by Amy Marie
She lifted one of her eyebrows and her eyes slit, appearing as fierce and terrifying as my mother. I wanted to flee but held my ground. “What does anything have to do with your mother? If I remember correctly, and I do, I’ve done nothing except try to convince you to find your own path, to give Max a chance. I’ve been the one to practically throw you two together.” She spoke the truth, but it did nothing to help my unease and distrust.
“I apologize,” I mumbled, grudgingly, and stepped around her to get to the stairs.
“Wait,” she ordered, and I paused on the landing of the second floor, frozen. I could move and go to my room if I wanted to, but something in her voice had stopped me, making me curious about what she had to say.
“Yes?” I asked when Pat didn’t say anything. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her at the bottom of the staircase, moving her lips, but I heard no words. She almost appeared to be conversing with someone who wasn’t there. “Aunt Pat?”
Sighing heavily, Pat seemed to fold in on herself, her shoulders sagging. “I need to show you something. After that, you can decide whether you trust me.”
My eyes rolled of their own accord. “Fine,” I huffed, making the word come out as one long, whiney syllable.
“Well, come on.” She spun on her heel and marched through the dining room toward the kitchen.
Slowly, I trudged down the stairs to follow the path she took. Under my breath, I whispered a simple protection spell. I didn’t know if I could trust her, and I wasn’t going to chance it.
Making my way through the house, I stepped into the kitchen, only to find it completely empty. She’d come into the dining room, I was certain of that, but then where? “Aunt Pat?”
“This way,” her voice echoed from somewhere behind me.
I spun around. Nothing. Marching into the dining room again, I still found nothing. “Aunt Pat?”
“Here,” she called, sticking her head out of a panel in the wall, causing me to jump.
“Bloody hell!” I shrieked. Not my finest moment.
“Issues?” Her grin and the small snort of laughter that escaped, told me everything I needed to know about what she thought of my reaction.
“Where are we going?” I growled, following her through the hidden doorway. “What?” We were descending an internal staircase, the way lit by a soft glow from wall sconces hung every couple of feet. My head was swimming. Where were we going? How did I not know this was here? “Aunt Pat?”
“The only other person who knew of this room was my dear Harry.”
“What is this place?” I had no idea there was a hidden staircase or a secret room. The door blended perfectly into the ebony wood wainscoting, lining the walls in the dining room. It never dawned on me there might have been a hidden space or that the rooms were smaller than they appeared. An optical illusion.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Pat threw out her arms and announced, “My room.”
If I weren’t completely gobsmacked, I would have commented on her theatrics. Instead, I gaped. The space was the size of half the house, the walls and floor made of stone. Bookshelves lined the walls and, sitting in one corner, was a very thick, very ancient book to which I was drawn. The pages appeared worn and yellowed with age, the ink slightly faded. I couldn’t understand the language sweeping across the paper, but that wasn’t what captivated me or made my pulse sing with excitement. It was its age and that its condition was far superior to most of the books I’d seen throughout my career. It even put the edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales I had recently acquired to shame.
Reaching out my hand, I jerked it back as if it burned, terrified to touch it. What if I did, and it crumbled into dust?
“You can touch it if you’d like,” Pat spoke in a soft, whispered voice, appearing at my side.
I did. My fingers gently skimmed across the page, feeling the fibers that had been pressed together from days long gone. “How…?” I was in awe and had lost all ability to speak.
She reached over and flipped through a couple of the pages, careful, but not as cautious as me. I almost snapped at her but managed to hold back.
“I was given this book many years ago. Harry found it for me. How old would you say it is?”
“Based on the handwritten words, the hand-sketched images, the type of paper…I’m not sure of the cover, but if it’s as old as I think it is, it could have been re-covered a couple of times. The pages are in excellent condition. I would say at least a thousand years old.”
“You would be correct, but it’s much older than that.” She stroked the pages and shut the book to show me the cover. Dyed leather the color of indigo, slightly worn around the edges, with an intricate design carved into the material, greeted me.
Stepping even closer, I squinted, trying to make out all of the details which had lost a bit of their polish. “What is it?” I asked, curious about the book itself and the artwork.
“A garden. According to some, the Garden of Eden, to others, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s whatever you want it to be. Nature holds magic, and gardens are full of power and magic.”
I opened the book again, my fingers running over the words. “What language is this?”
“A dead language, spoken by no one save a few.”
“Like Latin,” I joked.
“Older.” Pat smiled.
Older? “How?”
“Not everything they teach you in school is correct. History is ‘his story.’ It is the story of whoever writes it. What’s the old saying about history is written by the victors or something like that. Some of the stuff we make up as we go because we can only guess. Do you think we really know the purpose of the pyramids or who built the Sphinx? What about the various gods who have been discussed throughout history? Do you believe we know all about the different ancient tribes, even ones that have disappeared, leaving no evidence behind?”
She had me there. “No. Based on the clues, we make assumptions,” I said.
“Correct. That is all we can do because nothing left behind is black and white. Even when we know exactly what happened, many will pick and choose what they want to believe.” Pat looked at me and cupped my cheek before turning her attention back to the tome on the stand. “This language has been for thousands and thousands of years. It is ancient.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “How has it survived this long?” I dared to challenge her.
She bit her lip, her grin growing. “What if I told you the original owner of this grimoire enchanted it?
I snorted with disdain and disbelief. “You can’t enchant a book.”
“So, you’re saying only people, animals, wagons, elements, cars, machinery, and any number of other things can be, but not a spellbook?” When she put it that way, I sounded like a bloody numpty.
“I concede your point.”
“Yes, I thought you might.”
“So, why did you bring me down here?” I began to wonder if she intended to keep me prisoner and took a step away from her toward the stairs.
“Stop. If I wanted to shackle you, I would have done it already. Hell, I still can with nothing more than a word, and you know it. As you can see, this is neither a prison nor a torture chamber. It’s my inner sanctuary. Sometimes spell casting can be a messy affair. I’d rather do it down here where I don’t have to worry about anyone interrupting me.”
“Then, why?”
“I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Have you ever questioned anything your mother said?” She noticed my wild eyes and how I began searching for any signs of danger. “Don’t worry. Anything said here is safe. The other reason I come down here is it’s completely warded. Not even your mother would be able to spy on us. But if you want to see what she’s up to, let me know.”
I frowned in confusion, and my head was spinning. “What?”
“What did you think when you found th
e spell?”
“What?” My deep voice sounded like a kid going through puberty with the way it cracked.
“You searched, didn’t you?”
“The spell to change the princes into swans exists. We knew that because Mila was able to turn the six princes into swans.”
“Correct, but you discovered the spell should have worn off, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure. I could have misinterpreted something. We all know languages are not my forte.”
She shook her head sadly. “We do.”
“And?” I snapped, feeling defensive. She found out I’d gone snooping and what the results were. How was this conversation supposed to get me to trust her?
“In most stories, there are three sides. Yours, mine, and the truth. Sometimes, there are more.”
Why did I get the impression she was talking about more than ancient history or a spell gone wrong? “Okay?” My heart was thundering, and my throat felt tight. I swallowed hard to try to dislodge whatever was starting to choke me.
“What do you remember of the fairy tale, the one in the book?”
“Seriously?”
“Humor me.”
“The king got lost in the forest, and in exchange for showing him the way out, an old woman asks him to marry her daughter. He does. When she discovers she has stepchildren whom he has hidden away from her, she wants them gone. She enchants six shirts made out of the finest linen and throws them on the princes, transforming them into swans. The only one spared was the princess. One night, the princes visit her in human form, which they can assume for fifteen minutes every night. They tell her the way to break the spell is to knit sweaters for each of them out of nettles. On top of that, she can’t speak or make a sound until the spell is broken or at the end of the sixth year,” I recited the story in a bored tone, but my anxiety was increasing.
“Who is missing from the rest of the story, from our story?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’ve always been taught the king was the one who wanted the spell cast, that he didn’t want the children around any longer. We’ve also been taught it was Mila who gave the princess the instructions on how to break the spell.”
“So?”
Pat rolled her eyes and appeared utterly exasperated with me. “Where did she get that spell?”
“A book? Mother has Mila’s grimoire in her library.”
“Goddess, you’re difficult!” Pressing her hand to her forehead, Pat sighed heavily. “Who taught Mila how to harness her magic?”
Most believed anyone could learn magic, but it wasn’t true. You either had a gift, the magic living inside you as part of your very being, or you didn’t. “Her mother.”
“And what happened to the old woman after Mila married the king?”
I opened my mouth to speak, only to clamp it shut. I wracked my brain, trying to recall anything about Mila’s mother in all of the stories I’d heard. I drew a blank. Pulling out my phone from my pocket, I grinned when I saw a text message from Max. He could wait. Anything to do with him, I’d rather push to the side until I wasn’t around my aunt.
Opening a browser window, I searched for the fairy tale in question, other than the initial meeting in the forest, there was no mention of Mila’s mother. “I don’t know,” I finally answered.
“I wish things were black and white, but they aren’t, and we can only piece together what we know and make assumptions about the rest. The book in your mother’s library is Mila’s grimoire and contains all of her spells.” She spun around and tapped the book on the stand. “This book belonged to her mother. Mila’s book is missing several spells and potions, this one has, and it has also been translated into a different language, though I’m not sure why. I assume Mila had a hard time with the ancient tongue, or her mother wanted to control her in some way. If she couldn’t read this tome, she wouldn’t be able to discover what her mother had done.”
“What do you mean?” My head was beginning to hurt.
“In this book,” she tapped it again, “the spell to change a person into a swan is slightly different. If the spell is not broken by the first blue moon, they are doomed to remain cursed. However, the reversal spell can modify the original spell, giving the person the ability to transform at will.”
“You’re telling me, her mother set up her own daughter, gave her a modified spell, and conjured up some sort of nefarious plot for…for what exactly?”
“I wish I knew, but the spell in Mila’s book is different from this one. Maybe it doesn’t translate properly, but I seriously doubt that.”
“I’m so bloody confused.” And I was. She’d given me a lot of information in a short period of time, and I felt like I was drowning.
Backing up toward the stairs, I spun around and, as I began to climb, I heard, “You’ve awakened something in Max. I don’t know whether either of you realizes it though.”
I didn’t stop and increased my speed, running up the stairs, through the house, and out the back door, stumbling until I fell to my knees in the cold sand along the shore of Lake Michigan. Was it true? Had I awakened something in Max? What was it? Could it hurt him? Fuck, I couldn’t think straight. Could I believe what she said? What if this was some elaborate scheme? Although I didn’t think Aunt Pat would go through that much work to gain my trust.
Who was my real enemy? Could it really be my own family? The questions had multiplied, virtually becoming a living breathing entity, which grew and morphed the longer it was allowed to live.
Chapter 19
Max
I’d acted like the world’s biggest jerk with Lorde, and the moment Fizz pulled away, the moment I couldn’t see him any longer, I felt like shit. Too bad I couldn’t have Fizz throw the car in reverse and take me back to Pat’s house. No, that wasn’t possible because my father declared we needed to talk about what happened today. Honestly, I didn’t understand the way my swan acted this morning, and if I could, I’d rather forget the whole ordeal. I wasn’t that lucky.
Within a couple of minutes, we rolled to a halt in front of my parents’ house, and Fizz ordered me out.
“Can’t we just say I was itching to go for a flight, and not do this?” I implored, opening the car door and not moving an inch.
“It’s not that easy. Get your ass moving, now.” At that exact moment, I decided Fizz was an asshole. Wasn’t he supposed to be on my side and not my parents? I paid him, they didn’t.
Grumbling under my breath, I sent a quick text to Lorde to apologize for my behavior and reluctantly scooted out of the vehicle, wishing, not for the first time, I’d brought my own car. “I suppose we have to get this over with.”
With one foot on the porch, something hit me like a missile. Fizz had to catch me to prevent my fall, which could have seriously injured me. “Mom?” She clung to me, and at the same time, felt my arms and chest. “Nothing broken.” In my head, I added, Although you almost changed that. I might have been safer in my own home, dealing with that woman, than here with my family.
Pulling back, she looked me over from head to foot and back again before jerking me onto the porch and moving around me, making sure I had no injuries whatsoever. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion, and I could see the tears filling her eyes and threatening to fall.
I melted and felt like an ass. This woman was my mother, and me her only child. Of course, she would worry, as was her prerogative as a parent. Wrapping her in my arms, I squeezed her tightly, her tears soaking my shirt. “I’m sure. Fizz got me out of there, and nothing happened while I was with Lorde today.”
I could practically feel the shift in her. Her head popped up, and as she wiped any wetness that lingered, she smiled, her eyes bright with more than tears. “You were with Lorde?” she asked quickly, her giddiness at the prospect filling her voice.
Closing my eyes, I shook my head and sighed. “Dad knew, so I’m sure you knew, too.”
“He might hav
e mentioned it. How did it go? Did you have fun with him? Are you going to see him again? Was it a date or just because you had to go out with him?” It amazed me how she could go from upset to excited in a matter of seconds.
“It was fine.”
“Let him in, Willow,” my dad spoke from the doorway.
I lifted my gaze and found him smiling at my mother, a soft look in his eyes. He still loved her after all these years, and it was more evident now than I remembered as a child.
“Oh, right,” Mom gasped and dragged me toward the front door. Once the heavy wood rattled against its frame, she once again tried to interrogate me, “Where did you go? What did you do? Were you a gentleman? I taught you manners, and I expect you to use them, how else are you going to win him over and convince him to marry you?”
“Marry?” I choked, coughing and trying to draw in a breath. “Excuse me?”
Fizz pounded me on the back. “Suck it up,” he told me in a low voice close to my ear without moving his lips at all. I’d seen him do it a million times. This man was better than some ventriloquists. Easy for him to say, his mother wasn’t planning his wedding because I had no doubt, my mother already had the whole thing worked out in her head.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Mom, he lives in England.”
“He’s a U.S. citizen, so you won’t need to do that K9 visa or spousal visa,” she retorted.
I ran a hand down my face. “Mom, he lives in England. Thinking he would pick up his life and move here—”
She interrupted me, “He’s not happy there. Pat said so.”
“That isn’t the point.” I was quickly losing my patience, not that I ever had much to begin with.
“But he’s your—”
This time, my father cut her off, “That’s enough, Willow. We need to talk about what happened this morning.” I was both relieved and confused. There were countless times he allowed her to drone on and on about nothing, especially if she heard a rumor I was dating someone. Not this time.