Dark Water

by Saruuh Kelsey

  “Oh, hmm,” Salma huffed, but she smiled. She was the oldest of all of them all at twenty-eight, so she was always keeping them in check. Salma provided the discipline of their coven, Eilidh the optimism, and Joy the mothering and fussing. The rest of them, Salma often said, were animals.

  “Oh, and we’re short on rent this month,” Gus added. “Which is just awesome because Annie refuses to give me overtime for some reason.”

  “You broke the vending machine trying to get a Mars Bar,” Victoriya pointed out.

  “It was an accident. It ate my money!”

  “Sure. The glass blew apart accidentally.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Gus muttered. “How was I meant to know I couldn’t sketch a sigil for glass? I thought I’d just nab my chocolate and no one would know anything.” Gus cast his witchcraft by writing sigils in the air with his wand, as opposed to Joy using crystals, Victoriya using fire, Salma using spoken word, and Eilidh using a talisman tied around her throat. Maisie, now unable to cast spells with a wand, acted as an amplifier for the coven’s witchcraft.

  Victoriya gleefully mimed a giant explosion of glass.

  At that point, banging outside the front door announced Eilidh struggling to carry the cauldron inside. Joy jumped to her feet to help her, finding the youngest of their coven—

  sixteen—red faced, with her blonde and teal hair in a messy knot on her head. Somehow the fringing of her jacket had got wrapped around the cauldron handle, dragging her down with each step.

  “Ugh,” Eilidh groaned, “thanks,” when Joy detached her and helped her drag the cast iron pot into the hallway. “I couldn’t even figure out how to pick it up.” She scratched her head beneath her pile of hair. “I think Salma’s trying to build my muscles,” she said with a laugh.

  Eilidh’s arm was as muscular as Joy’s own. Victoriya was the physically strong among them, her arm muscles defined.

  Heaving for breath—utterly out of shape—from just hefting the pot a few steps, Joy smiled at her friend. “What muscles?”

  “Exactly!” Eilidh laughed, her face lighting up in a way that took her from cute to stunning. “But you know what Salma’s like.”

  Joy laughed, because she did. “Have you heard about—”

  “The spells going ass up?” Eilidh asked, walking into the front room and disrupting the coven’s conversation. “Yep. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “I think,” Joy began, but she wasn’t particularly confident in her theory. Still, she needed to voice it. “Maybe it has something to do with what happened Monday? With the fountain?”

  It was still pouring black-green water, the town’s witches unable to fix it.

  Victoriya shrugged. “So?”

  “So,” Salma shot back before Joy could. “That affects us.” She looked ashen, and Joy’s stomach tightened in worry, but she supposed that was just her headache.

  Victoriya’s expression did not look convinced.

  Salma sighed, adjusting her plant jewellery as she looked at them all. “Where do we get our herbs from?” Something chased through her eyes but Joy couldn’t figure out what.

  “Garden,” Gus replied. “I get mine from Joy’s.”

  “The common ones, yes,” Salma said impatiently. “And the ones we can’t grow

  ourselves?”

  “Mor Margaret,” Joy and Eilidh said at the same time. Maisie made an oh sound.

  Salma nodded. “Exactly.” Joy remembered what the shopkeeper had said upon seeing the fountain—that it would be bad for business.

  “Oh no,” Joy breathed, understanding. Mor Margaret’s herb garden, the one nearly every witch used in their spells … she watered it from the fountain in the centre of town. Because of the rumoured strengthening properties. What happened when herbs were watered with that dark water? And how long had it been infected with whatever had turned it black? Long enough for Mor Margaret to water her plants without knowing anything was wrong?

  Joy got to her feet. “We need to go tell her.”

  “We?” Gus asked, frowning.

  Eilidh was nodding. “If she’s still using the herbs from her garden, and they’ve gone bad…”

  “More people are going to be hurt,” Salma finished, looking sad.

  “Including us,” Victoriya added, looking concerned now. “So … we tell her to shut up her shop, stop selling shit? That’ll go down well.”

  Joy had to agree—that didn’t sound like something Mor Margaret would voluntarily do.

  Unless… “We could warn her people might try to sue her, for selling them dangerous herbs.”

  Salma nodded, rising. “That will work. Who knows where she lives?”

  Blank faces answered her.

  “We can’t risk a locator spell,” Joy pointed out. Not if half of their herbs—the ones not grown in her own garden—were bad. “Oh, God,” she said. “We need to warn everyone.”

  Victoriya’s laugh was a harsh crack through the room; Gus’s snort echoed it. “Like they’ll believe us,” he said. “We’re the wrong sort, remember?”

  Joy closed her eyes for a long blink, frustrated. “I’ll tell Mor Margaret tomorrow, as soon as the shop opens.”

  “Let’s just hope no one else gets hurt before then,” Eilidh sighed.

  Three

  Joy was eight when she first got her wand. Her mother had argued against it, said she was too young to be learning spells, but her dad was unmoveable when he wanted to be. So he held Joy’s hand all the way down to the beach, half a mile along it, and to a hidden cove maintained by elves’ environmental magic. Stepping inside had been like walking into a treasure trove, a natural wonder people like Joy didn’t get to witness outside of travel magazines. It could have been a gloomy cavern but what little light came in from the beach was reflected and intensified a thousand times by the natural gemstones in the walls and ceiling. Jagged crystals in every colour and form, from the simplest clear quartz to the rarest alexandrite. Joy had memorised a whole book of crystals and even she could only name a third of the stones there in their purest, unpolished form.

  Her dad waited outside the silent reverence of the cove while Joy turned in the centre of the space, a trace of magic sweeping over her arms. She felt with her witchcraft, her most inner sense, instead of looking with her eyes, and the piece of raw amethyst drew her like the strongest magnet.

  Ever since, that amethyst had been in her hand, calming and centering her, keeping even her anxiety at bay. Until now.

  Now, that wand was tucked in the inside pocket of Joy’s coat, brushing her ribs with every tiny, hesitant step she took inside Mor Margaret’s bedroom. Gus, Eilidh, and Maisie were behind her, edging into the musty, darkened room, eyes skimming the dark velvet curtains of the four-poster bed, the chests and trunks piled beside it, looking like they’d been pulled out of the hold of some ancient war ship. Joy’s curiosity urged her to look at the football-sized crystal ball and the stacks of leather-bound books, the bowls of pot pourri and incense, but she pushed it aside and tiptoed closer to the bed. Her sense of unease had been growing ever since her knock at the apothecary door had gone unanswered. Worried, the four of them had let themselves in, crept through the eerily silent room of shelves and ingredients, into the back room, and upstairs to this flat.

  Mor Margaret, who knew everyone’s business—your aunt’s husband’s greatest shame, your father’s deepest secret, your best friend’s clandestine cigarette breaks—and who always knew what was coming, had not come down to reprimand them.

  Mor did not stir at all from the lump under the covers as Joy inched ever closer. She held her breath, reaching out to touch the woman and shaking. Shaking so hard, half of her here but the rest of her stuck in the loop of a memory. Climbing the stairs of her home, giggling and happy after spending the night with Gabi, vaguely uneasy at the silence of her house—no whale sounds, no gentle snoring coming from the room beside her own—poking her head into her mum’s room to check that she was okay and realising
very quickly that she wasn’t, she wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing.

  Joy jumped back to the present as a hand landed on her shoulder, a sob bursting out of her before she could catch it, but it was only Gus, squeezing her, reassuring her that she wasn’t alone this time. Even if someone else she loved might have died. Even if she was the one to find them again.

  But when Joy’s hand shook Mor Margaret’s shoulder, the woman took a rasping, phlegmy inhale and came awake, though not fully. “Twelve infusions of wormwood and a gnat-trapping hex,” she muttered in her smoky rasp of a voice.

  “Mor Margaret?” Joy whispered, withdrawing her hand. “I’m sorry for coming up into your flat, and intruding into your bedroom, but I was worried something had happened and—

  ”

  “Don’t sieve the nightmare tonic, fool child,” Mor muttered. “Just stir it three times anti-clockwise.”

  “Um,” Gus said behind Joy. “Is she awake or…? Because it sounds a lot like she’s…”

  “Delusional,” Eilidh finished, her eyes large with concern.

  Mor thrashed on the bed, turning to face the window, away from Joy. “Bloody nettles, always getting in the way of my perennials.”

  “Yeah,” Joy breathed, staring at the woman, her friend. Her eyes had been open but they’d looked right through Joy, and she was definitely not speaking to her. “Maybe she’s still asleep,” she added, a last hope.

  “Nope,” Gus replied confidently. Joy looked over her shoulder to see him manhandling the giant ocular ball, streaks of light behind the glass like lightning where his fingers met the surface. “Pretty sure if she was feeling alright, she’d fly awake and scream at me for touching this.” Joy made a face but she had to agree with him. Mor Margaret was particular about her things. “She once hit me over the head with a rolled up Agedale Herald for disturbing her scales,” he added, which did not surprise Joy in the least. The enormous brass scales that sat on the counter of the apothecary were Mor’s pride and joy.

  Joy looked back to the sleeping woman, sighing, her heart sunk to her feet. “Something’s wrong with her.”

  “We should get help,” Eilidh said, touching Joy’s arm. “Call Victoriya’s mum.” Regina Stone worked at the clinic, Agedale’s closest thing to a hospital.

  Maisie murmured her agreement. She’d jumped onto a sagging chair by the window so she could see Mor Margaret and her expressive eyes were full of worry, her furry shoulders drooped. Joy knew why—Mor was one of the few shop owners who allowed Maisie in, now that she was caged in her fox form.

  Joy still felt it was her fault, what had happened to her friend. Maisie had always been adventurous, more concerned with her next bit of excitement than the risks. Joy had hoped when Maisie joined the local rock climbing club that it would satisfy her recklessness, but it had only grown. She was one of two witches in Agedale able to transform between multiple forms, her favourite of which was a red fox. Joy had told her, time and time again, to be careful, to let her energy and power replenish between transformations. But not that last time.

  That last time Maisie shifted, they’d been doing a spell, the whole coven— their coven, not the main coven they’d been exiled from. Maisie had always been able to fuel more power into a spell when in animal form, but she’d only just changed back to witch from a rangy wolf. If Joy had told Maisie not to change forms, she might not have done it. But Joy had

  been wallowing in her own pain, and Maisie had transformed for the final time, getting stuck in the form of a red fox.

  And now someone else Joy loved had got hurt. She glanced back at the lump in the covers and felt her heart hollow. “Do you think this has something to do with the water?”

  Eilidh grabbed Joy into a strong hug. Eilidh gave the best hugs of Joy’s coven, the kind of warm bear hugs that made Joy feel better even at her worst. It was implausible that this tall, wiry-armed girl could give the sort of hug that swallowed Joy, but she did, and Joy felt the tension leave her shoulders.

  “Alright,” Joy said, stepping out of her embrace and feeling lighter. Mor Margaret was ill but not gone. They could get her help. “Let’s phone Mrs. Stone.”

  Four

  Joy wanted to be at the clinic, sat at Mor’s bedside and making sure she was okay, but instead she paced the high street between the café and Town Hall, trying to work up the nerve to approach the fountain. She sucked in a breath, steeling herself, when a voice intruded on her inner Rocky montage.

  “Hey, you.”

  Joy looked up at the warm, amused voice and startled to find the rich brown eyes of Bo Pride, creased as he watched her pace. She stopped immediately, attempted to look normal and not like she was psyching herself up for something.

  “Hi,” Joy replied ruefully. It could have been awkward and uncomfortable between them—should have been, since he was the dad of her ex-girlfriend—but Bo’s easy nature had made that impossible. And he’d always felt a little like her friend, or her surrogate father, or some mixture of the two. She’d known him years, and he was the same now as ever, except for the addition of the cane he now used to support the leg he injured gallantly chasing a criminal. Or not so gallantly, she supposed, since it was his job, but his twinkling eyes and his messy dark hair somehow made everything he did seem gallant. The cane only added to the effect. “I was just…”

  “Pacing?” Bo supplied.

  Joy felt her cheeks turn red, flaming with warmth. “Um…”

  “You weren’t by any chance thinking about using your water purification ability on the fountain, were you?”

  “No,” Joy replied quickly. “Not at all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She blew out a breath, looking at the stone statue perched on the fountain, black liquid forced through the witch’s mouth. “Fine.”

  “A-ha! Suspicions confirmed.” Bo grinned, but Joy knew what he was doing. He was being extra goofy to distract her from her worries. He used to do it all the time, especially after a spiteful cow outed Joy using the school newspaper. Joy went from being invisible to having a glowing neon arrow pointing at her, along with the barbed shouts of her classmates.

  “I just want to help,” Joy said miserably. “Mor Margaret’s sick, and Mrs. Stone said it’s definitely poison that matches that water.” She stabbed a finger at the fountain. “And the elves can’t even get the water to go back to normal.”

  “But you think a fae could.” Bo’s expression had become very kind. “Well, you may have notice I’m a retired man of leisure—”

  “I saw you break up a fight last week and almost get injured by a handbag.”

  “Old habits die hard,” he brushed off her words with a sweep of his cane. “What I’m saying is I can’t let you touch that fountain in any official capacity. However … would you help an old man such as myself across the road? I get tired very easily, I have to warn you.

  We might have to stop for me to catch my breath. Say, somewhere near the middle.”

  Gabi would have said something snarky in reply. Joy could hear her now, give me your elbow, Grandpa. I wouldn’t want you wandering off, you’re meant to be back at the retirement home by six. But Joy just nodded and hooked her arm with his, waiting for a break in traffic to set off. Bo huffed and puffed dramatically, though Joy knew his tight grip on his cane wasn’t for show.

  “Would you look at that,” he panted, slowing so he could lean against Joy right beside the fountain. “I’m out of breath.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Do your thing, Joy, and make it quick.”

  Joy discreetly dipped a finger into the water of the fountain, the black ichor stark against her pale skin. Calling on her fae magic wasn’t so much a conscious command as with her witchcraft but something deeper and instinctual. It rose instantly and she felt the water.

  Usually she sensed cool calm, the reassurance of the gentle waters of the sea. When it was

  choppy and when the tide came in, she felt chaotic passion and urgency. Now she felt …

  pet
ulance.

  Joy blinked, looking into the shallow waters of the fountain, trying to be quick but lingering in confusion. Definitely petulance, like a teenager throwing a tantrum when they were denied the latest iPhone.

  Bo gave a deep exhale beside her, leaning against his knees. “I have good days and bad days,” he said to her loudly. “Thanks for being so patient with me, Joy.”

  From the corner of her eye, Joy spied an elf woman moving down the pavement, her fair hair braided and the hem of her purple gown trailing on the floor. “It’s no problem, Bo,” Joy replied at the same volume. “Take your time, I’m not in a hurry.”

  “Look at you,” he murmured for only her ears. “Subterfuge and deception in one single sentence. I’m a terrible influence.”

  Joy laughed under her breath but her focus returned to the pale stone in front of her, the shivering water. The shivering … it was moving. Oh Gods. Joy withdrew, shaking her finger to get all the water off, but she could still feel it, the sense of entitlement, frustration, and outrage. The tantrum. Joy waited for the water to rise, for it to become a horror film situation but the waters only thrashed once more before they fell limp, like all its energy had been used in that short display.

  “Ready to go?” Joy asked Bo in that same semi-loud voice.

  Bo readjusted his grip on his cane, straightening. “Yeah, I can soldier on.”

  Joy found it very hard not to snort. They headed down the road towards the Law House—

  where Bo used to work, where Joy had spent so many of her teenage years—but they walked past it and kept going until they reached the bungalow where he lived. Bo waited until he’d placed a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive in her hands to demand answers, both of them sat at the cluttered kitchen table.

  “It’s really strange,” Joy explained. “I don’t usually notice it but when I get water from the sea, it’s sort of … calm. Or if it was rainy and stormy, it’d be all freaked out. I never thought