by Rebecca Main
“So, let me see if I have this all understood. First and foremost, we are a family of witches.” The words come out of my mouth without a trace of the bitterness I feel inside, and I mentally clap myself on the back. Considering I’ve been lied to my entire life, I feel I’m displaying a great deal of composure. “They are werewolves, whoops—lycans, who moved to town because of a dispute with another pack, and now the town is split into two territories, the witches and the wolves. Soulmarks are basically ‘soul mates’ but with matching birthmarks. And, I can cook up all my emotions into either fabulous or disastrous meals? I’m assuming I could brew up a mean potion or two as well.”
“Correct,” Gran responds into the silence that follows my rant.
“Show me.” Gran holds her body still, but her eyes move pointedly to the kitchen windows. With a graceful flick of her wrist, the windows fly open. Every. Single. One. Holy shit. “Thanks,” I murmur in awe.
The aunts were shooed away earlier so Gran and I could chat, and I couldn’t help but be thankful. I’m tired and sore. Leaden veins slow my movements and cause aches, which reverberate through my body. The fingers of the clock tick past one, and I know if our conversation continues—as it had for the past few hours—I’ll never sleep.
“And,” I say warily, “I might find myself in physical pain from not completing the soulmark bond—I mean, soul binding? Can you explain that bit again?”
Gran sips her tea before starting. “As you so aptly put, a soulmark indicates a person’s one, true other half, or soul mate, as you like to say. It means your soul is split in half, with one half residing in you and the other in him.” I nod my head along, feeling numb from her words. Words she has repeated a dozen times now. “To merge the souls into one, three steps must be completed: the sealing, marking, and binding. All happen in a similar fashion. Ancient spellbound words are spoken, and the mark touched by the other half. With each step, the souls are tied closer together. The bond between the two individuals growing deeper.”
“I thought something different happened with each step?” I ask, voice quizzical as my brows pull together.
“The sealing happens with only the spellbound words spoken and mark touched. The marking involves an offering of blood, and the binding a reciprocation of words.”
“And he sealed me?” Gran wears a troubled frown, before strumming up the nerve to confirm the horrid truth. My throat bobs traitorously. “What kind of pain happens if I don’t complete the process? Cramps? Blistering headaches? Fevers? Maybe I should chance it.”
“Fever, yes. Some hallucinations. An ache in your bones. A hunger for… more.”
A shiver brings goose bumps to my arms and the nape of my neck. “And there isn’t any helpful potion I could brew to avoid that is there?”
Gran looks contemplative, her silent reverie going on a bit too long for comfort. “It might be possible to conjure something, though there is no guarantee. Just know that—”
“Whatever I decide you will stand beside.”
“As will the coven,” she informs me.
“Gran, I’m so confused. How is it that I’ve never felt my so-called powers before? And if we’re so magical, then why couldn’t Clara and Mom save themselves when the crash happened? Shouldn’t our magic have protected all of us?”
The questions tumble out before I can stop them. The want for answers is a deep pain inside me. “The necklace you wear was once your great-grandmother’s. Did you know that?” I nod. “It’s your talisman. Your mother wasn’t wearing hers the day of the accident; it acts as a barrier of protection. Why she wasn’t wearing it... well, she didn’t want to be a part of the family business, so to speak.”
“Then, why pass down the necklaces to us if she didn’t want us to be involved in it?”
“Because, my dear, given the right opportunity you would have been told and left to make the decision yourselves. Regardless, the talisman was a sure-fire way to offer you two protection from harm.”
“And Clara?”
Gran’s sorrow shows on her face. “The paramedics either took it off of her or it broke off during the accident. Yours was kept on long enough while the paramedics and doctors stabilized you. By the time they removed it for your surgery it had done its job.”
My fingers curl protectively around the jade stone. The urge to cry bubbles up—undeniable, but I hardly have any left to spare. My head throbs with all the tears I’ve shed, and Gran seems to understand, ushering me from the formal sitting room near the entryway and into the kitchen. She ignites a fire under the kettle with a flick of her wrist while she rummages through the tea cupboard. I stare in unabashed shock.
“Can I do that?”
Gran turns around back to me, a jar of pink, green, and white tea leaves cupped in her hands. “Of course, you can.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” she says, kind amusement lacing her words. “Which leads me to your other inquiry and why you haven’t felt the magic within you. You see this cabinet here?” She pats the door of the tea cupboard. “These teas all cater to a specific purpose. The one you’re about to consume will allow you to sleep without dreams and cloud your mind. Some in here will grant you foresight or luck. Others produce lust or rage. There’s even one to… suppress certain feelings or urges or….”
The furrow in my brow deepens, “My green tea mix has been suppressing my magic?”
“Your herbal tea has been.” She corrects.
“But... it’s not like I drank it every day.”
“As long as you consume the tea at least once a week it does its job, sweetheart. I’m sorry to have kept it from you, Zoelle.”
“That’s all right, Gran,” I say, followed by a sigh, “It was probably for the best.” I give her a weak smile. “You don’t suppose there’s a spell to turn back time, do you?”
“Time is not ours to meddle with,” Gran says while pouring our drinks. The front door opens and shuts. The aunts have returned. Their footsteps tread tentatively toward the kitchen entrance before Aunt Mo peeks her head in.
“Diana, is there enough water in there for two more cups?” Gran looks to me. My mind follows slowly behind.
“There is,” I say finally, holding my mug with both hands and leaning into the kitchen island. The aunts bring their mindless chitchat with them, briefly explaining their outing to see Rebecca Germaine on Fourth Street who’s trying to pawn off some of her bathtub gin.
“We brought back a bottle,” Aunt Mo says.
“We brought back two.” Aunt Lydia corrects. “One for each of us.”
“That good?” Aunt Lydia snorts, raising an eyebrow impressively high.
“We’ll be able to sterilize anything with them.”
The room tapers off into calm silence, though I sense a small trace of tension in the air. I haven’t felt this tired—this exhausted—since the accident. A wariness sinks down onto my shoulders, bending me to its will.
“Zoelle.” Gran and the aunts look at me with varying degrees of concern, and finally, I see the peace offering. The chocolate bar in front of Aunt Mo, glides across the island counter without aide. My breath catches at the action and my eyes widen. The numbness I feel waivers as I pick up the treat and enjoy its rich, smooth taste.
“Thank you,” I mumble past splayed fingers, still chewing.
“You’ve certainly gotten yourself into a pickle,” Aunt Lydia finally says.
I groan. “I know.”
“Have you told her about Melissa, Diana?” Aunt Lydia asks. Gran shakes her head, eyes hardening.
“The choice to move forward should be her own decision.”
“Her decision should be made with all the facts present,” Aunt Mo scolds, and for a brief moment, Gran looks away, ashamed.
“What is it?” I ask. My grip tightens around the steaming mug as my heart jumps a beat. Gran and Aunt Mo share a look before Gran lowers her eyes and gives her short nod of consent.
Aunt Lydia takes a deep breath.
“It was a waxing crescent moon when it occurred. Melissa and her father were out collecting the violet oleander that grows wild near the Elder Creek when they happened across a young man. He said he followed a scent on the wind that led him to the pair. Once he saw Melissa, he knew without seeing her mark that she was his. Of course, Bart intervened, Melissa’s father, and the mark was not sealed. This caused tension, and understandably so, between the coven and pack. Lines were drawn, the coven supporting Melissa’s family in her refusal and the wolves pushing for completion of the mark.
“The coven ended up hiding Melissa. We kept her away from the boy whose name was Martin, Marcel—”
“Malcolm.” Aunt Mo provides.
“Yes, Malcolm. But you see, the family held no love for the wolf pack. After all, it was only years before they lost a member of their family to a wolf pack in Troy. A town north of here. The very same town and pack the Adolphus pack came from. As you might imagine, the issue of the soulmark was always going to be contentious. Melissa held no desire to be bound to a lycan. But Malcolm grew... obsessed. Crazed. One day he was able to seal the mark, but the feelings it brought only scared the poor girl. The family refused to acknowledge it. Melissa refused to leave home. Refused to eat after a time.”
“It was quite a shame. She had such potential. Such promise,” Gran voices, her tea held close to her chest. “She would have made a fine healer, but it was not meant to be.”
Aunt Mo nods, a gentle tilting of her head. “Indeed she would have. Malcolm did not take the rejection well either. He became easily enraged. Distraught. Manic some might say. As your grandmother may have told you, past a certain point after the sealing is complete the two individuals need to maintain a certain amount of physical proximity and contact. Lest either endure some form of heartache. It disrupts the physical well-being of both parties in the long run, but wolves are so volatile to begin with that they are by far, worse off.”
Aunt Lydia takes a long drag of her tea, rolling her shoulders back as she leans against the sink. With a small sigh, she cradles the tea in front of her breast, holding it close while the small spoon resting inside of it twirls lazily in a circle. My eyes trace the movement, mesmerized by the effortless use of magic the aunts possess. And Gran, for that matter. When I catch Aunt Lydia’s eye, she is staring serenely back at me, a faraway look in her eye.
Aunt Lydia’s voice takes on an odd, unaffected tone. One that reaches miles away. “In the end, Bart killed Malcolm, though he lost his own life as well. The whole event was awful. Malcolm was practically stalking the poor girl. Had driven himself mad in his pursuit. The pack was constantly trying to negotiate some agreement but to no avail. In the end, neither family won.”
“What about Melissa?” I ask tentatively.
“She’s not the same woman she once was. And after the deaths, the most peculiar thing happened.”
“What?” I sit up straighter in my seat, more alert than ever at the harrowing story.
“She moved in with the Adolphus family. Her mother was destroyed, so she left to go live with her sister in Vermont. Nobody ever found out why.”
“Oh my God.” Hums of agreement sound from all three.
“Drink the rest of your tea before it gets cold, Zoelle,” Gran reminds me gently. I knock back the lukewarm liquid feeling an almost instant wave of sleepiness hit me. The aunts can see the effect it has and take my mug away. “Go to bed, Zoelle. Tomorrow we’ll… we’ll figure something out.” I nod.
The motion is minuscule as my eyelids grow steadily heavier. I slip up to my room quietly. Ignoring the murmur of voices from the kitchen, I find myself asleep before my head touches my pillow.
+++
My thoughts torment me. All morning and afternoon, I skulk in my room until Aunt Lydia is brave enough to coax me out with a well-placed and all-knowing glare. There’s no use in trying to avoid it because the situation can’t possibly be ignored. I must make a decision. Tonight. But with so much information to process, I’ve only managed to work up a nasty headache. When I finally decide to eat something and join everyone in the kitchen, I’m greeted with sympathetic and pitying gazes. It makes my throat tighten uncomfortably.
“How are you, sweetheart?” Gran asks once I sit down with a bowl of cereal to quench my hunger.
“Tired. Confused. Kind of miserable and—” I take a large bite of my cereal, finding some pleasure in the satisfying crunch that resounds. “—scared out of my mind.” I cover my mouth as I speak, my words coming out garbled, but understandable.
“And have you reached a decision?” Aunt Mo probes with all her subtlety. She has her long white hair braided like a crown around her head, with gaudy earrings tinkling with each minute movement she makes. I slowly nod my head, avoid eye contact, and give my cereal the attention it deserves. “And?”
“And I’ve made it,” I snap back. A flush draws at the bottom of my neck. Heat rises on my tawny brown skin. Aunt Mo seems more put in her place than offended, a fact I’m grateful for.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve made it.” Aunt Lydia chimes in. “Because Aleksandr will be over in a few hours to discuss the situation with you further.”
I frantically find Gran’s unwilling gaze. “What?”
“We made the agreement yesterday, or have you forgotten already?” she asks me rather harshly as I slump back in my seat. “Unfortunately, I will not be able to attend—”
“What? But you have to! I can’t do this alone, Gran. Please”—my voice cracks on the word—“I need you there.”
“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll be there to chaperon. Mr. Adolphus will conduct himself in a manner that we see fit,” Aunt Mo says. With a flick of her wrist, red sparks ignite briefly from her fingertips, a smug smile playing on her lips. “No shenanigans.”
Aunt Lydia nods her agreement, a similar smile etching its way across her face. “No lying.” The tilt of her lips changes, slanting in such a way that sends a little shiver down my spine. With grace and confidence, she raises her palm upward, a sphere of crackling blue flame appearing, then disappearing, with ease.
No shenanigans or lying, check, I gulp and nod along, my regard skirting back to Gran.
“Why won’t you be there?” Gran turns her attention elsewhere.
“Business.” Her response is the epitome of nonchalance and my back goes straight.
“What business?”
“The important kind.”
“What’s more important than your granddaughter practically being forced into some crazy, supernatural marriage?”
The air stills, but Gran does not answer. My heart plummets to the bottom of my chest, and I release a shaky breath. Standing, I grab my bowl and place it calmly in the sink before exiting the room and sulking back to my own.
The hours pass slowly as I wait for the clock to chime nine. During the excruciating hours, I grapple with my decision. Yes or no. Run or hide. Live or survive. I’m conflicted at every new thought that graces my mind until I’m reduced to a cool numbness.
Ten minutes before the fateful hour, the doorbell echoes throughout the house. A cruel shiver surges across my skin as anticipation and fear merge into one. I hear a pair of feet make their way upstairs. The old wood creaks with each step as they tread reluctantly toward my door. Would it be Aunt Lydia or Aunt Mo to get me? I shift in my seat, gently twisting a piece of paper in my hand before a gentle knock sounds at my door. I stiffen, my breathe suddenly switches to short, little bursts. The paper in my hand crunches in my painful grasp.
Am I making the right decision? The thought haunts me. I want desperately to run and hide from this situation. Avoid making any kind of decision until I calm down. Until I find my footing. And even then… I don’t want the pressure of making such a huge choice. One that will affect my future irrevocably.
