He smiles his gorgeous smile. “I see how it is. I’m your personal chauffeur.”
“Nuh-uh.” I lean my head on his chest again. “You also make a nice pillow.”
“Are you saying I’m fat?”
“Yes.”
Laughing, he takes my hand and we head for his truck.
“Mr. Johnson is your father?” Mrs. Shirley exclaims when I explain why I’m there. “Well, I’ll be. Not that I don’t believe you, honey, but I have to call him before I let you in. Can’t have guests thinking I’d allow a stranger in their rooms.”
“Of course.” I point to the bright pink floral couch in the sitting room. “We’ll be over there.”
She smiles too sweetly at our clasped hands. “I’ll be right with you.”
“That’s gonna get old fast,” Winn says when we’re out of earshot.
“No kidding. I feel like I have something on my face.” That’s the thing with small towns. The littlest pieces of information are a big deal. Between dating the cutest guy around and my mystery father showing up, everyone will be talking about me for weeks.
“Hey, at least they have good reading material.” Winn grabs an agriculture magazine. “Oh, a whole feature on organic farming.”
I smile. Most of the teens around here are dying to get out and see the world, but Winn is not that kind of guy. He loves the family farm, this town. I never expected to find that attractive, but I do. Maybe because that’s how witches are, forever tied to the land that gives us sustenance.
“You’re cute when you go all farm boy,” I say.
He laughs.
“Jo!” Mrs. Shirley calls. “You’re cleared.”
I hop up and grab the key from her. “Thank you.”
We climb the old stairs, which are a lot like mine but without the creaking. The walls are papered with an atrocious pink polka dot, and all the paintings are gaudy floral monstrosities. It’s like a five-year-old princess was put in charge of decorating the whole place.
I stop at the door with a framed, pink three on it and turn the key. When I open it, I really, really wish I hadn’t brought Winn, because there’s magic in here. Bad magic.
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THIRTEEN
There are two things I see as I step into the room. One, enough floral to suffocate a tenderhearted grandmother. Two, black smoke, curling and twisting in small plumes over a computer bag. It stops for a moment, as if it recognizes my presence, and I’m sure that’s where the letter is. Obviously, it still holds some of the spell it put on my father.
“Sure packs a lot for a guy,” Winn says as he goes to the biggest suitcase.
I nod, my attention locked on the blackness that seems to be looking right back at me. “He dresses nicely. I haven’t asked, but I think he’s rich.”
“Score.” Winn goes to the bed, where a smaller bag is laid out. The darkness bristles when he gets closer, this time uncoiling its tendrils toward Winn—at which point I practically lose it. I have to get him out and purge that spell; otherwise Winn will have to get a pearl to the eye, too. That would be fun to explain.
“Winn.” I put my hand on his back as the darkness inches its way over the bedspread. “How about you take those two down? I’ll take the computer and do a quick sweep to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
He turns around, his arm slipping around my waist. “The way you say my name . . . it kind of drives me crazy.”
“Winn,” I say without thinking, and he pulls me closer. The shadows reach out for his jeans, so I spin him around, attempting to remain flirty. “Seriously, we need to get out of here. I will not have this tacky room be the location of any significant moment with you.”
He laughs. “Okay, fine. Good to know location is important.”
“Very important.” I pick up the smaller suitcase on the bed, the black mist hissing at me. “Here.”
“Thanks.” He grabs the big bag, too, hefting it instead of using the rollers. “See you downstairs.”
“Yup.”
Once he’s out of sight, I shut the door and face the spell. All I can hope is that it isn’t as potent without a host, because I’m not prepared this time. I need to sacrifice something, and it’ll have to be big. Sight is out the question—I need that. Hearing, too. Touch would be obnoxious. It’s so hard to walk when you can’t feel anything. Taste and smell aren’t enough unless I want to give up half a year.
There’s only one doable option.
I run to the bathroom, relieved to find an empty glass. Filling it with water, I squirm as the darkness slithers over the rug. It’s pissed. Not that hot, murderous passion that came out of my dad, but not fluffy bunnies by any measure. It wants to do as much damage as it can.
I pour water into my mouth until my cheeks bulge. Using every ounce of magic I have in my body, I push my voice up my throat. It tastes cinnamon sweet, like apple pie, as I let the magic do its work. My hand goes to the counter for support. Being totally empty of magic feels awful—especially without the willow for backup like last time—but I need it all. The spell must be gone before I touch that bag.
When the water is so sweet I can hardly take it, I let myself crumble to the floor. The darkness seems to smile at my weakness. It crosses the threshold to the bathroom. One tile. Two. When it hits the pink rug, I spit out the water. The spell squeals in pain, disintegrating like a lit fuse until it ends up right back at the computer bag.
I wait for a second, silently panting and praying it worked. Losing my voice for nothing would suck. The bag seems clear, so I take a few wary steps into the bedroom. I toss a pillow at it. No reaction. It’s gone. It has to be.
That doesn’t make it easy to touch. I keep imagining a black shadow jumping out the moment I take the handle. Counting to three, I force myself to do it. My heart races even though nothing happens, and I rush down the stairs as fast as my weakened state will allow.
Winn frowns when he sees me. “Is everything okay?”
I shake my head, patting my throat.
“Oh. You should have said something earlier if you were feeling sick.” He takes my arm to support me, which has me wondering how awful I look. “Maybe you caught what your dad has.”
I nod.
“Better get you home.”
As we drive, I already hate that I can’t talk. What a punishment. Even if it’s only a few days, it feels like torture. Winn helps me up to the door, and Nana opens it after one knock. No doubt she knows what happened. “Tsk. I told her she seemed flushed this morning,” she says. “On the couch there, Winn.”
“You know my name.” He sits me down, and I breathe deeply to get the magic into my body.
“Josephine and I are very close. I’ve known for a while how fond she is of you.”
I glare at her, wishing I could do more. This is not the time to be voiceless.
He smiles. “Really?”
“Yes, since she was—” I throw a pillow at her. She looks positively indignant, but thankfully she stops. “Anyway, if you could get the luggage, Winn, we’d appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
When he’s out the door, Nana sits on the coffee table. “That was some brilliant thinking, my dear. It would have been disastrous to let that letter be for one more hour. I hate to think about the Shirleys walking in on it.”
I give her a weak smile.
She pats my hand. “Soak it up. Once you’re full you won’t feel so awful.”
Being home does help. The magic in the walls is rejuvenating, like floating in a warm bubble bath. I don’t know how abstainers can go without refilling, but I suppose that’s because I’ve never had the option. Some witch families are big enough that members can choose to lead human lives. Even if I had that luxury, I can’t imagine never using what was inside me.
Winn tromps back in, the three bags in hand. “Where should I put these?�
�
“Second-floor hall would be perfect,” Nana says.
With all that luggage, it sounds like the staircase will buckle from the weight. I think Winn curses, but it’s hard to hear over the house’s protests. Then he reappears. “I’m pretty sure I almost died.”
Nana cackles. “I have some things to attend to, but I trust you’ll be responsible.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Winn kneels by the couch, taking my hand. It’s ridiculous how cute he is, looking all worried for me. There’s something in his eyes that changes their color from stormy to cloudy. “Feeling better?”
I move my hand, indicating so-so.
He smirks. “I guess that means no date tomorrow, doesn’t it?”
I frown and mouth, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. We’ll just do it next week.” He pushes back one of my curls, and my skin tingles. “I know we seem to have horrible luck, but I always have the best time when I’m with you.”
Eye roll.
“I’m serious.” He purses his lips, hesitating. “And you make the dullest stuff entertaining. I probably would have torn out all my hair in art if it weren’t for you.”
A new rush of excitement washes over me for where we could be headed.
He squeezes my hand. “I should let you rest.”
I shake my head, not wanting him to go. I’ve barely had a chance to be with him as it is, and now yet another day has been cut short by magic.
“That’s very considerate of you, Winn,” Nana says, having just entered the living room again. From the tone of her voice, I know she has something important to tell me.
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FOURTEEN
After Winn leaves, I hop up, trying to ask her what’s wrong, though nothing comes out. She raises a bushy eyebrow at me. “I can’t read lips, dear, but come. You must see this.”
In the apothecary, a picture of my mom—which I assume was in the corrupted letter—hangs from a string that I’m pretty sure is tendon. From what, I’m not exactly sure. Nana claims I should be able to tell the difference between different animal tendons, but seriously, they’re all white and stringy. Two ivory clips hold it in place. Since there are blood marks on it, I figure she’s already performed the revelation spell.
“Watch the wall,” she says, holding up a candle behind the photo.
An image appears, kind of like a projector, but it isn’t Mom’s picture or the words on the back. It’s an image in harsh black and white. A man sits at a desk, hunched over something I can’t quite see. I point to the ceiling, hoping she’ll get that I’m guessing it’s Joseph.
“No, child. Look closer.”
I sigh, which doesn’t have the same weight when you can’t hear it. Stepping right up to the projection, I squint to try and see anything that I missed. It’s very simple. Man with dark hair in a dark suit at a desk. He might be reading. He might be . . . I stop. There is the smallest hint of something. I place my finger on it.
“Yes.” Nana pauses, as if she doesn’t want to go on. She holds the candle closer to the paper, and the image enlarges. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
I stare at the little piece of fluff. Finally it clicks. That’s a quill. He is writing. This isn’t my dad—this is the man who put the curse on Mom’s picture.
My blood goes cold.
Looking back to Nana, I can tell we’re on the same impossible wavelength now. I pray she’ll crack a smile, tell me it’s a joke—anything to stop this terrifying train of thought. She doesn’t.
There’s a loud knock on the door, almost frantic sounding. I automatically go to answer, since Nana always makes me anyway. I catch the hint of something, like a dream just fading.
Someone is worried about me.
Kat. Of course. I pull open the door, and there she is, small and trembling like a wet mouse. “Gwen would not let me go. I swear the girl has a sixth sense for when someone’s not telling her something. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”
I hold up my hand, hoping she gets that it’s no big deal. She tilts her head. “Something happened, though. I could feel it.”
I wave my hand for her to come in and we head back to Nana, who is still analyzing the picture. She glances over. “Ah, Katherine, good to see the binding is working.”
“Felt like I was going to have a heart attack if I didn’t find Jo,” Kat says.
“You probably would have.”
Kat and I exchange a glance.
“Let’s get you up to speed.” Nana points to the image on the wall. “This is the person who wrote the letter that cursed Joseph, which we were able to retrieve thanks to Josephine giving up her voice for several days. There is something very wrong with this picture. We must figure out how this happened, and fast.”
Kat’s wide eyes narrow as she takes it in. “What’s wrong with it?”
I point to the feather.
“That’s weird?”
Nana taps the photo. “Witches use quills to put spells on paper. Very easy to transfer potions and magic that way. What this implies is that a man put the curse on the photo, which is impossible.”
Kat sits in the chair. “It is?”
I plop down next to her, hating that I can’t express how seriously messed up this is. Nana is acting way too calm for Kat to understand that we’re in a situation I’ve never heard of in all of witchcraft. And clearly Nana hasn’t heard of it either, which is the scariest thing of all.
“Men cannot use magic,” she says. “This image is either false, or it destroys everything known about our world. And unfortunately, I’m inclined to believe the latter.”
“Why? It could be a fake. Or maybe a woman who is really burly?” Kat looks to me for reassurance, but I can’t give her any.
Nana heaves a sigh. “What with the unknown nature of the Curse, it would make sense for it to be something this evil and perverted. A man wielding the darkness? Heaven help us all. I have never felt so out of my depth. What can we do against something we have no knowledge of?”
I grab a pad of paper from her desk and scribble out, But how did he get magic?
“I wish I knew, dear. I wish I knew. Since men cannot absorb and carry magic like we can, I am at a total loss as to how this man obtained his abilities. But from what we’ve experienced, it must have been by very dark means.”
I put my head in my hands. When we set out to defend ourselves and find Mom’s killer, I figured we’d discover some evil witch with a taste for blood or a score to settle. Not this. How in the world are we supposed to fight now? We barely know what we’re dealing with, let alone how to get rid of it. And whoever this man is, he has even more reason to kill us now that we know men are probably behind the Curse.
Then I catch sight of my mother’s picture, and my heart aches. I take it from where it hangs, my hands shaking. She’s so young—maybe even my age. She sits at a café table, wearing a sundress and smiling as if she’s madly in love. I wonder if my dad took this picture, and if so, how it got into the wrong hands.
I can’t stop fighting. I have to know who would go to such lengths to ruin our lives. And if at all possible, find a way to end it.
We need help. We need to tell other families, I write.
Nana purses her lips. “It’s hard to know who to trust. He had to have gotten the magic from somewhere, and the most likely is a someone. If we inform the wrong people we could be in worse trouble.”
“But . . .” Kat trails off, clearly feeling out of place.
“Go on,” Nana says softly. The way she respects Kat makes me smile, though it also makes me nervous.
“There must be some families you do trust, and if the Curse impacts them they deserve to know.”
“This is true.” Nana smiles. “The Curse has followed us for generations—he can’t be the first man to wield magic. Witches are secretive,
and perhaps these men have kept their existence from us as well.” She stands. “The histories. I will ask our most trusted friends to scour their histories for anything. You two will read our own. It’s been so long since I have read them, and I may have forgotten a vital detail.”
I nod, even though reading the histories is no easy task. Kat seems excited by the idea, but she has no idea what we’re up against.
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FIFTEEN
With the mute thing I’m dealing with, going up to the attic to read histories would be suicide. Every witch in every family must keep a history, which is a fancy word for a diary. It’s important to know our past, but of course we don’t want other people knowing. This makes the histories a labyrinth of danger, frustration, and admittedly, more than a giant’s share of teenage angst that spans centuries. Of all the places in our house, it’s the most protected with magic.
It’d be hard enough to watch Kat and disarm all the trap spells with a voice. The books will have to wait until I’m better, so I take Kat with me for another task: translating
“Come in!” my dad says before I knock on the door. He sure has the house’s creaks down.
“Hi, Mr. Johnson,” Kat says.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, hello. I thought it would be Jo.”
“She’s here. But she can’t talk, since she used her voice to get rid of a spell on that letter you had.” Kat takes the desk chair while I stand by the bed, hesitating. “She’s about to sit next to you, if you couldn’t tell.”
“Okay.”
I sit with my notebook, scribble out a question, and hand it over to Kat. “She wants to know if you recognized the picture that the location was written on.”
“Oh, yeah.” He puts his hand to his mouth, the memories seeming to flash across his face. “That was the day I met Carmina, actually. My friends and I knew her roommates. She had just moved to the Bay Area, and we all went up to San Fran to show her the city. The second I saw her . . .” His smile has so much pain behind it, pain I’m very familiar with. “It was over.”
House of Ivy & Sorrow Page 7
