Song of the Ancients (Ancient Magic Book 1) (29 page)

I pulled a pen out of my purse and began doodling on the napkin under my glass, printing Nicholas Orenda in neat block letters. Underneath I wrote Renard Corbeau Orenda and Bella Orenda and added, family business. I thought for a moment and added
Wakenda Ondear.

Sadly, everything I knew about Nicholas and his family fit on one side of a cocktail napkin.

"Saaamm." Rumor would not let up until I gave her answers. "How are things going with him?"

"Okay." I thought over all the time I'd spent with Nicholas. "He runs hot and cold, but always intense. Extremely focused."

I sounded so bland, considering the seriousness of our late-night discussions. But I doubted Nicholas would approve if I shared those discussions, and from now on I planned to honor his wishes.

"I love his cats." I told Rumor about Shadow and Magic and described the house and library. "He's loaned me a ton of books. My next assignment is to learn herbology and how it relates to magic."

"Is he a good teacher?" Rumor waited only a short beat. "Wait, give me the important stuff first. Is he a good
lover
?"

I winced and chose to ignore her question for the moment; I already knew she'd be disappointed in my answer.

"He likes to teach by demonstration." I twirled the pen between my fingers, thinking. "It hasn't really been like learning, it's been more like just getting to know him."

As I said this, I realized the biggest lesson I'd learned from both of my mentors was to believe in myself. I'd felt so many things in this world were beyond my control.

Nicholas and Sinclair taught me to interact with my environment, to make things happen how and when I wanted them to. It gave new meaning to my life, new purpose. Until this moment, I hadn't realized what a boost they'd given my self-confidence, despite Nicholas's prickliness and my insecurities about him personally.
Yin and yang. From the dark, light emerges
. I was learning. I would learn to deal effectively with him also.

"Saamm."

I smiled at Rumor. "I have no doubt he's an exceptional lover. But I have no proof beyond kisses—yet."

Rumor raised her eyebrows. "Ohhh. And what makes you think he will be?"

I thought about his hands, surprisingly warm, splayed across my bare skin. "You know what they say about men with long fingers."

By the time I finally wriggled out of my friend's good-natured grilling, it was dinnertime, so we ordered burgers and replaced the Cokes with Coronas.

"Are you going to Maya's Yule party with him?" she asked.

I hesitated. The party was this Saturday. "We haven't made any plans."

Rumor beamed at me. "Well, I have a date."

Surprised, I said, "I didn't know you were dating anyone here."

"Not here. My boyfriend from Boston College. His name is Duncan and he's flying in Friday. We'll have to buy our gifts after he gets in, so we'll meet you at Maya's." She frowned. "I need some ideas. Sam, you did so well with Nicholas, what would you recommend?"

"Oh, my God." I shook my head. "I got him a book on curses. Do you really think it makes me an expert? "

"What's wrong?" Rumor asked. "I thought it was a brilliant idea."

"From the little I've looked at the book, it seems pretty darn weird." I shook my head again. "I don't know. Maybe I should get him something else, you know, a back-up gift."

Rumor put on her most serious, helpful look. "I'd recommend black silk boxers."

I looked at her for a long beat, mulling the visual over in my mind, then toppled over in the booth in a dramatic swoon.

The waitress walked over to us, laughing. "You're off your feet from one beer?" she teased.

"No, men," Rumor corrected. "Keep the beers coming, we'll need it."

The waitress gave a thumbs-up sign and returned with fresh drinks.

As she tidied up the table, Rumor grabbed the napkin I'd written on earlier. "Let's take a look here and see if you're destined to hook up with your sexy teacher."

Across the top of the napkin, she wrote the numbers one through nine. Then she put the alphabet letters in order under the numbers. "Have you ever applied numerology to your name?"

I shook my head.

"Do you know Nicholas's middle name or his birth date?"

I shook my head again.

"Okay, then we'll compare just your last names."

She wrote the number values corresponding to each letter of his name: O=6, R= 9, E=5, N=5, D=4, A=1. "When you add these up, they come to 30, which reduces to 3." She wrote a three by Nicholas's name. "There are certain attributes for each number, which you can compare to see if you're compatible," she said. "Let me figure yours and we'll compare them."

"You really are a Gypsy, aren't you?" I laughed. "Do you also read crystal balls and tarot cards?"

Rumor looked surprised. "Of course, don't you?" She laughed and patted me on the arm. "I keep forgetting you're learning everything as you go. I've been reading tarot and doing divination since I was a little girl. I earned my spending money in college doing readings."

"I tried a tarot read while I housesat for Nicholas," I said shyly. "I didn't go by the book, just winged it. I'd like to learn to do a reading the right way."

"You read by intuition. It's the best way to learn." She batted her big browns at me. "But I'll teach you my trade, Sam. Reading a tarot spread or a palm by candlelight is quite an effective seduction. Trust me."

I imagined trying a reading with Nicholas. It seemed a possibility. "I'll take you up on your offer," I said seriously. I couldn't recall seeing Nicholas laugh for weeks. Maybe a light-hearted evening would spark the romance.

Rumor put number values under the letters of my last name as we bantered: D=4, A=1, N=5, R=9, O=6, E=5. When she added them up, a puzzled expression crossed her face.

"Huh." She checked her numbers again. "I've never had this happen before."

I looked at the napkin. My numbers added up to 30, the same as Nicholas.

"What an odd coincidence," Rumor murmured.

Without thinking, I repeated Nuin's words to Rumor. "Haven't you learned yet, there are no coincidences?"

She stared at the napkin with a perplexed expression. "Sam, holy crap, look at this! They're not just the same numbers; they're the same exact letters. Your names are anagrams!"

I studied the napkin she had shoved under my nose and gave an involuntary shiver.

Rumor had grabbed the napkin back and studied it again. "Okay, I see the other Orenda names. Relatives of his, I assume?"

I nodded.

"What's this last name, Wakanda Ondear?"

"The name Sinclair told me," I said. "The old medicine woman in his story."
As well as the originator of this whole stinking prophecy
, I thought grimly.

Rumor bounced in her seat like a little kid in her excitement. "Sam, I don't even need to run this last name. Look!" She arranged the letters from Ondear, first to spell Orenda, and then to spell Danroe.

I said nothing. This was beyond coincidence. The universe had hit me over the head too many times for coincidence. The old medicine woman, Ondear, started the prophecy. Nicholas's female family members, Orenda, helped guard the power sites. That left me. Danroe. The Caller. The one charged with stopping this supernatural catastrophe. I had no time left to worry about anything else. Need trumped trust. I needed to get Nicholas and Sinclair together, so the three of us could devise a plan of attack.

Chapter 43: Sinister Tradition

I left a message for Nicholas on his cell phone when I got up at dawn, too excited to sleep: "Call me today ASAP please, it's important."

Three hours later I had heard nothing. Where was he and why wasn't he checking his messages? Did he turn it off at night? I cursed our mobile digital age for making landline phones obsolete.

Running the anagrams around in my head, I wondered how I had become the one involved in this triangle. What was the physical relationship to the Orendas, or to an ancient Lakota woman? Where would I even begin to look?

Then I remembered the family tree.

When I was a little girl, my mother had spent most of one summer visiting relatives and going through old family photo al-bums, piecing together our family history. That year was our town's bi-centennial, and many families were going through the same exercise. The local newspaper morgue was a popular meeting place that summer.

Mom sleuthed out several generations on both sides of the family, no small task in those days. With no Internet or computers, every piece of information was uncovered by word of mouth, book research, and plain old detective work.

Her resulting work, along with many of the neighboring family histories, ended up printed and bound into a book by the current newspaper editor (a third cousin through marriage, she discovered). When Mom died, the book ended up in my library by default. Dad wasn't much of a reader or a collector.

I dug out the dog-eared volume and went through it line by line during breakfast, but found no name resembling Orenda.

I packed it with my laptop to continue digging when I got to work.

It had snowed all night; when I arrived at the shop, the street looked like a scene straight out of Dickens. I held out a gloved hand to catch the fluffy ice crystals. This was one of the things I missed most about the Midwest, and the snowy scene lifted my spirits a little, even though I still hadn't heard from Nicholas. I debated driving to his house, but, after my last snowy misadventure on the mountain, decided against it.

Between the weather and the midweek lull, I had few customers, and I needed some physical movement to quell my restlessness. I added a red bow and a sprig of mistletoe to the bells over the front door.
All pagan this year, just like Nicholas instructed.
I looked at the bare little pine tree on the counter by the front window. A customer gave it to us, but neither Rumor nor I had bothered to decorate it. On a whim, I poked through the holiday boxes stored in the back room, then dug into the petty cash box.

Onto the little tree went pinecones and coins for prosperity, silver bells and a crescent moon. The silver angel tree topper stayed in her box, cradled in tissue. Instead, I fashioned a five-pointed star of holly and red berries and attached it to the top branch.

Every ornament I hung reminded me of Nicholas.

I checked my phone for the third time. The no messages screen mocked me.

I slipped my phone in my pocket, picked up my backpack containing Nicholas's Yule gift, taped a note on the window directing customers next door, and trudged through the now foot-high snow to the Mystery Hound. I wanted to see if Kamaria had any books on the old Traditional witch families. I had a feeling this secretive bunch would not be an easy Google search.

Kamaria sat curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs she had tucked around the bookstore for patrons. She was hand stitching a quilt block while keeping an eye on the handful of customers browsing for last-minute holiday gifts in New Releases at the front of the store.

"Feliz Navidad mi amiga,"
she greeted me. "Any customers your way?"

"Unfortunately not." Pulling the anagram napkin out of my purse, I kept my voice low so her customers couldn't hear. "In the meantime, I need your help solving a mystery."

"My area of expertise. What do you need?"

"Where would you look first to research your family tree," I asked, "if the tree was full of witches?"

"Are you delving into the Orenda family?"

"Yes, actually. All of the Traditional witch families."

"Let's start with the Orenda family tree. Give me the full names you know," she said briskly, stepping to her computer and pulling up a search website. "Orenda and what else?"

"His grandmother's name is Renard Corbeau Orenda. Maybe Corbeau is her maiden name?"

"Do you know where she lived?"

"Nicholas said she lived in New York."

Kamaria typed Renard Corbeau and added New York in the location field. "There you go! The possible first branch of your ancestral tree." She scrolled down through the records listed under Renard's name. One was titled 'Marriage Certificate.' "I think we have the right person," she said, pointing to the copy of the mimeographed record on the screen.

I leaned down to peer over her shoulder at the tiny image. The file stated Renard Corbeau married Jonas Orenda in 1937.

Bingo. "Can you save it?"

Kamaria looked up as a couple approached the cash register with books and a calendar. "You'll have to open an account to save files. Why don't you go ahead and open one while I ring up these purchases?"

I filled out the account information for the site and saved the Renard file. Another link showed census information for the 1930 U.S. Census, showing Renard, age 13, as part of a household in Brooklyn, New York. Her parents were listed as Henri and Elise Corbeau. An attached document gave the account of his immigration to New York from Paris. Two other household members appeared on the census form, with the description of domestic: A woman and a young girl, both with the last name of Idle.

I stared at the cursor blinking on the last name. One of my family surnames: Idol. Could this be my missing link to the Orenda family, overlooked because of a simple misspelling?

I added Renard's parents to the family tree, put the Idle names in a separate file and went to find Kamaria, and waited while she said, "Happy holidays," to her departing customer.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Possibly. There is something else you may be able to help me with."

I opened my backpack and pulled out the book I'd gotten for Nicholas. With a guilty start, I recalled Mr. Ravenscroft's stern instructions, and pulled on the white gloves before unwrapping the book.

Kamaria watched me open the delicate vellum from the inside cover. Together we studied the Latin inscription:
Potestatem obscuri nescitis.

"Where did you get this book Samantha?"

"Ravenscroft's. In Flagstaff."

"I have visited Noah's store several times, but I have never seen this volume," she mused.

"He said it's one of a kind."