The Witch Collector Part I

by Loretta Nyhan

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think I ever met your parents. Chicago is a big city, Breeda. There are many covens.”

  Dobra paused for a moment, then said, “I am sorry for you. I really am. But just having you in my house is placing my son and the other witches in this building in danger. Unless . . . has your family broken the oath with Gavin?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “My father said there wasn’t time.”

  Dobra nodded. “Then I can’t induct you as a member of this coven. I won’t kick you out onto the streets, but I would ask that you give great thought to the burden you are placing upon us.”

  I rose, eager to be alone, to have a moment to sort everything out. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

  Dobra managed to smile. His gaze moved to a small table in the corner of his study, painted in feminine colors by a careful hand, a calligraphy M stenciled onto the drawer. “Honesty costs me nothing,” he said. “But regret. Now that is another beast altogether. It will hound me, nipping at my heels until I return to the darkness.”

  CHAPTER 19

  I found Miro sitting alone in the kitchen, hunched over a mug of tea, inhaling the steam.

  “Hey,” I said.

  His eyes flashed open, their color rich and varied. They brightened for only a second; then a coldness swept over the irises.

  One look at me told him I knew his family’s story, and his role in it. “I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

  Miro stood abruptly and turned his back to me. He lifted the teakettle. “Would you like some?” he asked. “It’s bee balm.”

  I took a small step closer to him. “Pick the leaves and hold the flower—”

  “—Bee balm cures the stomach sour,” he finished automatically.

  “See? I know some things,” I said.

  Miro poured the tea and passed the mug to me. He was close, too close. My eyes left his face and trailed down to the talisman nestled in the pit of his throat. A stone so necessary, yet the source of so much damage.

  “Do you want to ask me something?” His words were laced with anger.

  I stared into my mug, watching the bright green leaves stain the water. “Yeah. I’d like to wash my things. Where is the laundry?”

  “In the basement,” Miro said. “Take the back stairwell.”

  I lingered in the kitchen, the silence between us the kind that stretches and pulls and tugs until someone gives up. I gave in first. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Miro. But your father put some things into perspective, and I think it’s best I go. I’ll stay at Evie’s apartment.”

  Miro shrugged. “Your choice.”

  “There are too many of those lately,” I said, and forced myself to leave the room.

  Dampness clung to the walls of the stairwell leading to the basement, but the laundry room itself was small and cozy with the comforting scents of lavender, gardenias, and vanilla. I peeled Shelley’s clothing off and tossed it with mine into the washer. I grabbed a soft blanket hanging on a drying rack and wrapped it around my shivering body like a cocoon. A sorting table lined the opposite wall. I pushed myself onto the edge of it and pulled The Mysteries of the Unmarked from my backpack.

  I opened the book, scanning the pages hungrily. The book’s format had small, text-filled boxes and cartoonish renderings of unmarked witches skulking around, stealing powers from practicing witches. Disappointed, I started to close the book and shove it back in my bag before I noticed a section labeled “Family.”

  Curiously, the unmarked possess unusually strong blood ties to both parents, though they follow no line. Proximity heightens the connection’s strength, often to extreme and unpredictable results for both the child and parents during the child’s transition to adult witchhood.

  I still felt that connection. It pulsed through my veins, thrumming softly, but steady, unceasing, and true. My mom and dad were alive, and probably in this city, close. I knew it all the way to the marrow of my bones.

  I just had to figure out how to find them.

  The Mysteries of the Unmarked didn’t offer much more specific help. It reiterated what Shelley had told me and what I now knew about my magic—that it was mercurial, wild, and as difficult to control as my emotions. Dobra’s understanding of my powers appeared to reflect the book’s author as well—any witch’s gift I saw being practiced eventually became a gift of mine as well.

  The final page of the book depicted an obese witch overwhelmed by an enormous talisman, which was illustrated as a gas gauge marked “full.” The illustration was vulgar and obnoxious, but its message was clear. Unmarked witches were gluttons who took and took and took with little regard for anyone else.

  The washer stopped whirring. I fished out my clothes and threw them into the dryer with a linen sachet full of lavender. The room filled with the familiar scent, and I closed my eyes. It was time to think.

  My parents were running from Gavin. By now, I assumed he had followed us to Chicago. Had Brandon joined his father, or did he follow him only in order to find me first and protect me? How did Brandon find this apartment? And if Brandon knew where I was sleeping, why hadn’t Gavin shown up on Dobra’s doorstep to claim me? So—Brandon must not have told Gavin. But did that mean he still cared about me?

  I had no answers for those questions, so I moved on. My dad was addicted to old mystery shows and novels, and I remembered that in those stories, detectives who don’t have much to go on start by examining the victim’s life. My parents’ pasts needed scrutinizing—but how much did I know?

  Had they made enemies in Chicago before leaving for Portland? One—my aunt Evie. But were there others? Could Gavin have an accomplice, someone who held a grudge against my parents, here in the city?

  I could think of only one possibility—Sandy. Sandy knew my parents before they moved to Oregon, and she knew my mom’s and Evie’s history. It was a long shot, but I needed to talk to her, to at least find out what she knew. I knew where she lived, and though I didn’t think she’d be thrilled to see me show up at her door, I was not above using Evie as a threat to get information. Sandy obviously feared her.

  The desire to act—now—was all consuming. I decided that I would gather my clothes, dry or not, and get dressed.

  “You’re wearing Molly’s blanket,” said a masculine voice behind me.

  I yanked my head out of the dryer, whacking the top of it in the process. “Ow—what?” I turned around to see Miro standing in the doorway.

  He stared at me, the teasing quality back in his eyes. “I’d put that back if I were you. Molly’s mean as a demon.”

  “I’ll be done in a minute,” I said, drawing the blanket closer around my middle. “She’ll never know.”

  He moved a step closer. “She’ll smell you on it.”

  I gave him a questioning look.

  “Molly is my neighbor’s Doberman.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Ew.” I wanted to toss the blanket off but, as I had nothing on underneath, I held fast.

  “Give me those,” Miro said, gesturing to the bundle of clothes tucked under my arm. He took them from me and tossed them on the table.

  “I can do it,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” he said, and smoothed down Shelley’s skirt, folding it neatly in half. “I do the laundry for the house. And I want to talk to you.”

  “Okay.” Dr. Jekyll, I almost added.

  He sifted through my clothes, picking which piece of cloth to fold next. I surreptitiously hooked a finger through my bra strap and slid it to the side. He chose a T-shirt.

  Miro moved slowly, placing my things in small piles. When I watched him fold Shelley’s cardigan for the second time, I knew he was definitely stalling. I stayed silent, letting him figure out what he wanted to say.

  “You’re a sitting duck at your aunt’s place,” he finally said, “and Shelley said that crazy witch in the apartment below didn’t want you around.”

  “I’m not staying here anymore,” I s
aid with as much conviction as I could muster.

  “You could stay above Donna’s restaurant, with Shelley,” he answered casually.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “You question my judgment,” he said. Miro turned to me. “It is questionable.”

  I laughed. “Clearly.”

  He brushed his thumbs lightly over the delicate skin under my eyes, then dropped his hands. “Back at Belladonna’s,” he began, taking a breath, “when I said helping you was the right thing to do, I was telling you the truth. Did my father tell you what his punishment for dabbling in Black Magic was?”

  “Yes.”

  “The reason our coven exists is to help witches in trouble. We both take that seriously. My father and I are both responsible for Piotr’s death, so I think we should both do what we can to make up for it.”

  “Please don’t help me out because you feel obligated.”

  “But there’s honor in that!” he said vehemently. “Shouldn’t we feel the need to make up for the times we screw up?”

  I nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Will you allow me to do that?”

  “If that’s really why you’re doing it.”

  He held my gaze, the soft light illuminating the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. I was painfully aware of my nakedness underneath the blanket, the wool fibers tickling at my bare skin. It smelled of spring grass and daffodils. I tried not to think too hard about its owner, or what it would feel like if it slipped from my shoulders.

  “Why were you so angry with me before?” I asked him.

  Miro’s face flushed. “I’m sorry for being such an ass. It’s just, I hated the thought of you seeing me . . . that way. I don’t want you to look at me and see only darkness.”

  “That isn’t how I see you at all,” I said. “I look at you and I see hope.”

  Surprise froze his features for a moment, and then he reached out and grasped the ends of the blanket surrounding my shoulders. My breath caught as he pulled the blanket tighter, wrapping me, both of us, in the soft wool, bringing our bodies closer together.

  Miro leaned in and kissed the side of my neck, his lips stilling at the tender place just under my ear. His mouth moved to my jawline, so, so close to my lips. I knew we should stop, but I wanted him closer.

  “Is this okay?” he murmured.

  I should have said no. But I turned my head and kissed him back. He tasted of honey and cloves. Sweetness and spice. I curled my hand around the back of his head, feeling the softness of his hair, the strength of his neck. Miro’s grip on my blanket loosened. . . .

  And my cell phone chirped, its sound bouncing cruelly off the cinder-block walls. I jumped back from Miro. We looked at each other, bewildered. Then my phone sounded again, prompting me to do something about it. I held the blanket to my chest with one hand and clawed at my backpack with the other. No one had tried to get in touch with me on my cell phone for days. Who was trying to call me now?

  I jabbed at buttons, stopping cold when I saw who sent the message. Brandon. I read the text quickly, Miro leaning over my shoulder.

  I need to see you.

  I quickly texted him back, hoping Brandon was still looking at his phone.

  When? Where?

  Miro and I stood side by side, gaping at the phone as if it held the mysteries of life. Which in a way, it might’ve. Of my life anyway.

  After a couple of quiet minutes, Miro asked, “What’s going on? Who’s Brandon?” His tone was mild, but the question felt anything but.

  I scrambled to collect my thoughts. “Brandon is my friend—my boyfriend from back home. Gavin’s son. I’ve been trying to contact him, but I hadn’t heard a thing from him for months, since he went away to train for his transition.”

  Miro’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “I think he’s here in Chicago,” I said. “I’m just not completely sure why.”

  “Gavin is his father,” Miro said, “yet you don’t know why he’s here?”

  “He might have come to help me.”

  Miro threw his hands up. “Do you seriously think so?”

  “You don’t know him,” I said, wincing as the cliché left my mouth.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Do you think you know anything for certain right now?”

  Brandon could be working for Gavin, or he could be running from him. Evie could be hunting for my parents, or she could be holding them somewhere as an act of revenge. If my parents were alive, the kidnapper had a reason for not killing them. If they were dead—the thought hitched my throat—then whoever killed them would come for me next.

  Miro was right.

  I had no clue what was ahead of me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have any control. I could learn to control myself.

  “Evie said I couldn’t be trained to guide my magic, but what if she’s wrong? I am getting better at steadying my breathing. Maybe some training could help keep the magic’s aftereffects from overtaking my system.” I took a deep breath. “Will you do it?”

  “You want me to teach you how to control your magic?” Miro asked, his expression dubious. “I’m probably the worst possible candidate for that position. Do you know how difficult it was to get my own magic under control after Piotr’s death?”

  “Which is exactly why it should be you,” I said.

  Miro paused for a moment, frowning. “You must do what I tell you to, no questions. Is that possible?” he said with a smirk.

  “I’ll . . . try,” I said. My mind flashed back to our kiss. I felt my cheeks grow hot.

  He gave me an odd look. “If we work together today and tomorrow, we can cover some ground.”

  Tomorrow. Would I stay here another night? I didn’t want to put anyone else at risk. And I definitely didn’t want to stay where I wasn’t wanted.

  “My father will let you stay,” Miro said.

  “That’s not it. I don’t want to put anyone here in danger.”

  “There is always danger in this house, Breeda,” Miro said quietly. “That’s nothing new.” He reached over to my clothes and grabbed my jeans and the T-shirt I wore when I walked into Belladonna’s the night before. “As much as I’d like to see Molly tear that blanket off you, if I’m going to teach you anything, you need to get dressed. Meet me in the garden.” He tossed the clothes at me, flashed a wicked smile, and then bounded up the stairs.

  I dressed quickly and slid all the rest of my things back into my bag. My phone, still blank, went in my front pocket.

  I tucked a sprig of rosemary behind my ear, then rethought it, placing the protectant back in its jar. I didn’t want to keep danger from my door. Now was the time to face it.

  My phone sounded again. I tugged it out of my front pocket and stared at the text.

  Tonight. I’ll come to you.

  So be it.

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  THE WITCH

  COLLECTOR

  PART II

  I took the basement stairs two at a time, excitement humming in my veins. But when I reached the small hallway leading to Dobra’s garden, I stopped cold.

  What, exactly, was I excited about? Training with Miro or finally seeing Brandon after so many months?

  I’d kissed Miro. It didn’t matter that his lips had found my skin first; my desire had drawn him to me. My body still trembled from its strength. Part of me wrote my feelings off as the force of the transition, but another part of me had known something was between us since the moment he’d first said my name in the alley by Belladonna’s. I’d been taught to distrust strangers, yet I wanted Miro close to me. I could tell myself I was simply looking for comfort, that for a few seconds I could forget my situation, but that would be a lie. I was curious. Miro did everything with such incredibly focused intensity. I wanted to know what that energy felt like. I wanted to drink it up. I wanted it to be mine.

  A week ago I would have harshly judged a girl who’d acted as I had. My parents were missing. I had a b
oyfriend.

  Technically. The thought of seeing Brandon filled me with just as many confusing emotions. In some ways I couldn’t wait to see him. He was home and I desperately wanted to be transported back to the safety of my coven, even if it was just to smell the forest in his hair, to see the light of a thousand candles in his eyes. If Brandon knew what Gavin was up to, he’d tell me. I’d bet my life on it.

  I stood in the shadow of the doorway leading outside. Miro paced a small circle in the middle of the garden, lost in thought. Unaware he was being watched, he showed worry, concentration, and something I wasn’t accustomed to seeing on his face—fear.

  Was he afraid of what I might do, or what the training might do to me? It was hard to imagine me sparking fear in anyone, but things had changed since I’d arrived in Chicago.

  I paused, thinking about what all I’d thought about myself, and the people I loved, before coming here. The past few days should have taught me better about making assumptions. And if I was capable of causing harm, I had to accept the possibility that Brandon could, too.

  With a heavy heart, I stepped into Dobra’s garden. The ground was spongy beneath my feet after the rain, but the earth’s scent, clean and new, lifted my senses. “Miro?”

  He’d disappeared. I continued slowly down a stone path, toward a small ceremonial fire pit surrounded by lawn chairs. This part of the garden still held tightly on to winter; not one green shoot pushed from the ground.

  A noise—metal against stone—was my only warning as a chair lifted from the ground. It flew toward me, crashing against my shoulder. “What the hell?” Another hit my shin. “Cut it out!”

  My shoulder stung and I rubbed at the muscles. The pain began to subside, but my anger didn’t. It was rabid, tearing through my veins like a wild dog. “Where are you? Show yourself!”

  In response, a garden gnome careened toward my head. I raised my hand to swat it away, but it stopped midair, before tumbling into the ashy fire pit.

  Had I done that?