Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3)

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  The Elder-Witch thrust out her hand, as if she expected Blaine to kiss the giant amethyst wring that adorned her middle finger. Instead, Blaine, looked from me, to the hand, to Agatha-Rosemary, then gave it a little shake. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Rosemary.”

  “No, dear boy. It is Agatha-Rosemary. One name. My last name is—”

  There was a crash in the front yard. We ran to the picture window to see a man throwing his body against the gate. Broussard.

  “I thought House couldn’t keep Broussard out?” I squinted, trying to see what I was missing.

  “He can’t,” Marchland said. “Or at least I think he can’t. I locked the gate the old fashioned way.” She held up a rusted key. “I found this on my bedside table when I woke up this morning. I know it wasn’t there when we went to sleep, so it must have been House. I wasn’t sure what it went to, but I felt it was important if House felt the need to give it back. You know how it is always taking things. Anyway, when we came through the gate a moment ago, it was like something clicked and I knew.” She stuck the key back into the pocket of her skirt, and pressed her face to the window. “The lock is old though. I don’t know how long it can hold.”

  Agatha-Rosemary stepped away from the window and smiled. “He is immune to your magic, but I could bespell the house so that he couldn’t enter—but I don’t think that is in our best interest, dear ones. We have to get rid of him, and it is best we do it in here, away from prying eyes. The less people we have to use your magic on, the better. That is a rule for you girls to live by.”

  “So what then? Now our stream is clean? We just kill him and he will stay dead?” I asked. I felt Blaine’s eyes on me.

  “Hardly,” she said. She watched Blaine with a curiosity that unnerved me. “You, dear boy, seem to be taking all of this in stride. What did you say your last name is?”

  “I didn’t.” The Elder-Witch’s gaze must have left Blaine feeling uncertain as well, because he laced his fingers through mine and squeezed.

  “Fair enough,” said Agatha-Rosemary. “But I bet if we shook your family tree hard enough, a witch would eventually fall out—you are taking this all too well. Has anyone in your family ever had any unexplained abilities?”

  “There is a story about an ancestor of mine right after our people settled here.”

  House groaned and doors opened as the walls settled. “Yes. Can we have this chat later?” March said. “I think we have more pressing matters at the moment.” Outside there was another loud crash.

  “Right,” said the Elder-Witch. “It is simple, really. The dirty part is done. Your stream should be clean enough. The original spell was never sealed, which in this case is a good thing. I can ask a blessing for the athame, and then, all you have to do is destroy his heart. We will do a fast and dirty spell to make sure he stays down, and then this will all be over. Easy as pie.” She snapped her fingers.

  “But…”

  Agatha-Rosemary placed a fisted hand on her hip. “But what, child?”

  “I guess I was thinking that with you here… with what you are capable of… that maybe you could just fix him? Like you did Chase? Make him forget all of this ever happened and things can go back how they were?” Before I was a murderer. Before I’d tried to dispose of a body that then tried to dispose of me…

  “Dear girl, why would you wish for that? He attacked you. He tried to rape you—and from the story you shared, the way he went about it so nonchalant, I can guarantee he has done it before. No. There may be a way for him to live, but you won’t get the answer from me. I can offer you death for the monster. That is all.”

  “But Chase was far from a good man. He grabbed my sister. He was rough with his wife.”

  The Elder-Witch sighed. “It was a different matter. This monster at your gate—he is already dead. I removed a spell from Chase’s eyes and his will. This—this Broussard—he is a bigger problem. So no. I can only offer to help you kill him.”

  Blaine squeezed my hand reassuringly.

  Outside there was another bang followed by a crash. We rushed to the window to see Broussard push up from his stomach, to his hands and knees, while the gate swung on busted hinges behind him. He stumbled to his feet and began walking down the path to the steps.

  “What will it be, dear girl?” Agatha-Rosemary asked.

  I looked to my sister, who chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes were still wet from the grief of losing Cheyanne.

  “Sister,” she said, “we have to do this. He will never stop coming, and we know there is no way to hold him. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

  I let out a long slow breath. “Yes. Okay, yes.”

  Outside, footsteps stomped across the porch.

  “Good.” Agatha-Rosemary grinned, deepening the wrinkles in her face. Her eyes seemed to disappear between hooded skin and the apples of her cheeks. She grabbed her leather bag from the table and pulled out her lion-head athame. “Let’s get to work.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Elder-Witch poured salt in a circle and placed her ceremonial blade inside.

  Outside, the weight of what was once my geology professor slammed against the wooden door.

  Blaine threw his back against the door, acting as a human barricade and Marchland, who was taller and heavier, joined him.

  The jarring bang shook the pictures on the wall.

  “Maybe hurry up?” Blaine called.

  The Elder-Witch didn’t rush as she lit the candles and began reciting the spell from memory.

  I watched, feeling helpless.

  A moment later, Agatha-Rosemary pressed the hilt of the blade into my hand. “It is your turn, dear girl.”

  My mouth turned to cotton. The Elder-Witch had explained that it had to be me. That I was the fixation of the bespelled man’s desires, and I was the only one who could undo him for good. And of course, I’d already killed him twice before—but none of that made it any easier.

  She cupped my face in her hands and seemed to peer through me. “Are you ready?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut with the impossible hope that when I opened them, all of this would be gone. That it would have been a bad dream brought on by anxiety or spicy foods before bed.

  No luck.

  I nodded.

  “Good.” She tapped my cheek, just as another jarring bang shook the walls.

  Agatha-Rosemary looked at Marchland. “Now,” she said. She turned her face to the ceiling. “Okay, House. You know what to do!”

  Blaine and Marchland abandoned the door, and just before Broussard could make contact, House let the door fly open.

  The monster tumbled inside.

  Blaine and March stood with their backs pressed against the foyer wall, out of his line of sight, waiting for him to find me.

  I gripped the blade until the tiny lion’s mouth gnawed at my hand. My heart whirred in my ears and the sweat that dripped from my upper lip was ice cold.

  Broussard stood upright, and looked around the room, turning in a circle until he faced the kitchen. When his eyes landed on me, he ran, barreling in my direction.

  I sucked in air, desperate to calm my trembling hands. Everything moved in slow motion as Blaine sprinted across the floor and smacked into Broussard, sending him to the ground.

  “Now House, now!” I heard Marchland cry.

  There was a loud crack, and Broussard’s foot went through the floor. House sealed the hole around his leg, and held him. With another loud crack, his arm was also caught by my old friend and protector.

  Blaine rolled off of Broussard, then looked to where I stood, eight feet away, gripping the blade.

  “You’re up.” Agatha-Rosemary patted my shoulder.

  I took a step toward my professor. I’d killed him before. I’d even stabbed him with a cutting knife in this very room. But both times had been charged with adrenaline as I fought for my life. Walking up to a bound man and plunging a knife through his heart was different and I wasn’t sure I could do it.

 
The Elder-Witch breezed by. She smiled and patted the left side of Broussard’s upper back. “Place the athame here and push hard, and it will be over.”

  Broussard struggled against House, but it was no use. He cried out.

  “Hush that, you hear me?” Agatha-Rosemary smacked him on the back. “You are already dead after all. We just need you to stay that way.”

  “No!” the monster grunted.

  “Come now, Bradley. I need to be on my way. Let’s get this finished so we can discuss your payment and I can go home.”

  I looked at Blaine. Yes, he nodded.

  Okay. I could do it. I would do it. I took a step toward Broussard. Then another. He attacked me. He used his power to try to hurt me. Maybe he even deserves this. But most importantly, he’s already dead. The thoughts did not ease the pounding of my heart.

  Broussard screamed, and the entire weight of his disgust slammed into me, knocking me backwards and sending the athame clattering across the floor. Yellow spots danced before my eyes as gray seemed to seemed to settle over everything.

  “No,” I cried out. The disgust was like oil sliding over my body as the hatred pressed heavy on my ribs, cracking and popping. I struggled to breathe. “No. I don’t care if you hate me. You won’t win.” I tried to push to my feet, but a second wave caught me, and again I fell.

  “Bradley?” Marchland’s voice cut through the painful fog of the bad man’s hate.

  “Is she okay?” Blaine.

  No. No I am not. I struggled to breathe as I cursed my ability. It had always been a nuisance, but before this week, was never debilitating. I wheezed with every inhale and shook with every exhale.

  I heard footsteps run across the floor. I heard Broussard laugh.

  No. No. No.

  Something cool and hard was pushed into my hand, as another person’s fingers closed around mine. The athame.

  An arm looped under one shoulder, then another on the other side. I forced open my eyes.

  Marchland and Blaine hauled me to my feet. Blaine kept the knife pressed in my grip.

  “You can do this Bradley. And you don’t have to do it alone.” Blaine’s lips brushed my cheek, and warmth sliced through the iciness of Broussard’s hatred. Slowly, we made it to the man writhing face down on the floor. Marchland moved to hold me up, while Blaine wrapped his hands around mine, forcing a tight grip onto the athame.

  He pressed it to Broussard’s back, in the exact spot the Elder-Witch had shown us.

  Together we pushed the blade into the monster, hoping against hope that it pierced his heart. Because I couldn’t do this again. Not even once more.

  But I wouldn’t have to.

  Because beneath me, Broussard went limp.

  A second later, so did I.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I came to stretched out on the sofa. For one horrible second I had the sensation of spiders in my hair and jerked upright, slamming my forehead into Blaine’s chin.

  “Ow!” I fell back into his lap.

  “Remind me not to touch you when you are sleeping.” He rubbed his face. The spiders had been his fingers massaging my scalp.

  “Sorry,” I murmured and pressed on the knot already forming on my forehead.

  Across the room from me, Marchland sat on the old wingback near the fireplace with her knees pulled to her chest, and the Elder-Witch was pacing in a circle. The heels of her boots sounded like raindrops clacking against a window pain.

  “How long have I been out?” I asked.

  “Less than a minute. We are all just… taking a breather.” Blaine smiled down at me.

  “A much needed breather,” Marchland seconded.

  We turned to peek over the couch, through the foyer and into the kitchen. Broussard lay with the athame lodged in his back. I shivered.

  “No point in putting this off any longer,” Agatha-Rosemary said. She swished through the room, a noisy combination of boot heels and rustling skirt. We—me, Marchland, and Blaine—got up to follow her. She stopped in front of the body, and placed her boot on his back. The Elder-Witch leaned down and jerked her blade free. The golden knife was covered in a liquid too black and too thick to be blood, which dripped to the floor in oily splatters. House creaked, and in the kitchen, several drawers flew open as the walls flashed grey and black.

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I am going to mop you. Then March and I will give you a good smudging.” Everything slid back into place and the walls slowly transformed into a familiar, cheery blue.

  The Elder-Witch dragged the knife across her skirt, leaving a tar-like stain on the satin. “Now. Time to pay the piper.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you came because you were intrigued?” I looked to Marchland to see if she understood.

  She dropped her eyes to the floor. “I will pay. I am the one who called you.”

  “Yes,” Agatha-Rosemary said, “that is true. But for all the work I did, I will require a year from each of you.”

  My mouth dropped open. “A year?”

  “Yes. A year of life for services rendered.”

  I was used to trading life for magic—it was part of the Murphey family curse. But I traded in minutes. An entire year. I thought of what that could mean. If I lived to be in my nineties, it wouldn’t matter as much as if I were destined to die in my twenties.

  Agatha-Rosemary walked to the table and dropped her athame into her leather bag. “How do you think I look so ravishing, hmm? I am sure you’ve heard of my true age? It didn’t occur to you to wonder why and eighty-three year old woman can walk around, jumping about, and look good while doing it? I don’t mind helping you witchlings, but nothing is free in this world. Least of all powerful magic such as mine.”

  Blaine watched the interaction with wide eyes. Thankfully he remained silent. The last thing I wanted was for him to butt in and anger the Elder-Witch. She’d been chill up until now, but if she was willing to take an entire year from another witch, then she couldn’t be as peaceful as she appeared.

  Suddenly, I had a feeling that if we crossed her, we chanced losing much more than a year. I swallowed the heavy fear that appeared like a lump in my throat. I realized that this entire time we’d been in the company of a predator much fiercer, much more dangerous, than the monster spread across our kitchen floor.

  “You can take two from me,” Marchland said. “I insist.”

  “It is kind of you to want to protect your sister, but I am afraid it doesn’t work that way, dear girl. If I take more than a year at a time, it could be painful. For both us. And there may even be repercussions on my end.” She nodded to the family picture that hung on the wall—the one with the three of us as teenagers, huddled around Granny. “It is like a friend once told me, magic is a finicky thing.”

  Magic is a finicky thing… It was the warning given to us by Granny over and over as we grew up. Agatha-Rosemary must have known Granny better than she let on. I wondered what else she was keeping from us.

  I took a deep breath. Then another. “It’s okay. I… I don’t mind. What is it Cheyanne used to say? The years at the end are no good anyway?” I tried to force a smile for Marchland’s sake, but it felt tight and wrong on my face. Blaine grabbed my hand and laced his fingers through mine. “Let’s get it over with then. What must you do?”

  Agatha-Rosemary pulled a long needle and two small jars from her bag. “Hold out your arm.” She crossed the room and grabbed my wrist not occupied by Blaine.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as she jabbed the needle into the fleshy part of my forearm, then squeezed a few drops of my blood into the jar. The old woman closed her eyes and inhaled. “That will do nicely,” she said. Her clear delight sent a shiver through me.

  As Agatha-Rosemary spoke the spell that granted her the youthful power locked away in the single droplets of our blood, a gentle wind lifted her gray hair into the air. She repeated the words and the breeze whipped into a frenzy, blowing around the room as if we were caught in a storm. I watched in horr
or as she lifted the jar to her lips and turned it up, tilting her head all the way back. The tiny droplets of blood oh-so-slowly made their way down the side of the glass until they landed on the elderly witch’s lips.

  When the wind died and Agatha-Rosemary lowered the glass, the lines in her face had lightened, and the gray of her hair was now ash blonde. Next to me, Blaine’s eyes rounded. Marchland caught my eye and shook her head, signaling for me to remain quiet.

  The fact that she knew the spell by heart—that she was powerful enough to invoke the needed magic without so much as a sacrifice or help from the mother—made me very glad that she was leaving. I’d make it my personal life goal to never have another run in with an her, or any other Elder-Witch. I was done casting. Done for good.

  Agatha-Rosemary smacked her lips, as if she were satisfied. “Now. I best be getting on my way. It’s a lot later than I hoped.” She slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “Wait.” Marchland stepped in front of the door. The Elder-Witch’s eyes opened wide.

  “Dear girl, get out of my way.”

  “Don’t you need to do something to… to the body? You said you needed to seal the magic?”

  “Ah, yes. I almost forgot. Do you have any fairy wood?”

  “I think so,” March said.

  “Then shave it into a point and stick it into the wood. Drip a little wax from the moon candle on his eyes. That should do the trick nicely.”

  “That’s it? He will stay dead?”

  Agatha-Rosemary stepped dramatically around my sister. “Yes, of course. And if for some reason he doesn’t, then call me.” The grinned over her shoulder wickedly and gave us a wink. “I am always willing to work out a new trade. Youth is wasted on the young, after all.”

  We watched silently as she sashayed out the front door. A moment later, her purple Buick roared to life and she was gone.

  Blaine released my hand and shoved it deep into his jeans’ pocket and pulled out a box of grape nerds. He opened the box and shook the candy into his mouth, as if it were just another night. As if we hadn’t just killed a monster again. As if we didn’t have a body to dispose of again.