Spellcasters (4 page)

I abandoned my computer. Victoria’s call had chased all interest in programming from my brain. When I got like this, I needed to do something that reminded me of who I was, and what I wanted to accomplish. That meant practicing my spells—not Coven-sanctioned spells, but the magic they forbade.

In my bedroom, I pulled back the area rug, unlocked the crawl space hatch, and tugged out a knapsack. Then, bending down and reaching farther into the hole, I undid a secret latch, opened a second compartment, and pulled out two books. My secret grimoires. After putting the books into my bag, I headed for the back door.

I was slipping on my sandals when the front doorknob turned. I checked my watch. Three
P.M
. Savannah didn’t get out of school until three forty-five, which is why I figured I had nearly an hour to practice before making her after-school snack. Yes, Savannah was too old for the milk-and-cookies routine, but I did it every day without fail. Let’s be honest, at twenty-three I was ill equipped to parent a teenager. Being home for her after school was one thing I could manage.

“What happened?” I asked, hurrying into the hall. “Is everything okay?”

Savannah backpedaled, as if fearing I might do something rash, like hug her. “Teachers’ meeting today. Early dismissal. Remember?”

“Did you tell me?”

She rubbed her nose, trying to decide whether she could get away with a lie. “I forgot. But I would have called if I had a cell phone.”

“You’ll get a cell phone when you can pay for the airtime.”

“But I’m too young to get a job!”

“Then you’re too young for a cell phone.”

Old argument. We knew our lines, and never wavered from them. That was one advantage to being a mere decade older than Savannah—I remembered pulling the same crap with my mom, so I knew how to handle it. Maintain the routine. Give no sign of wearing down. Eventually she’d give up … not that I ever did.

Savannah peered over my shoulder to look down at my knapsack, a feat she could easily manage, being two inches taller than my five feet two. Two inches taller and about thirty pounds lighter. I could have explained the weight difference by pointing out that Savannah was very slender, but to be truthful, I was about fifteen pounds over what most women’s magazines listed as the ideal weight for my height.

Savannah, by contrast, was very tall for her age: tall, thin, and coltish, all awkward angles and jutting limbs. I told her she’d grow into her body, as she’d grow into her oversized blue eyes. She didn’t believe me. Like she didn’t believe me when I’d advised her that cutting off her waist-length black hair would be a mistake. Now she had a straight, wispy bob that only made the angles of her face even more prominent. Naturally, she blamed me, because I didn’t forbid her to cut her hair, instead of just cautioning against it.

“Heading out for spell practice?” she said, pointing at my knapsack. “What are you working on?”

“Making you a snack. White milk or chocolate?”

Dramatic sigh. “Come on, Paige. I know what kind of stuff you practice. I don’t blame you. Those Coven spells are for five-year-olds.”

“Five-year-olds don’t cast spells.”

“Neither does the Coven. Not real spells. Oh, come on. We can work together. Maybe I can get that wind spell working for you.”

I turned to look at her.

“You wrote in your journal that you were having trouble with it,” she said. “Sounds like a cool spell. My mom never had anything like that. Tell you what—you teach me that one and I’ll show you some real magic.”

“You read my journal?”

“Just the spell practice journal. Not your personal one.”

“How do you know I have a personal one?”

“Do you? Hey, you know what happened at school today? Mr. Ellis told me he’s sending two of my paintings to get framed. They’re going to hang them at graduation next week.”

Savannah headed for the kitchen, still talking. Should I pursue the journal comment? I considered, then rejected it. Instead I hefted my knapsack and headed to my room to return the bag to its hiding spot.

If Savannah did read my personal journal, at least it meant she was taking an interest in me. Which was good. Unless she was snooping in hopes of finding something she could use to blackmail me into buying her a cell phone. Which wouldn’t be so good. What exactly did I have in my journal, anyway …?

While I was locking away my bag, the doorbell rang. Savannah shouted “Got it” and thundered into the hallway, making enough noise for someone three times her size. When I walked into the living room a few minutes later, she was standing in the hall doorway, lifting a letter to the light and squinting at it.

“Testing your psychic abilities?” I said. “A letter opener works much faster.”

She jumped and jerked the letter down, hesitated, then held it out.

“Ah, for me. In that case, I’d advise steaming it open.” I took the letter. “Registered mail? That bumps it up from simple mail fraud to mail fraud plus forgery. I hope you’re not using that skill to sign my name to any notes at school.”

“As if,” she said, heading back toward the kitchen. “What would be the good of skipping school in this town? No mall, no Starbucks, not even a Mickey D’s.”

“You could hang around outside the hardware store with the rest of the kids.”

She snorted and disappeared into the kitchen.

The envelope was standard letter-sized, no unusual markings, just my name and address handwritten in clean, exact strokes and a return address preprinted in the upper left corner. The sender? A California law firm.

I tore it open. My eyes went straight to the first line, which requested—no, demanded—my presence at a meeting tomorrow morning. The first thing I thought was: “Oh, shit.” I suppose that’s the normal reaction for anyone receiving an unexpected legal summons.

I assumed it had something to do with my business. I created and managed company websites for women tired of male web designers who thought they’d want nothing more technically challenging than floral wallpaper. When it comes to the Internet, the issue of copyright is as murky
and convoluted as a celebrity prenup so, seeing a letter filled with legal jargon, I assumed I’d done something like design a Flash sequence that inadvertently bore some passing similarity to one on a website in Zaire.

Then I read the next line.

“The purpose of this meeting is to discuss our client’s petition for custody of the juvenile, Savannah Levine …”

I closed my eyes and inhaled. Okay, I’d known this could happen. Savannah’s only living relative was one of the Coven Elders, but I always assumed Savannah’s mother might have had friends who would be wondering what became of Eve and her young daughter. When they discovered that a great-aunt had taken custody of Savannah and handed her over to me, they’d want answers. And they might want Savannah.

Naturally, I’d fight. The problem was that Savannah’s aunt Margaret was the weakest of the three Elders, and if Victoria insisted Margaret relinquish custody, she would. The Elders hated trouble; they broke into collective hives at the mere prospect of drawing attention to the Coven. To secure their support, I’d need to persuade them that they’d face graver personal danger by giving up Savannah than by keeping her. With the Elders, it always came down to that: what was best for
them
, safest for
them
.

I scanned the rest of the letter, sifting through the legal jargon to find the petitioner’s name. When I found it, my stomach dropped to my shoes. I couldn’t believe it. No, strike that. I believed it only too well. Cursed myself for not seeing it coming.

Did I mention how my mother died? Last year, a small group of humans learned about the supernatural world and wanted to harness our powers, so they kidnapped a sampling of powerful supernaturals. One of those was Savannah’s mother, Eve. Savannah had the misfortune to be home from school that day and was taken as well.

Eve, however, quickly proved more dangerous than her captors expected, so they killed her. As a replacement, they targeted my mother, the elderly Leader of the Coven. My mother was taken, along with Elena Michaels, a werewolf. There they met another captive, a half-demon who would later kill my mother and blame Savannah—part of an intricate plot to take control of Savannah, and so gain access to a young, malleable, and extremely powerful neophyte witch.

That half-demon’s name? Leah O’Donnell. The same name that now stared up at me from the custody petition.

L
eah was a telekinetic half-demon of the highest order. A half-demon is the offspring of a male demon and a female human. Half-demons always look human, taking after their mother. What they inherit from their father depends on what kind of demon he is. For Leah, that power was telekinesis. That means she could move things with her mind. Only don’t think sideshow spoon-bending. Think of a woman who can mentally hurl a steel desk into a wall—literally
into
a wall, with such force that the desk embeds itself in the plaster and obliterates anything in its path.

Not surprisingly, then, the first thing I did upon reading this letter was rush around securing the house. After fastening the door locks and pulling the blinds, I moved to less conventional security. At each door I cast a lock spell, which would hold them closed even if the dead bolts failed. Next I used perimeter spells at all the doors and windows. Think of perimeter spells as supernatural security systems. No one could enter the house without my knowing it.

All of these were Coven-sanctioned spells, though a few months ago one witch felt it her duty to point out that a lock spell could be used for evil, if we ever took it upon ourselves to lock someone
in
a room, instead of keeping them out. Would you believe the Coven actually convened a special meeting of the Elders to discuss this? Worse yet, the Elders voted two to one to outlaw the second-level spell, leaving us the first-level spell, which could be broken with a strong twist on the doorknob. Fortunately, my vote carried extra weight, so the motion failed.

Savannah walked in as I was casting the perimeter spell across the bottom of our unused fireplace.

“Who are you trying to keep out?” she asked. “Santa Claus?”

“The letter. It’s from Leah.”

She blinked, surprised but not concerned. I envied her that.

“Okay,” she said. “We expected this. We’re ready for her, right?”

“Of course.” Was it my imagination, or did my voice just tremble? Inhale, exhale … now once more, with confidence. “Absolutely.” Oh, yeah, that sounded about as confident as a cornered kitten with three broken legs. I turned and busied myself casting perimeter spells at the living room windows.

“So what was in the letter?” Savannah asked. “A threat?”

I hesitated. I can’t lie. Well, I can, but I’m lousy at it. My nose might as well grow, my falsehoods are so obvious.

“Leah … wants custody of you.”

“And?”

“There’s no ‘and.’ She wants to take custody of you, legally.”

“Yeah, and I want a cell phone. She’s a bitch. Tell her I said so. And tell her to fuck—”

“Savannah.”

“Hey, you allowed ‘bitch.’ Can’t blame me for testing the boundaries.” She shoved an Oreo in her mouth. “—Go—gi—geen.”

“The correct sequence is: chew, swallow, talk.”

She rolled her eyes and swallowed. “I said: you know what I mean. ‘Witch-slave’ wasn’t my choice at career day last week. Tell her I’m not interested in what she’s selling.”

“That’s good, but it might take more than that to change her mind.”

“But you can handle it, right? You sent her packing before. Do it again.”

I should have pointed out that I’d “sent her packing” with lots of help, but my ego resisted. If Savannah thought I’d played a significant role in beating Leah last time, there was no need to enlighten her now. She needed to feel secure. So, in the interest of ensuring that security, I returned to my perimeter spells.

“I’ll go do my bedroom windows,” she said.

I nodded, knowing I’d redo them when she wasn’t looking. Not that Savannah lacked proficiency in second-level spells. Though I hated to admit it, she’d already surpassed me in all levels of Coven magic. I’d redo her spells because I had to, for peace of mind. Otherwise I’d worry that she’d missed a window or rushed through the incantation or something. It wasn’t just Savannah. I’d do the same with any other witch. I’d feel better knowing I’d done it myself.

I don’t remember what I made for dinner. By seven Savannah was in her room, which might have worried me except that she disappeared after dinner almost every night—before I could ask for help clearing the
table—and spent the next few hours in her bedroom, ostensibly doing homework, which somehow involved ninety-minute phone calls to school chums. Group homework. What can I say?

Once Savannah was in her room, I turned my attention back to the letter. It demanded my presence at a ten o’clock meeting the next morning. Until then, I could do little but wait. I hated that. By seven-thirty I resolved to do something, anything.

I had one lead to pursue. The letter was from a lawyer named Gabriel Sandford, who worked at Jacobs, Sandford and Schwab in Los Angeles. Odd. Very odd, now that I thought about it. Having an L.A. lawyer would make sense for someone living in California, but Leah was from Wisconsin.

I knew Leah hadn’t moved—I made discreet biweekly inquiries to her station. By “station,” I mean police station. No, Leah wasn’t in jail—though I knew of few people who belonged behind a stronger set of bars. Leah was a deputy sheriff. Would that help her custody case? No sense dwelling on that until I knew more.

Back to the L.A. lawyer. Could it be a ruse? Maybe this wasn’t a real legal case at all. Maybe Leah had invented this lawyer, placing him in a huge city as far from Massachusetts as possible, and assumed I wouldn’t investigate.

Though the phone number was on the letterhead, I called 411 to double-check. They provided a matching address and phone number for Jacobs, Sandford and Schwab. I called the office, since it was only four-thirty on the West Coast. When I asked for Gabriel Sandford, his secretary informed me that he was out of town on business.