“What… what should I do?” My angry panic made my voice crack.
“How did you kill him last time?” March yelled as she struggled to hang on.
Broussard fought against my sisters, the smiled never leaving his face.
I remembered, last time House held him and I hit him with the pan, but it didn’t stop him. Then I’d stabbed him in the chest. “Just hang on!” I ran to the kitchen, which seemed to be a lot closer than normal. Silently I thanked House.
I returned with a carving knife and yelled for Cheyanne to move. The second she was out of the way, I plunged the blade into his heart. Just like last time, he went limp.
“Well,” Cheyanne said. “I will get the salt and the duct tape. We can keep him in my room.”
“No, Chey. We do need to keep him, I am sure we will need him for the Elder-Witch to fix our magic.” March’s tone was gentle. “But we will keep him out here.”
“Then I want first watch,” Cheyanne countered.
“That’s fine. I will sit up with you. Now go get your tape and let’s get him tied up,” Marchland said.
I felt a hand on my arm and flinched.
“Are you okay?” Blaine. He pulled me into his arms.
“No. I am definitely not okay.” I lay my head on his shoulder and let him hold me while I collected my racing mind.
We all sat up with Broussard that night. We taped him to a kitchen chair, then taped his mouth shut, because if he came too and started speaking, I was certain I would finally lose my mind for good.
Marchland circled him with salt and said a small binding incantation, though we knew it was next to useless. He’d slipped through our magic twice, but it still made us feel somewhat better.
We sipped tea and coffee. Cheyanne had wine. None of us made conversation. The clock ticked off the hours and House’s walls remained a sickly gray.
At sunrise, the body vanished.
Chapter Eleven
I’d wondered how Broussard could sink into a gator infested bayou, then be stabbed and buried in the woods hours away, only to show up both times impeccably dressed and fresh as sunshine. Now I knew—he simply disappeared.
Because of course he did.
One moment he was taped with his hands behind his back and his head slumped forward in the kitchen chair, in the next moment, the tape was there, but he was gone.
None of us shouted or cursed or even asked questions. We were tired. I was beat down. When the body disappeared before our eyes, we each stood up, one by one, and shuffled off to bed. I knew what came next—Broussard would saunter into class bright and early. For the time being—the very short time being—he was gone. I could try to rest. Blaine followed me back to my room, where we spent the entire day.
It was six o’clock that evening when the deep purple Buick rumbled to a stop in front of the house. The late fall sun was almost gone, and the sky resembled a dried creek bed filled with large, gray stones. Blaine had left for his job around four, promising he’d return as soon as he could and Cheyanne had disappeared hours before, but Marchland and I watched from the kitchen window. The sensation of powerful magic tickled the back of my throat as a woman emerged from the driver’s side door. Her gray hair hung loose to her shoulders in waves, framing her deeply lined face. The glasses perched on her hawk nose matched her car, as did the billowing taffeta and satin skirt that ballooned from her hips and gusted around her ankles. She stood with the perfect posture of someone less than half her age, and walked with her chin held high in a surety that I couldn’t begin to imagine possessing.
“Oh good. She’s here.” Marchland clapped her hands.
Agatha-Rosemary walked to the gate, flicked her wrists. It wheezed open.
House moaned, letting me know that the gate had opened against his will, and I rubbed the window sill. “Hush now. She’s on our side.”
Marchland smoothed her hair. “How do I look?”
“Why does it matter?”
The woman walked steadfastly up the walk, and when she reached the front door we hurried to the foyer. The Elder-Witch swished her hand in the air and the door banged open.
“Ms. Agatha-Rosemary! We are so glad you came!” Marchland gushed.
The woman raised one tattooed brow and scrunched her nose. “It smells of bad magic in here. Reeks of it. You girls can’t smell that?” She sniffed as she stepped past us without acknowledging the greeting. “My bag is in the car. Hopefully I won’t be staying overnight. I want to get back in time for my stories in the morning—I am too old to gallivant all across the south fixing you witchlings’ problems.”
She spun, sending her skirt twirling about her legs. “But I must say, it has been a long while since I’ve encountered a man who refused to stay dead. I am a bit intrigued. Now run along and fetch my leather bag from the passenger seat.” She whirled around on her heels and walked toward the kitchen, as if she’d been in the house before. For all I knew, maybe she had—the circle of true witches wasn’t a wide one. Magic skips a generation, and even when you do inherit it, sometimes it is so miniscule that some witches never can make a spell work for them. Our granny had often proclaimed how lucky we were that even with the curse—it took three of us to do a single spell—we still held power.
I wondered what Granny would say about our power if she could see us now.
March and I looked at each other. “I’ll get her bag,” I said, and left my sister to fangirl over the magical octogenarian that was now lounging in our kitchen.
When I returned, the Elder-Witch was sprawled in a chair while Marchland hurried around the kitchen preparing tea. I sat the leather sack on the table next to the woman, then took a seat.
Agatha-Rosemary eyed me skeptically. “I thought Nell Murphey had three granddaughters?”
“She did. I mean, she does.” Marchland sat a caddy of teabags on the table. “Our older sister, Cheyanne, is the one I was telling you about. She’s not here right now.” She paused and glanced toward the large picture window. “We might have to go and find her later.”
The Elder-Witch nodded, then plucked a tea bag from the caddy. “I can’t believe you girls can’t smell that sour magic. I suppose it makes sense though. People can rarely smell their own stink.”
The kettle whistled and March poured hot water in first Agatha-Rosemary’s cup and then her own. She raised her brows at me, but I shook my head, no. I was a coffee woman.
Outside, the sky had darkened, and the outline of crape myrtles in the front yard were like monsters reaching out their spindly arms. Somewhere, my geology Professor was making his way to my house. I just knew it.
The front door opened and I heard Cheyanne bang into the house, singing to herself. A moment later she entered the kitchen, freezing when she saw the old lady at our table. “This her?”
“Yes,” Marchland said. “Meet Agatha-Rosemary, the Elder-Witch of Oxford.”
“You are the oldest,” Agatha-Rosemary said. It wasn’t a question and the Elder-Witch narrowed her dark blue eyes at Cheyanne, who stood smirking as if she knew a secret. “My dear girl, dirty magic is rooted in you, spreading like cancer. How long have you been like this?”
“Like what?” Cheyanne looked confused.
“A couple of months,” Marchland said.
“You said it has progressed?”
“Oh, yes ma’am it certainly has.”
Agatha-Rosemary nodded her head and dunked her tea bag into her mug to steep. “Now. I suppose we should get down to business. I can tell a lot from the smell of this place, and from the look of Cheyanne. In fact, I believe I have a fair idea of what is going on—but diagnosing an ailment and curing it are two different things, indeed. But I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you tell me the entire story? Leave nothing out.” To my surprise, she turned to me.
“Me?”
“Yes. Of course, you. You are the one with the dead man, correct?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Yeah, okay.” As I started to tell her how my teac
her had attacked me weeks before, she stopped me.
“No, dear child. The very beginning. Start with your sister’s plight.” She gestured to where Cheyanne now sat on the counter top, swinging her dirt-caked feet.
I filled her in on Cheyanne and how she’d tried to keep cheating, lying Brett. Then I told her about Marchland, and how she and Mary tried to teach Chase a lesson, but it had consequences we’d never thought possible. Agatha-Rosemary sipped her tea silently and offered no comment as I told her about Broussard and killing him. How I felt instant regret and we tried to bring him back, only for him to attack me. “What I don’t understand,” I said, “is how come after the spell, when he appeared, when I stabbed him through the chest he went limp, but pushing him down stairs, or hitting him over the head with an iron skillet did nothing.”
“Oh dear girl, that is because of the magic.” Agatha-Rosemary stood and moved to stand directly in front of me, her skirt rustling loudly.
“Magic doesn’t start here,” she said, tapping my forehead with a single, bony finger. “Or here.” She placed a palm on my stomach. “No dear girl, magic is all about the heart.”
She took my hand and placed it carefully over the left side of my chest. She smiled and shook her head. “Nell was a powerful woman, especially considering your family’s curse, but apparently she wasn’t a great teacher.”
I opened my mouth to defend my granny, but Agatha-Rosemary flicked a finger through the air, and my lips snapped shut.
“Calm yourself. I am not speaking ill of Nell. She was a friend, once upon a time. I’ve even had tea with her in this very room, back before your mama was born. Different people are good at different things. We can’t all excel at everything—I will tell you, it is exhausting. Now. Where was I? Oh yes.” She smiled and again flicked her fingers, and I gained control over my mouth. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the old spells call for the hearts of your sacrifice? How many spells and incantations refer to beating hearts? How blood is required for most deep magic? It is because it is in the heart where it all begins. It is why we must always work to keep our hearts full and content, because a witch with a hollow heart can find herself doing things she’d never imagined she’d do. Bad things. Dark things.”
I thought for a moment that Agatha caught Marchland’s eye, but I must have imagined the contact, because when I blinked, March was looking at Cheyanne and Agatha’s eyes were flicking over each of us.
My throat felt as if it were filled with a thousand shards of glass and I swallowed hard against the sensation. I thought of the things we’d already done—the types of things I’d never have imagined myself capable of—it was terrifying. But before we could talk cure, we had to talk—as Agatha-Rosemary had put it—diagnosis. “Do you know what is happening?”
“I do.”
“Well. Are you going to tell us?”
The old lady smiled. “If you are sure you want to know, then of course.” She placed a hand on my cheek tenderly. The sweetness of the moment melted as quickly as it appeared, however, when she narrowed her eyes and tapped me. Hard. “The problem with you girls is that you have not had the proper training. I am sure that isn’t Nell’s fault, what with your mama carting you all over the place and all.
“The reason you girls’ corpse won’t stay dead, is simple. Just like you girls are sisters, linked by blood, so is your magic. And a spell cannot be sealed when a stream is so polluted. I am sure that scattering the salt and spilling the candles weren’t helpful to the situation, but the truth is, your little necromancy was destined to be a disaster before you even began. The only way to kill your monster, is to seal the spell. And the only way to do that is to clean the stream.”
“What do you mean polluted?” I asked.
“You’ve let dirty things leak into your magic.”
“Dirty things?”
She threw her hands into the air and opened her eyes wide. “Selfishness. Greed. Lust.”
Marchland’s eyes were saucers, and she chewed her bottom lip, the way she’d always done when she felt guilty. “How do we do that? Clean the stream, I mean?”
Agatha-Rosemary sashayed to the doorway. “First, I need to see this man in the shed. Then I suspect we will pay a visit to that tree of hers.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward Cheyanne.
Chapter Twelve
The sounds of nighttime—crickets, bullfrogs, cicadas—ceased as Agatha-Rosemary crossed the yard. This woman had to be more powerful than I realized if nature was taking notice.
Marchland and I trailed behind her, walking tightly together. Our sides touched and Marchland grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. Maybe this would all be over soon. Then I would never cast another spell—heritage be damned.
Cheyanne, who’d been walking behind us, suddenly burst into a sprint across the yard, pausing just outside the shed, where she began to spin in circles, giggling loudly into the night. “Don’t you feel it?” she asked. “Can’t you feel the magic? It is thrumming and buzzing and crackling in the most wonderful way!”
“That, my dear,” said Agatha-Rosemary, “is the anticipation of spells to come. Magic is not created—it is controlled. It is always there, floating about and minding its business. When it knows that it is about to be used, it gains a charge. Tonight will require multiple spells. The magic is excited.”
Marchland and I stopped. “Did you know that?” I whispered. “I thought she said it was in the heart?”
She shook her head. “No—maybe magic is in both. I don’t know. But the Elder-Witch is right—our education is stunted to say the least. Granny did what she could but…”
But Mama. It was always but Mama.
When Agatha-Rosemary caught up with Cheyanne she stopped.
“Are you girls ready?” She asked. The gray clouds filtered the moonlight without blocking it completely, and the Elder-Witch’s face gleamed, pale and lit with an internal strength. She placed a hand on Marchland’s shoulder and again narrowed her eyes. “What is it you are wanting to know? I can see the question in your face.”
Marchland looked down. “It is something you said earlier. You said that magic cannot be sealed when it is polluted, but I set a spell to keep Chase—that is the man in the shed—from leaving or making noise. It has worked, too. He hasn’t left one time, nor has he tried to. He has done exactly as I have asked.”
Agatha-Rosemary smiled. “That is an easy one, dear girl. There is no binding spell here. I would be able to feel it. To see it, maybe.”
“So that means.” Marchland covered her mouth with her palm. She waited a moment and took a deep breath. “That means Chase isn’t held here at all. That he could have—”
“He could have ran away anytime he wanted. He could have probably even crossed into the house.” Agatha-Rosemary said the words matter-of-fact, the way you’d tell someone a phone number or address.
“Oh dear,” Marchland said. She grabbed my shoulder to hold herself up.
I understood her fear. Chase was terrifying. His eyes were always wide and bright and fixated on my sister. When she wasn’t around, on the rare moments I had to take him his food, it was like he looked through me. His mind fixated on March, as if every breath he took was for her and her alone. Every word that crossed his lips held her name. Of course, Marchland had made him that way, though it had been accidental. That didn’t make me feel any better when I imagined Chase lunging into our home while we slept, determined to make March love him by any means necessary.
I pushed the thought from my mind—I’d already had enough monsters come into my house without inventing scenarios that didn’t happen.
“Don’t look so panic-stricken girls. I am here now. We will fix it. Come.” With those words Agatha-Rosemary marched to the shed door. Cheyanne followed gleefully on her heels.
Agatha-Rosemary instructed us to clear off one of the metal folding tables, and told Chase to strip and lie down. He looked at Marchland who nodded, then he obliged without question.
; “Do you know if Nell had any dragon’s root?” Agatha-Rosemary placed her thumbs on each of Chase’s temples and massaged in a circular motion.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll get it.”
Less than thirty minutes later, the Elder-Witch had ground the pungent herb into a powder and mixed it with oil from a vial she produced from her leather satchel. The concoction was too thin to be a paste, but neither was it quite a liquid. She made three puddles with the mixture along the top of Chase’s torso, just under his collar bone, and caked it on top of the puckered scars at his wrist. The scars had been placed there by my sister’s tattoo needle.
The Elder-Witch began to chant.
Her words weren’t English. Nor were they Gaelic or even Latin. From the thickness of her vowels and grunt of her consonants, I knew the language was much older, and remembered the strange shapes and runes from the oldest pages of our family’s bewitched spell book.
Her voice deepened as she again massaged Chase’s temples. At first nothing happened, but soon magic was heavy in the air. It popped and cracked and tingled against my skin.
I wondered if ours—mine and my sister’s—magic would behave this way, strong and focused without the need for blood or salt, if my ancestors hadn’t been cursed.
Agatha-Rosemary’s voiced continued to rise. Gone was any pretense of an aging, elderly lady. The woman before me was tough, with a surety that was earned through years of honing the power that thrummed around her.
Chase writhed on the table, then jerked hard, his spine straightening as if a thousand volts passed through him. Finally he sat straight up, spilling the grainy concoction down his chest in three small streams.
He looked around the room, his eyes wide as if he’d awoken from a nightmare.
Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3) Page 12
