The Family Tree: The Weight of Magic, Episode 4

by Lana Melyan

  THE FAMILY TREE

  THE WEIGHT OF MAGIC BOOK 4

  Lana Melyan

  Copyright © 2019 by Lana Melyan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual locales, organizations, events, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Lana Melyan

  Cover Design by Cover Reveal Designs

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Also by Lana Melyan

  1

  It was the end of October. After a couple of rainy days, the sky was finally clear, and the small puddles on the streets sparkled under the rays of bright sunlight.

  The last two weeks with Nate had been the happiest time of my life. I was deeply in love, and I couldn’t imagine my days without him. His presence alone made me feel warm and secure. And every time he looked at me or touched me, I drowned in tenderness, feeling loved and wanted. When he left, I remained enveloped in those feelings until he came back to me.

  We spent the weekends at the cabin, and during school days he waited for me at his spot next to the parking lot. We had about a dozen more lessons, and now I was a skilled witch, almost as good at magic as Nate.

  Connie and Logan were having a perfect time as well. The two of them joined our lessons a few times so Connie could practice too. She was already making progress.

  Connie had a couple of quarrels with her father again, and she couldn’t wait to turn eighteen so she could move out. Her birthday was on October 29th, only a couple of days away, and Logan, Nate, and I had prepared a surprise for her.

  “What’s this?” asked Connie, looking at the envelope lying on the table in front of her.

  “It’s a surprise,” said Logan. “For your birthday. You’re turning eighteen, and we wanted to make it special for you.”

  We were at the Grill, and as the waitress came with our order, Connie grabbed the envelope and pressed it to her chest, eyes darting from Logan to me, then to Nate.

  “I’m not a big fan of surprises. Are you sure I’ll like it?”

  “For the love of God, Connie,” said Nate. “Just open it already.”

  With the excited look of a five-year-old kid on her face, Connie opened the envelope. She pulled the card out and stared at its image.

  “This is the French quarter in New Orleans,” she murmured. “God, I wish I could—”

  We all laughed.

  “What?” She stared at us for a second, then shrieked. “Oh my God. Are we going? Tell me we’re going.”

  “We’re going,” we said in chorus.

  She threw her arms around Logan’s neck.

  “I love you guys,” she said as she let go of him.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” I said. “So you’ll need to pack your bag tonight.”

  “Gran, have you been to that house in New Orleans?” I asked, packing my small suitcase.

  “Of course, honey,” Gran sighed. “Your grandpa and I lived there for awhile. But the last time I visited that place was twelve years ago.” She sank down on the edge of my bed.

  “You lived there?”

  “Yes. It’s a family house. It belonged to your great-great-grandfather.”

  “Really?” I stared at her. “That means it belonged to Joseph’s son.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Then to his son, and so on.”

  This news surprised me. It had never crossed my mind that we could have family properties somewhere.

  “I was thinking, what if Dad kept something important there? And if he did, where do you think I should look?”

  “If he did hide something in that house, it would be locked with blood, and it could be anywhere. Look for the family crests. That might be a sign.”

  When I went to bed, before turning off the lamp, I looked at the photograph of my parents and me on my nightstand.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to have another moment with you guys. With a side of you I never knew. And I’m nervous.”

  My phone lit up. It was Nate.

  Everything is going to be okay. Sleep tight, my love.

  Of course he knew how I felt about this trip, and it was a huge comfort having him to guide me through it, to hold my hand.

  It took me a while to fall asleep. In what felt like only a few minutes later, the tender touch of warm lips on mine sent a shiver down my body. I inhaled the familiar delicate scent of aftershave.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Nate’s low voice said. I smiled, my eyes still closed. “It’s time to go.” He kissed me again.

  2

  New Orleans welcomed us with perfect weather. We arrived at the French Quarter, and the taxi stopped in front of a cozy-looking hotel. Nate and Logan got our suitcases out from the trunk, and we walked from the bright sunlight into the small, cool lobby.

  “How are you doing, Nicky?” asked Connie.

  While Nate and Logan were getting the keys, we stood looking through windows at the galleries across the street, decorated with colorful plants.

  “I’m fine. And stop worrying about me. You see that?” I pointed my finger at the view behind the glass. “This is the French Quarter.”

  “I know.” She beamed. “And I absolutely love it.”

  “Ladies,” came Nate’s voice. We both turned around. “We’re ready for you,” he said, dangling the keys.

  We climbed to the second floor. Nate unlocked the door to our suite, then glanced at Logan and Connie, standing the next door over.

  “We’re having lunch in thirty minutes, so don’t come up with any crazy ideas, like trying the bed, or stuff like that.”

  “Look who's talking,” chuckled Logan.

  Pulling our suitcases behind us, we walked into the hallway and stopped. We faced a large room with a milky-colored couch and two armchairs with beige and brown cushions, a glass coffee table, a dark brown armoire, and a big TV attached to the wall above it.

  “I hope you like it, Ms. Wood,” said Nate.

  Changing my last name was a necessary precaution and the only possible act of disguise at the moment.

  “I love it.” I moved forward, dropped my handbag on the small table with a lamp standing in the corner, then looked into the big oval mirror hanging above the couch.

  Nate walked across the room to the French doors framed in a set of heavy, brown curtains, and opened them, letting in the sunlight and the distant sound of a trumpet. We stepped out onto the charming balcony with plants hanging on both sides, a small table with a miniature rose bouquet in a glass vase, and two chairs.

  “Let me show you my favorite place in this suite,” said Nate, a seductive smile sliding across his face.

  He grabbed my hand and dragged me back to the room, to the door next to the armoire. When he opened it, I saw a gorgeous king-size bed.

  “It looks inviting, doesn’t it?” He pulled me into the room, pushed me onto the bed, and dropped on top of me.

  “Didn’t you just say no crazy ideas?” I said,
laughing. “Get up.”

  “God, what was I thinking?” he moaned. “Okay, just a kiss.”

  After we had lunch in the cozy hotel courtyard, we decided to go for a walk down Bourbon street.

  We stopped by a couple of magic shops, watched the street artists, then had some coffee.

  “Maybe we should come back here at night,” said Connie.

  “Sure,” said Logan.

  Nearly an hour later, we took a cab and headed to my parents’ house.

  I had butterflies in my stomach the whole way. Fifteen minutes later, the car slowed down and turned to a green alley. Nate squeezed my hand.

  The cab stopped in front of a small, wrought-iron gate. Behind it was a two-story, white Victorian-style house with a green front yard. The black sashes of the windows were pulled closed.

  We walked through the gate, and I stopped on the long porch, my eyes frozen on the front door.

  “We’ll give you a minute,” said Nate, unlocking the door. “But in case someone is watching the house, we should come inside shortly. Otherwise it will look suspicious.”

  “It’s okay, really,” I said. “Just come in.”

  He and Logan went to open the sashes, and I stepped inside.

  I walked into the hallway and eyed a big mirror in a dark, carved frame on one side. A dark-wood, narrow table with an antique vase on the top sat on the other. Right in front of me were white-washed stairs leading to the upper floor. In the sunlight falling in through the doorway, I noticed a thin layer of dust on the light-brown hardwood floor.

  I walked past the stairs into the living room, so different than the one in our house in River Stones. It had a marble fireplace with a large painting hanging above it and an old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece, candelabras on each side. A leather couch and two armchairs faced the fireplace. In front of the couch sat a wooden coffee table with a set of big candles in the middle and a few books on the corner.

  The frames with black and white photographs of my ancestors covered one of the walls, above the antique armoire. Through the arch on the other wall I could see the dining room, with a polished, oval, antique table with carved chairs around it and a crystal chandelier hanging above.

  The room became brighter and warmer when Nate and Logan opened all the sashes.

  I heard footsteps.

  “It’s such a beautiful house,” said Connie, hugging me from behind.

  “It is,” I sighed. “But it’s also an absolutely new side of my parents’ life which I was never a part of.”

  “Nicky, it wasn’t their fault.”

  “Of course not. I don’t blame them. I’m just surprised.”

  And it still hurts like hell.

  Nate walked in, but Logan stood in the doorway, waiting.

  “Mate,” said Logan after a moment. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come inside too.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. On paper the house is mine,” said Nate. “You can come in.”

  “So, it’s true, then,” I said, as I watched Logan step over the threshold.

  “Apparently it is.” Connie smiled and let go of me.

  I drew closer to the armoire and looked at the photographs on the wall.

  “Recognize anybody?” asked Nate.

  “My grandpa,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Connie, looking closer. “I remember him.”

  I glanced at another photo, with a handsome, familiar man looking at me. “Is this Joseph?”

  “Yes. And this is his son with his wife,” said Nate, pointing at the photo next to Joseph’s. Then he pointed at the gray-bearded man in one of the photos on the top. “And this is Henry.”

  I stared at the photo. It was one thing to know about them, but looking at their photographs while standing in Joseph’s son’s house and realizing that they were all my family brought up a whole different kind of sensation. Something that was just a story yesterday was coming to life, making me feel the connection, and becoming a part of my own history. This was the first time when I really felt what being Callahan meant. The importance of the mission suddenly magnified.

  Nate took my hand.

  “Let’s look at the rest of the house,” he said, and led me to the stairs.

  One after another, he showed me the rooms on the second floor, until we stopped in front of my parents’ bedroom.

  I looked around, and the first thing that caught my eye was a photo on the drawer next to the door. I picked it up. It was a picture of my mom and dad, from which they smiled at me sitting on the stairs of this house porch.

  “I was the one who took that picture,” said Nate quietly.

  “They look younger here,” I said, smiling back at them.

  “Yeah,” sighed Nate. “It was about a decade ago.”

  I put the frame down.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” said Nate, walking away.

  I glanced at the bed, then at the paintings on the walls, then crossed to the handsome dresser. On the seat of the chair in front of it lay my mom’s silky robe. Tears filled my eyes as I picked it up and pressed it to my chest. My eyes traveled over the perfumes and a hair brush lying on the dresser. Then I put the robe back on the chair and opened the small, antique wooden chest. It contained a few rings, a pearl necklace, and some other jewelry. I picked up a golden chain with a droplet emerald pendant which reminded me of my mom the most and put it in my purse.

  With a heavy heart, I walked to the closet and opened one leaf of the doors. But it was too painful to look at their clothes. I ran my hand over dad’s suit, and after a quick glance at mom’s dresses, I closed the door. Wiping my cheeks, I left the room.

  3

  When I came downstairs, Nate got up from where he sat in front of the fireplace with Logan and Connie.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, pulling me into his arms.

  “I’m okay,” I said, hugging him.

  “There’s one more room you haven’t seen yet,” he said, kissing my temple. “Your dad’s study.”

  He led me into the hallway, to the glass doors next to the mirror, and we walked into the room. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was dark. The walls were the color of coffee-with-milk with dark-brown furniture, bookshelves, and heavy brown curtains.

  I approached the old fashioned, mahogany desk. Two gilded sculptures of lion heads sat back to back, holding a few ancient-looking books between them. On the other side was an emerald-colored, marble pen holder, a small stack of printed papers, a few newspapers, and my dad’s laptop in the middle.

  I drew closer and ran my hand over the laptop, then over the leather chair behind the desk.

  “Nate, what did they do here?”

  “They worked.”

  “They both were historians. I knew they did work for museums in Virginia. Did they work for museums here too?” I asked.

  “No. Here they wrote articles for the historical columns in a few different newspapers. It was a convenient job because they could do it not just here, but also while they were in River Stones.”

  On the wall behind the chair, crossing over each other, hung two daggers. I stepped back and looked at them again. Right above them was the family crest, the size of a small saucer.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, a shiver running down my spine.

  “What is it, Nicky?” asked Nate.

  “It’s the family crest.”

  “What family crest?” he asked, staring at the wall with me.

  “There.” I pointed at the piece of wall above the daggers.

  “There’s nothing there.”

  “You can’t see it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Could you close the curtains?” I said, in case if someone was really watching us.

  He did as I asked, then turned on a lamp. I took one of the daggers down from the wall and pulled it out of the sheath.

  “Nicky, what is it?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I have to check.”

  Biting my lip, I ran the
blade across my palm. Nate clenched his teeth. My blood started dripping on the floor.

  “Connie,” Nate yelled through the open door, “could you bring some paper towels from the kitchen?”

  I pressed my blood-covered palm to the family crest. When I pulled my hand away, the blood was gone. The wall shimmered, just like the bark of the Family Tree, and a second later a small metal door with an iron handle appeared.

  “A safe. Well,” said Nate. “That was weird. I should’ve at least seen the crest.”

  Connie and Logan came in, and Connie handed Nate the roll of paper towels.

  “Nicky, what happened?” Connie stared at the blood.

  “Callahan magic happened,” growled Nate, ripping a piece of paper from the roll. “Let me see.” He cleaned up my hand, then held his palm above mine, healing the wound.

  “Thanks,” I said, watching the cut disappear.

  “You should always be very careful with your blood,” said Nate, wiping the drops from the floor. “You see yourself how important it is.” Then he took the dagger out of my hand and cleaned the blade.

  Holding my breath, I turned the handle, and the metal door squeaked as I pulled it open.

  The first thing I saw was an album lying on top of a folder. I took it. The moment I opened it my heart sank. It was filled with photographs of me, starting from my birth. My eyes prickled again as I imagined how hard it must’ve been for my parents to keep my existence a secret, not able to even have a picture of their daughter in their house.

  Nate stroked my back.

  I handed the album to Connie, who looked at me with a bitter smile, then reached for the folder. I looked inside it and saw a stack of papers, some of them printed, some handwritten.