Spellcasters (27 page)

“You’re quite certain?” he asked Savannah.

“About Paige being a good guardian? Sure. That’s why I said so, but I don’t think they were listening. I told the blond girl that I wanted to keep living here, but she jumped back like I had mono or something.”

“I’m not referring to your statement,” Cortez said. “Your menses. You’re certain it’s arrived?”

“Duh, yes. Girls don’t start bleeding down there for no reason.”

“It makes sense,” I said. “She hasn’t been feeling well, probably cramps. Plus the mood swings.”

“What mood swings?” Savannah said.

“Never mind, hon. You’re fine. I’m very happy for you. We both are.”

Cortez didn’t look happy. He looked agitated. Not a powerful description when applied to most people, but in Cortez, it was the equivalent of a breakdown.

“Do you know about the ceremony?” he asked.

“I was going to talk to Paige about it,” she said. “And how do you know about the ceremony, sorcerer?”

She said it with a smile, but he waved the question away and turned to me.

“Yes,” I said. “I know about the first menses ceremony.”

“Do you know about the variations?” he asked.

“Variations?”

“I take that as a no.”

He paced to the window and back. Then he stopped, ran his hand through his hair, adjusted his glasses, and collected himself. Before continuing, he settled into the armchair across from us.

“I mentioned before that the Nast Cabal’s interest in Savannah is largely contingent upon capturing her at such a young age. That is not without reason. Good reason. If a witch is taken before she begins to menstruate, she’s much easier to turn.”

“Brainwash,” I said.

“Recruit, persuade, brainwash, call it what you will. A witch who has not reached puberty is the ideal candidate. That in itself is not surprising, as anyone with any knowledge of youth psychology can tell you it’s a very vulnerable age.”

Savannah snorted.

Cortez continued, “However, in the case of a witch, it’s more than that. By varying the menses ceremony, it’s possible to secure the loyalty of a witch.”

“You mean enslave her.”

“No, no. Altering the ceremony can impose certain limitations on a witch’s powers, which can then be used to persuade her to remain with the Cabal. It’s difficult to explain. There are nuances and implications I don’t fully comprehend. The crux of it is this: Alter the ceremony and you have the ideal recruit. Allow the ceremony to proceed unchanged and you might as well forget the whole thing.”

“So if we can get through the ceremony, they won’t want Savannah? Nothin’ wrong with that, Counselor.”

“Except for two small considerations. First, if they discover Savannah has reached her menses, they’ll do everything in their power to get her before the eighth night.”

“How would they know that?” she asked.

“Shamans,” I said. “They have shamans, don’t they?”

Cortez nodded. “The Cabals have everything.”

“A shaman can diagnose illness. A shaman would know whether she’d matured to the point of first menses yet. All a shaman has to do is touch you, Savannah. Jostling you in a crowd would be enough. They must have had one check you out before they started all this.”

“Are you saying I need to stay indoors for a week? You’re kidding, right? I have graduation next week, you know. If the school still lets me graduate after all this.”

“They will,” Cortez said. “I’ll make certain of it. Our most pressing concern, however, is preventing the Nast Cabal from learning of your good news. Paige, is the house protected against astral projection?”

“Always,” I said.

“Then there’s the second consideration. Once Savannah has completed the unaltered ceremony, they won’t want her. However, given the reputation of her mother and the problems she caused the Cabals, the Nasts won’t simply walk away. If they can’t have Savannah, they’ll make sure no one else can.”

“You mean they’ll kill me,” she said.

“She doesn’t need to hear this,” I said.

“I think she does, Paige.”

“Well, I disagree. Savannah, go to your room, please.”

“He’s right, Paige,” she said quietly. “I need to hear this.”

“She needs to know exactly what danger she faces,” Cortez said. “So we need to protect her until after the ceremony, then tell them their opportunity has passed.”

“What?” I said. “But if they know that, they’ll kill her. You said so yourself.”

“No, I said they might kill her if they believe she’s completed the unaltered ceremony. However, if the eighth night were to pass without a ceremony, Savannah’s powers would be irrevocably weakened. Hence, she’d pose no threat.”

“I’m not skipping the ceremony,” she said.

“You won’t,” I said. “We just need to convince them that you did.”

“Exactly.”

We worked on the plan for three hours, sharing information, floating ideas, drawing up lists—Cortez’s lists, of course. Savannah stuck around for the first hour before deciding verb conjugation sounded like more fun.

We had a week to wait. A long time to spend locked in the house. We debated the wisdom of staying here versus finding a safe place to hole up for the week. After considering the options, we agreed that we’d stick around until we’d figured out the Nast Cabal’s next move. They’d gone through a lot of trouble to make my life hell, and Cortez suspected they might now simply sit back and wait for me to cave. If we ran, they’d surely follow. For now, it seemed best to play “wait-and-see” for a day or two.

Although Savannah’s ceremony wouldn’t take place for eight days, there were a few things that had to be done the first night, such as
gathering the juniper. That meant we had to go out. As well, the ceremony book was kept at Margaret’s house, and Cortez agreed that I needed to look through it as soon as possible, so we added that to our list of chores for the evening. Until then, we’d just sit tight.

After lunch, while Cortez made some legal-type calls related to the DSS visit, I decided to clear my mind with some spell practice. I took the grimoires from my knapsack and put them into another bag, which I hid in the second compartment. I got as far as the hall when someone banged at the front door.

I winced and returned my knapsack to its hiding place. By the time I got to the front hall, Cortez was undoing his lock spells. When he reached for the dead bolt, I waved him back.

“I’ve got it.”

He hesitated, then stepped behind me as I opened the door. There stood two state cops. I’d probably seen them before—the county detachment wasn’t large—but I’d moved past the point of bothering to attach names to faces.

“Yes?” I said through the open screen.

The older officer stepped forward, but made no attempt to open the door or demand admittance. Maybe he enjoyed having a wider audience. Unfortunately for him, most of the crowd and all the TV crews were gone, though the kids with the camcorder had returned.

“We were asked by town council to escort these good people to your door.”

He stepped back. A man and a woman, both of whom I knew only vaguely, stepped forward.

“Councilor Bennett and Councilor Phillips,” the man said without indicating who was who. “We’d like to bring to your attention—” He cleared his throat, then raised his voice for the small smattering of people below. “We’d like to bring to your attention a request by the East Falls town council.”

He paused, as if for effect.

“The council has agreed, most magnanimously, to divest you of this property for a fair market value.”

“Div—did you say divest—?”

“Fair market value,” he said, voice rising another notch. He glanced around, making sure he had his audience’s full attention. “Plus moving expenses. Furthermore, we will assess the value of your home as it stood before any damage occurred.”

“Why not just tar and feather me?”

“We have a petition. A petition signed by over fifty percent of the voting population of East Falls. They are asking you, in light of recent events, to consider relocating and, with their signatures, they are endorsing the town’s generous offer.”

The woman held out a roll of paper, letting the end fall to the ground like some kind of medieval proclamation. On it I saw dozens of names. Names of people I knew, neighbors, shopkeepers, people I’d worked with on the Christmas charity dinner, parents of children at Savannah’s school, even teachers who’d taught her. All asking me to move out. To leave.

I grabbed the list, tore it up the middle and thrust half into each of the councilors’ hands.

“Take this back to the council and tell them where they can stuff their generous offer. Better yet, tell everyone on this damned list that they’d better get used to me, because I’m not leaving.”

I slammed the door.

I stood in the doorway between the living room and front hall, held there as if by a binding spell. I kept seeing that list, mentally repeating the names. People I knew. People I thought knew me. Granted, they didn’t know me well, but I wasn’t a stranger. I’d helped with every school and charity event. I’d bought cookies from every Girl Scout, apples from every Boy Scout. I’d donated time, money, effort, whatever was needed wherever it was needed, all because I knew how crucial it was to Savannah’s future that I fit in. And now they overlooked all that and turned their backs on me. Not just turned away, but thrust me away.

Yes, what had happened in East Falls was terrible: the appalling discovery of the Satanic altar and its mutilated cats, the unspeakable horror of Cary’s death and funeral. I didn’t blame the town for not rushing to my aid with casseroles and condolences. They were confused, afraid. But to judge so blatantly, to say, “We don’t want you here.” Such a rejection burned worse than any epithet hurled by a stranger.

When I finally broke from my trance, I crossed the room and dropped onto the sofa. Savannah sat beside me and put her hand on my knee.

“We don’t need them, Paige,” she said. “If they don’t want us here, screw ’em. We can take their money and get a better place. You like Boston, right? You always said that was where you wanted to live, not this backwater dump. We’ll move there. The Elders can’t complain. It’s the town’s fault, not ours.”

“I won’t go,” I said.

“But, Paige—”

“She’s right, Savannah,” Cortez said. “At this point, it would appear an admittance of guilt. When this is over, Paige may well decide to reconsider the offer. Until then, we can’t dwell on it.” His voice softened. “They’re wrong, Paige. You know they’re wrong and you know you don’t deserve this. Don’t give them the satisfaction of upsetting you.”

I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to the lids, cutting off impending tears. “You’re right. We have work to do.”

“There’s nothing we need to do right now,” Cortez said. “I’d suggest you rest.”

“I’ll go practice my spells.”

Cortez nodded. “I understand. Perhaps I could—” He stopped short. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Spell practice should help take your mind off things.”

“What were you going to say?”

He took his DayTimer from the end table. “There were a couple of spells … I thought … Well, perhaps, later, after I’ve made some more calls, and you’ve had some time to yourself … if you wouldn’t mind, there are a few witch spells I’d like to ask you about.”

He flipped through his DayTimer, eyes on the page, as if he wasn’t awaiting an answer. I couldn’t help smiling. The guy could handle homicide cops, bloodthirsty reporters, and the walking dead with implacable confidence, but turn the conversation to something as remotely personal as asking to discuss spells with me and suddenly he seemed as flustered as a schoolboy.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I said. “Spell for spell, even trade. Deal?”

He looked up from his book with a crooked smile. “Deal.”

“Make your calls then, and give me an hour to clear my head, then we’ll talk.”

He agreed and I headed downstairs.

An hour passed. An hour of practice. An hour of failure. Was there not some benevolent force in the world that rewarded perseverance and good intentions? If such a being existed, couldn’t it look down on me, take pity, and say, “Let’s toss the poor kid a bone”?

One good killing spell to protect Savannah. That’s all I asked for. Well, okay, if there was such a benevolent force out there, it probably wasn’t about to give anyone the power to kill. But I needed to know how to do
it. Couldn’t whatever supreme being who governed witchcraft realize that? Yeah, right. If such an entity existed, it was probably looking down and laughing, shouting, “Those spells don’t work, you little fool!”

“Those spells don’t work,” said a voice at my ear.

I jumped about a foot, nearly toppling from my kneeling position. Savannah peered down at my grimoire.

“Well, they don’t, do they?” she said. “Other than those few you got working, the rest just fail, right?”

“You’ve tried them?”

She dropped down beside me. “Nah. I can never find where you hide the grimoires. But I know what you’re practicing from your journal, remember? I wondered if I should tell you they don’t work, but I didn’t figure you’d listen. Lucas thinks I should tell you, so you stop wasting your time.”

That stung, the thought that she’d been talking to a near-stranger about things she didn’t feel comfortable discussing with me. Yet I had to admit she was right. I wouldn’t have listened. I didn’t want to hear anything that might relate to her background, to her mother. That had to change.

“Why don’t you think they’ll work?”

“Know, not think.”

“Okay, then, why do you
know
they won’t work?”

“Because they’re witch magic.”

“And what’s wrong with witch magic? There’s nothing—”

“See, I told Lucas you’d do this.”

I settled back onto the floor. “I’m sorry, Savannah. Please continue.”

She grinned. “Wow. I like that.”

“Don’t get too used to it. Now talk.”

“None of the strong witch spells work because the middle spells are missing. That’s why my mom and other witches—non-Coven witches—use sorcerer magic for all their strong spells.”

“They use sorcerer magic?”

“You didn’t know that?”