Banish

by Nicola Marsh

  “She’s this bully from back home, made my life hell at school, ’til we called an uneasy truce after having to work together for a semester.”

  He released my hand to grip my shoulders, ensuring I had nowhere to look but at him. “Is that why you’re going home?”

  I nodded. “I did a quick search online for recent missing persons in the Broadwater area, that kind of thing, but came up empty.”

  He eyeballed me. “This is serious. You have to go to the police—”

  “And say what? I’m the only one who saw a virtual dead body? Then my ex who killed himself tried to contact me through a séance? And his necklace turned up from his grave and someone planted a dumb voodoo doll and sent death signs and—”

  “Whoa.” His forehead crinkled in consternation. “Death signs?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and blew out a long breath. “Arrived on my doorstep yesterday. When I got home last night, Angie had it waiting for me.”

  “I bet she did,” he muttered and I fired him a warning glare.

  “Unmarked envelope, hand delivered, addressed to me. A bunch of nonsensical stuff: a black crystal, rosemary, hieroglyphics, a clump of dirt and some nails. I was ready to throw the lot away but Angie kinda freaked out, said they were death signs, which correlated with the book she gave me…”

  I’d never seen him so sombre and it scared me.

  “Lys, your aunt is the only person who’d have access to your past. You live with her. She’s into spooky shit. And now she gives you some freaky book on witchcraft and god knows what.”

  His flat tone scared me as much as the worry in his eyes. “I don’t know her but are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure she isn’t doing this?”

  I hated how logical he sounded, how it made the most sense out of all my harebrained theories. But Angie? ­Seriously? I didn’t want to believe it. I wouldn’t, not until I’d been home and followed up on Sammy to make sure she was safe.

  If this was some giant, elaborate, twisted play on Angie’s part to get me to join her coven, I owed it to Sammy to ensure she didn’t get caught in the crossfire.

  Soul-deep weariness spread like treacle through my veins and I sagged back against the cushions.

  “She has no motivation.” None I wanted to acknowledge, that is. All those years she’d tried to sway me to her way of thinking, when I’d humoured her but deliberately ignored her attempts, came back in a haunting flash.

  Ronan took my hand again. “Hasn’t she? You said it yourself, she’s into some heavy magic. What if she’s trying to convert you? She’s got no kids; maybe you’re her one shot at witch immortality. Maybe she gets bonus points for bringing family into her circle? Maybe—”

  “Maybe you should ditch IT in exchange for writing fiction?” I squeezed his hand. “That’s one hell of an imagination.”

  The corners of his mouth curled into a half-smile. “Sounds crazy, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  But not half as crazy as articulating out loud everything that had happened in the last few days. It sounded implausible. Who would believe me?

  I stared at Ronan—his ready-to-smile mouth, his guileless eyes, his relaxed expression– and wondered why he was so quick to believe. We’d known each other a month, had been dating less than a week. Surely what was happening to me went above and beyond the duties of a new boyfriend?

  That’s when it struck me. All this crap had started since we’d been dating. Coincidence? Or was it something more sinister?

  He studied me, his ability to pick up on the slightest shift in my mood impressive. “What’s wrong?”

  “You don’t have any psycho exes? Because all this stuff started since we’ve been dating…”

  He released my hand and I mentally cursed for voicing one of my many doubts out loud. “You still don’t trust me?”

  I laid a hand on his thigh, grateful when he didn’t move away. “You’re the only person who knows everything. Full disclosure. What do you think?”

  He covered my hand with his. “I think this shit is enough to send anyone crazy. Don’t know how you’re putting up with it.”

  “I’m not, that’s why I have to go home. Hopefully I’ll get some answers.”

  His eyes lit up. “I can come with you? Juggle some gigs, postpone IT work, get a stand-in tutor at school—”

  “No.”

  That full disclosure thing? Meeting my mom would make a mockery of that. Telling him about Noah had been a necessity, but having him witness Mom’s craziness?

  After what I’d dumped on him this week, he’d assume it ran in the family. Bye-bye boyfriend.

  “Lys, this is serious, it could involve a murder…”

  “I don’t think so. This psycho is toying with me, trying to make me doubt everyone around me, playing on my past.” And I think that’s what had me pissed the most: the constant, niggling doubt; that I suspected almost everyone in my life at the moment; and how it was affecting my relationships. “That’s why I think my past holds the answers.”

  He shook his head, strands of his silky brown hair whipping his cheeks. “I don’t like it.”

  I grimaced. “Me either. But this needs to get sorted.”

  He crushed me in his arms and my gaze landed on the closed door to his office. For a guy, he sure was neat, ­everything in its place, doors closed. Seeing his office reminded me that he hadn’t mentioned the IP address.

  I eased back. “Hey, did you manage to track down who hacked into your account?”

  “No, and it seriously pisses me off.” His quick glance away bordered on furtive as he slumped back into the sofa. “I’m supposed to be good at what I do, but whoever’s doing this is better than me.”

  Ah, so that’s what the look away had been about: dented male pride.

  He snapped his fingers. “Your aunt’s not a closet computer whiz, is she?”

  Not that I knew of, though she did spend an inordinate amount of time online managing her forums. “Don’t go there…”

  He chuckled at my warning. “Just checking.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Gotta hit the road, my bus leaves in an hour.”

  “I’ll come with you to the depot.”

  I laid a hand on his chest, felt the steady beat of his heart. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

  He clasped my hand to him and squeezed it hard. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “This ex of yours. A lot of what’s happening to you is tied to him.” He hesitated a second before rushing on. “How involved were you two?”

  I guess I should have expected this sooner but talking to my new boyfriend about my relationship with Noah and the volatile way we ended didn’t exactly make me feel good.

  “We dated for about five months, nothing heavy, but he did a lot of good in our town so people liked him, and they liked seeing us as a couple. Then he turned moody on me, we broke up, he hanged himself the next day.”

  I succeeded in keeping my voice steady while inside I crumbled. The memory of the last time I saw Noah shattered me every time.

  “Sorry for bringing it up but it could be tied in, you know?” He brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his tenderness making me want to bawl. “What about his family? Anyone who would want to mess with you…”

  “I don’t know his family, never met them.”

  Ronan’s eyebrows shot up. “In five months?”

  “He lived in the next town. Pretty much kept his life there separate from our dating in Broadwater.”

  “You didn’t find that odd?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. I was sixteen, he was my first boyfriend, I was content not to push the status quo.” And so wrapped up in being happy I didn’t want to do anything to spoil it. Caring for Mom had been tough over the years and for a wonderful few months Noah had taken me away from all that. No way would I have potentially ruined it out of curiosity.

  “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-two.”


  Ronan whistled low. “Fair age difference.”

  “Almost the same as us,” I said, tempering my quick defensiveness with a coy glance.

  “A year’s a long time.” He bumped me with his shoulder and gave me a goofy smile. “Besides, you’re seventeen going on thirty.”

  He was right. I was a far different person now from eight months ago. Growing up as the primary caregiver in my household the last few years had aged me and ­coping with Noah’s death only added to my ­responsibility. Yeah, I was mature beyond my years and sometimes regretted it, wished I could have had a normal childhood like most of the kids still stuck in their cosy world back in Broadwater.

  But maybe if I hadn’t gone through all that tough stuff, I wouldn’t have attracted a cool, older guy like Ronan. Much easier to be a glass-half-full girl with a super-cute, musician boyfriend clutching my hand to his chest.

  “So this thing you have for older guys?” He lowered my hand and held onto it. “Tell me you’re not going to ditch me in favour of a forty year old any time soon?”

  I wrinkled my nose and laughed. “Euw, gross.”

  “Just checking.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed the palm, a soft, lingering kiss, before curling my fingers back over it. A quaint, old-fashioned gesture that surprised me, but nice all the same.

  “You know it’s all very Freudian, me dating older guys?”

  Confusion clouded his eyes and I chuckled. “Me not growing up with a dad? Looking for a replacement, that kind of thing?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Who said that?”

  “My mom, when I first started dating Noah.”

  Come to think of it, it was the first lucid thing she’d said to me in ages and I’d snapped at her, telling her to mind her own business. And she had. She’d gone back to chatting with spirits rather than me.

  “I’ve never gone in for all that psychobabble bullshit.” He pointed at the flat screen TV on the far wall. “Seen enough of it being spruiked by smarmy talk show hosts.”

  “You watch that crap?” I teased, enjoying the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, his bashful grin beyond endearing.

  “Takes me a while to wind down after a gig at night, so I reheat pizza and channel surf.”

  “Yeah, but talk shows?” I made it sound like he was watching paint dry. “Thought you’d be glued to MTV or American Idol?”

  He slung an arm around my shoulder and chuckled. “After all the songs I’ve played you and clips I’ve forwarded, you still have no idea what I like, do you?”

  “Sure I do.” I slanted him a teasing glance. “Old-fart jazz.”

  He tickled me and I giggled, enjoying the horseplay as I slipped out from under his arm and dodged him.

  “So you think I’m an old fart, huh?” He advanced towards me and I ducked behind the sofa, grinning like an idiot.

  “Not you, just the jazz you like.”

  “No-one disses my jazz.” He leaped over the coffee table and I scuttled around the other side of the sofa, laughing even more when he grazed his shin on the wood and swore.

  “If you’re using words like diss, you’re definitely watching too many talk shows,” I said, squealing as he vaulted the sofa and tackled me onto it, laughing so hard I almost peed my pants.

  “Truce!” I yelled and he finally stopped, his grin smug as he rubbed noses with me.

  “You’re incredibly cute,” he said, brushing a kiss against my lips. “But if you ever diss my music again? All the truces in the world won’t save you.”

  I grinned up at him, loving his playfulness, savouring his weight on top of me, wishing we could stay like this forever. But I had a bus to catch and a mystery to solve.

  I cupped his face in my hands and stared into his beautiful hazel eyes. “I really have to go.”

  He nodded, eased off me and helped me up. “I’ll walk you down.”

  I didn’t linger on his front steps. I couldn’t bear a drawn-out goodbye, so I settled for a hug and a far-too-short bittersweet kiss.

  When we pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine. “If you need me, I’m only a phone call away, okay?”

  “Okay.” I broke away before I started blubbering. “I’ll let you know how I am.”

  “You better.”

  With nothing more to say, I trudged down the steps, my bags not half as heavy as my heart. Walking away from Ronan a few days after we’d officially started dating felt wrong. But I had to do this.

  Had to discover who was slowly but surely driving me crazy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  NOT WANTING TO leave Seth hanging when we had a post-chemistry study date, I texted him after I boarded the bus. Seemingly unfazed by my ditching school today and the sudden trip home, he agreed we’d hook up next week.

  While I’d been irrationally mad at him over the Tabitha debacle, I was grateful for our easy friendship. Uncomplicated sounded pretty appealing to me right now and despite the fact Seth knew about the dead body and my bungled cover-up regarding Noah, he hadn’t pushed me. He’d given me the space I needed, the normality I needed, and that meant a lot.

  I liked him and a small part of me wondered if we would be more than friends if Ronan wasn’t on the scene. Not that Seth had given me any indication or come on to me in any way. Just the typical pie-in-the-sky daydreaming stuff girls did with every cute guy in their sphere. Or was that just me?

  Truth was I doubted Seth made good boyfriend ­material. He had a flighty air about him, like he couldn’t commit to any one thing for more than a while. Unable to sit still without tapping his feet or drumming his fingers, he had an air of barely restrained energy. That kind of constant buzz could be attractive.

  But Seth had never paid me one iota of attention beyond platonic and I was grateful. Intense, focused guys weren’t my thing: I was into laid-back, easygoing guys, the opposite of what I’d had with Noah.

  My conscience gave the inevitable twinge it did every time I remembered Noah. Until this moment, I’d been so gung-ho about getting to Broadwater, ensuring Sammy was safe and checking if anyone had been missing the last few weeks to think about the impact being back in town would have on me.

  It had been six months since I’d left, eight since Noah’s death. Would the town have moved on? Or would people still stare and frown? Would the kids who’d once been my friends dare to be seen with me again?

  An uncomfortable heaviness settled in my stomach, the familiar weight of sorrow. I’d never know what had changed Noah, what had made him snap that final day, and a part of me still grieved for what we’d once shared. A girl never forgot her first boyfriend. Noah had ensured I would never forget him, and not in a good way.

  Wrapping my arms around my middle, I twisted in my seat and stared out the window, seeing nothing but images of the past I’d rather forget.

  After five minutes of conjuring up memories of Mom’s meltdowns, Noah’s death and a town that had turned its back on me, and with another eighty-five minutes until the bus arrived in Broadwater, I grabbed my bag and dug out the book Angie had given me.

  Wasn’t the first one—I still had the picture book of crystals she’d given me when I was seven tucked away in the back of my closet with the rest of her gifts. But this one focused on protection. Considering the stuff happening to me lately, probably not a bad idea.

  The pictures attracted me more than the text: citrine geodes, sparkling amethyst, deep green malachite, mint with gold-streaked larimar. The first chapter stated that smoky quartz and black tourmaline absorbed negative energy and put out pure, clean energy. And amber and jet jewellery would also protect energies. So why did Angie give me rose quartz?

  Curious, I flipped to the index, spotted the number I wanted and found the page on rose quartz. The fine print added to my confusion. Rose quartz was the stone of love and peace, opening the heart to possibilities. Not a protective mechanism in sight. The text only loosely alluded to drawing off negative energy and replacing it with loving v
ibes. Still no clue as to why Angie had given it to me.

  On the verge of closing the book, I glimpsed a phrase that resonated. Rose quartz can strengthen sensitivity and aid acceptance of necessary change.

  Was that why Angie had given it to me? Not to protect, as she’d implied, but in her continued quest to open my mind to accept her way of life? To foster my sensitivity to the supernatural?

  Annoyed that she wouldn’t quit, especially at a time like this, I shoved the book back into my bag and pondered how remarkably restrained she’d been while I’d been living with her. No invitations to coven meetings, no emailed links to her forums, no late-night discussions on books I may find interesting.

  Perhaps she’d moved onto more subtle methods to sway me? I might have vehemently denied her possible involvement in this fiasco to Ronan, but that didn’t mean I’d totally dismissed the outlandish suggestion as untrue.

  Angie had been more persistent in getting me to ponder Wicca and its spiritual benefits when I’d lived at home. Until the day Mom had told her to f-off in no uncertain terms. It had been the week before my twelfth birthday and I’d unexpectedly arrived home early when chess club was cancelled. Mom had been Skyping Angie and I knew something was wrong by the volume of Mom’s voice.

  Mom never shouted. If she was mad at me, she’d frown, stomp around a lot, cook up a storm, then talk when she’d calmed down. So the fact I could hear her from down the hallway made me tiptoe towards the sunroom to see what all the fuss was about.

  Apparently the fuss was about me.

  Mom swore over the top of Angie’s “It’s almost time, she has a right to know”, and “Believing is forewarned, ignorance is asking for trouble”.

  I almost butted in, but then I remembered how Mom had reacted over the tarot. And that one other time, when I’d been talking to myself, practicing in front of a mirror, working up the courage to ask my sixth grade crush to the dance, and Mom had cooked for a day straight, too upset to talk.

  If Mom hadn’t wanted me delving into Wicca, it had been fine by me. I didn’t really want to and had given up asking questions a long time ago. But her anger, her vehemence, made me worry. Had the voices already manifested to her when I was a kid and she’d been hiding them from me? Was that what Angie meant by “she has a right to know”?