Birthright (Residue Series #2)

by Laury Falter

“What did you see?”

  “Well, it was hard to understand. You were pretty young.”

  “A month,” I stated. “I was a month old.”

  “Didn’t waste any time, did they?” He laughed, sardonically, through his nose. “Anyways, your eyes were still blurry, undeveloped, I think, and watery. I got the feeling that you were crying. Through it, I saw bodies moving – fast. You were jostled a few times as your father fought off the Vires coming at him, and there were a lot of them. Then, I felt something sharp in my stomach, like you’d been stung by a bee. A big one. Your father was falling back with you in his arms at that time, so I figured something or someone had hit you. He made a sound that reminded me of a roar, and the Vire standing over him brought his arm around the side of you, toward your father. He was aiming for your father, and that’s why he got close enough for me to recognize him. He had to get closer, to go around you. I figure that’s when your father was killed with some sort of blade…a dagger to the side of the heart, I think. Then, pretty quickly, that pain in the stomach went away.”

  “A dagger,” I muttered. “That’s how Theleo did it. With a dagger.”

  “Strange that he chose that weapon, too.”

  “It is? Why?”

  “Because it can be traced,” Jameson shrugged. “There are much better ways to kill someone without using your hands, especially in our world. Incantatio Strangulatus, for one.”

  “But wouldn’t that take time?”

  “Right, exactly what I’m getting at,” said Jameson, nodding. “It seemed to me that he had to do it quickly.”

  “We were walking through the neighborhood at that time, so…maybe the neighbors came out?”

  “Or lights turned on?” he suggested, growing quiet. His pause was followed by a hesitant question. “You know what amazed me so much about you when we were channeling your memories?”

  “What?” I’d been gazing at the floor, trying to process all the information, but when I glanced up, I found him watching me closely and my heart skipped.

  “On the outside you’ve had an easy life but there was something missing in each of your memories…”

  “What was that?” I asked, not all that certain I wanted to hear the answer.

  “Affection,” he replied, tenderly, and waited for my reaction. When I didn’t move or make a sound, he went on. “You grew up surrounded by strangers. You were never hugged, never spontaneously treated to ice cream, never brought to the park on sunny days. You had to fend for yourself whenever you were in trouble. You had to solve your own problems. Your life was…sterile. And I see you…standing there…and it doesn’t seem like any of that affected you. You’re compassionate. You risk your life to help others and don’t ask anything in return.” He sighed deeply and shook his head, awe etched in his handsome face. “You deserve better. So much better, Jocelyn.”

  Humbled, I muttered, “Thank you.”

  “You – you keep amazing me,” he laughed, softly through an exhale. “I feel like I just…I still have so much to learn about you. I want to know what I missed, because The Sevens wouldn’t allow us to grow up together. I want to know what they kept from us.” He stopped himself, apparently uncomfortable with having said so much. “But if we channel, I’ll try to find only the memories that relate to your father. I won’t violate our agreement.”

  I knew just what he meant, and it stung me. He was promising he’d keep his distance, even from my private thoughts. That was, both, reassuring and disheartening. I wanted to be able to share with him, but that would only knock down another layer of my wall I was so carefully constructing.

  Realizing he was waiting for an answer, I said, “I appreciate that.”

  He seemed confused, because my response hadn’t agreed or disagreed to practice channeling. So, I took a seat on the floor and looked up at him, hinting for him to follow. He did and sat down so that our crossed knees wouldn’t touch. Still being respectful, I thought.

  He waited for me to extend my hands first. Unfortunately, it turned out to be just as much of a struggle this time as it was earlier in the night, and I resigned myself to the fact that touching Jameson was not going to be easy…ever.

  He gently placed his palm against mine and the contours nestled perfectly together, but he hesitated.

  “Just a second,” he said, and whispered an incantation under his breath as every candle in the room flickered to life. Noting my amazement, he explained, “I’ve been working on that.”

  Despite myself, I laughed quietly, something he clearly appreciated, which made him visibly loosen up.

  I then took a deep breath to calm myself, and realized we hadn’t mentioned who would go first. I was so unprepared when Jameson’s memories began whipping through my mind, I shook from the intensity of it. Relaxing, as Miss Celia instructed, I watched as he learned to crawl, played in the yard with his siblings, and solved a calculus problem perfectly without any extraneous scribbling. Next, I encountered the memories that helped shape him: The beating of a woman outside a storefront by a man with an moldavite cane, which was quickly blocked by Mrs. Caldwell; His first supply trip to the village with canvas bags stacked behind him like a mound of enormous marbles and his father at the helm of the boat; Jameson holding the hand of a woman dying in her bed.

  “Jocelyn,” Jameson whispered, suddenly, and I opened my eyes to find him standing across the room, grinning excitedly.

  I drew in a quick breath. “When did you…? How long have you been there…standing there?”

  “A few minutes.”

  My disbelief waned and exhilaration took its place. “Were you still…? Could you see my memories?”

  He nodded with assurance, his handsome face still beaming. He rushed across the room and pulled me to a standing position. Acknowledging his error, he immediately stepped back and dropped his hands to his side. It didn’t deter his excitement, though.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone doing what we just did. Never.”

  We stood, astonished in quiet disbelief. Then, Jameson said something that made my stomach tighten. “I’m glad it’s with you.”

  I knew exactly what he meant, too, because I felt the same way. Neither of us could have asked for anyone better to share what we were experiencing. I felt perfectly entwined with him, standing there in the middle of the room, as if everything in the world were right again. Of course, that wasn’t the case.

  “I didn’t see anything about your father; I think we need to learn to control the kind of memories we release. One of them you won’t want anyone else to know.”

  At that warning, I froze, waiting for him to tell me he knew my deepest darkest secret, the one that involved taking his life.

  “If someone were to stumble on that one…” He allowed his voice to drift away, because his intensely cautious expression delivered his message with the same impact.

  Noticing my terrified expression, he said, “You aren’t safe with that rope, Jocelyn.”

  The rope, I pondered. And then it came to me. The Rope of The Sevens. It was the one possession of mine that could end up killing everyone or saving them, depending upon whether I got a chance to use it before The Sevens found out I had it. I breathed a sigh of relief, allowing myself to relax. At least part of me did.

  “If you feel comfortable,” he ventured, “could I see it?”

  “Of course…sure,” I replied, already moving to the cut out in the wall near my bedroom window. “Why would you think I wouldn’t let you?”

  “Jocelyn, it’s not something you should…” He sighed, and tenderly said, “Just keep it a secret?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and found a concerned expression tarnishing his gorgeous features. “I am, Jameson.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved, so I turned back to retrieve the rope.

  I found it ironic that the person who should fear me was concerned for my safety.

  Focusing on carefully pulling open the piece of wall hiding the rope, I leaned back, reveal
ing a compartment and the metal box inside.

  Jameson chuckled. “That’s…clever.”

  “I know,” I replied, casually, and he laughed again at my arrogance.

  I hadn’t touched the box since I put it there and that’s exactly how it looked, dusted with cobwebs and dirt. After scooping them away, I turned, holding it in my hands, and made an arch around the window, to avoid anyone who might be spying. It may have been the actions of a paranoid person, but I didn’t care. With this type of object, I had every reason to be.

  As I settled the box on the floor where we had been sitting before, Jameson leaned over across from me.

  “The Rope of The Sevens,” I announced and opened the box.

  Then Jameson sank to his knees, dazed by the sight.

  Seven pieces of dried skin wrapped around a thick cable of multi-colored hair.

  “So this is what The Sevens are so desperate to find…”

  I nodded.

  “I can see why.”

  Perplexed, I glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “In order to cast hexes against another, at least the more potent ones, a piece of the person’s body is needed. Cutting off a limb or pulling out a tooth would be a little too obvious so people typically resort to the body parts that go unnoticed, parts that won’t be missed. Meaning…the parts that fall off or are taken off the body such as hair and fingernails.”

  “Or hair and skin,” I mused. “Like what The Rope of The Sevens is made of…”

  “Exactly. However, they created their rope for a different reason-”

  “To keep the other Sevens in line.”

  “That’s right. For the rest of us, when we are using hair or nails in a cast, it’s the best way to ensure that cast isn’t traced back to us. If the person you are casting on doesn’t know their hair or nails are gone, they won’t think to look for who took them, keeping the caster anonymous. It’s the reason why people burn hair from their combs and bury their fingernails at night.”

  My eyebrows rose with that disclosure. “They do?”

  He laughed at my innocence, a deep, seductive, hearty chuckle. “Sure.” Seeing the look of abhorrence on my face, he clarified, “Not me. Anything that comes off my body is immediately washed down the drain.”

  That was consoling, until he made his next statement.

  “Dillon has everyone’s hair in this house, in fact.”

  “This house?” I asked, motioning to the floor of Aunt Lizzy’s guest bedroom and the rooms on both sides.

  “Yes,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “Mine, too?”

  “Everyone’s. You’re Weatherfords, Jocelyn. My family has had defensive measures in place for a long time - in case we ever needed to use them.”

  “Have you used them?” I blurted, astounded they had that ability.

  “No, we have never used your hair or anyone else’s in this house.”

  “Because all serious casts were done by the Vires,” I concluded.

  “That’s right.”

  Realizing we were at his mercy then, I asked, “Will you burn our hair and bury our fingernails?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Sure, yes, I can do that. Dillon won’t like it, but I’ll get it done.”

  “He won’t like it?” I asked, bemused.

  “Dillon likes peculiar tools in his collection. Hair and nails, body parts in general, from the notorious Weatherfords definitely fall in that category.”

  My eyebrows rose again, at that admission.

  “I know…I know.” Apparently, he agreed that his brother’s hobby was a little strange.

  “Thank you for getting rid of them,” I said, sincerely, and he nodded as silence curiously stifled the room.

  When my head dipped, I came to stare at the rope, and it triggered a revelation.

  “Mrs. Gaul must have our hair…” I speculated.

  “Would make sense. She’d need it to do what she did.”

  I sighed, looking up at him, stricken momentarily by the mesmerizing color of his eyes. They seemed particularly translucent in the light of my lamp. Unfortunately, the disturbing acknowledgement of my birthright edged its way into my consciousness, again, and I dropped my gaze. “To steal something from someone else, something off their own body, and use it against them. It’s just…malicious…”

  “An intrusion,” he agreed.

  “Yes, it is.”

  My next thought didn’t set well in my stomach, either. “If they – the Vires – have our hair, they can cast against us again.”

  “They could but they won’t,” assured Jameson.

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve already tried it. Now they’ll want us as a whole, so they can eliminate us as a threat.”

  Reflecting further, deep down, I already knew this was the case.

  Jameson closed the metal box and replaced it in the wall, wedging the cut out door back in place to conceal it. Then, he was standing in the center of my room.

  “I guess…I guess I’ll see you at school,” he said under his breath, and collected his leather jacket from where it was draped over my chair.

  With every step toward the door, it felt like another weight landed on my chest, and there was another tug on my heart.

  “Don’t-” I said, but stopped myself from finishing, because I knew the next word would be “go.”

  He paused to look back at me, waiting for me to finish.

  Stay, I thought, stay with me. But these words wouldn’t formulate when my logical side remembered the repercussions they would deliver.

  My mouth was still agape, and he was waiting, so I swiftly filled in the rest of my sentence. “Don’t let the Vires see you leaving the house.”

  If he knew what I had first meant to say, he didn’t show it. Instead, he reassured me. “I won’t.”

  He opened my door then and checked the hallway, making sure it was empty, before slipping into the darkness.

  My feet craved to move in his direction, but they remained planted in place by sheer will. Only when I was certain he was gone, did I allow myself to voice what I’d really wanted to say as he slipped from my room.

  “Good night, Jameson…I love you…”

  The next morning, I woke up thinking of Jameson, impatient to see him again. Acknowledging the jeopardy of allowing my emotions to drift in that direction, I silently chastised myself, trying my best to keep images of Jameson from invading my thoughts, which was extremely challenging.

  When I entered the parking lot, my eyes did a sweep of the vehicles, trying to single out Jameson’s. I recognized what I was doing and forced myself to stop. When I entered the main entrance of our school, my gaze moved straight to Jameson’s locker, and when he wasn’t there, my emotions were torn between relief and despondency.

  The entire time, I believed I only wanted to talk more about my father, to pry his memory for what he might have seen. Then it was second period, where he was sitting, quiet and alert as usual, as I entered the room. When I took my seat, the yearning to reach across the aisle for him became so intense it forced me to admit the truth to myself. It was simple and devastating. I missed him.

  He didn’t pay me any attention, which stung more than I expected. He really did know how to play the role of adversary well.

  At lunch, I continued looking for him through the glass windows leading to the lunchroom where the Caldwells usually ate. Unable to stop myself, I moved to the opposite side of the table where I could only stare out across the lawn. While this didn’t take my mind off Jameson, it did give me an idea.

  Maggie and Eran sat in their usual spot on the grass, talking quietly together. They seemed to be so close, such a unit, that approaching them felt like I was breaking into their bubble. Worse, it reminded me of Jameson.

  However, I knew there was really only one person who could answer my questions about my father’s death and Theleo’s involvement, and that was my father.

  I left my cousins at the table to
approach Maggie and Eran, wondering how she’d react to my intrusion. As it turned out, thankfully, they were friendly and welcoming.

  “Sit with us,” Maggie urged, after my arrival pulled her away from a conversation with Eran.

  “Yes, please,” he insisted, again sounding much older than a teenager.

  I did and apologized for interrupting them.

  “It’s nice to have company,” Maggie comforted.

  Eran’s faced twisted, as he teased, “Bored with me, my love?”

  She gave him a quick, playful glare. “That, you know could never happen.” She turned to me. “Is there something you wanted to ask?”

  “Yes,” I said, and then failed to follow up.

  Maggie was quick to deduce the situation, though. “Did you want me to deliver a message?”

  “Yes,” I replied, but again stopped.

  “To your father?” she asked, tilting her head down, as if to prompt an answer.

  “Yes.”

  She seemed relieved to have gotten over that hurdle. “What did you want to tell him?”

  “I wanted…” I failed to articulate the words, exhaling in frustration.

  Eran seemed to notice and advised, “Take your time. You have more than you know to spare.”

  I didn’t exactly understand what he meant by that but rejected the idea of disagreeing with him. The fact is, I didn’t have much time. I needed an answer. If I could just generate the question.

  “I want to ask him about his death.”

  Maggie didn’t seem disturbed by this, which bode well for me.

  “Can you ask him about the person who killed him?”

  “So he was murdered?” asked Maggie, pragmatically, without the slightest hint of judgment.

  I felt my lips twitch, and in an effort to avoid looking unnerved, I replied quickly, “Yes, I want to know everything there is to know about the man.”

  They must have sensed my discomfort, because Eran said, “Fair enough. Think you can handle it, Magdalene?”

  His question was designed to lighten the mood by toying with her, which became clear when she pinched her lips in a refusal to smile and said haughtily, “Are you teasing me?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, without any remorse.