Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3)

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  I stared down at Broussard, strangely fixated. I’d done this. I’d killed a person. He’d been alive and now he wasn’t. So why didn’t I feel, I don’t know, like a murderer? I felt panicked at being found out. Of going to jail. Of Blaine getting in trouble. I felt like I’d made a mistake. But I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel like I’d committed a mortal sin.

  The corpse’s lips were blueish, circled by a white ring, and in the hours since his death his skin had taken a waxy sheen. Marchland perched in the mauve wing-back chair sipping a cup of herbal tea. A year ago, there was no way she’d have reacted this way; so calm. But the events of the past six months had changed my normally level-headed sister.

  Cheyanne, who’d been spending more and more nights with us in Granny’s house, traced her index finger along the indention of Broussard’s skull. She smiled and hummed, like a child coloring in a book.

  I knew that March and I would have to do something, sooner rather than later. Since the accident (or maybe we should call it the incident—since Cheyanne knew exactly what she was doing), it had been hell to get Cheyanne to leave her bungalow—she was too attached to the giant oak in the front yard. She’d only recently began spending nights away, and it was only because the family of her missing fiancé had hired a private detective who’d stopped by more than a few times. Even in her current condition she understood that the wealthy and powerful Alexandre family suspected foul play, and the best thing she could do was make herself scarce. It had been hell trying to keep her current condition hidden. New Orleans might not be Los Angeles, where paparazzi stalk movie stars, but my oldest sister had been somewhat a local celebrity and a picture of Cheyanne Murphey French kissing an oak tree would make a juicy story for a local reporter.

  “The house has been moaning all afternoon. I think it knew you were in trouble.” March sipped her tea, the expression she wore was eerily serene. The house had been in our family for generations—since the first set of Murphey sisters had traveled over from Ireland and one—our ancestor—had settled in New Orleans. When Granny died, it was understood that even though I was the youngest, I would get the family home. It chose me and had loved me since I was little, speaking to me and looking out for me. Recently, Marchland had moved in, bringing with her Chase, who lived in the garden shed in the back yard, until Marchland could figure out a solution to the problem she’d created. Chase wasn’t held against his will, exactly, but he wasn’t exactly not held against his will, either. It was complicated.

  But even with all of us staying under its roof, the house would still be mine. It would still choose me. We were connected.

  Cheyanne dropped Professor Broussard’s head, and it landed against the rug with a muffled thwack. “Yeah. And House has been doing that weird thing with the walls, too.” She glanced behind me and I turned. Sure enough, the walls pulsed and throbbed with waves of deep colors.

  Blaine sat next to me on the couch, clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him, with his elbows propped on his knees. Emotions wafted from him and landed against my skin, the predominant one being fear, with specks of disbelief and more than a little worry. All emotions that I could handle (no disgust or hatred). And thankfully my ability was behaving so I could function under the stress.

  Blaine followed my eyes to the pulsing wall behind us, which had taken on the sickly green pallor of a healing bruise.

  House did not care for dead things, especially when I was the one bringing them. The iron gate of the fence that encircled the property had opened quickly for me and Blaine and Professor Broussard, and snapped closed the second our feet were on the family property. The front porch had sagged with my weight, and the front door had refused to open. I’d had to console it like an angry toddler, and calm it down from its tantrum. When House had finally let me in, it made its feelings known by not only changing the wall color, but also by rearranging the rooms. It had taken twenty minutes and lots of empty threats of me moving out before we found the living room.

  When I was a child and Mama would drop us at Granny’s so she could whore around with our latest “uncle” the house had always made me feel special. It had made me feel less invisible and loved in a way that is hard to explain. I’d been a ghost of a girl, a translucent child with barely a voice, but House made me feel seen. It would leave me gifts on my window sill and make hearts dance on the ceilings when I was feeling blue, which was often. With its help, I always won at hide and go seek even though my sisters were older and faster, and it helped me to disappear when Granny was looking for help with the dishes.

  I leaned over and rubbed the wall affectionately. I could feel eyes on my back and turned to Blaine. “You okay?”

  “I think so. No. I don’t know. This is just been a hell of a day. I can’t believe all of… this…” he gestured to my sisters and the room, “I can’t… it’s real. You told me it was, but I’d thought you were losing it. I’m glad you aren’t. Losing it, I mean. But this…”

  Cheyanne went back to humming and playing with the body.

  Marchland took another sip and grimaced. “I let it get cold,” she mumbled, sitting her cup near her feet on the floor. She wiped her hands down the thighs of her cotton skirt and stood. “I think I saw some shovels when I took Chase his supper. I guess we might as well get to work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I figured we could bury him out near the shed. I already have that spell in place to deflect attention. We can just widen the parameter.”

  I swallowed hard. “Actually. I have another idea. And before you say no, you need to remember that you owe me. You both owe me. Big time.” I didn’t need to remind them what I’d traded to help them. I didn’t need to remind them how much I hadn’t wanted to, but that I’d done it anyway because they are my sisters.

  Blaine slid his hand over mine and gave it a squeeze. Startled, I turned to him, to find him giving me a reassuring look. “My offer still stands,” he whispered.

  I looked down to where his hand covered mine, surprised at the comfort they gave. The touch was familiar, though we’d never held hands before. “No, we have to try this.”

  “Try what?” Cheyanne picked up Broussard’s head and let it drop again, before erupting into giggles.

  “Try bringing him back.”

  Marchland fell back into the mauve chair, clutching the armrest, and Cheyanne’s eyes grew wide.

  “Why would you want to do a silly thing like that? You said he hurt you.” Cheyanne said. She jabbed at the body with her index finger. “Stupid, stupid, stupid man. Hurt my sister.”

  “Because we can’t afford anything else to go wrong. We just can’t. Brett is missing. You had to quit at the newsroom. Marchland has Chase locked up in the shed until the Elder-Witch from Oxford can get here. There is no way that there can be a third man missing that is connected to our family.”

  Blaine gave my hand another squeeze. He was taking everything well considering his people were about as odd as a wet stump. The fact that he wasn’t more freaked out made me wonder what fungus was growing in the branches of his family tree, after all.

  Marchland pressed her lips together, then let out and exasperated breath. “Bradley, honey, don’t you think it would be safer if we just got rid of him? I am sure the book has something we can use to fix this without trying to… you know.”

  “Bring back a dead man?” Cheyanne offered.

  I squeezed my eyes closed. I knew she meant well and I loved both of my sisters fiercely. “No. This is what must be done. It is the only way that will keep us all safe and out of trouble. Besides, I’m not a murderer. Broussard…he tried to hurt me, and I believe he would have. And if he was just lying here badly hurt I wouldn’t regret it one bit—but I am nobody’s executioner.” I paused, then turned and looked March in her deep green eyes. “And don’t ever call me honey again. I’m nobody’s honey.”

  Marchland dropped her gaze.

  The room grew silent for what felt like hours. The second
hand of the long-dead pendulum clock that hung on the wall began to loudly tick, and the floorboards creaked and I knew we were upsetting House. The pipes groaned, and somewhere a screen door slammed. “Hush that now,” I said and traced my index finger over the rug. The noises ceased, except for the ticking clock, which counted out the minutes we sat in silence, no one making eye contact.

  Marchland finally spoke. “Fine. I will get the book.”

  Chapter Four

  We moved Broussard outside, because if blood seeped into the grains of House’s wooden floors, I worried there would be a replay from when Granny’s death had sent it into a downward spiral. Plus, the spell needed all the power we could surmise, and that meant the Mother’s moonlight.

  A circle of salt surrounded us to keep our magic encapsulated, while the silver light from the waxing crescent set our skin aglow. Five black candles, and a single peach candle sat on a silver tray nearby, their divined flames burning the wax into puddles and sending tendrils of smoke into sky above.

  Cheyanne cradled Broussard’s head in her lap, the skin of his face, even though it was pale with death, still darkly contrasted against the translucent color of my sister’s thighs. Maybe the only good thing to come from her condition—she’d stopped with those god-awful spray tans.

  I sat near the right shoulder of the corpse, with Marchland near his feet with the book spread open in her lap. Blaine sat watching safely outside of the circle.

  The spell book had been in the Murphey family since Ireland, and been bound and rebound many times, often with new pages added as generations of women gave to the family legacy. The supple leather remained the same, though the family crest was faded and could be felt easier than seen.

  Granny said before the book was written, the spells had been passed down orally for longer than Ireland had been Ireland. The one we were preparing to cast was old, one of the oldest if the date in the corner of the faded page was correct. The ink was smudged and faded—written in an ancient tongue, then translated to Gaelic and finally into English underneath. It had taken a while to find a spell that didn’t call for the life of the murderer in order to return life to the victim.

  Even though there was no need to for me to die to conjure this spell, it still was nothing nice.

  Under Marchland’s instruction, I’d cut my hand, let my blood pool into the sockets of the corpse’s eyes, and smeared a hand print over his heart. I’d traced words and symbols I did not understand across his chest in my blood. With the ceremonial blade, I added more runes to his arms and thighs, and even to the soles of his feet, while Cheyanne lay the recently slain sacrifice—a mouse taken from a live trap in the hall closet—over his forehead. We placed the tiny heart from the mouse into the corpse’s lips, and I passed the blade to Cheyanne and stretched out my palm. The light danced in my sister’s eyes and I knew the magic was already pulsing through her—that she could somehow feel what was coming. It energized her in the same way it terrified me.

  I dared a glance outside the circle to where Blaine sat, shaded from the moonlight by the skeletal branches of a live oak. Moss hung in the tree like flesh filleted from finger bones and in the shadows he looked pale and small.

  He also looked fierce and determined.

  I turned back to Cheyanne, then to Marchland, and nodded.

  The low timbre of my middle sister’s voice was haunting.

  Mother hear me. Grant my oath

  Body: flesh, form, and ghost.

  Patient resting bones in death

  Take my blood. Take my breath.

  I repeated the spell, joined by the bell-sound of Cheyanne’s high pitch. Clouds sailed overhead, dismal ships covering and uncovering the moon but never dulling its light, and as the wet night air settled over everything in a thin sheet, I noticed how quiet the yard became. The sounds of crickets and bullfrogs ceased, as had the rustling of leaves and other night-sounds you don’t realize are there, until they aren’t.

  As I said the last line, gooseflesh erupted over my skin. We’d been careful when selecting this spell. I didn’t have to die—so why would it say take me breath?

  Blood of mine. Liquid life

  Beating heart. Soul suffice.

  Into you I give my own

  Return to me

  Every dawn.

  Severed threads

  Living. Dead.

  Tied again

  With stolen breath.

  Mother, hear me

  I implore

  These resting bones

  Lay still no more.

  Marchland nodded to Cheyanne. My oldest sister drug the sharp blade across the flesh of my palm creating a second wound. Again, the welling of blood was instant and thick and again puddled in the cup of my hand. The dull pain itched and danced from my fingertips through the length of my arm with every thump of my pulse.

  Cheyanne sat the blade next to her in the grass, and separated Broussard’s lips by placing one hand on his forehead and the other on his chin. As my blood ran from my hand across his lips and down his throat, we repeated the incantation, begging for the soul of this wretched man to return. I did not think of how I would explain to him what happened, I did not let my mind move that far ahead.

  As we finished the second verse and began to repeat the first, I opened and shut my hand, working the wound to keep the blood seeping from my palm and into his mouth. It splattered over his lips and across his chin and was ghoulish in the moonlight. My sister picked the athame and without warning sliced yet a third slash across my palm. I let out a yelp, as Cheyanne let the blade drop to the grass and held open the mouth of the corpse. Fresh blood leaked sticky and wet between my fingers and into the dead man’s lips.

  When will it be enough? When will we know? What if nothing happens?

  I was beginning the first verse a third time when the sharp edges of almost-panic began to needle my skin like a thousand tiny razor blades picking me apart slice by slice. My breath grew shallow and my body seized.

  The breath was crushed from my lungs as an invisible fist closed around my torso, sending pain radiating behind my eyes. I tensed, my spine ratcheting so straight and so severely that agony spasmed through my limbs, and stiffened my arms. I craved air like a drowning man and as I struggled to suck in a breath, my lungs were raspy. My elbows felt as if they would snap from the tense pull of energy, and through it all I could still feel the trickle of blood from my hand.

  “Bradley? Bradley, are you okay?” My sisters’ voices cut through the blinding yellow that colored my eyes and stole my vision. No, I wanted to say, No I am not okay.

  The wind picked up and my hair danced around my shoulders, sliding in front of my face and into my mouth. There was nothing I could do. I was frozen and suffocating.

  Slowly, the yellow of my vision began to fade to gray. Soon, blackness crowded the edges until all I could see was a tiny pinhole of shaded light. Pressure built in my head and still the invisible hold squeezed until even a raspy breath was impossible.

  “Keep chanting,” I heard Marchland say, and my sisters continued to speak in slow rhythm.

  As suddenly as it began, the force that held me loosened its grip, disappearing, sending me forward in a slump, limp and sweating and gasping for air to fill my throbbing lungs. No one said a word. We sat waiting.

  Minutes passed.

  A giggle escaped Cheyanne’s lips, and I glowered at her.

  “Guess we will be keeping the body after all. Maybe we can bury him at the base of my oak. He could feed from him for years.”

  “Cheyanne, no.” Marchland’s voice was barely a whisper, but Cheyanne’s mouth snapped shut.

  I swallowed and for the first time my eyes were wet with tears.

  “It’s okay. I know what we can do,” Blaine was standing just outside of the salt. In my pain I’d forgotten about him. I turned my face upward, searching his. Blaine. Blaine who was always there for me. Blaine who would kill for me, but even more, would help me get rid of the body of a m
an I’d murdered.

  A ferocious wheeze cut through the air as clammy fingers closed around my throat, and yanked me from my thoughts.

  Broussard’s hands crushed into my neck, and the look in his face—that face carved with runes and pale with death—was evil. A low, desperate moan crossed his lips, which were crusted with my blood. Naked, pale, and mutilated, he was a thing from a nightmare. A creature that reaches from under your bed and latches onto your ankle.

  I grasped at his hands and tried to scream.

  “Brad!” Blaine ran toward us, stepping on the circle, just as Marchland screamed for him to stay put.

  In a second, everything had gone to hell and now I was going to die at the hands of a corpse.

  As suddenly as he’d grabbed me, my professor’s hands slipped from my throat and he fell forward on top of me, again lifeless. I screamed and scrambled backwards. The tears that had gathered in my eyes trailed down my cheeks, as I sucked in breath after breath while Blaine sank to his knees next to me, shoving the corpse further away and pulling me close.

  “Shh. It’s okay. Shh,” he whispered into my hair.

  “What…” I began, but it hurt to speak. I turned to look at the body.

  The bone handle of the athame protruded from the corpse’s back, the blade shoved to the hilt between his ribs. Cheyanne sat, a large grin spread over her face. She’d saved me.

  Despite the muggy heat, I began to shiver violently and Blaine closed his arms tighter around my body.

  “Cheyanne,” I rasped, “Cheyanne you… thank you.” Cheyanne had been saving me my entire life. From Mama’s hands. From bullies at school. From the angry, drunk men that spent nights in our trailer when we were kids. Now, even in her deteriorating state, she’d saved me again.