Under Witch Curse (Moon Shadow Series) (31 page)

He fiddled with the pen. “What if Bob is my real name?”

As usual with Lynx, personal questions came out of nowhere. And as usual with Lynx, I had little idea of where he was headed with his question. Names were a risky discussion to have with a witch who might know how to use your name against you. Knowing a birth name or spirit name could mean the difference between a spell—or curse—succeeding or failing. “You think Bob might be your birth name?”

“The one you witches never tell anyone. Maybe my mother gave me that name.”

The kid read too many books. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he read too many of
my
books, but since mine were spelled and set to me, it wasn’t likely. “What makes you think you have a birth name?”

He dropped the pen as though I had slapped him. Puzzled at his shock, I said, “There’s a lot of people not given the type of name you’re talking about.”

“You mean shit kids that are good enough to hire, but you think—” his voice shifted from a high-pitched snarl to a nasty hiss, but my hands went up, waving frantically.

“No! I mean anyone who doesn’t...anyone who isn’t a witch!” I sat back as far from his glare as possible. “Geez, Lynx. Not that many people know about the power of names and even for those who do, not everyone knows to guard against their use. Normals just get names. Most of the time it isn’t even the right one, so it holds little or no power. Sometimes they end up with a spirit name during Baptism because it’s one of the ceremonies when the magic can be imparted.”

From his heavy breathing and slit-eyes, I was pretty sure this was new information to him. That, or he was too angry about my perceived insult to have heard me. “Seriously, Lynx. When have I ever had an issue with your birth? Yeah, you take some jobs you shouldn’t touch, but that has nothing to do with your name, your parents or even the phase of the moon. I don’t care that you’re a shifter, and you could have come from Mars. Makes no difference to me at all.”

He snapped his hand into a fist, withdrawing claws that he hadn’t purposely revealed. “It’s not the one on the birth certificate?”

“No, birth names aren’t usually the one on the certificate. Quite the opposite under normal circumstances. It’s way more complicated. Sure, people get,” I searched for a non-witch term. “Soul names. Spirit names.”

He pivoted again, a happier spark of understanding in his eyes. “Like the Indians. They get their name after they’re older.”

“Exactly. There was—still is sometimes—a ritual. The birth name can be the right one or it can be temporary until they earn the right name. A nasty witch might try to use a spirit name in a binding spell or to drain away power, so we protect that name. It can be used to call a person back from death or to save them from a bad spirit taking over. But that kind of name is,” I floundered. “Some people are who they are right at birth. Most of us aren’t that way. But my parents are both witches. They knew how to gift a name that could be used to help me. I don’t use that name very often, but the longer I use my current name, the more it binds to me anyway.”

“Is it the name on your certificate?”

“Adriel is on my certificate, not the gift name, the one that held the hope, the blessings and the spirit gifts they wanted to bestow on me.”

He scratched the back of his ear. “So if someone like ‘Trick knew my birth certificate name, it might not matter?”

I pushed my chair back from the table. “Whoa. What are you saying?” He stopped my flow of words with his cheeky cat grin.

“I thought my birth name, the one on the paper, might be important. But I don’t know if I was born in a hospital and thought ‘Trick could find out because he works there. But I ain’t gonna hire him if he can use it against me.”

“How do you even know if Patrick is still around? Have you heard?”

Lynx cocked his head as if listening, which meant he was deciding how much to tell me. “He’s around. Lost an arm. I didn’t know a vamp could lose an arm.”

“He lost his arm?”

Lynx nodded. “Tina said he’d make it. I figured he’ll be returning to his hospital shifts soon. He could check for a birth certificate.”

“Lynx, arm or no, do not end up owing any vampire anything. It would not be good to have a vamp have any kind of hold on you. Although it might be worse if a witch knew. I don’t think Patrick’s witch knowledge is all that deep, even considering he’s been around a generation or two.”

“You witches hold a real grudge against vamps.”

“With good reason,” I defended myself.

He gave a serious nod. “Mostly they are nothing but bad news. But if he did find out for me, it wouldn’t be a big deal, right? My mother wasn’t a witch. She didn’t give me any blessings either.”

There was a long silence. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Was she the cat?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Nah. Musta been someone she whored.”

The simple statement made my guts clench so hard, they hurt worse than the time I tried to do sit-ups last year. Lynx, for better or worse, was my friend. “The birth certificate probably won’t have anything to do with your spirit. If she wasn’t a cat, she may very well have gone to a hospital. There would be a name on the certificate, but...didn’t she call you something? Don’t you remember what it was?” I didn’t know why I was pleading with him, but I wanted a spark of hope that she wasn’t all bad, that she had had some smidgeon of kindness, some motherly instincts that meant he had not been completely alone since the day he was born.

Lynx shrugged. “Do curse words count? Can those end up birth names?”

He killed my hope so easily, so calmly. I sighed. “Not really. She could have literally cursed you if she had any power, but that wouldn’t necessarily be tied to any of your names. It’s like a stranger on the street. Some can throw a decent curse, but most don’t know enough about you to make it stick more than a second or two even if they have some latent power.”

“She knew me. Enough to know what I am.” He scratched his ear again.

“Why do you want to know what was on the birth certificate?”

He avoided my eyes, letting them roam. “When Tara called me,” he glanced at my face, “Bob. There was this dread. Chills. I started wondering if she had guessed the name. If that was the name my mom put on the certificate.”

I lent out a pent up breath, my relief palpable. “Tara is a witch. She used Bob as a curse. And a taunt because she had figured out what you are. Only Tara doesn’t—didn’t know how to throw a curse then. Although, with her healing ability, she has a talent for imparting magic on people that is physical.” I shrugged. “Was it kind of like someone walking over your grave?”

He snorted. “How would I know? I ain’t dead yet!”

I laughed. “Well, yeah. But I doubt she guessed your birth name even if your mother had the luck to have gifted you with one. And at the time, Tara’s anger might have made a curse stick while she was standing there with you, but she didn’t have the ability for anything much longer than that.”

“What if she got lucky?”

“You aren’t feeling sick or anything, are you?”

His eyes widened with excitement. “It was like that! Like I was about to barf.”

“She’s a healer. Her curse would be bodily like that.”

“So it’s not my name?”

“Not the one you’re worried about.” I reached out to touch his shoulder but stopped short, letting my hand hover. Lynx wasn’t big on touching. Neither was I, really. “If you’re worried about a spirit name, Lynx is probably the closest you have. You named yourself, and you did so with purpose and intent to fill it. You were also old enough to know your own nature, but at the same time, you kept an important part of your true nature a secret.”

He tilted his head, thinking, before he finally nodded. “You witches are messed up, but you ain’t dumb. Maybe I’ll change my name in case Lynx is my spirit name.” He smiled then, pleased with anything dealing in subterfuge. He reached up and brushed my shoulder, a whisper of a touch.

Slowly, I echoed the motion on his opposite shoulder, but I let my hand rest there.

We stayed that way long enough for me to mouth his name. I was firmly grounded, and I held it, not imparting my magic on him. If there was a spirit to his name, if there was a perfect fit, it was his to acknowledge and not my business to know.

I stood up and walked out the door, for the first time leaving the place when it wasn’t mine.

I skipped down the porch and realized the railings still contained silver, as did the lock on the door. Lynx knew about it. He could remove it if he wanted. Or leave it and hide his nature from casual observers. He’d like that.

I only looked back once before hurrying to my car.

Driving home wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I’d miss my old house, but home had not only become a new place, it had become a new person.

Wherever White Feather was, that was home, and I couldn’t wait to get there.

Chapter 43

We’d never really marked Martin’s grave. Mat hadn’t been able to locate him the night of the ghoul because Gordon twisted his ankle, but what can you expect traipsing foolishly about a canyon on a moonless night?

A headstone wouldn’t be appropriate, but Martin still deserved a gift of some sort to see him through to the other side. An earth gift was the right thing because if anyone could take it across, it would be Martin. Flowers would be a waste of time, and he couldn’t drink beer, although he’d probably love to have home brew dribbled over his grave, just for old time’s sake.

The collection of rock chips I selected would be something he understood. The bits were small enough that no one would notice them. Sugilite would wish him well on his spiritual journey, the turquoise would direct him in his destiny, and the quartz was for him to use as he saw fit. I was careful not to add rose quartz as that was considered a love stone.

When researching what to take, I kept running into the bloodstone again and again.

Ever since Martin’s ghost had appeared, I’d felt guilty about the heliotrope. He had gifted it to Mat and she had gifted it to me, so its strength had only grown. I wasn’t giving him back his heliotrope, but I’d take it along.

It was below freezing the morning we decided to visit his gravesite, so we dawdled over breakfast. Tracy was baking the last of the bricks. The outside of the house was nearly finished. He had promised to help with the drywall and the painting, but he had mentioned twice now that the road was calling.

I couldn’t help but wonder if that was because the earth-baking part of the chores was done. He had an affinity to that, but much of the other stuff would be mundane tasks.

“Maybe we can find a place Tracy would be happy working for a while,” I suggested while sipping my second cup of tea.

“Your dad is already asking around. He’d do well in a quarry.”

“Or maybe hanging around training with Martin,” I said with a sigh. “Martin never fit in with regular society either. Both of them are so talented, but I doubt either one has ever balanced a checkbook.”

“Or gotten caught up in the rat race. Worried about paying bills. Owned a car.”

“Martin owned a trailer and a truck. If we see him today, Mat wants me to ask about it. She’d like to inherit.”

White Feather’s eyebrows rose. “They were related?”

I waved my hand. “Details. We witches don’t care about being an actual relative. And if Martin tells me, I get half.”

“You’re assuming he’ll bequeath it to you. But since no one else has a claim on it—and who would want a trailer full of rocks anyway?”

I laughed. “Exactly. And we could give the truck to Tracy!”

I scooted my chair back and was on the way to rinse my mug when Tracy wandered in our new back door. He was covered in light dust and mud as usual. He never noticed the bits that fell off his boots or the larger chunk of mortar that dropped off the cuff of his jacket.

He stared down at his hand, his large digits wrapped around a chunk of earth. “Came to tell you,” he said. “This petrified rock was in the oven. I didn’t put it there. Black as night.” He held it up for me to examine. Then he flipped it onto his open palm, letting it rest there. The bottom was flat, stable. The top was narrow and curved down into a fanned base. The very tip was pointed, like a beak.

“How do you know it’s petrified rock? It looks like charcoal to me. Maybe some wood burned hot—” Oh right. I forgot who I was talking to. Tracy knew earth.

He handed it to me. “Looks like a raven. For you.”

My mouth dropped open as it landed in my hand. A true fetish wasn’t carved, it was found, a gift from Mother Earth. “The raven is a messenger and a sign of transformation. He represents a change of consciousness.” I laughed. “It’s perfect.”

Tracy nodded, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes skimmed mine. “Figured maybe you needed it. I didn’t think it was part of the house.” Then he turned and went outside.

White Feather came over and inspected the chunk of rock. “Raven.”

“It’s perfect for Martin. I’ll tie a little grain bundle to it.”

White Feather followed me to the lab. “Corn pollen and sage? Or tobacco?”

“Hops. Barley. Wheat and rye.”

“You think he needs to brew his own beer?”

“No. But it was his crutch in life, and he’s transitioned now. We learn and grow by knowing our past. So it seems like the right thing for him.” I tied the little bundle to the fetish using sweet grasses.

“Ah.”

“It might not be exactly right,” I said, frowning over it. “But that’s not the point.”

White Feather nodded, wisely. “Because we don’t know what is on the other side anyway.”

“Exactly.”

It was cold but sunny and actually made for a nicer hike up Tent Rock than in the summer. The switchbacks extorted a price on White Feather’s healing ribs because of the deep breathing, but that gave me an excuse to rest my legs twice.

The wind welcomed us as we came over the cusp, cool breezes against hot skin.

“I thought about making him a fetish from heliotrope, but I didn’t know what to carve,” I told him. “Tracy has some kind of talent to have found or made this raven.”