Hexen's Binding

by J. Kowallis

  “Why?” he balks.

  “Why?” I mimic. “Because I want to know my hard work has been the key to my success. Not my magic. That’s amoral, and that’s exactly what I am trying to teach my students, both the undergrads and the graduate students, not to do.”

  He sets the book on his hip and quickly snaps his fingers. The book vanishes, returning to whatever cranny he normally keeps it in.

  “And I suppose everything else we do is cheating as well? Why not take the long way around and light a match or flick a lighter?” Alaric laughs to himself as he ignites all the candles in his home with another snap of his fingers. With the next snap, the wicks snuff out. Gentle curls of misty white smoke loop around in the air.

  Alaric snickers. “You know, you complained to me a lot about Alina’s husband last time you visited. Sounds like you’re just like him.”

  I gasp, my jaw dropping. My sister’s husband. The oppressive, fearful douche that requested she sign a prenuptial agreement swearing to never use, talk about, or expose him or the children to hexen craft. I’ve never been able to forgive him for it, and our family get togethers—admittedly, there have only been three since she married him—are usually cold and distant. Cordial, but distant.

  “Take that back!” I speed walk to catch up with him and he chuckles, turning around to face me.

  “Fine. You’re not as bad as you say he is, but your gate is kind of swinging the same direction. While your career might be important, can you really tell me that it’s more important than following through with your hexen responsibilities? With one, your internal battle for morality might be at stake, but with the other . . . you’re playing with people’s lives. Where are you placing your priorities?”

  I frown. “I think I liked you better when you were dead. It was easier to pretend you were a decent human being.”

  Alaric’s eyebrows lift as guilt settles into my stomach.

  Even I know I shouldn’t have said that. I can’t even bring myself to apologize. His reactions barely betray his internal feelings, still his voice is a little gruffer when he says, “Well, it’s a good thing we’re trying to fix that. Isn’t it?” He waves his hand toward the door and it swings open on its own.

  How could I have said that? I can’t believe I—

  Shame burrows into me, making me feel like sidewalk urine. After what I just said, I deserve to feel that way. And more.

  “Taran?” Though his eyes are withdrawn, but in that detachment there’s understandable hurt.

  “Alaric. Dad . . . I’m—” I stumble again.

  “It’s Alaric. Come on.” He heads out of the room, his feet clomping down the hallway with a heaviness that wasn’t there before.

  * * *

  I turn my back on Alaric and shake my head. “Yes,” I say begrudgingly, holding my cell phone to my ear.

  “Oh, Taran. We can’t tell you how shocked we were to find out about your father. How long are you planning on being at the hospital?”

  I avoid looking at my father as he sits on the porch rocking chair behind me, his legs crossed and his face impatient. Just minutes ago, I made the stupid decision to perform a mirage spell. One that fed a story to the afternoon news stations about a local man involved in a severe car accident. As I hoped, the story reached the dean of the department and when I called Dr. Shleff to let her know I wouldn’t be in class for the next few weeks in order to care for my “injured” father, she radiated empathy.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I feign a sniffle. The tightness in my voice, however, isn’t fake. I’m still pissed about this, and I’m not even trying to hide my feelings. “He hasn’t woken up yet.”

  “Well, according to my experience, even after they wake up, the healing process—both physically and emotionally—takes quite a while. What if we were to offer your undergrad classes to one of our doctoral students graduating this semester? I’d be happy to bring Sondra Erickson in from retirement to teach your upper division courses.”

  “Nancy, you don’t have to do that,” I finally glance to Alaric. He looks smug. I close my eyes in irritation.

  “It would just be for the semester. Consider it your sabbatical.”

  I take a deep breath, for drama’s sake, and bring up a few choked tears. “That would mean the world to me.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’m sure you have your lesson plans sketched out?”

  “I do.”

  “Great. Just send them to me and I’ll get things squared away. Don’t worry about a thing. Just go take care of your father.”

  “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll send those and the class syllabi to you immediately.”

  I end the phone call and Alaric nearly shoots out of his seat. “Are you covered?”

  I glare at him while I search through the cloud files and emails in my phone. “I just need to send her my lesson plans. She’s letting me go on sabbatical this semester.”

  “And look at that. You didn’t even lose your job.”

  “Yeah, and I had to lie about a ton of shit.”

  Alaric whistles. “Nice language. I assume your mother didn’t teach you that?”

  I roll my eyes and sigh.

  “Besides,” he looks at me disapprovingly, “look at the bigger picture, Taran. After all, didn’t you lie to your ex?”

  “What?” my eyebrows skew.

  “Alex? And how much you loved his alfredo?”

  I suppose there are still a few things that haven’t changed from reality to reality. “Oh, that. When did I tell you that?”

  “Before you left for England.”

  I nod. “Well, I only acted that way because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “And the safety of your race pales in comparison to some loser’s feelings?”

  I finish sending off the email to Dean Schleff with the touch of my screen and groan. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve made that clear.” I turn to walk down the stairs and Alaric’s hand grips my wrist.

  “No,” he says, his voice calm, but dangerously dark, “apparently I haven’t.” He pauses, looking into my face. Whatever he sees makes something click inside his head and he looks surprised almost. There’s a lift in his brows, a softening around his mouth.

  “Unless . . .” his grip loosens. “Unless this isn’t about the lie, or me being a disappointment to you, or work at all.”

  I pull my arm completely out of his grasp and frown. “What are you talking about?”

  “Is there a reason you don’t want to go with me? A reason that’s tall with dark hair, cognac eyes, and speaks with an Irish accent?”

  I must give him a look that mirrors the thoughts in my head. How in the hell does he know what Coll looks like? Alaric shrugs and admits, “I saw you two together.”

  I swivel my eyes back to him. “What do you mean?”

  Alaric glances away from me, scrunching his nose and placing his hands on his hips. “When I performed the mind block on you just now, I saw glimpses of things. It’s a repercussion.”

  My eyes widen as I feel more than a little violated. “Great. Thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean to. But you have to admit, you’re being very apprehensive.”

  “Well, I hope you got a thrill,” I snip, though I can’t stop wondering what he saw. It’s the same thought I had the day I read the letter he sent me—back in my reality where he died.

  “Hell, I don’t even know why you brought it up, because I’m fine,” I sigh, turning around. “And please,” I steel my gaze, “that life is over. Coll has no idea who I am, and I’m happy to move on.”

  That’s . . . not exactly true either. There have been about sixteen calls from a number in the UK to my office line at Stanford. I haven’t answered any of them. Well, except one. The first one. When I answered, the voice on the other end stopped my heart. Coll’s voice was hard, but tentative.

  “Is this Dr. Grim?” he asked.

  I didn’t even say anything. My throat closed up, my hands shook, and I just hung up. Sera told me
to stay away, and to be honest, I can’t go through that again. So, I respected her wishes. The following calls were all ignored. Each call came with an accompanying voicemail. Voicemails I deleted the moment they appeared without listening to them.

  “For him, that may be true,” my dad’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “But you still carry around those memories. And you’re still connected to him through the prophecy.”

  I clear my throat and look off into the dense thicket of trees surrounding the house. It’s complex and twisted in there, but more simplistic in so many ways.

  “I know.” Thinking of Coll just makes me anxious, so I quickly change the subject, whirling on Alaric. “So, where does this Angelica Crowther live? I don’t exactly know where I need to tiaseal.”

  Alaric saunters down the steps of the front porch, his gaze never leaving mine. “Luckily, I do. Come here.”

  I keep my feet planted on the ground, forcing him to close the distance between us. Like Coll did to me once, Alaric places his hands in the same places on my head and takes a deep breath. Whatever spell he performs is unvoiced. I feel a jolt between my eyes and clamp them shut. The moment the shock diminishes, I slowly peel my eyes open and look around.

  In my peripheral vision, I see the dense forest surrounding Alaric’s house, my CR-V, and the road to the side of my parked car. But the image fades and becomes strongest as I stare out in front of me. Alaric is still there, but beyond him is a shimmering glassy lake coated in a light fog. Emerald green grass, ferns, and bright purple heather flourish in the landscape and to the right of me, I see a stone cottage with smoke rising out of the chimney, a faint light glowing from the few windows. Parked outside the cottage is a bright red Corsa. Perhaps late eighties, early nineties.

  I look back at Alaric and his eyes open just before he releases his hold on me. The images disappear and I find myself standing right where I had been before. It was like he put a pair of sunglasses on my face and removed them. Glasses that would allow me to see where we were going, while the image of my surroundings crept in the corners.

  Alaric steps back and nods toward me. “Got it?”

  I slowly close my parted lips and return the nod.

  “Good. I’ll see you there.” At that moment, Alaric disappears in front of me without another word and I’m left alone in his front yard.

  Three

  When I open my eyes and shift my feet, two sensations immediately greet me. A very cold wind pummels my face while bringing tears to my eyes, and my feet freeze underneath six inches of lake water.

  “Oh, shitballs,” I hiss, pulling my feet out of the muck and looking around. Just behind me, the stone cottage from the picture sits about a hundred feet away.

  Wrapping my arms around my body, I start to sludge and splash toward the cottage when the front door opens. A flood of golden light spills out of the doorway and my dad stands there in the opening. From my vantage point, I swear I see him smile and then motion with his hands to hurry up.

  Once my feet are out of the lake water, I squish through five more feet of mud before hitting dry ground and grass. I stomp on the ground, ankle boots squishing, slurping, and spraying out spits of water and mud. Wind blows against my frigid body and I hug myself tighter, walking fast as I can toward the cottage. When I reach the door, Alaric stands back to let me in and then shuts the door.

  “Come on, Bug.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and escorts me inside.

  The smell of patchouli and amber whirl in my nose. And is that cranberries?

  “You hit a little off-base there, Taran.”

  I turn to glare at my dad, squishing around in my sopping boots. “Wow, you’re right. Thanks, Alaric.”

  “Someone should have given her a proper education,” answers a voice that sounds like wind through a tunnel. I turn in my place to see where it came from. A middle-aged woman stands in front of the kitchen table in the next room. The woman, who I can only assume is Angelica, holds a smoking bundle of sage in her hand, wafting it over a small pillar candle. Scattered across the table are rune stones and bowls of varying sizes. Each bowl has a different herb, powder, or liquid.

  “I did have a proper education. My móraí—”

  “Oh, shut up,” she says in a firm American accent, making me reel back. Having used a tiaseal and arriving in Ireland to talk with the woman who raised all three Irish Donovan siblings, I wasn’t necessarily expecting the harsh Americanized tone of her voice. Nor the blatant rudeness.

  The woman looks up from her candle. Her face is sharp with a thin, hooked nose. Eyes dark as a rich stout beer glare at me from the dim lighting in the kitchen. Angelica’s gray hair—with about an inch of roots showing—is dyed auburn and pulled into a messy bun. The haphazard look continues with holes in her high-waisted, distressed jeans and a mustard blouse that has what looks to be giant white poppies all over it. The look is completed with a long, brown sweater-vest-cardigan thing.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “Your father told me plenty about you. You—in this reality and the other—may have been trained by Marlis Grim, but the girl standing here right now knows nothing.” She sets the sage bundle down across the mortar and pestle and walks around the edge of the table.

  “You sound like my móraí.”

  “Good. I’d hate to have Marlis think I wasn’t giving you the reaming you deserve.”

  Feeling like I should be offended, I glance at Alaric. All he does is lift his hands in surrender before walking into the kitchen to have a seat.

  “That I deserve?” I ask.

  Angelica leans on the table, placing a hand on her rounded hip and shifts her jaw to the side. “Taran Grim. The daughter of Alaric, granddaughter of Marlis, and descendant of Woden. Nearing her thirties and single without any promise of posterity.” She glares at me.

  “Wait a second, you don’t have children! And I don’t think my marital status has anything—”

  “Doesn’t it?” she asks. “Hexen women your age should be grooming their sons’ and daughters’ magic, not wasting time teaching useless human fiction to mindless, government-educated drones. And the reasons I don’t have children don’t concern you.”

  Before I can open my mouth to protest, she holds up a finger. “You’ve just barely learned to tiaseal, haven’t built up your own grimoire—”

  “I have plenty of grimoires.”

  “And in which one is the spell you use to induce a dream state?” she bites back.

  My mouth drops open and I look nervously to Alaric.

  “Exactly. You don’t know your own grimoires and therefore, they aren’t yours. Memory is nine tenths of possession. You nearly failed to retrieve Craniarann, changed the course of time as you know it, and destroyed your relationship with Collens, therefore risking the survival of our race. Did I miss anything?”

  I step forward, driving my finger toward her face. Outside, the wind pounds against the stone cottage and the thunder roars. “If Garrit, your damn relative, hadn’t gotten so butt-hurt about his ancient ancestors losing the land we were all kicked out of, Coll would still remember me!”

  She steps forward, over the comfort line of my bubble, and presses her face within an inch of my own. “You’re a fighter. Good. You’ll need to be. Now, tone that temper down and let’s get to work on what needs to be done.”

  Angelica steps back and snaps her fingers. The kettle on the stove begins to whistle, without the burner on, and she immediately pours the steamed water into an awaiting mug with a homemade tea bag. When she extends it to me, I take it with apprehension and stand there awkwardly.

  It’s Earl Grey. It smells like Coll’s blend.

  “Have a seat, Bug.” Alaric motions toward the third kitchen table chair. My feet squish and slop with each step. I set my mug of tea on the table before I sit.

  “Oh, by the spirits. Gransui.” She motions toward my shoes. Within moments the water dries and the chill through my body disappears. “Now,” Angelica says, standing
next to me, “before you arrived, your dad here explained that you have a problem with my great aunt.”

  I furrow my brow and frown at her in confusion. “What?”

  “Well, she’s my sixty-second great aunt, but there is a connection.” Angelia waves her hand around as if it’s no big deal. “By marriage only. Hellia Morrigan’s reputation wasn’t just stank as all get out on the Grim’s side. No, most of our coven shunned her and her sisters just a few years before she bonded with Ruhmactír. If you’ve got a problem with her,” Angelica leaned on the table, glaring into my eyes, “then you’ve got a problem.”

  “Angie,” Alaric cleared his throat, “speaking of Hellia. In the previous timeline I told you about in my email, Taran had time lapses.”

  “Time lapses?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Uh,” my voice is throaty, “the crest candles in my home would ignite on their own, and what seemed to me to be a few minutes would actually end up being four or five hours. During that time, I had no idea what had happened. Was she taking over me? Forcing me to do things I don’t remember?”

  Angelica stands to her full height, just a couple inches shorter than me. With the confidence and power radiating from her, she might as well have been seven feet tall. “No. But she could have been gaining access to your thoughts, your motivations, and transplanting ideas.”

  “Tell her about the dreams, Bug.”

  “Dreams?” Angelica asks.

  I wrap my hands around the clay mug she gave me and hold it tight. “Yeah. For weeks I was having the same nightmare every night.”

  “Of?”

  I look to my dad and he nods.

  “Of his murder. Alaric’s. When Ruhmactír, who was parading around in a nice Radolf Wolf suit, came looking for me and Craniarann. I didn’t know it was him until just a couple months ago when Coll and I were intercepted by Ruhmactír and his brother.”

  Angelica goes to her cupboard to pull out some herbs but continues to talk. “And are you still having these nightmares?”

  “No, actually. Now I . . .” I haven’t even told Alaric this. I look at him nervously. “Now I have nightmares of Coll. Dying. But I think they’re actual nightmares, not memories or premonitions.”