Not Just Voodoo

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “So don’t look at me.” But she does have a point. It’s not quite spring yet, but Florida weather is brutal. Considering we lived in Seattle, and Portland and Minneapolis and a ton of other cold places, Jacksonville is a puddle of sweltering heat.

  She sticks her tongue out again.

  “Real mature,” I mouth.

  Natalie huffs, but she’s grinning.

  Just then, the front door opens, and Dad strolls in. He takes his time hanging up his hat before joining us at the table. Mom kisses his cheek but doesn’t ask him about his work.

  No one ever asks him about his work.

  It’s not something Natalie knows about—his real job. I doubt my mom knows, either.

  But I do. And it’s not an awesome secret job like being a spy for the government or a Black Ops agent. Nope. It’s a terrible, horrible job.

  My dad is a murderer. He hunts and kills witches.

  And to make it worse, he’s trying to recruit me.

  2

  Of course, I’ve refused, and I will always refuse. Every time. I’m not a killer. The idea of a human going up against witches and not only not dying but succeeding in killing them… it baffles me, but according to my father, he’s done that time and again, and each time we move, it means he’s cleared out all of the witches in that area.

  Dad settles in his seat, and we can finally start eating. Natalie talks about her friends, and our mom tries to steer the conversation toward school, but I don’t give much. I hate this high school, the twelfth one I’ve been to, and it’s not even like I’m a senior yet. It’s insane. And terrible. I don’t have any friends and forget about a girlfriend.

  Dad’s only halfway finished with his portion when he looks up, his dark eyes fixed on me. I do my best not to shudder. It’s would probably strike most people as horrifying that I hate my father, but I do. Well, I don’t hate him. Honestly, he scares me. It’s his job I hate.

  He lowers his fork and clears his throat. “I’ve been looking into houses up north.”

  Natalie lowers her head and pokes at her food.

  I push my plate away, suddenly not hungry. How many witches had he killed here? Definitely more than one. We lived here for two months now.

  But then Natalie brightens. “Near Allentown?”

  Two years ago, we lived there. Not a place I necessarily want to return to, but I think Natalie mentioned a guy she thought was cute. Can’t remember. I tune her out when she talks about guys.

  “Not there.” Dad shakes his head.

  “Not Glass Lake.” I’m not asking. I do not want to go back there for any reason ever.

  Dad’s glower at me would be enough to spoil an entire gallon of milk. “A place called Claymore. We’ll move as soon as I find a place.”

  “Before the school year is out?” Natalie cries, dismayed. “But there’s only four months left. Can’t we just—“

  “Natalie, how does a digital sewing machine sound?”

  “Digital!” She jumps out of her seat and throws her arms around him. “No way! Seriously? Will it have an embroidery feature? I can start personalizing…”

  Well, she’s easily bought.

  Dad refocuses on me. “Do you wish to stay?”

  I appraise him. His hair has dark hints to it despite being blond, just like Natalie, whereas Mom and I are lighter. It’s easy to picture the darker parts of his hair as a reflection of his dark soul and terrible sins, but Natalie’s all good, so I know it’s not fair.

  My dad isn’t the first Venator to hunt witches. His father did, and his father, a terrifying generational job. But it’ll die with my father.

  If I ask him to stay, will he? No. He never does anything I want. He only ever thinks about himself.

  But do I want to stay?

  “Yes.” I lift my chin, defying him.

  His dark eyes look as black as coal, as black as oil. “Tomorrow, you and I are going camping.”

  “But I have school.”

  “One day won’t hurt you.”

  “My grades are important to me,” I protest.

  Natalie snorts.

  Mom mildly asks, “Have you finished your homework?”

  “Yes.” But I’m hedging. I’ve finished the homework for Monday. Today’s Wednesday, though.

  Let’s just say it’s hard to be motivated when you switch schools so often that you’re shuffled around into all kinds of classes, some of which you’ve already taken, some you’ve had the beginning of, some of which are just plain boring.

  It’s not like any of the courses tell you about magic and witches. I’m still baffled as to how Dad kills the witches. Does he neutralize their magic somehow? How else can he survive and live another day to kill more?

  “One day won’t hurt you,” Dad reiterates firmly.

  And in this house, Dad’s words are the final words.

  Unless it comes to me killing a witch.

  If this is some kind of ploy to try and recruit me…

  3

  Dad drives me outside of Jacksonville, to an overgrown and obviously abandoned mountain trail. At the bottom of the hill—yeah, it’s not even a legit mountain, just a hill masquerading as a small mountain—he parks, and we begin our hike. My pack weighs me down, but I don’t tire easily. Ever since I turned thirteen, I convinced my mom to let me start lifting weights. I might not be willing to fight and kill witches, but I want to be physically strong, against all kinds of foes, magical and non-magical alike. Sometimes, when you’re the new kid, like I am all the time, you’re targeted. Since I’ve put on some bulk, bullies don’t bother with me.

  My dad has endurance, and maybe he lifts weights, too, because his guns are impressive. He comes to the house for dinner only, and sometimes he’ll go back out after the meal. Does he track the witches? Seeks them out when they’re alone?

  I can’t help wondering what his job is like, even though I despise it.

  Once we reach the top of the “mountain,” a small clearing greets us. Dad sets up camp, immediately. He doesn’t ask for help, so I don’t offer any.

  He’s half pitched the tent when he realizes I’m just standing around. “Find firewood,” he orders. Not hard to see who’s in charge here.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I set off to comply, ignoring tiny twigs for thicker branches. The temperature is climbing, but Dad told me not to pack any food, so he wants the firewood to cook. We’ll be eating deer, maybe, if we’re lucky, rabbits if we’re unlucky. Actually, I don’t mind camping excursions. Natalie doesn’t mind too much, either, actually. She’s such a girlie girl at times, but she can rough it, if need be.

  But Dad and I have never gone on a camping trip just the two of us before, and I’m bracing myself for what’s to come.

  The day actually is kinda pleasant, surprisingly, and he asks questions about school and my studies and what I want to do with my life.

  I don’t know yet, and I tell him that.

  “Well…” Dad starts.

  “Start up a butcher shop,” I blurt out, thinking about our upcoming dinner. I killed two rabbits. Dad missed his targets. He used a gun, whereas I set up traps.

  Dad blinks, his dark eyes strangely solemn.

  “I’ll hunt down enough animals and sell them at my own place.” I nod. It’s a solid plan… but it’s not what I’m passionate about. I can’t help being envious of Natalie. She’s always known she wants to go into fashion. Must be nice to know where you belong in the world.

  Because I sure don’t.

  “You want to make a living… through killing.”

  I glare at him, feeling as if he set me up, kicking myself for not seeing it sooner and keeping my mouth shut. Why did I play into his hands like that?

  “Killing animals for food is different,” I insist. “It’s acceptable.”

  “You want to kill for food. I kill for public safety.”

  “What?” I shriek.

  “Witches are evil,” he says as calmly as if he’s saying the sky
is blue.

  “Are all evil?” I counter. I don’t believe that. I might not have met any witches, but I don’t—won’t—believe that my father’s cause is justified. Our race doesn’t matter. Our beliefs don’t matter. Our sexes don’t, our ages, our circumstances… our ability or inability to use magic. We are the sum of our experiences—nothing more.

  Good or bad, we make choices, but we aren’t all evil.

  “We all have evil,” Dad utters in that same eerily calm voice.

  “No. We are all capable of evil—“

  “We all are evil.”

  “What about goodness?” I demand, crossing my arms. “There are good people—“

  “There are good actions,” he corrects stubbornly. “The people themselves… Let me phrase it like this. Is it possible for a person to do a truly altruistic act?”

  “Of course,” I say automatically.

  He raises his eyebrows. They’re dark and shaped like an upside down V. “People are only altruistic if the benefit to others is less than the cost to oneself.”

  I rub my forehead. “Dad, I’m not getting into this with you. I’m not gonna argue philosophy with a man who thinks it’s okay—“

  “Of course it’s okay! It’s more than okay. It’s a matter of self-preservation.” He grips my shoulders and shakes me like he was trying to rattle some sense into me. Isn’t gonna work, though. “My boy, witches are powerful. Too powerful. If left unchecked, they will destroy the world. They will bring about the apocalypse—“

  “It’s always doom and gloom with you, isn’t it?” I roll my eyes. “I’m getting a headache—“

  “Isn’t it better to kill the deer?” he asks suddenly.

  “For meat?” I frown, not certain where he’s going with this but knowing I really just want to go to bed and then hurrying up back to the house. Yes, house. Never a home. We bounce around too much because of my father’s business.

  “For population control.” He watches me beneath his furry eyebrows, daring me to challenge him on this point.

  I throw up my hands. “Whatever.” He has an argument there, I’ll give him that.

  “It’s the same with witches,” he says quietly. “One day, you’ll see. They already came for your mother once.”

  I inhale sharply. I didn’t know that. “What? Why? When?”

  “Several months ago. Don’t worry. I took care of it.” Dad bares his teeth like he’s a wolf. “But if you would only join me…”

  Can my dad actually have been on the right of this all along?

  4

  My dad holds out his hand. “Take up your birthright. Do you really think generations and generations of Venators—“

  “I think,” I say slowly, “that you are Vader.”

  His scowl makes a few faint lines appear near his lips. If he had enough wrinkles, I would’ve gone with the emperor.

  “You’re Darth, and I’m Luke, and we all know how that turns out.”

  “Luke disobeys his father. Luke could’ve led the entire galactic empire—”

  “No. On second thought, you aren’t Vader. You do have more in common with Palpatine, even if you aren’t a billion years old. Because Vader turns to the light at the end. You don’t have any light. You don’t have any goodness. You don’t have an altruistic bone in your body. That digital sewing machine you got Natalie? That’s manipulative. You don’t care at all that you’re ruining our lives dragging us from place to place so you can kill witches—“

  “There is a lot you don’t understand,” my dad says slowly, calmly, contemplatively. “If you would only listen—“

  “I won’t.” I jump to my feet and start to walk away, heading back onto the path.

  “Knowledge is power,” he calls after me. “Ignorance doesn’t make the fact that witches exist go away. Magic is real. Magic is a part of the world… for now. There will come a time when magic is blotted out—“

  I break out into a run and race away. My legs enjoy the chance to stretch, but eventually, my lungs are burning. When the truck comes into view, I realize Dad has the keys. I’m stuck here.

  To kill time, I track a few squirrels and other animals, and when the sky begins to darken, promising to be clear and star-studded once night fully blooms, I return to the campsite. Dad’s just about finished cooking my rabbits, and we eat in silence.

  He retires first, but I get the feeling he’s not really asleep. Like he has one eye open. Watching me? Or watching for witches? If he’s brought me here to try and trick me into helping him kill a witch…

  What would I do? If a witch attacks him in front of me? Can I watch Dad and a witch fight and not get involved?

  It’s not something I want to think about.

  Most guys my age worry about girls and sports, maybe their grades or activities. Here I am, wondering if I’ll be exposed to magic for the first time.

  When I was ten, Dad brought me the Forest of Shadows near Glass Lake. Dad killed a bound man in front of me. Claimed he was a witch. Cut out his heart and burned it. Said that was the only way to prevent his magic from lingering here on earth after the witch died.

  I’ve never seen a witch use any magic, though, but I don’t have to. I know my dad isn’t crazy. Well, he is crazy, but he’s not insane. Somehow, someway, I do believe that magic is real, even without seeing it.

  I have faith in magic.

  Kinda surreal to think about.

  That weekend after the incident in the Forest of Shadows, Dad worked so hard to recruit me to his witch-hunting cause. The whole thing traumatized me. I’m still horrified, to some extent. I finally understood the reason for all of our constant moves, and it was once we moved away from there that I stopped bothering to make any friends. I stopped studying. I just stopped caring. Mom made me see a therapist since I wouldn’t talk to her, but it’s not like I could tell the therapist what was going on.

  I can’t say I’ve really snapped out of it, but I’ve learned to put on a face at least. I’m functioning, surviving.

  But is surviving really living?

  It’s getting cramped within our tent—Dad brought along the smaller one, not the family-sized massive kind. I’m not claustrophobic, but I want outta here.

  Out under the stars, I lie down on the grass. Dew soaks through my shirt. It’s surprisingly refreshing. The air’s cool and soothing, and a gentle breeze relaxes me. My eyes eventually close, and I drift to sleep.

  A breeze starts up, heavy, thick, wild. It’s so strong and powerful that I get up and start to run to outrace it. Trees are uprooted. Rocks zoom around like they’re leaves, light and weightless.

  And then I’m up in the air, lifting a few inches above the ground, higher and higher until I’m not quite but almost possibly… flying.

  The instant I think that, I’m facedown on the ground, dirt kissing my lips. The dirt I spit out falls onto the wet ground. I push back to sit and realize my hands are wet… with blood.

  Yes, blood is forming in the indention from my hands in the soil. Whispers come to me, then, curses, hexes… feelings, too, of hatred and rage. I’m trapped in some kind of cyclone of dark wing, blackness all around me. Am I standing? Flying? Caught up in the winds? I can’t tell.

  You will never know happiness, Venator. You will never know love, Venator. You will never know peace, Venator. These words sound feminine, high-pitched, light even, but dripping with power. The winds swirl around me, making it impossible to see, but somehow, I can still picture her, with red hair, maybe in her twenties. Too young to be dead, already. Too young to feel so much hatred.

  Pain. Suffering. Death. Pain. Suffering. Death. Pain. Suffering. Death. Another female. Another redhead. This one older, forties? Early fifties? Her words are promises more than threats, with a similar sense of power to the first witch.

  Your death will come. Your life will be snuffed out. Your line will end. I promise you. This I vow on the blood in your hands… on my blood. This comes from a young man with dark red hair and green eye
s.

  What is it with my father and killing witches with green eyes? The man I witnessed him kill had green eyes, too, but this witch, I think, is shorter, huskier. The one from when I was ten had given up for some reason, but this one…

  Their words repeat again and again, overlapping each other’s until all I hear are the sentiments and feelings behind the words rather than the words themselves—loathing and resentment. Gradually, I can see them just beyond the swirling dark wind. Each of them is bound, lying in the clearing, positioned in a triangle. My father kicks the male as he steps over him to enter the center. A serrated knife glints, banishing away more of the dark winds so I can better witness my father killing first the young female witch, who manages to repeat, “You will never know—” before he ends her.

  Then, my father turns to the second female. “Pain. Suffer—”

  She’s dead, too. The blood river beneath her flows to join that of the first witch’s.

  The male shows no hint of fear. “Your death will come. Your life will be snuffed out. Your line—”

  Dad kills him, easily, and then wipes the blood from his blade onto the witch’s pants.

  The smile on my father’s face as he surveys his carnage makes my stomach churn. How is my father able to slaughter them so easily? Are they bound by magical rope?

  But it’s the words from the last witch that I find myself focusing on.

  Your line will end.

  Does this mean a witch will kill me?

  Does this mean I don’t have a future? Or at least one without any kids…

  Does that mean that my father wants me so desperately to aid him because he thinks witches will come after me and Natalie?

  Maybe my father does have a reason to try to recruit me after all.

  5

  My eyes jerk open, and I gasp, staring at my hands. My palms aren’t stained with blood. I’m on the ground where I fell asleep.

  A dream. That’s all it had been.

  But it felt so real.