She lifts her brows. “But—”
“Guys,” Jesse yelps, having a hard time steadying his brother. “Can we move?”
I take the longest, deepest breath ever and stagger to the door. A dull ache roars through my chest, and my belly cramps, yet I do the unthinkable. I ring the bell.
“You look like shit,” Bonnie says to Alex.
“Charming friend you’ve got,” Alex grumbles.
“I’m just honest,” Bonnie defends herself.
Alex’s skin is slightly green, and he looks as if he’s about to puke on Melinda’s porch. I make a mental note to check his wounds later.
“Manda?” Jesse stares at my balled hands. “You sure your family is okay with us being here?” He pauses. “You know, considering we’re hunters and all.” It’s bad enough to invite hunters into your home. Incredibly stupid to let them anywhere near the grimoire. Melinda’s words, not mine.
“It’s just my sister. She’s cool with it.” He didn’t expect an honest answer, did he?
“Good. We don’t want to cause any trouble,” he says seconds before the door flies open.
Melinda’s teal-blue eyes drift from my heels to my face. She doesn’t approve of my outfit or makeup. I can tell by the way she wrinkles her nose. “Amanda.”
“Melinda.” Yep, it’s pretty much how I picture a reunion of the Evil Queen and Snow Queen. Cold hate.
My not-so-beloved sister pushes past me and pulls my best friend into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, Bonnie.”
Bonnie hugs her back, giving me an apologetic look.
I shrug it off. It’s not her fault my sister abhors me. Plus, the feeling is mutual. Just one look at her ginger fishbone braid and old-fashioned Jackie O costume reminds me why I’d rather eat glass than tell anyone we’re related.
Perfect Housewitch pulls back and turns to Alex and Jesse. “I’m sorry,” she says, straightening her jacket. “Where are my manners?”
Alex peers at her. “Been wondering that, too.” Hunter-heroic is the biggest jerk on this planet, but no matter what Jesse did, he’d never treat his brother like this.
For a moment, she stands there speechless. It must be the first time someone questioned her manners, and the look on Perfect Housewitch’s face is priceless. But Melinda wouldn’t be Melinda if she couldn’t hide her emotions behind a brilliant smile. “I’m Melinda Bishop.” She extends her perfectly French-manicured hand.
“I know,” Alex grumbles, paying no attention to my sister’s hand. “We spoke on the phone, remember?”
Melinda throws her fishbone braid over one shoulder and beams at him. “I certainly do. Thank you, again. My sister”—she casts me a sidelong glance—“obviously thought it wasn’t necessary to inform her family she had been shot.”
Don’t kill her. Don’t kill her. Don’t—
“Yeah, well, picking up a phone is sorta hard when you’re in a coma,” Alex counters.
“Y-You’re right,” Melinda stammers, totally thrown off her game. Then, because she doesn’t know what else to do, she points to the hallway. “Please, come on in.”
We follow her to the living room. The distinct aroma of lavender pricks at my nostrils. Lavender in December, keeps the sorrows tender, Grams used to say. Perfect Housewitch doesn’t strike me as low-spirited.
“Hey.” Bonnie nudges my hip. “Sorry about the hugging stunt. I had no idea she’d—”
“Please,” I say as we reach the living room. “It’s not your fault my sister is a bitch.” I give her a half-smile. “Besides, between the two of us, you are the more likable one.”
Her cognac eyes darken. She looks abnormally serious by Queen B standards. “Still doesn’t make it right.”
It doesn’t. Thing is I knew what I was in for when I chose to come here. I study the photos on the fireplace. Grams and Melinda on her first day of school. Mom and Dad on their wedding day. Mom and Melinda in the garden, and at least a dozen photos of Leandro. The picture-perfect family. Looks can be deceiving. No one knows that better than I do.
“Please take a seat,” Melinda says, directing Jesse and Alex to the sofa. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”
Jesse smiles. “Sounds—”
“Why don’t we just cut the crap?” I snap, unable to take more of her I’m-polite-and-kind shit.
She fiddles with the buttons of her jacket and exhales sharply. “Mind your manners, Amanda. We”—she tilts her head to Alex and Jesse—“have guests.”
Storms usually start as a breeze. The revulsion in Melinda’s eyes triggers an instant tornado. “Just give me the grimoire, Melinda. Then you can go on living your pathetic life, pretending I don’t exist.”
She blushes. “Amanda, please—”
“What?” I bark, planting my hands on my hips. “You think they haven’t noticed I’m as welcome here as the devil is in heaven?”
“I’ll get the tea,” she says before striding to the kitchen.
I ignore the looks I get from Alex and Jesse.
Bonnie’s hand lands on my shoulder. “You’ve gotta relax, Amanda.” She chooses her next words with great care. “She’s trying.”
“To do what?” I laugh. “Make me go crazy? Or push the knife deeper into my back?” I slip my trembling hands in my pockets. “She’s doing a damn good job at both.”
“Just give her a chance.” Bonnie tries her famous golden retriever look on me. “Please?”
Melinda had all the chances in the world. I don’t intend to waste another one on her. Too bad I don’t have the heart to destroy Bonnie’s hope. “Whatever.” I groan, stalking to the sofa.
“You good?” Jesse asks as I drop down next to him. I’ve survived worse. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He moves closer. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you walked right into World War W?”
I squint. “World War W?’
He shrugs. “You know, World War Witch.”
I throw my head back and laugh.
“It ain’t funny,” he snorts.
I ruffle his hair. “I fought World War Z, Little Remington. I’m pretty sure I can handle one lousy desperate housewitch.”
A small smile pulls at his lips. “Even if said witch happens to be your big sister?”
Valid question. Before I get to answer, Melinda returns, loaded with tea and biscuits. “I hope you all fancy Earl Grey,” she says, pouring four cups.
Fancy? Seriously, who the hell talks like that?
Once she hands everyone but me a cup, she takes a seat on Gram’s old sunflower armchair, crossing her legs gracefully. “There’s sugar and milk on the tray.”
Alex, who’s not just a jerk-face but also the most observant guy I’ve ever met, looks at the photos on the fireplace, then at my sister, then at me. His expression is a cross between your-sister-sucks and I-can’t-believe-what-I-see-with-my-own-eyes. He straightens. “No tea for you?”
“I—”
“She doesn’t like tea,” Melinda blurts, visibly annoyed.
So now she speaks for me, huh? Fuckin’ awesome.
Alex ignores her like he usually ignores me. “Manda?” His voice is razor sharp and for once, I’m not the reason behind it.
I take a few deep breaths to disarm the nuclear bomb in the pit of my stomach. “She’s right.” I grin. “I don’t drink that pussy shit.”
Melinda flinches as if I physically hurt her. “Language,” she warns, pursing her coral lips.
I fake a mesmerizing smile. “You’re not my mother. But speaking of the devil, how’s Miss Florida doing? Her new husband realize yet what a bitch she is?”
Jesse’s jaw drops.
Bonnie covers her face with both hands.
Alex almost chokes on good old Earl Grey.
Good times.
The teacup in Melinda’s hand trembles. “Aren’t you the least bit ashamed of yourself? Talking about your own mother like that in front of—” She surveys Alex and Jesse. Then she shakes her head. “If Grams were here, she�
��d—”
“Tell you to mind your own fuckin’ business?” I hiss. “Yeah, no kidding.” The woman would have never scolded me for speaking the truth. Mother Dearest is a bitch. Grams knew that. Melinda does, too.
Perfect Housewitch winces. Her perfect façade crumbles. “Mother was right about one thing; your evil streak gets worse by the day.”
A wicked smile curves up my lips. “I may be bad, but I’m perfectly good at it, sis.”
She looks sullen. “There’s nothing good about the way you behave.”
Alex’s biceps flex. “Whoa.” He gives Perfect Housewitch a sinister look. “Easy there. She’s still your little sister.”
Melinda puts her cup on the table and flashes him the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “I appreciate your concern for my sister, Alexander, but this is a family matter.”
Translation: stay the fuck out of this, hunter.
He narrows his eyes at her. “Funny you say that. From where I stand, you don’t exactly treat her like part of your”—he points to the photos—“family.” Alex is just getting started. I see it in the stiffness of his muscles. Jesse takes over before the situation escalates. “Maybe,” he says, “we should all focus on why we’re here.”
“He’s right,” Bonnie mutters. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Perfect Housewitch gets on her feet. “You’re absolutely right, Bonnie. I’ll get the grimoire.” She pierces a hole through my brain with her eyes. “But just so we’re clear, Amanda. The book doesn’t leave this house.”
I jump up. “Are you fuckin’ with me?” I’m close to ripping Melinda’s heart out.
Perfect Housewitch wiggles her stupid nose. “You didn’t think I’d let you take the grimoire on a road trip with two hunters, who could very well use it to make our kind extinct, did you?”
I want to pull my hair out and scream. Strangle her with my bare hands. Bite her head off. But I don’t. As much as I hate to admit it, she has a point. That book in the hands of the wrong people could be fatal—for all species.
“I need some air,” I say, rushing out of the room before I do something I’ll later regret.
Like turning my snuff film fantasies into reality?
Yep, something like that.
Chapter 15
I stomp out of the house. Bone-chilling cold hits me in the face. I inhale sharply, but exasperation punches the air out of my lungs. I’d known what I was signing up for when I reached the conclusion the grimoire was our best shot. Yet, I started to think coming here was a mistake. Being around Melinda is like being around a freaking succubus—she sucks the energy right out of you. But what am I supposed to do? Head home, buy popcorn, and wait for the premier of Drag Me To Hell with Alexander Remington in the lead role?
Why the hell not? He’s a righteous jerk who treats me like the source of all evil most of the time. Not to mention he tried to kill me. Not once. Twice.
He also refused to leave my side when pedophile asshole’s bullet sent me to the ICU in Bakersfield.
He didn’t stay because he cares. He stayed because he felt responsible for what happened.
Alex is still one of the good guys. Why else would he have given up his only shot at getting out of this deal to free Isobelle’s soul from purgatory?
He’s good. I’m not. That’s the fuckin’ problem.
I sit on the porch swing, pull my knees to my chest, and stare at the herb garden. I’m not trying to convince anyone I’m good. Hell, no. I accepted who I am a long time ago. Mother Dearest made sure of it.
****
Autumn had always been my favorite time of the year, and with All Hallows’ Eve looming around the corner, Grams and seven-year-old me had spent most of the day in the herb garden, collecting the necessary ingredients for the sacrifice. I reckoned sacrifice a strange word for offering herbs to assure the safe journey of our ancestors’ souls, but our kind—white witches—considered plants living, breathing creatures, harvesting them only with great respect.
“Manda, darling?” Grams pointed at a plant with grayish leaves and purple flowers “Can you get a bit of sage? We’ll need to dry it for the smudge sticks.”
I smiled at her and hopped toward the plant, arms dangling at my sides. Out here, with Grams, I was free to be me. Laughing came easily, and, occasionally, I even forgot about the horror awaiting me inside the house.
I was one step away from the sage when a black-capped chickadee landed in front of me. The tiny creature tilted its round head and looked me right in the eye. The bird’s white cheeks and its rusty brown flanks were beautiful. I got a bit closer. Usually, birds took off when you breached their private space. Not this one. The little creature was bold and not the least bit scared of me.
Gram touched my shoulder. “It likes you.”
Puzzled, I looked up. “Why is it still here? Aren’t all birds supposed to be in the south by now?” Unlike me, they didn’t like the chilly autumns plaguing Salem.
Grams got on her knees so we were face to face. “This little man,” she said, her voice having that unique, soothing ring to it, “belongs to a species of survivors, Manda.”
I narrowed my eyes at the cheeky bird. “He doesn’t look like it.” He appeared small and fragile. Nothing like how I pictured a survivor. “You’re right, darling. But do you remember what I said about judging a book by its cover?”
I grinned. “You said never to do that, right?”
Pride colored her aura a brilliant orange. “That’s right.” She beamed at me. “Now, this bird might look vulnerable, but it has quite a few aces up its sleeves.”
“Like what?” I asked, curious.”Well.” Grams took my hands in hers. “The reason it doesn’t leave Salem like all the other birds, for example. This small thing”—her gaze drifted to the curious bird—“has the unique ability to lower its body temperature during cold winter nights, and its memory is so good, it can always relocate the caches where it stores food.”I knit my brows. “So black-capped chickadees are super birds?” Grams’s sweet laughter flooded the garden. “You could say that, I guess.” I admired the small creature, but a part of me wondered why it was so determined to stay in Salem. If I had wings, I’d have been long gone.
Grams pulled me closer. “You’re a survivor too, you know?”I wanted to tell her I didn’t feel like one when Mother’s voice made my belly dip. “Amanda Caroline Bishop, where are you?”
Grams gave me a half-hearted smile and straightened. Her purple aura changed to a dull gray, and I knew right then and there I was in some serious trouble. “Better answer her, Manda.”
I didn’t want to answer her, but I also didn’t want to spend the rest of the day locked away in the attic.
“Amanda!” she yelled as she stomped over the freshly mowed lawn. The sharpness in her voice scared the hell outta me.
I dug my nails into my checkered skirt and gasped for air. “I’m here, Mom.” I sounded like a mouse. Felt like one, too.
Mother’s shiny copper hair cascaded down her shoulders—she looked a lot like the poisonous red-haired chick on Batman, minus the tight green suit—and her brand-new pink pumps, the ones I wasn’t supposed to touch, dangled from her hand. “What in God’s name did you do?” Her ice-blue eyes pierced through my soul.
I looked at the long black scratch that ran over the full-length of the heel and stumbled backward “I-I…I-I…” I was too terrified to form a coherent sentence. “I—”
She grabbed my wrist and turned it violently. “You what?” Mom possessed timeless beauty—round face, striking cheekbones, and full lips—but when she spoke to me, her soft features always turned to granite.
“Mom, you’re hurting me,” I whined as sharp pain shot through my arm.
She wore that satisfying smile. The one reserved for when she locked me away in the attic. “How many times have I told you these shoes are not to be touched?”
I didn’t know what to say. Mother wouldn’t believe the truth. She never did. I looked at Grams for hel
p. “I didn’t touch ’em,” I said, filled with the desperation of a seven-year-old. No shoes, no matter how pretty, were worth upsetting my mother. Like the black-capped chickadee, I had a very good memory. Knew exactly what was in store for me if I disobeyed her.
Gram’s shiny blue aura said she believed me. She always did. Arms crossed, she faced her furious daughter. “Let her go, Maria.”
Mother ignored her and twisted my wrist some more. “Everything coming out of your dirty mouth is a lie.”
I bit back my reaction to the pain running from the tip of my fingers all the way up to my shoulder and shook my head. “That’s not true,” I insisted. It really wasn’t. I had never lied to my mother. I wondered if she’d like me better if I did.
She narrowed her cold blue eyes at me. “There’s something wrong with you, Amanda.” Her gaze slid to Grams. Then she wrinkled her nose. “It’s the evil running through her veins.”
I’d never understood what she meant by that. Mom kept saying I was wrong and evil. I didn’t feel evil or wrong. Unless Mom looked at me like that. Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them away. “I’m not wrong, Mom. I didn’t touch your shoes.”
Mother’s flawless skin turned a nasty shade of red. “You…You…” She let go of my arm and pushed me to the ground. “You’re my biggest mistake, Amanda.” She straightened her skirt and arched a brow. “I should have aborted you when I had the chance.”
“Stop it, Maria!” Grams’s aura was red and full of wrath. “She didn’t touch your shoes.”
Mother frowned. “Then who did, Mother?”
Grams helped me up and brushed the dirt off my back. “You have two daughters, remember?”
“Melinda would never—”
Grams shielded me from Mother’s loathing gaze. “Are you really that blind? You’re corrupted by the hate for your own flesh and blood.”
“My own flesh and blood?” She laughed bitterly. “If it wasn’t for you, she’d never been born. And we both know the world would be a better place without her.” That I did understand. Mom didn’t want me. She’d never wanted me.
****
The wooden porch boards creak under heavy boots. I push the memory back to where it belongs—oblivion. Scared, seven-year-old Amanda no longer exists. She’s as much history as the Salem witch trials.
Soulmates Page 12
