The Witch Haven

by Sasha Peyton Smith

No. Not like this.

  Then, like he’s been shocked, he snaps his hand away and stumbles back a few feet. The leaves crunch under his weight.

  He grins wolfishly. “Well done.”

  “I did that?” I felt the lash of power, but still I’m shocked by it.

  “You did.”

  Lena turns to Finn. “You seem surprised.”

  “I am,” he replies. “I’ve only seen it done once before. I’ve never managed it myself. And here it took our dear Frances less than fifteen minutes.”

  So much for silly true-love spells, I think.

  Lena and Maxine speak in a flurry at the same time. “How?” “Let me try!”

  Finn doesn’t use the same tactics on Maxine and Lena. Maybe he knows they wouldn’t let him crowd their space like I did; maybe he knows I’m the weak one. For over an hour they meditate and concentrate and even clutch an onyx stone that Finn produces from his pocket.

  “Your pinky, it moved!” Maxine shouts at Lena.

  “It did not!”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Maxine smiles as she says it.

  “Maybe I’m shivering because I’m about to freeze to death,” Lena retorts.

  “If only a Good Samaritan had knit you mittens.” Finn jumps into their bickering.

  It’s strange to see him slot into our little sisterhood.

  “I’m cold. We have class in the morning. I give up,” Maxine declares, popping up from where she sits on the ground, brushing leaves off her coat.

  Maxine and Lena walk to the edge of the trees. I hover close to Finn as he bends to pack up his satchel. “Are you taking the train back into the city?”

  “Aye. It’s not a terribly far walk to the station.”

  “Thank you for coming.” I don’t know why I say it. It isn’t as if I asked him to appoint himself my protector.

  “Always.”

  I lower my voice. “Is there a reason manipulation comes more easily to me than the others?” This new aspect of magic feels like knocking on a door when I’m not quite sure I want to know what’s on the other side.

  Finn shrugs. “Some people are just more powerful than others. The universe is a strange place, Miss Hallowell.”

  “C’mon, Frances!” Maxine calls.

  I say my goodbyes to Finn and trip after them, nursing a terrible headache and the fear that comes with possessing new information about myself.

  * * *

  One week later Finn meets us in our usual clearing in the park looking even worse than he did the week before. His hair is disheveled, eyes swollen, coat wrinkled. He hasn’t met me in my dreams all week. I’ve been worried, and it looks like my worry was justified.

  Maxine spots him the second after I do. “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?”

  “Lovely to see you as well, Maxine.” His attempt at a smile is unconvincing.

  “Is everything all right?” I wish I could wrap him in an embrace. He looks like he badly needs one.

  Finn greets us with a sad wave. “You know, I’m beginning to think Lena might be my favorite. She doesn’t pry.”

  Lena raises her brows. “You flatter yourself. Perhaps it’s because I don’t care.”

  Finn laughs in earnest. “Fair enough.”

  I walk over to him as he hangs the lantern on a tree branch. Under my breath I ask, “Did they ever find your friend’s brother?”

  “Aye.”

  By the tone of his voice I already know the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Alive?”

  He looks at the ground and shakes his head. “Without his hands, washed up on a beach in Brooklyn.”

  “Without his hands?” I’m glad it’s dark enough that Finn can’t make out the full expression of horror and disgust that crosses my face. My stomach turns.

  Finn nods. “It gets worse.” He fishes a folded-up scrap of newspaper out of his pocket and hands it to me. In the low light of the forest, it takes me a moment to make out the headline. SECOND HANDLESS BOY FOUND ON BEACH, KILLER ON THE LOOSE?

  “A second boy?”

  “Without their hands?” Maxine exclaims, suddenly over my shoulder.

  Lena grabs the article from me and begins to read aloud. “ ‘The body of Mario Gianetti, found on the shores of Brooklyn yesterday, marks the second found on Sheepshead Bay this week. Even more disturbing to the local community, Mr. Gianetti, seventeen, was found missing his hands, just like John O’Farrell, nineteen, found on the same beach only two days earlier. Mr. Gianetti and Mr. O’Farrell were reported missing by their respective families last week. Both boys were residents of the Lower East Side. Police have denied that the bodies are evidence of a killer on the loose, but that doesn’t seem to be much of a comfort to those who live near such gruesome findings.’ ”

  “It was Johnny O’Farrell who was my friend’s brother,” Finn says. He looks genuinely heartbroken.

  “And the other?” I ask. “Do you know anything about yesterday’s victim?”

  Finn shakes his head no. “Never heard the name before.”

  The wheels in my head are turning, and I’m struck by an awful feeling I can’t shake. It’s slippery and nauseating. But beneath the abject horror is a thrill at the first real clue I’ve had in months. Should I be ashamed of the kicking in my chest, something close to excitement? “Your friend, he’s a member of the Sons?”

  “Yes, but his brother Johnny wasn’t.”

  “And the other boy? Any chance he could be a member?” The question comes out so urgently, I sound frantic. I feel frantic, thoughts flying too quickly to keep up with them all.

  “Doubtful but not impossible. I’ve never heard the name, but we’re a large organization. I don’t see why it matters, though. Two people isn’t exactly a pattern.”

  I look between Finn, Lena, and Maxine, who stare back at me with identical wide-eyed confusion. “Two might not be a pattern, but three is. Sheepshead Bay is the same beach where they found my brother.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  With steely determination and an upset stomach, I march over to Maxine’s bag and pull out The Elemental.

  The book flips open to the page detailing the Resurrection like it’s been waiting for me.

  “You can help me or not, but if William’s killer is out there, murdering other people, I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. We can ask William who killed him. We could stop this from happening to more people.” My heart is pounding; my words come out aggressive and quick.

  Maxine and Lena share an uncomfortable glance. They’re doing that more often as of late.

  “I’ll do it myself then,” I respond to their infuriating indifference.

  I pull off the scratchy mittens Finn gave me, and ghost the tips of my fingers over the pages. They’re as cold as the frost-slicked underbrush. Finn’s lantern casts them in a flickering orange light.

  I stare back at the familiar illustration of a human figure sitting in front of a mirror surrounded by other objects. The objects needed for the spell are sketched in black ink and labeled in slanted handwriting. A scrying mirror, a vial of graveyard dust, a hairbrush labeled item belonging to the deceased, and a dagger called Fragarach.

  Like most of the pages in this book, the marginal notes are in a mix of languages. Most are in what I think is Gaelic, but there’s one in English that stands out the darkest: Only effective if done soon after departure from this plane. It’s the note I think about when I can’t sleep.

  The others gather around to read the spell over my shoulder.

  “What’s Fragarach?” I ask.

  “It’s a type of dagger, an old one,” Finn answers reluctantly. He scrubs a hand across his neck; there’s something tortured in the simple gesture. “I can help you get it, if you’re determined to do this.”

  “We need it soon,” I say.

  “Before any more bodies wash up on the bay,” Finn agrees. I’m relieved he’s seeing my point.

  Maxine looks grave as she speaks up. “I’ve been a little bored
, and this seems like a terrible idea. Why not speak to the dead and solve a few murders?”

  Lena looks between the three of us like she’s doing a calculation, her eyes fluttering, brow creased. Finally, she closes her eyes in a huff. “I wish I could see how this turns out. I cannot.”

  There is no moon tonight. The thicket of trees is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. Shadows stretch long, like hands reaching out, grasping at the dark. A shiver goes through me and it’s more than the cold.

  “We’ll need to minimize the risk.” Finn’s eyes are big and soft. He looks more lost than I’ve ever seen him, which is strange, because I feel balanced on the precipice of finally finding something. “The head of the Sons has always been a bit of a collector. He keeps the magical artifacts in his office. How morally opposed are you to cat burglary?”

  “Sweet of you to assume witches have any morals at all,” Maxine answers. “How very modern of you.”

  “Can you make it to the Commodore Club on the Lower East Side this Saturday? There’s an event, everyone will be busy, and security will be lax. It could be our one chance to sneak into the office,” Finn explains.

  The excited rhythm in my heart beats an answer: Of course, anything.

  Lena frowns. “Why do you need us to break into your own organization?”

  “I can’t magick objects as well as you. There’ll be locks and wards, and I don’t have the power to get through them myself. At least not quietly.”

  “Yes.” My answer is immediate.

  “It has to be two days from now?” Maxine asks, incredulous.

  “Unfortunately.”

  From somewhere nearby, an animal scurries in the underbrush. It sets my teeth on edge.

  “What about the mirror?” I prod. We have to think of the big picture. If we’re going to do this, we need to do it properly.

  “I’ll do some research” is Finn’s curt reply.

  “Does your brother have a grave?” Lena asks quietly.

  “Yes, in Manhattan. The dust will be easy.”

  Maxine brushes a strand from her forehead. “And the ‘item belonging to the deceased,’ do you have anything of your brother’s?”

  This question stings. “I don’t, but I know where to get one.”

  And suddenly we have a plan. A plan that begins with us breaking into the Sons of Saint Druon.

  I grip The Elemental all the way back to Haxahaven. It stays cold no matter how long I clutch it to my chest.

  Maxine unlocks the gate, and we slip into Florence’s dark kitchen. She hasn’t stayed up for us tonight, but she has left a warm pot of tea on the stove.

  “This is getting dangerous,” Lena says. Her voice is hollow. It bounces off the bricked floors.

  “Yes,” Maxine agrees. “But at least it’s not boring.”

  * * *

  I’m surprised to find Finn in my dreams later that night. We’re in a fairy-tale forest next to a bubbling stream. Birds whistle in a chorus overhead, and a butterfly lands gently on a dinner-plate-sized flower at my feet. But the light bends wrong here; the colors are too vivid, just one shade off of anything naturally occurring.

  “I just saw you.” I’m glad to see him, but he doesn’t need the satisfaction of knowing that.

  There’s an odd look on his face, the same tortured set to his brows as earlier. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “More than all right,” I answer honestly.

  “I’m worried.” He doesn’t need to tell me. It’s written all over his face.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m going anyway.”

  “What if we get caught, Frances? I’m one of them. I’ll be fine. But you’re a witch, and I don’t know what they’ll do to you.”

  I turn to him, confused. The veneer of his confidence has cracked, revealing the teenage boy underneath.

  “This was your plan.”

  He sighs. “And I already regret it.”

  “I’m doing this with or without you. It will be easier together.”

  “If we get caught, I might not be able to protect you.”

  “You don’t even know me.” He looks wounded, but I don’t regret saying it. I like Finn, I probably like Finn too much, but his fussing over my safety seems to go far beyond what he’d owe his dead friend’s kid sister. Oliver and I grew up together, and he’s spared only half a passing thought to my well-being since William’s death. It doesn’t make sense that Finn should take this all upon himself.

  He lets the silence stretch between us as my statement goes answerless. “You don’t owe me a single thing,” I tell him.

  He pulls a hand through his curls, setting them in a riot around his face. His hair is longer now than when I first met him. “No. I don’t. But I do. It’s difficult to explain.”

  “I’m smart. Try me.”

  He kicks at the dirt with the toe of his shoe. “Can I admit something? I’m terrified to try.”

  I’ve never heard a man admit fear before. It makes me smile a little. “Be brave for me?”

  His sigh holds the weight of a hundred sleepless nights. “I’ll try.” He lowers himself onto a log blanketed in vivid green moss and looks out toward somewhere, then back at me.

  “I grew up in a farmhouse in County Galway with four brothers and three sisters,” he begins, a soft smile dimpling his cheeks. “My da died when I was young, and my mam soon married Alfie, who was a wicked son of a bitch. He beat the shit out of her, and when he tired of that, he’d beat the shit out of me, or my brothers, or my sisters, or sometimes all of us if he was in a particularly foul mood. Every day was the same. Wake with the sun. Mind the sheep. Sell wool at the Saturday market. Care for my siblings. Tend to my mother’s wounds. Tend to my own. But I had one bright spot in that hell. My dreams.”

  I sit down next to him, close enough that we’re pressed leg to leg, feet swinging in the bluebells.

  “Tell me about the dreams,” I say in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

  “They started when I was twelve. The night after Alfie knocked me unconscious for the first time. I thought I was hallucinating at first, they were so real.”

  His voice is thick with emotion, and it makes my bones ache. I raise my hand, almost placing it on his knee, before I think better of it and tuck it back to my lap.

  “I entered Mam’s dreams first. She was dreaming of my da. I’d forgotten what his face looked like. But then… the dreams shifted. I started seeing the men I’d met at the market. Or the village girls who spun the wool into yarn.”

  I turn to face him, but he’s staring off at the false horizon, imagining the dreams long past of people far away. His jaw is sharp now, but I can imagine what he must have looked like at twelve, with chubby cheeks and a dimpled smile. So much fear lingering in his eyes—of his stepfather, of the dreams he’d explore. I’m filled with a sense of deep, primal protectiveness.

  “The dreams were unpredictable. I didn’t know how to control them yet. I’d end up in others’ dreams all the time. Some people I’d see just once, then never again. But there was one constant. There was a girl.”

  It’s reverent, the way he says it. Quiet, like a prayer, his eyes are closed now, head tilted just slightly to the sky. There’s a scar along his chin I’ve never been close enough to see before, and another snaking silver along the edge of his left eyebrow.

  I don’t know how my body works in dreams, but our chests are rising and falling together in unison. I’m covered in goose bumps.

  “And she was beautiful and sad. She was unlike the others, because I knew I’d never met her. Hers was a face I would have remembered. I didn’t know where she was, only that it wasn’t Ireland. Her world was grayer than mine, louder too.

  “When I was twelve, I could only see her from afar, more a silhouette than anything. She was so blurry around the edges. When I was thirteen, she came into focus a little clearer. She started wearing her hair in one braid instead of two.” There’s a tightness in my chest now; I can see it all so
clearly. I remember the feeling of my mother’s hands in my hair as she braided it, how I’d begged her to let me wear it in one plait down my back like the older girls at school.

  “When I was fourteen, I heard her speak for the first time. She didn’t see me in her dreams, which wasn’t unusual, most people never noticed I was there, but she was different, because I wanted so desperately for her to see me. I would have given anything to speak to her.” At this my eyes sting with tears. I remember being fourteen and achingly lonely too.

  “When I was fifteen, Alfie broke my leg, and I was laid up in bed for a week with an awful fever. I thought I was going to die.” My heart breaks at the image, Finn near death at the hands of someone who should have protected him.

  “Mam had the village priest give me my last rites. I was so far gone, I didn’t realize until it was too late that I’d wandered into the dream of Boss Olan, head of the Sons of Saint Druon, who was on business in Galway. He was the first person to recognize me for what I was.” It’s all coming into focus now, a picture of every tipped domino that led Finn to me.

  “The fever broke the day he came to fetch me at the farm. Five days later I was in New York.”

  It feels like Finn is handing me his beating heart, raw and bloody, with both hands.

  He takes a breath, steadying himself. “We arrived in the city. I started working for the Sons. Someone like me is a valuable commodity. I’m like a spy, except I can’t get caught. And things were fine, until one day I was walking down Broome Street, and I saw her, the girl. I saw you, Frances.”

  I close my eyes briefly, savoring the warm weight of the confession.

  “You saw me?” I whisper.

  “You were crossing the street. You were real. I couldn’t believe it.” I can almost picture myself through his eyes, fifteen and knobby kneed, eyes bright with the belief that the world was full of good things.

  “So, I followed you a few blocks to your apartment. I couldn’t help myself. You stopped outside and waited for someone. When William approached with his arms full of groceries, I felt like the breath had been knocked out of me. I knew him from work at the Sons. He had become my friend. It all came together so clearly, you had the same nose, the same hair. You were the kid sister he spoke so much about. But there’s no way to tell your buddy I’ve been dreaming about your sister for the better part of a decade and would love an introduction.” Finn shakes his head, the shadow of a smile appearing on his lips. “I cared too much about our friendship and my reputation to say anything. So I did everything I could to forget about you. I thought if I ignored them, the dreams would go away, and I could move on with my life.