes. It felt odd, like I wore another person’s costume.

  I needed to wash my own clothes today. They weren’t much, but they were mine.

  “Are you okay in there?” Miro called again.

  I answered by unlocking the door, sending Miro, who had obviously been pressed up against it, rocketing into the small room. He wore jeans and a concert T-shirt, his pale blue talisman hanging over the image of a melting guitar. Miro’s eyes darted from my dirty clothes on the floor to the open vial of oil to the hairbrush on the edge of the sink. He sniffed the air and then gave me a funny look.

  “Angelica oil? Those simple spells rarely work to any degree. Surely you know that, or did they skip that lesson as well?”

  I ignored him and returned the oil to the cabinet.

  “Ah,” he said, his voice softening. “You did see something, didn’t you?” He moved around me and perched at the edge of the tub. “What was it?”

  I couldn’t tell him about Brandon. He would want to chase after him, and though that is exactly what I wanted to do, it made more sense to approach Evie for information first. Also, I’d known Brandon all my life, and Miro and his coven for less than twenty-four hours. They might assume the worst, as I had been starting to do about Gavin—would they hurt him, even? I had to balance risk with discretion.

  “I saw my mother,” I said. It wasn’t a lie.

  Miro nodded but said nothing. He stayed on the edge of the tub as I finished straightening the bathroom and reorganized my backpack. The silence stretched into something so heavy I felt I might suffocate.

  “I’m going to visit my aunt Evie today,” I said, breaking the stillness.

  “Do you know where you’ll find her?” Miro asked.

  And I told him about Ion’s offer. “She’s an alchemist,” I explained, “and works downtown.”

  “We’ll all go with you,” he said.

  “I think you’ll make Ion skittish,” I said. “And Vadim definitely will. Shelley and I will stick together. We’ll be fine. I mean, Evie’s my aunt, right? The worst that could happen is she doesn’t know anything.”

  “That’s far from the worst thing that could happen! Especially with an alchemist.”

  “I wouldn’t have found out where she was if you and Vadim had gone to the neighbor’s apartment last night,” I replied.

  Miro paused, and I knew he had no answer for that. “I suppose you’re right,” he said begrudgingly. “But you’ve got to be careful.”

  I couldn’t hide the smile tugging at my mouth. “We’ll find you right after.”

  “Shelley knows where . . .” he began, but in a flash Miro stood and placed his hands on either side of my face. Suddenly I was aware of how small the room was and how much Miro filled it. He leaned over me, his forehead inches from mine, a puzzled look on his face. He slowly brushed his thumbs across the delicate skin under my eyes. “Look at yourself,” he said quietly, and turned my body toward the mirror.

  I nearly gasped. Where my skin had just been clear, purple smudges formed angry half moons under my bottom lashes. I touched them tentatively. They felt like deep bruises, a soft pain vibrating beneath the skin.

  “Did you just do any magic?” Miro’s voice was tight.

  “Just the dream spell,” I said, watching his reflection, then shifting back to my wide but tired-looking eyes.

  “That’s a child’s spell. It shouldn’t have any effect . . .” he began, then paused, frowning.

  “I’m not sick. I feel fine,” I said. “I didn’t have any visions. Maybe this is a delayed reaction to yesterday?”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but it’s still weird. I need to talk to my father. I wish you wouldn’t go anywhere until after.”

  “I’m going now,” I said. “I feel fine, and Ion might not wait.” I caught his eye. “My parents definitely can’t wait.”

  At the mention of my parents, Miro ducked his head and stared at the floor. “I guess I understand. But don’t bring this Ion back with you,” he said, his tone becoming insistent. “We don’t know him.”

  I thought of Ion’s floppy hair, his earnestness. “I know him about as well as I know you,” I snapped.

  Miro’s head flew up. His eyes looked dark and empty. “I guess that’s true.”

  Regret tugged at me. I wanted to touch his arm, to tell him how much I appreciated all that he was doing for me. Instead I said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  He nodded once and I swore I detected a hint of amusement in the set of his mouth. “Go ahead.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  He exhaled loudly. “Oh. Not what I was expecting. It’s Dabrowski.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Something about trees. My ancestors always lived in the forest. We were the first coven to practice in a city, which my grandmother said was bad luck.” He paused. “She was right.”

  I wanted to ask more questions, but Shelley and I needed to get moving. And Miro backed away from me, as though my curiosity were a physical attack he needed to ready for.

  “Thank you. Now I know you better than Ion,” I said. “That counts for something.”

  “I suppose,” Miro said, one foot already in the hallway.r />
  “Wait,” I called to him. “What did you think I was going to ask?”

  He laughed, a great, booming sound that bounced across the tiles. “I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

  “Please do,” I pleaded, half joking. “I could use more of those.”

  Miro’s smile faded. “Maybe Evie can provide some,” he said. “But remember, alchemists always ask a high price. Be careful, Breeda.”

  “She’s family,” I said.

  But I knew as soon as I said it how meaningless it was.

  CHAPTER 14

  Downtown Chicago was a charming mix of old and new. Art Deco windows displayed stylish clothes and shoes, and century-old streetlamps stood guard next to recycling bins. Sonya and I had begun to explore the malls closer to Portland—it’s why our parents broke down and bought us cell phones—but this was nothing like the barely populated strips of fast-food joints and dollar stores I was used to. Chicago streets were busy, but the people rushing past us didn’t scare me because I was with Ion and Shelley.

  Ion led the way, pausing every so often to point out the Chicago Theater, the stately Art Institute, and other touristy things. I thought he’d be irritated I’d brought someone along, but when we’d walked up to him, hunched and standing in the shadow of St. Sylvester’s massive doors, his eyes lit up when he saw Shelley and hadn’t left her face much since we’d gotten off the train. She was breezy and kind, and gave him attention without making any promises. Being comfortable in your own skin is a certain kind of magic, the kind that has nothing to do with witchcraft. Shelley and Miro had loads of it. Ion and I pretended to. The difference was obvious if you looked hard enough.

  We turned onto Madison Street, and Ion approached the glass doors of a tall, gray brick building in the middle of the block.

  “Is there a guard?” Shelley asked as we walked in.

  “No need for one,” Ion said.

  Shelley and I shared a glance. The large, old lobby looked worn and sad, its black-and-white tiled floor crumbling in spots. I didn’t see security cameras or intercoms, but we found a tarnished copper plaque listing the tenants. E. Soledad Jewelry was in Apartment 811.

  We stepped into the elevator, a cagelike relic at least a hundred years old. The gilded bars still shone in spots, but age had turned most of them a moldy blackish green. It groaned and creaked as we made our way up to the eighth floor.

  “So, does your aunt hate your family or something?” Ion asked. He shuffled nervously from foot to foot, sending the elevator listing to the side.

  “I guess so.”

  Shelley slipped her hand into mine, and squeezed. “We’ve got your back,” she said quietly. “Don’t let her manipulate you. We’re here for you to get information from her, not the other way around.”

  “I know,” I said. “If it doesn’t feel right, I won’t tell her much.”

  The elevator settled into place on the eighth floor with a sigh, and I tugged at the bars, freeing us.

  The eighth-floor landing was as desolate as the lobby. Fluorescent lighting flickered and buzzed, giving our skin a jaundiced glow. A single door, grated with iron, stood at the end of the wood-paneled hallway.

  Ion slowed as we reached the door. “Your aunt’s kind of a bad-ass,” he whispered to me. “Just so you know.”

  “Who says we aren’t bad-asses?” Shelley said. “There’s a buzzer. Come on.”

  I had only raised my fingers when the door flew open. The woman standing in front of us had golden skin, dark eyes, and the same nose as my mother, straight and long. But unlike my mother’s soft, welcoming face, Evie’s features seemed hard and immobile, like she’d had them cast in bronze.

  “What?” she said, running a hand through short black hair tipped with silver. Snakelike bracelets of gold and copper curled around her impressive biceps. In her other hand, a thick silver chain dangled from a closed fist. “What do you want?”

  I coughed, a feeble attempt to force the fear from my voice. “I’m Breeda. Lupe’s daughter.”

  Aunt Evie stared at me, her dark eyes examining my features for proof of relation. Once satisfied I was telling the truth, she pushed forward and poked me in the shoulder with the heavy chain. “I told my sister she could have my spare apartment as long as she stayed away from me. If she sent you thinking I’d change my mind—”

  “She didn’t,” I said quickly. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Evie raised an eyebrow. She had a small coppery star at the corner of her right eye, a metallic beauty mark.

  “Can we talk for a few minutes?” I asked. “Please? I promise we won’t take much of your time.”

  Evie glanced at Shelley and Ion. “You have two minutes. Your friends can wait in the shop.”

  We filed in after her. Once inside, I saw E. Soledad Jewelry. Rows of glass cabinets displayed earrings and rings, necklaces and bracelets, all arranged in neat, organized rows. Evie wasn’t into the delicate look. Evidently, wrist cuffs and heavy linked chains were her specialty.

  Evie chucked Ion under the chin. “Your mom know you’re here?”

  “Yeah. She knows.” But Ion kept his eyes trained on an enormous mirror instead of looking at anyone.

  “Liar.” Evie laughed, a guttural, throaty sound.

  Entranced by a gold necklace, Shelley ran a finger down its twisted, engraved links.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Evie ordered. “Either of you.” Ion and Shelley nodded, and Shelley snatched her hand away from the necklace, mumbling an apology.

  Evie tossed my friends one final glare, and then led me to an expansive mirror that took up the entire back wall. She placed a palm on a panel of it and pushed in, revealing a disheveled interior office. With a quick glance toward my stunned friends, I followed Evie through the opening and the panel closed behind us. I could still see the shop from behind the mirrors. Shelley and Ion stood frozen in place.

  “One-way mirror,” Evie grunted. “They can’t see or hear us.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I liked that.

  Evie smiled, her coal-black eyes glistening. “The time for worrying was before you knocked on my door. Now, ask your questions. Quick.”

  I took a steadying breath. Evie’s toughness threw me. “Did you see my mom last night?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

  “Your mother and I haven’t said more than a dozen sentences to each other in nine years,” she said. “She asked to use the apartment and I said yes. She must have called me on a good day.”

  “Didn’t you plan on seeing her while we’re in town?”

  She gave me a sharp look. “I hadn’t planned on it. We’ll use Sandy as the go-between while you’re visiting. You can tell your mom that.”

  “My mom—” I paused, unsure of how to phrase it without giving too much away.

  Evie drew closer. “Spit it out.”

  “My mom and I . . . aren’t speaking,” I began. Careful, I told myself. Think before you speak.

  “And?”

  “I was wondering, do you have a family book for the Soledads? I forgot mine and my mom won’t give me hers.”

  Silence. Evie narrowed her eyes, the small space between us crackling with energy. “You know what you are, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you asking me that?”

  What did she mean? I wished I’d asked Dobra more questions earlier. I wished my parents had told me everything.

  Evie waited for my answer.

  “My parents haven’t been very specific about what I am.” I shifted my gaze, staring at the copper star at the corner of her eye. “I only just found out.”

  “Honest to Isis?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn it, Lupe,” she said, kicking at a cardboard box. She raised her head and asked, “What do you know?”

  I sighed. “Not much.”

  “A family book is useless for people like us. You and I are genetic glitches. Weirdos. Different kinds of weirdos, but
definitely outside the norm. There hasn’t been an alchemist in our family since the Aztecs built their temples. I have no idea if there’s ever been an unmarked.” Evie smiled, and for the first time, her face had a shade of warmth to it. “Welcome to freaktown, niece. The rules don’t apply to us.”

  “Are there any rules . . . for us?” I hated to think that there weren’t. I liked rules. No rules meant chaos, and chaos meant danger.

  “Sorry, but you’re going to have to figure things out yourself. I did.”

  Evie turned to the mirror and watched Shelley giggle as she slipped a massive chain over Ion’s skinny neck. He gazed at her with equal parts horror and fascination. My heart squeezed, fearful Evie would go ballistic. She didn’t erupt, but her jaw tightened, the muscles in her neck rippling under the skin. “They’re certainly not able to help. Who are they to you anyway?”

  “My friends,” I said, not bothering to temper the defensive quality from my voice.

  “For how long?”

  I stayed silent.

  “Do they know what you are?”

  “No,” I lied. It was better to keep her in the dark about what Shelley knew.

  A fire lit behind my aunt’s eyes, smoldering and dangerous. “Don’t tell them. Don’t tell anyone.” She paused, and the air in the small room seemed to grow dense. “Remember one thing: you don’t have any friends.”

  I looked at Shelley and Ion, laughing together over some joke I couldn’t hear. I wanted to say she was wrong, that I wasn’t in this alone. But a voice surfaced, whispery but insistent. You’ve always been alone; you just didn’t know it.

  “Hey.” Evie’s eyes were still hard, but something in the way she tilted her head to the side reminded me of my mother. “Breeda, I—”

  A noise interrupted her, the scrape of metal against cement. I shivered. “What is that?”

  “Nothing,” Evie said, but there was a warning in her tone.

  The scraping sound returned. Defiance sparked in Evie’s eyes, dilating her pupils. Her mouth curled into a sneer, a challenge insisting to be met. How could I be so stupid? She may’ve been my aunt, but she was nothing like my mother—nothing at all.