The Witch Collector Part II (9 page)

“Enough, Dad.” Miro knelt and began gathering the cards. I crawled over to help, but Shelley was beside me in an instant. “You shouldn’t move,” she whispered.

I forced myself to meet Dobra’s eyes as Shelley eased me back toward the bed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

Dobra’s lip curled in disgust. “You pushed too far.”

My spine stiffened. I understood his anger, but not his hypocrisy. “There is no such thing as ‘too far’ when someone you love needs your help.”

Dobra’s eyes went cold and he turned to his son. “Is everything ready?”

“Almost,” Miro answered. “I can’t rush it.”

“When it’s done, it’s done,” he said, turning to me. “Your aunt will take responsibility for your well-being, whether she cares to or not.”

After he left, I quietly watched Miro gather his mother’s cards. “These were hers,” he said after a moment, “but she was terrible at reading them.” He sat against the dresser, drawing his knees up but not really looking at either of us. “She always said she wished some witch had come up with bifocals for those with terrible second sight.”

Shelley laughed. “I wish I knew her then. I only met her when she was sick.” She swore under her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t need any more reminders of that today.”

“The past is not worth discussing,” he said, brushing off her apology. “We have more important things to consider.” He turned his gaze to me. His eyes held curiosity but no warmth. “What did you see?”

Sonya’s face—pale and disturbed in its death mask—immediately came back to me. Tears burned my eyes.

“Are you feeling all right?” Shelley asked quickly. “Romany magic is so strong. Oh, Breeda, this could have gone very badly.”

“She doesn’t care,” Miro said, still holding my gaze. He leaned toward me. “You’ll do anything to find them, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“My mother would have understood,” he said. “And my father should have.” Though his tone was brisk, I knew this was Miro’s attempt at apologizing for what happened earlier in the kitchen. “What did the cards tell you?”

“It’s what they
showed
me. I saw my mother at Greta’s funeral. Then she disappeared, and I walked up to the body, and it wasn’t Greta,” I explained breathlessly. “It was Sonya, my best friend. She was dead. She
is
dead.”

Shelley dropped her arm around my shoulders. “It was just a nightmare. Visions can trick us by amplifying our greatest fears. It doesn’t mean she’s gone. It means you’re worried.”

“No,” I said, certainty running through every cell in my body, “she’s dead. I can feel it.” My voice, unable to hold a single emotion, sounded robotic. I felt tired, so tired. Shelley patted my back, cooing sympathetically.

When she released me, I took a breath and again found my purpose. “It makes sense to assume Gavin killed her, just as he killed Greta.”

“You’re sure he did?” Miro asked.

“Brandon told me.”

Miro folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s assume he’s right,” he said in a way that said he hated that assumption. “What was Sonya’s gift?”

I thought for a moment. “Her mother could make anything grow. She could even revive a plant that had gone to seed,” I said, thinking about Mrs. Levin’s breathtaking garden, and her yearly competition with my mother to grow the healthiest, most fragrant lavender.

“And her father?” Miro’s tone was a shade gentler.

“He died before I came to the coven, so I don’t know.”

Shelley took my hand in hers. “What was Sonya good at?”

I thought of my friend, her confident smile, her intelligence, her kindness. “Everything,” I said. “Everything in the world.”

Shelley’s eyes watered. “I’m sure she was, but when you think about it, what made her truly stand out? What did she have that belonged to no one else?”

One thing came to mind immediately. “She could always sense when I needed to talk to her. When I was little, I’d always run to the forest when I’d get upset. I’d hide in a tree and work out my misery alone. Sonya always managed to find me just as I got tired of myself.” It made my heart hurt to think of it: Sonya’s bright, dark eyes looking up at me from the forest floor.

“Divination, maybe?” Shelley said, though she didn’t look convinced.

“A tracker,” Miro interjected. “She always knew where to find you?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“That would explain how Brandon found you,” Shelley said slowly, as though she was thinking through the problem out loud. “If he’s unmarked, he’d have her gift.”

Anger flared behind my eyes. Had Brandon taken Sonya’s gift? The theft sparked a barely controlled fury on Sonya’s behalf. Was this what people felt around me? A sick feeling settled in my stomach.

Miro’s mouth turned down. “How do you know Brandon is unmarked?”

I glanced uneasily at Shelley. She was staring at the floor. “We went to Seralina’s earlier,” I said. “When you were busy preparing for the ceremony. She told us.”

“And how would
she
know?” Miro’s voice had gone cold.

“She’s his mother,” I said.

“Seralina is looking for Gavin as well,” Shelley piped in. “We didn’t have time to tell you yet.”

“But you were going to tell me, right?”

“Probably,” I said.

“Well, at least you’re honest.” He was hurt, I could tell, but he brushed it off. “Any chance Sonya was unmarked?”

My stomach twisted again. Sonya wouldn’t have known. Like me, she had little idea of what it meant to transition. It saddened me to think she’d discovered it alone. Was she scared? Did she have time to experience the magic?

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “If she was, then it makes sense to assume Gavin is hunting unmarked witches. But why kill us?” I turned to Miro. “Your father said I’d need to be alive for Gavin to drain my ability.”

“Maybe he hates the unmarked because you are more powerful than he could ever be,” Miro replied. “Jealousy can get out of control when Black Magic is involved.”

“If Greta and Sonya are dead,” Shelley mused, “then why isn’t Brandon? I’m sorry, Breeda, I know it hurts to think of it, but—”

“No, you’re right,” I interrupted. This wasn’t the time to consider anyone’s feelings, including my own. “Did he spare his son or was he planning on killing Brandon, too, and got distracted by my parents’ leaving and taking me with them?”

“There is the possibility Brandon is helping Gavin. It would explain why he’s still breathing,” Miro said. “Or why you are . . .”

I swallowed. “You’re right. Gavin knows where I am if he’s been communicating with Brandon, so why hasn’t he come for me yet? Why hasn’t he made contact or used my parents to lure me to him?”

Silence. We had no answers for that. Finally, Miro tucked his mom’s tarot cards into his shirt pocket. “You look exhausted, Breeda. I need you ready to practice with your talisman after we complete the consecration ceremony. It’s the only way we’ll know if it worked. I know there’s a lot to think about, but could you promise to rest for the next couple of hours?”

I tried to stand but my muscles screamed in protest, and I fell back to the floor. Miro glanced at Shelley and they lifted me onto the bed. “If I didn’t think it was immediately necessary, I’d hold off on the ceremony for a couple of days,” he said. “But I hate to think of you fighting Gavin without a conductor for all this magic you’re acquiring.”

I flinched, embarrassed by my pile of stolen magic. Miro misread my embarrassment for discomfort. He tucked a blanket around my legs. “I can’t close the door entirely,” he explained sheepishly. “I sort of knocked it down when I heard you scream.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so loud,” Shelley complained. “The door, not your scream,” she added, “though that was enough to shake the walls.”

I thought of the tree limb cracking, the noise like a sonic boom. “I think I heard it,” I said, closing my eyes. “It was loud enough to pull me back here.”

I cocooned myself in the soft wool blanket, and waited for them to leave. I wanted to use the time to think through what I’d learned, to try one more time to figure out what Gavin had planned. I wanted to grieve for Sonya, to cry until I had nothing left.

But sleep overtook me, charitably bringing me to its depths. I didn’t dare to dream.

Chapter 12

“B
reeda.”

I curled into a ball.

“Breeda, wake up.”

I kept my eyes closed, floating in the netherworld of not-quite-asleep yet not-quite-awake. “Mmmm . . .” I groaned.

“You’re not going to like this,” the voice said. There was a sound: the head-splitting crack of metal against wood.

I bolted upright and opened my eyes to see Vadim hammering the door back into place.

He seemed too big for the room, and as his arm arched back, hammer dangling from it, I nearly had to duck out of the way or get beaned.

“You looked pretty peaceful,” he said in between whacks. “But Dobra told me I had to get this fixed.”

I took that for what it was: an apology. “No worries. It’s my fault it’s broken anyway.”

Vadim got back to work, skillfully realigning the door and popping it into place. “I need you to hold this for a second,” he said, his voice straining as he bent over to reach a drill. “Could you do that?”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and rose to standing. My muscles felt sore but not pained. If only I could erase the mental damage, I’d be almost normal. “No problem,” I said. I held the door in place while he replaced the hinge. Vadim worked with the slow assurance of an experienced carpenter. We had a few of those in our coven, and I’d often watched them work. They shared the same methodical pace, and had the same measured way of looking at the world. What they didn’t have was hotheadedness or a bully’s temperament. Had I misjudged Vadim?

“Stop leaning,” he ordered, his tone razor sharp. “You’re tipping it.”

Apparently not.

He nudged me to the side when I was no longer necessary, and I returned to the bed, silently watching him finish.

“I heard Dobra sent you packing,” he said mildly.

Was he teasing me, or curious? Vadim didn’t have much of a sense of humor, as far as I could tell. I had no idea what he was thinking. “I’ll leave after the consecration ceremony.”

He dipped his head once, but didn’t say anything more.

When the silence got to be too much, I said, “I never meant any harm.”

“No one ever does,” he said as he stood back to admire his work. The door looked exactly as it had before. “The worst decisions often start with good intentions.”

There was truth in that. “I understand why you dislike me,” I said softly. “I probably would, too.”

“I don’t have any feelings for you at all,” he said. “It’s nothing personal; it takes a lot of energy to develop trust in someone, and time. I’m careful about where I place that energy.”

“And I won’t be around for very long,” I said.

“No,” he answered. “You won’t.”

We were quiet for a long, awkward moment.

“Look,” Vadim finally said. “These people—Dobra, Miro, Shelley, Donna—they’re an important part of my coven, and they’re my only family. I would—will—do anything to protect them. You are an assault against what we’ve built. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.” I lowered my head so he wouldn’t see the tears clouding my eyes.

“We’re helping you because that’s what we do,” he continued, though his tone wasn’t quite as angry. “You seem . . . nice enough. And Shelley likes you, but I can’t see this ending well.”

Vadim bent to gather his things. I reined in my emotions, trying to focus on planning my next step, but thinking about leaving my new friends brought on another wave of sadness. I’d lost Sonya, my parents were missing, and where was Brandon? Soon I’d lose Shelley and Miro.
You have no friends,
Evie said. Is this what she meant? The unmarked witch stands alone? But then, Vadim was right. I put people in danger. I had to remember that.

Vadim squinted at the door, then grabbed a square of sandpaper and began to smooth down an errant splinter.

“You’re a perfectionist,” I said.

He actually flushed, his ruddy skin turning a shade darker. “I guess so. I like things done right.”

“Is that why you joined this coven?” I asked, trying to make the question sound innocent enough. “To make things right?” Vadim stopped sanding the door and stared me down. I hadn’t been around anyone who could completely shut down every emotion, and I squirmed under his direct, clinical gaze.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked.

Did I? I did. I nodded once, trying not to appear overly eager.

Vadim leaned back against the dresser, the wood groaning at his weight. He tossed the sandpaper into his toolbox. “I guess it doesn’t matter if you know.”

I shook my head slightly. He was probably right, but Vadim sure did look at the world with a cold eye.

“My parents were covenless by choice,” he began, his voice lacking inflection. “Do you know what that means?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t common. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“It isn’t common,” he said. “And it isn’t honorable.”

“Why would they do that?”

He sighed. “I think at first they were just rebelling. My parents are from Norway, where witches can live very peaceful—but uneventful—lives. I think they got bored. They had me, broke the oath with their coven, and moved here.

“They never bothered contacting the coven who’d said they’d take them in. My parents went off on their own, using spells and charms to get what they wanted from people. They could break things, like I can, so they broke into houses and shops, always stealing what we needed. Later, when I got a little older, they’d send me in because I could fit into small spaces.”

It was difficult to imagine Vadim as small, but an image flashed in my mind of a scared, towheaded little boy.

“Once I started transitioning, they thought they’d hit the jackpot,” he continued. “But after years of their fast living, my transition was really hard on them. They both came from the same bloodline, so they both suffered. I started going out completely on my own, stealing everything that wasn’t bolted down. We had more than we could ever want, but it wasn’t enough for them—or, I guess, for me.” He took a breath. “One night I tried to break into an alchemist’s shop.”