by Lea Nolan
Cooper glances at me, but I shrug, because after what she said before about the Beaumonts, there’s no way I’m going to ask her to let him stay, even though she’s totally wrong about him. He seems to catch my drift because he grins when he takes it from her. “Sure, no problem. Holler if you need me.” He winks and heads out of the room. As much as I resist it, a warm, tingling wave floods over me, heating my cheeks until I’m sure they’re bright red. Focus, Emma. You’ve got a brother to save. The kitchen door swings closed, and a few seconds later the screen door slaps against the jamb.
“Watch your heart, Emma. Don’t wade too deep into the fire. You don’t want to get burned.”
I bite my tongue to distract myself and gaze down at the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” She reaches for the thick-spined book, then shoots me a deadly serious look. A shiver runs down my spine. Laying her veiny hand on the faded black leather cover, she says, “Before we start, you’ve got to understand something. This is an evil curse, as dark a magic as I’ve ever seen. If I was still young and strong, it would take everything I have to break, and even then, I might not have recovered from its power. Now that I’m old, I can’t do it alone. I need you. But taking you on as my apprentice means you’re going to see and hear things most people never get to know. I’ve got to know I can trust you.”
I nod. “Yes, definitely. I totally understand.”
She hitches her brow. “I don’t know if you do. This book is filled with strong magic—roots and spells handed down from mother to daughter for as long as anyone can remember, from even before we were brought to this country. I started writing them down while I was teaching my own daughter. It’s one of my greatest secrets. No one outside my kin knows about it.”
The importance of her trust ripples over me, raising the hair on my arms. Although I can’t totally understand what she means, I realize she’s talking about hundreds of years of knowledge squished into one single hand-written book. And I’m smart enough to realize the responsibility is enormous. “You can count on me, Miss Delia. I promise I won’t tell anyone about it.” I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more.
Her lips part into a wide, yellow grin. “Good girl.” She thumbs through the handwritten pages, showing me how it’s divided. There are lists of hundreds of plants, herbs, and roots, and each includes a physical description, where it grows, and what it can be used for. There’s also a section on spells, broken down into the different types of magic: white for protection and blessings, red for drawing love, green for money, and black for controlling others or placing a curse on someone. The last section is a list of Miss Delia’s ancestors, each one a hoodoo root doctor that goes back fifteen generations.
She flips back to the section on spells. “I believe we can break this curse by working a few of the charms at the same time. The trick will be to combine the ingredients to get the maximum strength from each, while making sure they don’t cancel each other out.” Her thick fingernail runs down a list of white magic charms.
I’m totally confused. “The curse is black magic, right?”
“It sure is, which is why we’re using white magic to break it.”
“Why wouldn’t we use black magic instead? Shouldn’t we match the spell to the curse?”
She sets the book aside. “The first thing you need to learn is that we only use black magic when there’s no other choice. And never, ever add it to a black magic curse, unless you want to create something even more evil. Only white magic can fight black. Just like only light can defeat darkness.”
“Oh, so it’s like a yin and yang kind of thing?”
She squints. “How’s that?”
“It’s Chinese philosophy. It describes how there can be two opposite sides to everything, but they’re really two halves of a whole. Sort of like male and female, or hot and cold.” It feels kind of nice to teach her something. “Together they keep everything in balance. Which is why a white magic spell is the only thing that’ll break a black magic curse.”
She nods. “Yes, that sounds about right. That balance is essential. It’s one of the fundamental laws of hoodoo.”
The screen door slams, and the television fires up in the living room, blaring the local public station. Cooper lowers the volume and switches the station. He must be watching something sports related because there’s a lot of cheering. Or maybe it’s static. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have cable.
“You ready to brew up a Break Jinx curse?” Miss Delia’s voice pulls my attention back to the kitchen. I nod. “All right, then.” She points to one of the kitchen cabinets in the far corner. “I’ll need you to fetch me a roasting pan. Pick one that’s burned.” She opens one of the earthenware jars and spills some of its contents. “Wouldn’t want to light a fire in one of my good pans.”
I yank it out from the others and bring it to her. “Did you say you’re going to light a fire? In the house?”
She plops a heaping tablespoon of dirt into the bottom of the pan. “How else do think we’re going to break an elemental curse? Can’t do it without fire.”
“But shouldn’t we light it outside? Wouldn’t that be safer?”
She spreads the soil evenly in the pan. “Nah, the windows and back door are open. Besides, we’re not building a bonfire, just enough to smoke some roots. Now pay attention, child. This represents the earth in this spell, but it’s not just any old dirt.” She raps the spoon against the side of the pan. “It’s special.”
“Is it blessed or something?”
She waggles her brows. “It comes from a graveyard.”
“And that’s supposed to be a good thing?”
Her good eye sparkles as she chuckles. “Sure it is. It repels evil. Believe me, we need plenty of help.” She tosses a handful of dry charcoal chips on top of the dirt, then grabs one of the white candles from the counter and hands it to me. “Turn this upside down and whittle a new end with that knife over there. Then carve your brother’s full name down the side.”
The blade on the old paring knife is dulled with age, but it’s still sharp enough to scrape down the wax. When the new end is pointy and the wick is exposed, I bear down on the blade and keep the letters small enough to fit his whole name. Until now I’ve never noticed how many letters it takes to write Jackson Sawyer Guthrie. My hand feels like it weighs ten pounds as I whittle his name. When I’m finally done, Miss Delia opens a vial labeled “Uncrossing Oil” and drips some liquid on the candle, then strikes a match to light the new end. She hands the flickering candle to me and points to the charcoal.
I dip the candle into the pan and run the flame along the chips, watching as they slowly ignite, their edges glowing orange and red. A faint hickory scent rises in the air. “So we’ve got fire and earth.” I blow out the candle. “What about the wind and water?”
She points to a clear vial with a glass stopper. “The holy water comes at the end to douse the flames. In the meantime, you’re supplying the air. My lungs aren’t what they used to be. Blow on those coals to get them to light, but not so much you put them out.”
Pursing my lips, I lean over the roasting pan and focus my breath toward the chips. A smoky barbecue smell wafts up. Soon the charcoal is enveloped in tiny, crackling flames.
Miss Delia sucks her teeth and smiles. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes. In the meantime, I’ll need you to fetch me some of those crocks so I can make up the smoking potion.” She puts her giant reading glasses on and flips through the pages of her spell book, peering closely at a number of white magic spells. As she reads, she mumbles to herself, debating each ingredient. Then she motions toward the earthenware jars on the shelves and rattles off the list of things she needs. “I’ll need some holy ghost root, patchouli, verbena, sandalwood, and sticklewort.”
There are so many jars, it’s hard to keep the list in my head and locate the ones she wants at the same time, especially since they’re not organized in any obvious orde
r. I’m sure she knows why the wormwood is sitting next to the frankincense, because it’s definitely not alphabetical order.
She scoops a small amount from each crock into her mortar and hands me the wooden pestle. “Grind these up nice and smooth.”
The dried herbs crush easily, breaking down into a smooth powder that, well, stinks. Each of the ingredients has its own strong fragrance, but added together, their spicy scents merge into something truly funky. It’s sort of like potpourri on steroids. And not one you’d want to put in your living room.
“Wow.” The thick stench burns my nose. “This stuff is pretty strong.” I know exactly what Jack would say if he was here to smell this, and I can’t help but think the word in my head—dang.
My eyelids grow heavy. I blink hard, resisting the urge to close them.
She winks. “It’s where the real magic is. Each of these is potent enough to turn back a regular curse. Burning them together will increase their power and should cure your brother.” The flames in the roasting pan settle, and the chips glow a deep orange. “Now shake this mixture over the coals.”
Stifling a yawn, I sprinkle the powder over the glowing chips. Last night with Jack was rough, but this is ridiculous. I shake my head to clear the fatigue.
The herb mixture ignites as it hits the hot charcoal, spitting and crackling like tiny beads of gunpowder. A cloud of gray-green smoke billows up from the center of the pan.
The sky darkens as the clouds shift and converge, blocking out the sun.
Miss Delia thrusts Jack’s baseball cap at me. “Quick, fish out your brother’s hair and add it to the pan.”
I tug the jet-black strand from the inside of the brim. It’s straight and coarse, almost like a strand of wire, and way thicker than mine. Definitely Jack’s. As I toss it onto the coals, Miss Delia grasps my hand and chants, “As dawn breaks night, and heat melts ice, turn back this curse and restore Jack’s life.”
A blast of wind barrels across the backyard, whipping the rear of the house and rattling the windows. A ghostly moan surrounds the bottle tree.
A flash bursts in the pan, and a fireball leaps into the air, blowing the powdered mixture all over the kitchen and us. A split second later, the flames collapse on themselves, retracting back into the pan with a loud sucking sound that smothers all the heat. Even the charcoal has stopped glowing.
Miss Delia starts, then leans toward the quiet pan, holding her hand above the coals that blazed just a second ago. Her eyes are fixed in stunned confusion. I lift my hand and hold it next to hers. There’s no residual heat. It’s completely cool. Miss Delia pokes a tentative finger at a charcoal chip. It disintegrates into a heap of ash.
Suddenly a loud and ferocious bark booms from outside Miss Delia’s kitchen window. Deep and gravelly, it’s almost more of a roar than a bark. The yowl repeats, brutal in its persistence, filling my stomach with dread. I spring off my stool and race to the window to see what’s outside.
A giant black dog with long, glossy fur and electric yellow eyes stands in the middle of Miss Delia’s herb garden, howling its enormous head off. It’s at least as big as a pony, but I’m sure it’s a dog.
Some kind of crazy-eyed, half-Newfoundland, half-Doberman beast.
Now I’m awake.
The raw, bitter smell of rancid eggs seeps into the kitchen.
My mind races to comprehend. Miss Delia slips off her stool and joins me at the window. When it sees her, the dog bares its jagged teeth and seethes, growling so deeply the floorboards rumble.
Cooper charges into the kitchen, slamming the swinging door open into the wall. “Y’all okay in here?” His eyes bulge as he peers into the yard. “What the heck?” He sprints toward us, shoves the back kitchen door shut, and encircles us with his long arms.
The dog barks again, the sound so vicious, I can almost feel the cutting edge of its teeth on my flesh. My hands shake. Even though the door’s closed and I’m enveloped in Cooper’s strength, I don’t feel safe. Not with that beast around.
Miss Delia’s face is drawn as she clutches my hand. “This is more serious than I thought. We need the ancestors.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The creature narrows its yellow eyes and curls its lips up on one side. If it wasn’t a dog, I’d swear it was sneering at us. I mean, how can a dog smile? On second thought, it’s obviously psychotic, so maybe that’s exactly what it’s doing.
“Holy crap,” I mutter. “I think it wants to kill us.”
“Not while I’m around.” Cooper grabs a metal pot off the stove and rushes to the back door. Yanking it open, he darts across the side porch, pushes open the screen door, and launches the pot at the dog. “Get!” The metal bounces in the grass at the monster’s feet.
It crouches as if it’s about to pounce, then snarls and barks again.
I rush to the cabinet and find another, heavier pot. Dashing onto the screened porch, I slap the iron handle into Cooper’s waiting hand and retreat back to the safety of the kitchen.
“I said, ‘GET’!” He launches the pot at the dog, which springs to the right at the last second, dodging the incoming missile. The dog howls, long and low. It’s not English, but we understand nonetheless. It doesn’t like us. Not one little bit. The dog pivots and barrels into the woods behind Miss Delia’s backyard.
Miss Delia whimpers and slumps against the counter. Her legs give out, and she slides toward the floor, but Cooper scoops her up, carries her to the living room, and sets her onto the sofa. Her forehead and upper lip bead with sweat, and she reaches for the tissue box on the coffee table with a shaking hand.
“Are you all right, Miss Delia? Should we call a doctor or something?” My voice is strained as I hand her a tissue. The dog was horrifying, but it didn’t actually attack us, so I don’t understand why she’s so overcome.
She blots her lip. Her eyes are unfocused and glazed, but she waves me off. “No, child, I’ll be fine. I just need a little breather, is all.” I doubt it. She’s flushed and flustered like she’s about to have a stroke, and there’s no way I’m prepared to handle that. And neither are the ancestors she mentioned—whoever they are. She needs a hospital.
“We need an ambulance.” I step away from the couch to grab my cell from my bag. I haven’t seen a landline anywhere in the house.
“No!” Miss Delia grips the cushions and tries to lift herself up. Her glossy eyes grow intense as she shakes her head with as much conviction as she can muster. “No hospitals, no doctors. They can’t treat what ails me. I can handle it myself.” She collapses back onto the sofa, and her frail body quakes. Oh, jeez, she’s going to die right here in front of us.
“But—”
“I said no doctors. I’ll fix myself as soon as I’ve gotten some rest.” Despite how feeble she appears, fire still lights her eyes. I won’t push it, even though she’s being ridiculous. Her eyes roll to the back of her head, and her teeth chatter.
Cooper squares his shoulders. “I’ll get her some water.” He jogs to the kitchen.
“And maybe a cool, wet cloth,” I call after him. Kneeling, I pull the afghan off the back of the sofa and drape it over her, hoping it’ll stop her shaking. I’m willing to play it her way, at least while she’s conscious, but then I’ll do what I think is right. Until then, since I am her apprentice, maybe I can help cure her. “Um, Miss Delia, what the heck was that out there?” I take her limp, clammy hand.
Her shivers begin to quiet. “A warning,” she manages. “Our spell didn’t work. The curse doesn’t want to be broken, and it’s telling us so.”
“What do you mean? You’re describing the curse like it’s a living thing or something that can make its own decisions.”
Her eyelids sag, and she strains to keep them open. “I told you this is a strong curse. It’s been working for almost three hundred years. It’s not going away easily.”
Cooper comes back with the water and a cool, damp dishcloth. “Here, Miss Delia, take a sip.” He slips his hand behind he
r shoulders and lifts her head so she can drink. Grasping the glass with trembling fingers, she lifts it to her lips, but some of the water slips past the rim and dribbles down her chin. I reach and steady the glass so she can get enough into her mouth to swallow. When she’s done, she hands the glass to Cooper and wipes her chin with the tissue, which is disintegrating in her hands.
“Thank you, son. That was very kind of you.” She lays her head back down on the cushion and shuts her eyes, which roll behind her lids.
“Miss Delia, I know you don’t want to go to a hospital, but I’m worried about you being all alone with a wild dog on the loose.” Cooper dabs her forehead with the moist cloth. “Did you see the froth around its mouth? I’m pretty sure it’s got rabies. If you’ve got a shotgun, I could go after it, maybe put it out of its misery.”
She forces her eyes open. “That dog isn’t sick, boy. It’s evil.” Her words are barely audible as her lids close again.
Cooper’s brow crinkles as he hunches his shoulders.
I mouth, “I’ll explain later,” then stroke the back of her hand, her moles and wrinkles rough beneath my fingertips.
In a weird way, her skin is tough and fragile at the same time. Almost translucent, it’s thin enough to see clear through to her raised blue veins but strong enough to encase her hardened and twisted knuckles. These hands have spent nearly a century working with roots and herbs—planting, harvesting, and converting them into medicine and magic. If anyone knows what we’re up against, it’s her. I’m just not sure if she’s up to facing it.
I don’t know if she’s asleep, but I can’t just leave her here, especially if I don’t know what the heck that dog wants from us. I gently nudge her shoulder. “Miss Delia, do you think it’ll come back? I’m afraid to leave you by yourself.” Because if it hasn’t killed her by now, it will the next time.
