by Sarah Black
“You’re scaring me, Aja.”
“Good, you need to be scared.” She licks her lips and the trail of tears that brim there.
“I don’t understand.”
“Shit, we need to drink for this.” She stands, darting to the fridge. Ripping it open, she pulls out a six pack of apple cider and grabs two. Giving me no choice, she hands it to me while flipping the cap on hers and chugging half of it before even bothering to look at me again.
“Aja.”
“Drink.”
Right, nothing like being forced to get drunk by your best friend who is having a panic attack. Wasn’t I the one who was attacked last night? Either way, because I need my nerves to calm down or because of her, I open the cider and take a small sip, appeasing Aja who flops back to the couch. Her muscles clench and her eyes dart wildly around the safe room as though someone may break through the reinforced steel walls.
“Okay, what’s going on.”
“Your sister?” She sips frantically, her movements jerky.
“I’m going to guess you want to know what kind of witch she is, and I’m not sure, all I remember is that she could see the—”
“Don’t you say it.” She stands, pacing the small space.
I don’t know what to do. My world spins and rotates, flipping me in twenty different directions all at once, and nothing makes sense to me anymore. “Aja, dammit, sit down and explain what’s going on.”
“Your sister probably already knows, this is why she never said anything. Not once did she tell me.” She pauses, staring down at me. “I expected this from you, but her? No, I expected her to tell me.”
“Right, like you were so forthcoming,” I add dryly, drinking my own cider.
“Do you have any idea how rare it is for a blood witch and a spirit witch to even be alive, let alone be identical twins?”
So that’s what I am. A blood witch. It makes sense. “No.”
“Because your parents didn’t want you to know.” She points to me. “It all makes sense now, but you need to talk to Poppy.”
“Right.” It all comes down to Poppy and our ability to talk. Only our last conversation still leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“So, we’re rare. What’s the point?” This is the problem with not being involved in my life and in Poppy’s life.
I have no one to blame but myself.
“It’s your powers, you are the boogeymen of the supernatural world, Penny. You and Poppy.” She stops pacing to plop on the couch beside me. “Valentino is right, I can’t protect you. Joe can’t protect you. And if you’re no longer pretending to be human, that means Poppy’s magic is rising again. No one can protect you, Penny.”
A chill of foreboding creeps up my spine to settle at the base of my neck. I’ve been called a lot of things in my short twenty-two years. But a boogeyman was never one of them. “I’m just a reporter.”
“Wake up, you can never be that person.” She slaps the can out of my hand, sending it careening into the steel wall. Cider splashes all over the place, causing that sickly-sweet smell to hang in the air. “You need to run, Penny. Run and never look back.”
“If I run it looks more suspicious.” Though I still don’t understand why I need to be running in the first place. “No, I can’t run, Aja. This is my home.”
“And they’ve already found you.” Her fingers whisper over the bruises blooming on my cheek.
I grab her hand, and the desire to go back to yesterday and sit at Pete’s overwhelms me. I squeeze once, holding onto her warmth. “Is this—” It’s so hard to say the words, yet I force them out. “Is this why my parents were murdered?”
“I don’t know, but if I had to guess, I would say so.” I expect her reply, but hearing it outside of my own thoughts is still jarring.
“Who are they?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said they’ve already found me. Who are they?”
She chuckles, but it isn’t pretty and it’s full of crazy I’ve never seen from Aja. “The supernatural world is worse than any mafia don you could imagine. They refers to any of those on the supernatural council or, hell, any house heads that catch wind that a blood and a spirit witch live.”
I massage the ache in my temple. I have questions, so many fucking questions.
“They were all murdered centuries ago, Penny. Murdered by all house heads. Everyone on the council agreed that blood and spirit witches could never live. Tell no one.” Her brown eyes plead with me as sadness, fear, and horror etch across her face. For me.
I need to see Poppy. “I need to go.” So much for showering.
“You can’t leave, Penny. Not until I can get you safely back to Valentino.” As though it pains her, the words strain from her mouth. “If anyone can protect you, it’s him.”
“I need to feed my cat.” I stand, my still bare feet sliding against the spilled cider. My hand shakes as it reaches for the doorknob. My muscles freeze. Why was it so easy to accept that Aja is a shifter, but hard to admit that I’m witch, and even harder to accept that I’m anything special? These thoughts live in a cruel mind.
The knob pulls from my hand, the door swinging open to reveal an exhausted Joe. His suit crumpled and stained. The cap on his head lopsided. “Where have you been?”
I scrub a hand down my face, glancing at Aja who subtly shakes her head no. I can’t tell Joe. I can never put him in danger like that, although I know he knows about our world and that I’m a witch. He can’t know what kind, and if he’s here in Aja’s basement lair, then he knows about her as well.
“I wanted a shower.”
“It doesn’t look like you took a shower.”
“That’s why they promoted you to detective.” I go for genuine, but it only comes out as snarky.
“Where have you been?” He stands stock-still, his deep brown eyes glaring at me, willing me to answer him.
I twist up my face, my heart thumping in my chest. I go for a touch of the truth. “Just having a drink and learning my best friend is a shifter.”
“Hm.” He isn’t buying it. “You know what, kiddo? Don’t tell me. Don’t file a report. But know this, the fifth district is aware of what creatures roam the streets at night. You can’t hide forever.” He turns on his heel to leave.
My hand reaches out, grabbing him by his jacket. “What do you mean? You police the supernaturals?”
“Ain’t no one else doing it.” Aja comes to stand beside me. “Joe gets all those cases that go unsolved. The weird ones. Supernaturals don’t care as long as it isn’t their house dying. And the council? Just a bunch of old dudes on a literal power trip.”
Her words settle somewhere in the back of my mind. For now, I can only look at Joe. I realize then that my parents’ death changed this man forever, that he saw something else that night too, something he couldn’t explain. “What did you see, Joe? That night, what did you see?”
His head cants to the side. His voice warm. “We both have our secrets, kiddo.” He brushes me off, his anger thickening the room, stealing my breath as he walks away.
It feels like the universe can only frown at me.
12
I don’t have much in the way of material things. Perhaps more than some and less than others. Losing my parents at such an early age left me not only a gaping wound in my chest, but the sense to recognize how incredible our lives were. How loving and thoughtful they were even during hard times. Now I just have my memories, a sister whose anger can be felt through our twin link, and my damn cat.
Prince swirls through my mind over and over again until he becomes my only thought. Call it homesickness, I don’t care. I just need that familiarity that could ease my insides before they exploded. Convincing Aja to take me home was a lesson in law that I never had. Her skills of debate are undeniable and far surpass my own.
But I stood my ground, even as the cat who prowls in the back of her mind attempted to take over, to subdue me until I’d submit. But Aja knows bett
er. All her talk about keeping me safe because I’m some kind of boogeyman the supernatural world fears flies out the window with her anger. Her car skids to a stop outside my measly apartment, waiting only long enough for me to climb out while she mutters about my funeral.
I watch as the red dot of her little car flees off around the corner. Overhead, the afternoon sun beats down on me with fierce abandon. My clothes not only smell, but are rapidly dampening with my own sweat the longer I stand out here.
I don’t have a key, but I guarantee my window is still open. That blasted window that started all of this.
Lie.
I didn’t start this by forgetting to lock the window, this began long ago. Something that started with my parents. Something I want to end with me. But beating creatures I didn’t know existed won’t happen easily, and with my friends convinced I need to run, I’ll be on my own.
Except maybe Poppy. That little voice nags in the back of my mind. I need to call her, if my phone isn’t smashed into a thousand little pieces.
My bare feet slap against the pavement, burning the soles and the callouses. Ignoring the front of the building, I head to my side where the fire escape still sits pulled down and my window is open. Though crime rises and falls, usually I’m okay, safe even aside from last night. I don’t fear that open window even though I should.
Because if my memory serves me right, then I really am a boogeyman. My mouth waters with the sickness of nausea. The pit of my stomach a ball of worry. Not because my window stands open, but because I can feel the pulse of everyone in the building.
That isn’t normal.
One bare foot steps on the rung, the heat clinging to the iron as though it wishes to be turned into a sword. I grit my teeth, climbing up until I slap a hand on the platform to my window.
“Meow.”
Every piece of me relaxes at his little voice. Tears spring to my eyes as I dart through the window. Not seeing anyone, I slam the window shut and lock it before falling to my futon. The blankets still lie in a heap on the floor, their crocheted red squares a memory I can’t snuff out. Of my grandmother and her weathered hands weaving the patterns and humming while watching old movies of Poppy and me on vacations.
Grief bubbles up, welling within me to an alarming degree. Of homecooked meals. Vacations and laughter. Mother, Father, and our grandparents. Safety. All of which is now gone.
“Meow.”
Soft paws pad along my lap, little claws digging into my skin in an attempt to pull me back to reality. His little head butts against my hand and my arm until I’m forced to focus on him and him alone.
The last twenty-four hours is finally catching up to me. I thought I took it all in stride. Walking that tightrope of sanity until someone clips the edge and I freefall to the earth. A hiccup explodes out of me and with it a sob of denial and memory.
“Did you know?” I whisper into his soft fur, brushing my cheek along his body, feeling him grounding me to this moment. “Are you my familiar?”
Isn’t that something witches have? A cat who grounds them? Prince found me, after all. I never once went looking for him.
“Meow.”
“If familiars are real, I’d be able to understand you.” I sigh against his fur, my tension slowly fading. “Thank you for saving me.”
Maybe he doesn’t understand and maybe he does. But I allow myself a long moment to just exist as he purrs on my lap. I relax on the futon as the heat begins to build inside my sardine-like apartment. I ignore it all. I’ll turn the window unit on low for Prince before I leave again. Right now, I just need to drown in my emotions.
Because feeling is living. Pain means I’m still alive. And if I’m still alive, that means I have shit to do. Leaning forward, I seek out my phone that I usually keep under my futon while I sleep. My hands run along the rug until I catch on the little device.
Dead.
I expected it. Plugging it in, I make my way to the shower, ignoring my growling stomach and parched mouth. Opting instead to sate a different desire. One that involves scrubbing every inch of my skin.
I head straight for my fishy curtain, flinging it back to run the water on hot before stripping down. I’m not ready to look in the mirror. Not yet. I know it can’t be pretty. It doesn’t feel pretty, in fact it feels like my cheek is two sizes too big.
I tear the last remaining ribbon of gauze from my feet before stepping in. Blood swirls in the drain in a tornado of pinkened water.
As I run through the monotonous task of washing, scrubbing, and repeating, my mind ponders everything that occurred. From Valentino trying to get me to work for him to Aja offering me a job, to waking up sick and Poppy giving me a vial, then being attacked in my own home. Call me a cynic, but I get the feeling everything is related.
Aja’s words ring in my ears—only Valentino can protect me. Why? Who is this mysterious playboy willing to run into a parking lot naked? But that isn’t completely accurate, is it? The dull ache at the base of my head tells me this. I know something about that night just isn’t right.
My witchy powers aren’t quite up to speed yet, probably because I keep them under a tidal wave of emotion. Drowning them with my fear. Until I use them more, I may not recall that night in perfect clarity.
Clean and scrubbed, I climb out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my head and sliding into my robe. My stomach grumbles, a haunting reminder that no matter what happens I still need a job and I still need to eat. Slamming open my pantry, I grab the last of the chocolate Pop-Tarts and rip them open.
My damp feet pad along the hardwood as I reach for the bottom drawer of my dresser. Inside, the deteriorating shoebox greets me. Its white flap sits awkwardly with small holes here and there.
But it isn’t the box I want, not really. It’s what sleeps inside. My eyes focus and unfocus, staring as though I can see through the white flap. If I can just stand here and use some kind of x-ray vision power, I can close the drawer and move on.
But I can’t. I don’t have that kind of power, I have something else. Something darker. And it just sleeps inside of me without pain. It lurks at the back of my mind and I accept it. I know it exists now and I’ve been a fool to pretend it never did. Yet if I was smart, I’d go about living my life pretending it isn’t there.
That it was never there.
But I can’t do that either. Shoving the Pop-Tart into my mouth, I pull out the box. Its frame threatens to give way, to spill the contents along the floor. My other hand snaps forward, gripping the flimsy box before I slide to the floor, shuffling over to rest against the wall under my window.
My legs cross and I flip the flap, allowing the pictures and trinkets to welcome me with a past that I can never escape from. Crumbs spill from my Pop-Tart hanging out of my mouth, catching an old picture of Poppy and me dressed in matching pink polka dot dresses, our dark hair spilling like a curtain over our shoulders while our twin smiles mirror one another. Full of happiness, of wonder, and brutal ignorance.
We thought it was just a game. One to hide from our parents. No one needed to know what we could do, we had each other, and it was our little secret.
“What are you looking out?”
My body jolts, my Pop-Tart falling out of my mouth as I damn near choke on the crumbs. “Shit, Poppy.” My heart races and my heartbeat pulses loudly in my ears.
“I thought you heard me.” For once she’s dressed in normal clothing—jeans and a white shirt. Or as normal as it comes for Poppy. Her eyes catch on the picture in my hand, a warm smile stretching across her face. “Ah, those dresses.”
I twist my face up, my chest pinching. “I’m sorry, Poppy.” My voice freezes, unsure how to bridge the gap between us. But I know without that tie I’ll never be a whole person. Just an echo of one. My heart longs to make this all right.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I wave my hand around. “And don’t give me some bullshit excuse like Aja did, or Joe. I don’t care about super
natural laws. I care about you and I know you would have found a way to tell me what was going on. What I missed.”
“You’re right.” She shrugs, reaching for a stack of photos.
I wait in silence for her to continue, but her eyes lose focus on the pictures of our parents, of the studio portraits that made us look like a normal family. Though from the very beginning both Poppy and I knew we weren’t normal.
“Do you think they knew?” I pick up a picture of our mother, her deep brown eyes shining and happy. Her arms are wrapped around a tall man, his hair graying at the temples and his glasses slipping down his nose. His eyes stare off into the distance, brown and unfocused.
“Penny, do you remember them?” She picks up a locket, Mom and Dad on one side, Pop and I on the other. Our small, cherub faces sleeping peacefully. I don’t have to look at the pictures to know what resides in those heart-shaped walls. They are forever seared into my brain.
“I don’t know.” I grasp the locket, peering inside at the happy couple. “I remember fragments of being young. As though our past lives in stop motion inside my head. I remember Nan and Pap. The smell of the kitchen, the slap of a towel. I remember baking and big dinners. Of being cared for.”
Without thinking too much about it, I slip the locket over my head, allowing it to rest against my chest.
She nods her head, her eyes closed. I know that look all too well. She’s battling her emotions, struggling to gain composure. She licks her lips, her piercing blue eyes seeing through my soul as the bridge between us begins to rebuild itself.
“What if—” She throws the pictures back in the box before scrubbing a hand down her face, tears streaking mascara in a messy path. “Shit, Pen. They weren’t—”
My heart pounds, my eyes stuck on hers as she looks anywhere but at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I change the subject, chickening out because that truth will break me and I’m not there yet. Too much is coming at me from all sides and I’ve had little time to think.