Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3)

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  In a way, I guess he had.

  When his eyes landed on March, he snarled. “You crazy bitch.” He lunged for her but she stepped back just as Chase’s hands seemed to lock in mid-air.

  “What… what are you doing to me?” he growled. The fear was plain on his face.

  Agatha-Rosemary shook her head. She flicked her fingers through the air, slamming Chase back to the table. “Why don’t we try that again, young man. This time, remember you are in the presence of ladies.”

  Chase’s eyes darted around the room, then oh-so-slowly, he sat up.

  No one said a word. March and I looked to the Elder-Witch to see what should happen next and Cheyanne grinned at Chase, her teeth feline in the dull light. She wriggled her fingers at the naked, terrified man.

  “Chase, is it?” Agatha-Rosemary’s voice was even.

  “Who are you?” Chase’s eyes slid from the old lady to Marchland. “What did you do to me?”

  “Never mind that, now, dear boy. The point is now you are free.”

  He looked down the length of his naked body and his face contorted with anger as he took in the muck-covered, puckered tattoo on his wrists. “You did this.” He faced March.

  “Chase,” Marchland began quietly, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I… I can explain.”

  “Explain? How about explain it to the cops. You are going to prison. All of you are going to prison.”

  “Just hear me—” Marchland began, but before she could finish her sentence, Chase was slammed back onto the metal table with a thump.

  Agatha-Rosemary lowered her hand, and edged back to the table until she was looking down into Chase’s terrified face. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, dear boy. You see, I am a powerful lady. Very powerful. I can do the kinds of things that these sweet, young girls cannot even dream of. So.” She paused, and reached her wrinkled hand to caress his cheek. “What you are going to do is get dressed, then go home, where you will pack your bag and leave. You can make arrangements to sell your house, but if these women contact me again because of you, it will not be good. Not good at all.”

  From her post in the corner, Cheyanne squealed and clapped her hands.

  Chase’s shoulders went slack against the table as the fight left his body. He’d witnessed the woman’s power, and I could see the emotions warring on his face. “I have a wife. A baby… I can’t just leave them.”

  Marchland spoke. “Mary is gone, Chase. She left you. And as for your baby—I will tell Mary where she can find you. The choice will be hers if you are allowed into her life or that of her child.” My sister pressed her lips together and rubbed her upper arms, then added, “She may need your money—your child support—but I guarantee she doesn’t need, nor want, your temper nor your hateful violence. You forfeited your rights to that relationship.”

  “Are you capable of these things? Or shall I bespell you into obeying?” The Elder-Witch’s small eyes narrowed.

  “No. I can… I can do that.”

  “Good. Get dressed.”

  In less than ten minutes, Chase jerked on his clothes and sprinted across the yard to the front gate.

  Marchland’s brow furrowed as her eyes followed his path.

  “What is it?” I touched her hand lightly.

  “How do we know he won’t tell? I can’t help but think that fear is only a good motivator for a little while. Will cops eventually come poking around? I couldn’t stand it if I put you in any kind of danger. I mean… more than I already have.”

  I knew guilt weighed on my sister since the night she’d trapped (or so we’d thought) Chase in the Granny’s gardening shed. So much so, that she hadn’t let things progress beyond a certain point with her boyfriend, Samuel. She’d once confided, how could she possible allow herself to be happy when she’d so thoroughly ruined another person? Even if it was on accident? Even if he deserved it?

  Agatha-Rosemary flanked the other side of Marchland. “Don’t you worry about him. Not only will he not be talking to anyone, but the second he stepped through the gate and off the property, all memories of this place left his head. It will be like he has amnesia, at least when it comes to where he has been the last couple of months.”

  Marchland nodded.

  “But what about Mary?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you warn her?”

  “I will. I’ll call her first thing in the morning and let her know that I ‘saw Chase around town.’” Marchland pulled absently at the hem of her blouse. “I don’t know how things are going to play out, but at least Chase is free.” The relief worn on my sister’s face spoke volumes more than her words. Maybe now she would take her life back.

  “Now,” Agatha-Rosemary said, “we have that sorted. On to the next thing. I will be home in time for my stories tomorrow, yet!”

  Her full skirt billowed as she hurried across the yard. My sisters and I looked at each other, before Cheyanne pushed out the door and followed her.

  I sighed. “I guess we’d better get going then.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Buick’s velvet seats were a shade darker than the electric plum exterior. Cheyanne called shotgun and March and I took the backseat. Agatha-Rosemary could barely see over the steering wheel, and it was then that I realized just how much heel was on her boots. The woman was tiny, but she steered the boat-of-a-car with abandon. I gripped the handle on my door to keep from falling into Marchland each time the Elder-Witch navigated a curve.

  Every so often I caught Agatha-Rosemary glancing at Cheyanne from the corner of her eye, and through the calm mask of her exterior I thought I saw a sadness. She’d said she could help me with my problem, but I realized that she’d never come out and said that she could help Cheyanne with hers. Only that she knew what must be done to clean our magic.

  The Buick purred as she shifted into park in the driveway of the home Cheyanne had once shared with Brett. Before the ignition was even cut, my oldest sister was out of the car and had her arms around her favorite tree. The rest of us—me, March, and Agatha-Rosemary—made no move to exit. We sat, watching.

  The Elder-Witch tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. “You say she’s been like this for months?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And it seems to be getting worse.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Your sister opened herself up to something terrible when she took it upon herself to tamper with moon magic, especially after imploring the Mother. You girls should know better—this isn’t cooking from scratch in your granny’s kitchen—when you start improvising, you are removing safe-guards that are worked into spells. One word can change the meaning. A single day can mean the difference between binding love and, well, that.” She gestured toward the tree. “Cheyanne allowed something into her heart. I can see it rooted in her, with black tendrils spreading through her body.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The Elder-Witch clicked open her door and slid her feet to the ground. “It means that your Cheyanne is gone. But maybe we can still save your magic line. And if we are lucky, we can maybe even manage a happily ever after for Cheyanne… if you are open minded about it.”

  As we approached the oak, Agatha-Rosemary tsk-tsk-tsked. “This is worse than I could have imagined.”

  I watched as she walked to the tree and caressed her fingers over the rough bark. Her face scrunched as she looked at Cheyanne, who was grinning like a possum. “Dear girl, what have you done?”

  Cheyanne’s grin widened. “I didn’t want him to leave me. Now he is mine and I am his and we are happy.” She shot a look toward me and March. “No matter what my sisters might tell you.”

  Agatha-Rosemary nodded. “I am sure you are. But is Brett?”

  Cheyanne’s face fell. “Yes. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  The Elder-Witch touched Cheyanne gingerly then left her hugging the tree. She spoke to me and March in a hushed tone. “Not only is there no saving your sister, but that man… he can’t come back. He isn’t fully tree—he could never be.
But neither is there enough humanity remaining to reverse the damage. I’d have better luck enchanting a real tree into a man than untangling that mess your sister created.”

  “So she has to just stay like that? Obsessing over a plant? Excuse me for saying so, Elder-Witch, but that isn’t acceptable. It isn’t like she is mentally ill and can be treated by doctors. If she stays like this she will end up sedated in a hospital or in prison.” Marchland wrung her hands in front of her. I continued to watch Cheyanne who now had her arms around the tree with her lips pressed firmly against the bark. “I didn’t tell you, but she has been losing sense of right and wrong. She’s been eager for violence…”

  “Hope is not lost, dear girl. The damage done to your magic can be undone with a selfless sacrifice. One made of the enchanter.”

  I could feel the color drain from my face. “I don’t care about our magic! You want us to sacrifice Cheyanne? No way. I’d rather fight Boudreaux every single night for the rest of my life. We aren’t hurting Chey.”

  Agatha-Rosemary looked taken aback. “Who said anything about hurting her? What kind of witch do you think I am, dear girl? One who kills men and attempts to bring them back? Or perhaps you think I am the type of witch who locks men in garden sheds? Or maybe I am the kind of dark witch who turns innocent men into trees?”

  The jab stung, but all I could think to say was, “Yeah, well...”

  “To be perfectly blunt, what I am proposing will save your sister from a bleak future and leave her happier than she could ever be in any other form. The sacrifice will also clear your stream.”

  The old woman walked back to Cheyanne, and tapped her on the shoulder. When my sister turned, the Elder-Witch asked, “If there was a way where you never had to leave your Oak for as long as you lived, would you want it? If you didn’t even leave to eat or drink? Where no one could take you away? That you got to remain with him forever?”

  Cheyanne didn’t hesitate. “Yes. A million times yes!”

  “Even if it meant forsaking your family?”

  I like to imagine that Cheyanne’s eyes fell across me for at least a second. That she thought of me and March and all the times we’d had growing up. How we’d made a loving family out of the three of us—back when it was the Murphey sisters against the world. But I know this is probably wishful thinking.

  Cheyanne’s excitement vibrated through the air, and hit me in a solid wave of emotion, knocking me to my knees. “Yes. I choose Brett,” she cried.

  My sister was clearly out of her mind. I knew this. I’d known this. She’d been altered by a bad spell. But her words still stung—and the fact that I could feel in my bones that she meant it so strongly... Marchland held out a hand and helped me to my feet. I leaned forward and placed my hands on my knees, and willed the world to stop spinning, for my sister’s emotions to leave me alone.

  Through the fog of Cheyanne’s bliss, I heard Agatha-Rosemary say, “Let us get the salt, then. I know what must be done.”

  With those words, I knew this would be my last night with my oldest sister.

  The salt was spread.

  Agatha-Rosemary stood inside the circle alone. She had no need for me or March and our muddled magic. The barrier spell followed the perimeter of the yard, so we were safely tucked away from the prying eyes of the subdivision. Near the edges, smudging sticks smoldered and smoked.

  Cheyanne stood with her arms thrown around her precious tree while the Elder-Witch chanted words in a deep growl. The wind began to pick up speed, and Cheyanne threw her face to the sky and howled with bone-chilling laughter.

  Agatha-Rosemary’s voice grew with the wind, louder and louder. In her left hand she held her athame. It was long and golden with a hilt formed like the head of a lion and a blade that shone brightly, even in the moonless night. The Elder-Witch raised her arms over her head. She called to the Mother then spit in her right hand. In a flash, she sliced the sharp edge of the athame across her elderly skin. Blood swelled, purple-red, and Agatha-Rosemary pressed it into Cheyanne’s back. As she continued to chant, the smear of blood trailed down my sister’s bare shoulders and soaked into the thin material of her strapless dress. Cheyanne didn’t flinch.

  There was a rumble in the clouds and the Elder-Witch’s back straightened with a jerk, then just as quickly released. The wind died and for a long, tortuous second, nothing happened.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Agatha-Rosemary crumpled to the ground in an unmoving heap. For the first time, she looked like a tired, eighty-something woman, instead of the powerful being I knew her to be.

  My sister never moved to check on the Elder-Witch. She clung to her tree, pressing her cheek into the bark and holding on as if for dear life.

  The bitter taste of copper stung my teeth and tickled my throat. I’d never experienced anything like it before, but I knew without a doubt it was the magic of the Elder-Witch.

  Cheyanne shrieked.

  Her arms grew, stretching and reaching around the oak. They trailed higher and higher, while her feet disappeared into the green earth. She grew closer to the tree, covering him with tendrils that sprouted from her body. Her skin darkened to the to a deep, ash brown, and as the vines of her arms continued to grow, tangling through the branches of the oak. She twisted and turned and covered her lover, until she was almost a part of him.

  When there was nothing left of my sister, something beautiful happened. Purple flowers blossomed, adorning the flora that was Cheyanne. They spread, hanging from the vines that ran through the tree, until purple blooms dripped from every branch, every crevice, like amethyst set in a crown.

  Next to me, Marchland wheezed. “Why?” She made a hiccupping sound, as tears welled in her eyes. She started to walk toward the wisteria, toward Cheyanne, but I held her back.

  “Not yet. Don’t cross the salt until we know it’s okay.”

  Marchland didn’t speak, but fell to her knees. “I didn’t want this to happen. When I called for help, this isn’t what I meant.”

  I stroked her hair, then patted her back. “No one would want this. But maybe… maybe this was the only way.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. The words were more to comfort my sister than to express my true feelings.

  A few moments—an eternity—later, Agatha-Rosemary staggered to her feet, gasping and panting. “I am truly too old for this,” she wheezed. She hunched forward, her skin sagging, and her hair hanging in limp tendrils. She mouthed some words, and instantly she was back to the woman I’d met at home. Her slouch was gone, and her hair was fuller. Her skin, though certainly not youthful, wasn’t hanging from her face like jowls.

  As she crossed the salt, she kicked it, opening the circle, and signaling that it was safe to enter. Marchland instantly ran to the tree.

  “Why did you do this?” I whispered to the old woman. “This… this wasn’t what we wanted.”

  The Elder-Witch pressed her lips together as she thought. “I know. This isn’t what anyone wants for their loved ones—especially a sister—but it is the only way. The most humane way. She was too far gone. The bad magic spread like cancer through her, and soon she would have been violent and neither you nor Marchland would have been able to control her. You’ve heard the stories, I am sure.”

  I thought of the bedtime stories Granny had told while my sisters and I were all tucked tightly into the full sized bed in our shared childhood room at her house. Stories of witches who’d kidnapped children or hexed villages. It served as a warning to us, that magic should be respected. It should never be abused.

  We should have heeded Granny’s warnings—but until that moment—I’d thought the stories just that. Stories. I nodded. “Yes. I’ve heard.”

  “Then trust me when I tell you this was the best thing for Cheyanne. She gets to spend her eternity wrapped and tangled within the one she loves. That is more than most of us can say.” She smiled. “In a way, your sister beat your family’s curse.”

  Tears slipped silently down Marchland’s
cheeks on the ride home, but I was oddly at peace. Cheyanne had left us a long time ago—the woman who’d been occupying her body was a far cry from the sister I adored. Cheyanne—our strong, determined, goal driven oldest sister—would have hated the sloppy, maniacal wildling she’d become. It didn’t mean my heart wasn’t aching for her, only that I’d dealt with the grief from losing her and moved on months before. The Elder-Witch was right, this was best for Cheyanne.

  Blaine’s car was parked in front of House when we returned, and we found him sitting at the kitchen table.

  I sat next to him. “I can’t believe House let you in. He normally keeps everyone out. Sometimes he didn’t even let Cheyanne inside.”

  I knew saying Chey’s name was a mistake the second it was out my mouth. Marchland sniffed hard, but tears continued to roll down her full cheeks. I pressed ahead. “Have you been here long?”

  “No,” Blaine said. “Just twenty minutes or so.” There were three empty pixie stick wrappers in front of him on the table. There was something funny about sitting at a table eating candy while waiting on your friend (girlfriend?) to return so you could plan the best way to kill a monster, and I had to hold in a giggle. Of course, the giggle could have also been from fear. Or hysteria. Really you could take your pick.

  Agatha-Rosemary’s boots clicked against the wood floor as she crossed the room and took a glass of water from the tap. Blaine eyed her curiously, his lips curled into an amused half-smile, as the old lady chugged the drink, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Oh.” She heaved. “I always get so thirsty after using moon magic. Always have. You must be the boyfriend? The one who helped haul the body to the bayou?”

  “Elder-Witch, this is my, uh, my friend, Blaine. And yes. He has helped me out more than once.” I nodded to Blaine. “Blaine, meet Agatha-Rosemary, the Elder-Witch of Mississippi. She has so graciously came from Oxford to help us.”