Taking Back Sunday (7 page)

“Sunday could really use the support,” Kayla interjected. “We’ve been trying to get her to join us for so long.”

“They tell me you guys are the closest thing to family a girl could get,” Sunday quipped, biting back her contempt for witches. She looked at Eunice, and instantly, her eyes softened. The witch was indeed a caretaker. Even a foot away, Eunice’s gentle spirit calmed Sunday’s nerves. Caretaker energies could permeate a brick wall.

If only every witch was a caretaker.

“You have such a strong spirit,” Eunice said warmly. “It is a true pleasure to have you in our company.”

Elisabeth turned to Eunice, and they nodded to one another.

Vicky’s grandmother began to rise, but Sunday gestured for her to remain seated, and Eunice gathered herself onto her chair again along with her. The elder witches were the strongest and most experienced of the bunch. Sunday settled into a seat beside them. Kayla left Sunday with Eunice and Elisabeth and returned to the dining room to hang out with the younger women.

“Your granddaughter just told me that you have been practicing since you were a child. You must have a lot of knowledge to share.”

Elisabeth smiled and nodded. She was a stout woman, her appearance made all the more homely by her attire of light blue jeans and the large branded t-shirt of a local sports team. Elisabeth was in her sixties, and her hair was short and white. She looked at Sunday through the thick lenses of her glasses.

“My mother and I came to the United States from Berlin when I was a girl. We came alone and settled in New York City. She was very young but unusually wise, and she consulted with a doctor who was a gifted herbalist. We discovered the arts together, and I continued to practice even after I had married and had children.” Elisabeth laughed heartily, reminiscing.

“My husband and children,” she continued, “thought I was kooky, but Victoria was always encouraging. She didn’t care much for it until she was older. Now, she practices with me, and I show her what I can, but she tells me that I’m old now, and she doesn’t think that I will have the time to teach her everything I know.”

Elisabeth leaned forward and poked Sunday’s ribs with her elbow, while Eunice shook her head, smiling behind her. “She thinks I’m old, but that doesn’t mean I’m dead. I have the heart of a horse. I think it will keep ticking for a long while yet.”

As they continued speaking, Sunday became enamored with the woman. Elisabeth had lived a rich, full life. She certainly had decades of knowledge and experience behind her, but Elisabeth was conservative with her gifts. Elisabeth’s aura wasn’t as potent as Eunice’s, but she was a caregiver in her own way. The feeling was so familiar, so reassuring, that Sunday eased into the comfort of her company.

The closest thing she’d ever had to a grandmother had been Bernadette, and their relationship had been complicated. She’d been a tool for Bernadette as much as subordinate. Bernadette had used Sunday to amplify her own power and as a conduit for the energy that flowed within the natural and preternatural worlds.

As her thoughts darkened with the memory of Bernadette, both women asked Sunday to tell them about herself. Kayla and Sammy had apparently told them little else other than how good a friend she was. The girls had little more to offer in the way of Sunday’s story. Knowing about Sunday’s life would make them think that she was crazy or put them in harm’s way. She had grown to cherish them, and she didn’t want to either risk losing their friendship or risk their safety.

“I don’t really know what you want to hear about me. I came to Columbia over a year ago after traveling the country for a while. I am an orphan, and as soon as I could, I set upon seeing the world.” Sunday’s false history was a well-rehearsed one.

“I came here,” she continued, “and I met Kayla, and she introduced me to Sam. We’ve been friends since. They’ve been asking me to come for a few months, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at this stuff. I mean, me?
Magic?
A witch?” She shrugged for effect. “It wasn’t anything I ever pictured myself doing… but anything’s possible.”

Eunice leaned over to pat her encouragingly on the knee.

“Were you always interested in the arts?” asked Elisabeth.

“Yes,” Sunday answered.

It was the truest thing she had told them yet. For as long as she could remember, Sunday
had
been interested in the magical arts. There was so much to learn about the craft and about
herself
that she was always an eager student. As a teenager, Sunday sought out Incarnate lore at every turn. She consumed everything from ancient texts to personal diaries. In the years after Bernadette’s death, Sunday’s rigorous studies waned.

“I think I always knew magic existed,” she continued, “and I can’t remember a time that I didn’t wish I could be a part of it.”

The women seemed pleased with her response. They grinned and nodded. They’d probably heard similar stories before. The crossover between the mystical and the mundane was far more complex than merely being interested in witchcraft, though. It took a leap of faith. Believing in magic meant rejecting all empirical data that it didn’t exist. Witches made the improbable happen through faith, knowledge, and rigorous practice.

“So, tell me about everyone I haven’t met yet,” Sunday prodded. “Who are
they
?” She pointed to the two women speaking to Vicky and Kayla.

“The tiny one is Constance,” Eunice began. “What does she do, Elisabeth? She works at a museum, is that right?”

She was small all around, from her stature to her features. She had a short hairstyle that would have suited a young girl as much as it suited her. Feeling the pressure of someone’s gaze on her, Constance turned and smiled, giving the three women a small wave. She was a petite, real-life version of Snow White with her short, dark hair and milky skin. Rosy puckered lips and blushed cheeks added to the effect. The woman was a doll.

“She’s a talented witch,” Elisabeth assessed. “She consulted with me for some time before she began attending, but she didn’t
need
to consult with me. She knew very well how to read cards on her own.”

“It is good to get a second opinion,” Eunice added matter-of-factly. “We get so involved in our own narratives that we often lack suitable flexibility when it comes to perspective.”

“This is true,” Elisabeth agreed. “There was always something rather guarded about her readings,” the elder witch reminisced. “Perhaps she knew that she was inflexible, and that is why she sought counsel.”

Eunice nodded thoughtfully.

“What about her?” Sunday asked, pointing to another dark-haired woman standing beside Constance and Kayla.

“Oh, that’s Michelle,” Eunice said, smiling warmly.

Michelle’s dark hair was where the similarities with Constance stopped. Where Constance’s skin was white as snow, Michelle’s was golden tan. Unlike Constance, Michelle’s ebony hair fell to the middle of her back. Michelle was older, too.

“Michelle has been practicing with us longer than my granddaughter has, but she isn’t very skilled,” Elisabeth confessed.

“Eunice and I had been friends for much longer when Eunice met her at the shop. You know the one—they sell crystals, cards, and books about preparing herbal remedies. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Eunice continued. “She became interested in her heritage and began exploring mystical traditions of Southeast Asia. When she discovered Wicca and Gaia and all those things that they talk about in the movies could be real, she was intrigued.” Eunice raised an eyebrow and lowered her chin.

“You know, the movies?” she said, cracking a mischievous grin to Sunday. “Movies about magic and teenage witches making spells and calling upon the spirits to get boyfriends. Silly stuff. I introduced myself and made some suggestions for better reading materials as is my nature. I educated her at the library, and soon after, she wanted to see what the arts were like for herself.”

“She’s read books, but she isn’t very good,” Elisabeth added. Eunice nodded curtly with a smart purse of the lips aimed at Elisabeth who shrugged and raised her hands in the air in response.

“You’re very critical, Sister Elisabeth,” Eunice teased. “Michelle has ancestral ties to some very interesting elements of Islamic faith, though she is rather unrehearsed.”

A knock came to the door, and Vicky again went to open it. As soon as Sammy walked in, she turned to the living room. When seeing Sunday seated beside her coven sisters, Sammy’s eyes went large. She beamed a wide, bright smile and bounded toward them, hardly able to contain her excitement.

“Oh my god, Sunny, you don’t know how happy I am right now.” She pumped her fist like her favorite basketball team had just scored a point. “You’re going to be so glad you came.”

The ritual began a few minutes after Sammy arrived. White linen was laid over the oblong dining room table. Anchoring the cloth were antique silver candlesticks that had seen better days. A long, black candle was placed in each of the four candlesticks and was lit. Vicky recited an incantation over the candles as she struck a match to light each one. As soon as they were all lit, Vicky switched off the light.

Although she had been invited to sit among them, Sunday pulled a chair aside and sat in the corner of the room where she could get a clear view of the circle, the objects on the table, and how the women individually contributed. Elisabeth took her place at the head of the table, and the other women sat on either side of her.

Eunice asked the women to link hands. Eunice and Constance clasped hands over the table to round out the end. As soon as the circle closed, Elisabeth named each woman, addressing her with the given title of “Sister.” In response to their name, each woman bowed her head.

“This coven convenes and this circle is formed so that we may raise our spirits as one. I allow my aura to extend from my being and join with my sisters.”

There was a moment of silence before Kayla spoke.

“I allow my aura to extend from my being and join with my sisters.”

After her, Vicky repeated the statement, and each woman followed suit just as she had when Elisabeth had identified her.

Following each of the sisters’ statements, a sharp current ran up Sunday’s spine. Magic was happening. The hair at the back of her head stood up, and she could feel the tingle of the combined energies of the witches in the tips of her fingers and toes. Sunday’s thighs pressed flatly to the seat, and her knees touched. Feet planted firmly to the floor, she sat as erect she could. This was nothing like a knitting circle. Her guards were secured tightly, and she was certain she could keep anything from seeping in and out if she remained focused.

Silence lasted for a minute or two before Elisabeth led the circle in a uniform chant. The language was familiar, but nothing Sunday could translate. Inwardly, Sunday focused on maintaining the security of her shields. As they finished echoing the words Elisabeth recited, the women let go of one another’s hands, but the mystical energy that had been created by the circle remained.

The gathering went on for another hour. After the women had unlinked hands, they read from a text that Elisabeth had brought out from another room and discussed various translations. Their ritual had empowered them to see past the words and offered them insights into passages that otherwise, they would have understood with little depth, if at all. It was a lot like a group of college students analyzing poetry with their professors.

Sunday remained still as the magic in the air lingered, reacting little to what anyone said by nodding here or offering up a “yeah” or “interesting point” when someone looked her way. It wasn’t until the magic started dissipating that she became aware of anything worth raising her suspicions.

As the individual contributions of the weaker witches dissipated from the coven’s collective aura, the stronger, more defined gifts rose to the surface. In that residual stew, Sunday sensed a malignant undercurrent. She couldn’t risk reaching out to it for fear that its sorcerer could feel that it had been identified. Instead, she allowed it to lick at the surface and move of its own accord, until it finally lost its power and evaporated along with the rest of the witch’s contributions.

Whatever it was and whoever spurned it hadn’t been playing schoolhouse with the rest of the coven. The energy that Sunday sensed was demanding and hungry. The way it triggered Sunday’s natural alarms in spite of her security system assured her that it wasn’t white magic. Among them was a powerful witch with very clear, very cunning intentions, and she was using the otherwise pleasant coven for her own dark purposes.

CHAPTER NINE

From his vantage point, Cyrus saw Sunday sitting quietly outside the circle of women. Flickers of orange candlelight danced over her skin. His gaze brushed over her features carefully. Her bright, clear honey eyes shimmered in the candlelight. Her short hair left her long, slender neck bare. He trailed the line from her jaw to her exposed, defined collarbones where a riot of flowers bloomed on her shoulders. His cabinet of curiosities was so close he could taste her.

While Sunday stoically observed the gathering, he could make out the distinct sounds of incantations.

It’s a fucking coven
, Cyrus communicated to Angel.

One unique element of a pack-bond was the ability of werewolves in the same pack to communicate without speaking. As wolves, a pack conversed even deprived of their human voices. It enhanced their hunt and created a solid bond between them that was most elegantly displayed when they ran as wolves tracking prey. At the moment, it enabled Cyrus to give his partner a play-by-play as Angel sat in the car a block away.

I don’t like this one bit.
Tension laced Angel’s hurried thoughts.
Is she holding court? Is she rallying troops?

Doesn’t look like it,
Cyrus replied with a measured tone.
She’s not doing anything or saying anything. It looks like she’s working really hard to just watch
.

Initially, her face seemed relaxed, serene, like she was watching something rather uninteresting on the television, but as the ceremony progressed, her features hardened. Sunday’s long, white fingers and their painted, red tips drummed on her knees. Wrinkles between her eyebrows formed creases as the intensity of her focus increased. It was a subtle change, but Cyrus’ eyesight was keen. When the women released their hands, Sunday’s head jerked ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. She’d caught herself, perhaps, and regained her posture, appearing the detached but interested student, while the women continued their witchcraft.