Bloodspell

by Amalie Howard

  How do I do that? Guard, I mean.

  Imagine an impenetrable wall around you, encasing your entire mind. Good. Do you feel me pushing against you? That wall you just imagined is real.

  Victoria frowned. It feels like I have a headache.

  Over time it will become effortless. She met Leto's green eyes.

  Was the voice always you?

  Yes.

  So does this mean I am telepathic?

  You are so much more, Victoria. Surely you know that. Leto's look spoke volumes. She considered his words.

  I ... made those things happen by thinking about them, like Brett ... and Chri ... the boy from today. It felt different earlier though.

  She thought about Brett and remembered how the energy had raced along her veins, rampant. Wild. She'd cowered from it then, running away from it and burying it so deeply that it was no wonder she'd been caught off guard by its reemergence.

  Yes, the energy felt different. Now it was responsive, less raw. With Brett, she had reacted to a threat and her unconscious reaction had been explosive, uncontrolled. It had terrified her. But now, the energy felt compliant—she was directing its flow, projecting it with purpose and shaping its response. Even with Christian earlier, her action had been more deliberate. She was controlling it instead of it controlling her. Victoria could feel Leto's approval.

  Why couldn't I control it then?

  Perhaps you were not yet ready.

  And I am now?

  Only you know the answer to that question. She eyed him curiously.

  So what are you?

  I'm ... your friend. Leto settled back onto his haunches, his brilliant green eyes twinkled. Technically, a familiar, he clarified.

  Victoria swallowed. A flicker of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch flashed through her head. Like Salem in Sabrina? She thought the words aloud before she could think twice.

  His immediate disdain was eloquent. Victoria, that is a television show. But yes, if you must make the comparison, although this form is just a shape, a vessel.

  Her mouth hung open. If he was a familiar, then that would make her ...

  And ... me? Am I ... a ... witch?She almost choked on the last word, feeling stranger with each passing second. She could swear that Leto was laughing at her. His thoughts felt distinctly amused.

  You already know the answer to that, Victoria. Of course you are, he said. Although not in the way you're thinking. You don't use a wand or fly on a broom. Victoria's face fell. The amused sensation she'd felt earlier from Leto returned. He was laughing at her! But your mind can command energy, you will foresee events, and you can heal yourself.

  Wait. Heal myself?

  Yes. If you are hurt, you can call upon your energy to heal yourself, and others too if you will it. However, for most it is finite. At her questioning look, Leto explained. There's only so much magical energy one can wield at any given time, but there are ways around these limits.

  "What else can I do?" she asked, her normal voice hoarse.

  As you have already discovered, you are capable of enhanced strength and you can cure yourself and others at will, but you can also unleash powerful energy blasts. You can teleport, exert powerful levels of telekinesis and telepathy, and you can invoke powerful spells.

  Leto stopped as Victoria's mouth formed a small "o" of astonishment. Even as her brain incorporated what he was saying, she was stunned. She was a witch! How was that even possible? Her family had been normal. Hadn't they?

  My grandmother was a witch. The ponderous thought was not a question.

  Yes, Leto agreed, but not like you. His tone was enigmatic and he had an expectant expression on his face. It made Victoria feel peculiar, tingly again.

  And my father? Did he know about me? Was he like ... us?

  Your father was human. Sometimes the magic skips a generation. It happens with mixed witch and human bloodlines.

  But it didn't skip me?

  No. Leto's eyes were intense.

  Doesn't that make me half-witch, >half-normal then?

  No. You are a Warrick witch. Magic remains undiluted from generation to generation. You are as powerful as the very first.

  The amulet and her grandmother's words flashed through her memory, "Embrace it. Don't fear it." She grasped the amulet, feeling its familiar warmth in her palm.

  Why did the diamond turn red?

  Leto paused, seeming to search for words. It is a part of the amulet's magic but it only reveals its full power when a true descendant of Warrick claims it. The answers you seek are in there. His glance indicated the open music box, but Victoria wasn't quite finished. She hesitated. There was one more question she needed to ask, one that had haunted her for years.

  Leto, is this why I can't ... die?

  The magic protected you when you needed protecting.

  Memories assaulted her: surviving the mangled wreckage of her parents' car crash, falling thirty feet from a tree when she was ten without any broken bones, narrowly escaping a skiing accident without so much as a scratch ... there were suddenly too many "narrow escapes" to count. Other than her recent time in the hospital, she couldn't remember being sick a day in her life. The luck of the devil ...

  Victoria shivered, and changed the subject.

  So my grandmother wasn't crazy after all.

  No, but her fear for you was misunderstood. She wanted to protect you.

  Protect me? From what?

  Leto looked uncomfortable. From yourself. Perhaps it would be better if you read the journal.

  And just like that, the conversation was over as he jumped off the sofa and padded to the bedroom. He glanced back at her once thoughtfully and then disappeared into the room.

  Victoria stood, stretching her cramped body, and checked the clock. It was two in the morning but she was wide awake. She had completely forgotten about the journal in her grandmother's music box but she knew she couldn't ignore it anymore. She followed Leto into the bedroom, caressing the top of the warm box with her fingertips. She opened it and the soft melody whirred to life.

  Leto lay on the bed, his eyes inscrutable, watching her. She lifted the thin leather-bound journal from the base of the box. The same crest was emblazoned on the front of it with the name "Warrick" inscribed beneath it. She traced it with her fingers, not sure what she was waiting for. She knew that the instant she opened the journal, her life would be forever changed. There would be no going back.

  "Who are you, really?" she whispered.

  The answers were in the journal. She glanced at Leto. His eyes were closed. The decision was hers alone.

  Victoria's trembling fingers turned to the first page, the faint smell of gardenias drifting into the air. The first entry was dated May 21, 1602. The writing was painstakingly precise. She took the journal to her bed and began to read, her blood trilling softly.

  Lancaster, England: My name is Brigid Anne Warrick Kensington. I am but fourteen and married to a man I have never met. My father thinks the marriage will unite our families and win the King's favor now that His Majesty, King James, is the King of England. I am told that His Grace, Lord Lancaster, is a young man and some would consider him handsome. Mother, I swear to you thatI will be true to our blood! I will honor my new husband though I am a Warrick and will always be a Warrick.

  The first few entries described the young girl's life in the home of her new husband, and at first were consistent but then started becoming less and less frequent, until there were gaps as long as a year between entries. The next entry date that interested Victoria came two years later, July 14, 1604. Brigid would have been just sixteen years old.

  Lancaster, England. Mother, my son was born last week. He looks like his father, a Lancaster through and through. Even the tiny scowl on his brow is identical to his sire’s. He is a handsome devil. The birth was horrific and painful. I cannot bear to remember it. I shall call him Marcus James Warrick, after his father and our Liege Lord, the King.

  There were two other entries, o
ne written on Marcus' birthday, outlining his various accomplishments, learning to walk, talk, first horse, first everything. Her pride and delight in her son were unmistakable. The next entry that concerned Brigid herself wasn't until a year later, dated August 7, 1605.

  I have lived seventeen summers today. Something is happening within my body. I can feel the restlessness of my blood. It burns. At night I awake drenched and screaming. Some of the servants think that I am possessed. Mother, I fear I must be. I cut my hand yesterday and the blood was black, shimmering with an unholy luster. It could have been a trick of the candlelight, but it frightened me. There was so much of it, and it bled for hours! I hid my wound for fear of the servants’ talk. My Lord Lancaster is worried for my wellbeing. I try to comfort him but it feels like I am dying. I fear he can see through my lies.

  Victoria's heart pounded. What she had been through was the same. The next entry followed quickly on the same page, just a day later.

  I am so weak. I cannot eat. My body is feverish. Even as I write these words, my hands shake with cold. The servants come in and out of my room, whispering. I keep my wound wrapped because I know they are all watching with their fearful condemning eyes! Mother, I cannot bear it. This blood is a curse! My Lord Lancaster has sent Marcus to the King’s court for the celebration of his son Henry’s birthday. He refuses to leave my side. O Mother! Help me. My blood is burning.

  Victoria noticed that the last words were faint almost as if Brigid had had little remaining strength to pen her thoughts to paper. She could hardly forget the fiery feeling of her blood in her own veins, the same that Brigid had brutally endured, also alone. The next entry was just a year later, written on the anniversary of Brigid's birthday.

  Lancaster, England. How things have changed since my last birthday. As you may well discern, I am in perfect health. We are expecting our second beloved child and I am seven months into the pregnancy. I already know that it is a daughter. My Lord Lancaster showers me with his affection. How is it possible to love someone so entirely? He is kind and wonderful. He is my life. Forgive me Mother, but I have told him about my strange new gifts. My Lord Lancaster’s love for me remains undiminished and true.

  My talents are astonishing. I have many premonitions and visions of the future. Sickness avoids me, and it seems I have developed a Healer’s touch. I can also read my beloved’s thoughts. I can sense that he is worried about King James. The witch-hunts have grown more vicious in the past few years. He fears for our safety, particularly mine, given my abilities. If King James were to find out, we would surely be condemned.

  The next entry came just a month later, on September 14, 1606.

  My daughter is dead.

  The single abrupt sentence floored Victoria, and she gasped as if the pain were her own. The writing continued a day later, pressed into the paper with angry black strokes. The pages rustled, heavy with tears and stained with splotches of dark ink. Victoria felt her heart wrench in empathy as she continued to read.

  I am dead. Elizabeth Marie Warrick Kensington is dead. She came into the world a warrior goddess, bathed in blood, so much black blood, it was terrifying. My cursed blood killed her! The servants crossed themselves every time they entered the birthing chamber. She was so perfect, an angel. I have never known such joy watching her tiny, peaceful face, so divinely beautiful even in death. I curse the God that ripped her from my womb! I curse myself!

  The dark splotches of ink shimmered and Victoria realized that they weren't ink at all. They were blood—deep, dark red drops imprinted on the pages forever. The journal trembled in her shaking hands. The amulet pulsed hot on her chest, as if it were reliving memories that scorched it. Victoria's eyes raced over the remaining lines of the passage.

  The screams that shake the castle nightly come from my own heart. Lancaster has taken Marcus away as he fears for his safety. So he should. I can feel his fear as he looks at me drowning in my hate. I am lost to him, he cannot save me where I have gone. My devil’s blood guides me now. I confess I can do things, demonic things. I sliced my wrist and I swear it healed before my eyes! Over and over I did it, until the black blood barely wept anymore. I bend the servants to my will, taking grotesque pleasure in hurting them. The blood’s magic takes control and I willingly go where it leads me, where I am free of consequence. Lancaster was right to take Marcus away. I am unworthy. I am evil.

  The amulet was growing so unbearably hot that Victoria dropped the journal and frantically unfastened its clasp, hurling it into the box. The diamond pulsed blood red. She backed away slowly from the music box. Leto opened a sleepy eye and looked at her.

  "Leto!" she cried. "The amulet is cursed! I have the same poisoned blood that she did. I am cursed too. I never should have worn it! Why did I listen to you?"

  Calm down, Victoria. He began to purr and within a few minutes, Victoria felt less agitated from his calming energy. She sat back down on the bed, staring helplessly at him, her throat tight.

  "I can't wear it," she said. "I just can't."

  It is your birthright. You are a Warrick witch and the amulet is yours. You are who you are.

  Victoria shook her head fervently. "I don't want it. I don't want any of that! I just want to be normal, and have a normal life. And not hurt people!" On the last word, Victoria's voice broke. "I can't be a witch. I wouldn't know what to do, or be ... or how ... I don't want to become ... her."

  Then don't, Leto answered simply. Curious, he asked, did you read the whole journal?

  "How could I?" Victoria said. "I can't bear to read anymore."

  Perhaps you will feel differently if you do.

  VICTORIA WELCOMED THE many distractions of the next week, if anything to avoid thinking about the journal. She had banished it all deep into the recesses of her brain. She worked to fill her days and nights, and kept herself so busy that she wouldn't have time to stop and think about anything, especially about who or what she was. She'd done it for the entire summer, and she could do it again. In time, she was determined to forget it completely.

  "Tori? Earth to TORI!"

  "Sorry, Charla. What did you say?" Victoria asked. They were sitting on a bench outside the cafeteria, waiting for Angie. It was hot for September, and some of Charla's friends had organized an impromptu lake party. Charla was her usual outgoing, affable self, talking non-stop. Victoria liked her openness and felt very comfortable with her, especially because she didn't have to talk that much, just nod occasionally.

  "I said ... are you going to Marlow's birthday party?" Charla repeated.

  "No, probably not."

  "Why not? It's one of the biggest parties of the fall!"

  Victoria couldn't stop the unwanted blush that stained her cheeks. "I have plans."

  "Oh, really?" Charla's eyes brightened. "What kind of plans? Sounds like a date to me. Come on, dish—who with?"

  She was saved from having to answer when Angie appeared, her face as usual, sour and tight. It tightened even more when she saw Victoria. Victoria couldn't understand what had made Angie take such a strong dislike to her. She had so much experience blocking people out that it really shouldn't have taken much to ignore Angie, but something about the girl really got under Victoria's skin, made her feel exposed.

  Earlier that week, she'd seen Angie looking at her surreptitiously ... assessing her. But when Victoria made eye contact, Angie had just glared and looked away. She had stopped trying to break the ice with her as Angie either looked right through her or looked away rudely. Though it was tiresome, Charla was oblivious to it all and didn't seem to mind being the link between them.

  "So are we going or what?" Charla broke her train of thought once again. Victoria realized they were both looking at her. She nodded.

  "I'm driving. Come on!" Charla said. "Gabe's going to be there and I want you to meet him."

  "Who's Gabe?" Victoria asked, as they piled into Charla's convertible Jetta.

  "He's Angie's brother, and well, he's a great guy ... a good friend.
He's a senior. You have to meet him." Victoria's doubtful expression made Charla grin.

  "Don't worry, I promise you'll like him."

  Despite Charla's assurance, Victoria fully expected that Gabe would be a male version of Angie and was already preparing herself for the worst. Something about the way Charla had talked about him showed that Gabe was a lot more than a good friend to her, but Victoria noticed that she had been careful not to say anything that would imply that he was a boyfriend.

  They joined the long line of cars heading up to the lake. The weather in Maine was unpredictable—one year it would be December before the temperature dropped below freezing, and the next, it'd be bone-chillingly cold by mid-September. This year, it was still eighty degrees and everyone wanted to get to the lake one last time before autumn arrived.

  "How do you like living in Canville? Can't be much different from Millihooha, right?"

  "Millinocket."

  "Whatever, it's all the same anyway," Charla sighed. "I grew up in Portland, and I cannot wait to get out of here! Angie and Gabe are from New York and they love it. I'm going back with them when I graduate. No Harland for me, I'm only applying to colleges down there. Big city, here I come!"

  Victoria was surprised that Angie was from New York, although she knew she shouldn't be, since students at Windsor came from all over the place. But for her, New York was part of a different lifetime, and she didn't bother to correct Charla's mistaken assumption that she was also from Maine.

  "Actually, I like Canville a lot. It's peaceful here. And I really love Windsor so far."

  "It's a good school, just in the middle of nowhere. You can go a little stir crazy." Charla glanced in the rearview mirror. "Where'd you transfer from again?"

  "St. Xavier's." The shape of it was acrid in Victoria's mouth.

  Angie caught on quickly. "You didn't like it?" she asked. Victoria was saved from saying anything at all when Charla interjected with a snort.

  "No wonder. My cousin went there. It's snooty as hell. And the cheerleaders are manic. They hunt in packs." Charla made spirit-fingers waggling them across her face and chanted, "Be aggressive! Be, be aggressive!"