The Witch Collector Part II (8 page)

“So she left him?” Shelley asked, a note of pity in her voice. “Why would a mother do that?”

I looked at my new friend, and thought about how she trusted me from the start. “Because Brandon is unmarked,” I said. “Just like me.”

Shelley noticeably paled. “Oh, Breeda,” she said. “That doesn’t give me such a good feeling. I mean, I believe in coincidences, but . . .”

We started walking again, Shelley silently working through her thoughts, leaving me to my own.

They were all of Brandon. I should have been parsing through what Seralina told me, sifting for clues about my parents and Gavin’s plans, but all I could think about was the day Brandon left for training, the hope and pride shining in his eyes. Had he known he was unmarked? Did he have any inkling of what was to come?

There was also the possibility that unmarked witches were meant to be together. Had our relationship been arranged? If it was, had my parents known? My mind moved in circles.

“Sometimes,” Shelley said, gently interrupting my brooding, “it helps to think through a problem with a friend. I know you know that, but—”

“No, you’re right,” I said, though I didn’t think I could articulate all my fears about Brandon. At least not yet.

Shelley linked arms with me. “So what do we know? Seralina is Brandon and Ion’s mother. Gavin’s use of Black Magic is possibly stopping Ion’s transition. Brandon is unmarked.”

“In a nutshell,” I said, amazed at how quickly she distilled everything I’d just been told.

“So why would Gavin need you?” she mused.

“Exactly.”

“Unless you have something Brandon doesn’t!”

I gazed down at my scuffed flats and ratty jeans. “It’s not exactly apparent what that is.”

“You underestimate yourself,” she said, dismissing my comment with a wave of her hand. “What about that book you had on your bed?
The Mysteries of the Unmarked
? Maybe it’s got some info on differences among unmarked witches. Maybe there are grades, and you’re, like, super Prime A cut and Brandon’s only a C?”

I laughed, but it was a good idea.

“Let’s go check it out,” I said, and we quickened our pace.

We pored over the book, undisturbed. The apartment seemed vacant when we returned, but every so often I’d hear low chanting or catch a whiff of incense. I’d never been involved in a consecration ceremony and didn’t know my role or what was required of the other witches.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see anything here that can help us. This isn’t exactly a reference book,” Shelley said, tossing it onto the dresser. “I’d better see if Miro needs my help.”

“What should I do?” I asked, feeling completely in the dark. It was a feeling I unfortunately was getting used to. “Am I supposed to be doing something?”

Shelley smiled. “Resting. Once the stone is consecrated, Miro is going to want to have another practice session right away. It’ll go much better with a real talisman.”

I doubt he wants anything to do with me,
I thought. But it wasn’t time to worry about Miro. I stood up, pacing around the furniture. “I can’t rest. When I was doing magic at Ion’s, all these images spun through my mind—my parents, my friends, my past. That’s happened before, but the thing is, it
felt
like the past. Like those things were gone and I’d never get them back. It feels like weeks since my parents disappeared, and I’ve just been running in place.”

Shelley walked over and wrapped her arms around me. She smelled of gardenias, and her wild curls tickled my nose. “You aren’t running in place,” she soothed. “You ran
here
. Now lie down for a little while, and clear your mind. The next step will come to you. I’ll be thinking, too, Breeda. You are not alone in this.”

She kissed my cheek and pointed to the talisman she’d given me. “Piotr found that stone on a hike we took at Silver Moon Rock. He gave it to me as a promise, and my mother blessed it and wove the leather tie that holds it as a benediction for our future. When he died, I couldn’t bear for it to be consecrated.” Shelley’s eyes glistened with tears. “I’m so glad it’s been of help to you,” she continued. “Piotr would have liked you just as much as I do.” She paused, her catlike mouth turning up at the corner. “But not as much as his brother does.”

I thought about how Miro had looked at me in the kitchen. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Oh, sweet, people are such bundles of faults and insecurities and failures,” she said while walking toward the door. “Miro’s no different. Any darkness he has in him, we all have, even if we’ve never been exposed to Black Magic. Most people ignore it, but Miro fights it, over and over, every day. That’s where you two are similar. You’re a fighter, my friend, just like he is.”

I felt my face grow hot. “Is it a good thing for two fighters to be together?”

“It is if they’re fighting the same battle,” she said.

“And if they lose?”

“You won’t lose,” she said, her smile returning. It brought warmth to the room, enough to give me a faint sense of optimism that lasted until she disappeared into the hallway.

With Shelley gone, my confidence dimmed. I flopped onto the bed. Was I a fighter? I mean . . . really?

A fighter had weapons. What did I have?

Gifts.

Gifts I’d stolen.

Stolen gifts that, whether I liked it or not, were now also mine.

I knew what I had to do. I kicked off my shoes, stuck my head in the hallway, and listened. A mélange of voices, both male and female, spoke over one another in serious tones. I couldn’t pick out what they were saying—the group must have been at the other end of the apartment, preparing for the consecration ceremony. Hoping the entire coven practiced together, I stepped softly to Dobra’s office and checked under the door to make sure no light was visible. With a deep breath I made my decision to act, and slipped inside.

Chapter 10

I
didn’t dare turn open the curtains or flick on a lamp. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see Miro’s mother’s desk standing innocently in the corner, waiting. I hated myself a little for what I was going to do, but I curled my finger around the top drawer’s handle and gave it a yank.

It was locked.

I thought of my mother, of her effortlessly opening drawers and locked doors and stubborn jars.
Please come. Please.

The magic thundered through me before I could brace myself, and I stifled a cry. I breathed—in and out, in and out—and felt a little better. Evidently, the effects of Shelley’s tisane hadn’t entirely faded. With a quick plea to the goddess of luck, I tugged on the handle again. The drawer opened easily, but my mind got stuck in the past.

“Do you think we were supposed to heat the honey?” I watched as Sonya attempted to mix it with the stinging nettle we’d gathered. I’d forgotten to wear gloves, and my fingertips still burned from where the herb had pricked me.

“I don’t know,” Sonya said. “I guess it would have helped.” The nettle was encased in the honey like a fossil in amber.

“Am I supposed to drink that?”

Sonya scrunched her nose. “I don’t see how you can. Maybe just touch it to your tongue?”

“And then he’ll notice me?”

My best friend smiled. “Either that, or your tongue will puff up like a white tree frog.”

“Then he’ll really notice me,” I said, laughing, and stuck my finger in the mixture.

I didn’t taste anything, but an almost overpowering smell brought me back from the vision. It was tea leaves and something else: a faded, musty odor I associated with despair. Blinking away the image of Sonya and the love potion, I slid my hand in the drawer and ran my fingers gently over a stack of letters, a number of loose wishing crystals, and the dried, crinkly petals of long-dead flowers—typical witch keepsakes. So where were her tarot cards? Every adult witch had a deck lying around somewhere, whether they could read them or not. I leaned forward, my fingers crawling toward the back of the drawer. Lodged in the corner I found something promising—a square box made of metal.

I drew it out. I opened the curtains a sliver and pried open the latch. Inside the box, nestled on a pillow of red velvet, lay Magda Dabrowski’s tarot cards.

Heart pounding, I flew back down the hallway and into my bedroom. I shut the door behind me, soundlessly turning the lock.

There wasn’t time to spare. I drew the curtains and grabbed the nearly spent blue candle from the table in the corner. I lit the blackened wick and placed the candle on the rug with the cards.

I dropped to the floor, sitting with my back flush against the bed. Romany magic was strong—stronger than Miro’s and Shelley’s, stronger than my mother’s or father’s. I’d watched Seralina read cards twice, so the gift had to be in my arsenal. The only question was, how would it affect me?

It was a risk worth taking. Romanies could read the past, present, and future in the cards. I had so many questions about all three.

Placing a palm directly on the deck, I thought about Seralina and her method. I pictured it, practicing her ritual in my mind’s eye. Three cards to start, the heart of the reading. I shuffled the deck, cut it, and peeled three cards from the top.

I cleared my mind and allowed one question to float through it:
Where are they?

I took a deep breath and flipped the cards over. The first: Three of Swords. Betrayal.

My hands shook as I turned the second. The Devil. Ignorance. Was Gavin the devil in my life, or was my obliviousness the cause of all my problems? I needed the full story to know. I reached for the third card.

The card felt warm to the touch, and nearly leapt into my hand. I turned it over.

The Knight of Darkness. Death.

With everything I had, I pushed my panic to the side. The magic stirred inside me, yearning to break free, and I had to make use of it. “Go ahead,” I said aloud. “Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something I can understand!”

I spread my fingers over the cards. “I, too, am Romany now,” I said. “Show me.”

The room began to spin. I shut my eyes, hoping to calm the whirling nausea inside me. Images spun behind my closed lids, too fast to be more than a blur. I smelled the ripe, earthy scent of the forest. I felt wet leaves under my hands where the cards had been. I felt the presence of others, close enough to brush against my skin. I smelled jasmine. I smelled my mother.

I opened my eyes.

Not only was I in the forest, I was in
my
forest. Back home.

Greta’s body lay atop a white linen sheet on a marble bier, her blond hair spilling over the edge. The coven circled her, including my mother, who led the funeral chanting.

“Mom!” I reached out to touch her, but I moved as a ghost through their bodies, my skin translucent, my words lost to the breeze.

My mother grasped the turquoise talisman at the base of her throat. The earth cracked open, soil rupturing to produce a grave. The chanting grew in fervor, the coven clutching one another’s hands and circling the corpse. All but my mother.

Her eyes were drawn to Greta’s neck, to the empty place where her talisman should lie.

Mom floated to me, her feet barely touching the ground. Her eyes took me in like she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing. I felt her magic course through me, making a connection with the blood coursing through my veins. She smiled sadly and reached her hand out to tentatively touch my shoulder.

I could feel her warmth through the thin cotton of my T-shirt. The connection between us steadied me and the tears started to flow down her face, down mine. “Send her off the right way, my daughter,” she whispered. “We show our love in life and in death.” Her image swam in front of me, my vision clouded by tears. I swiped at them with the back of my hand.

And in that brief second, she disappeared. “Mom!” I shouted. “Come back!”

Suddenly they were all gone, the entire coven, except for Greta. Poor Greta. My mother wanted me to do right by her. I stepped toward the bier and felt a pull, an internal tug, and I knew the magic was drawing me back to Chicago. The smells of the forest began to fade. But I was still there. Moving quickly, I picked up a corner of the white linen sheet.
Start with west,
I thought, and smoothed the wrap over her side.
Then the south, her feet. East, her left rib.

North gave me pause. It would cover her face, the last step in preparing the body for burial. I never had a chance to say good-bye to Greta. I picked up the last corner and bent over the body, preparing to chant the spell of the dead. But something had changed. Greta’s hair had turned from honey blond to chestnut. Her eyes from blue to brown.

I wasn’t looking at Greta.

I was staring into the unseeing gaze of Sonya.

A scream tore from my throat, a sound only heard by the trees, and I heard a sharp crack, like a limb tearing from a high branch. I heard it fall through the air. The noise sent me scrambling backward, panic tripping my feet, and I dropped into the fathomless depth of the open grave.

Chapter 11

“Y
ou’re okay. I promise, you’re okay.” Shelley’s voice. Her strong arms hugged my body, enclosing me in her flowery scent. I wanted to sink into it, to forget everything I’d just seen, but I could only think of the funeral flowers surrounding my best friend’s body. I trembled, my limbs shaking uncontrollably.

“She’s dead,” I cried. “She’s dead.”

Shelley gently pushed me back. I took in the room and gasped. Tarot cards littered the floor. The door hung from one hinge. Miro leaned against the dresser, his face drained of color. Standing next to him was Dobra, his features clenched, a vision of fury.

“Those belonged to my wife,” he bellowed. “You inconsiderate girl! Our lives are not in service to you. It is enough you’ve put my son in danger; now you’ve desecrated his mother’s memory. We will go through the motions of the consecration ceremony, and then you will leave immediately.”