Bound

by Kirsten Weiss

  I glanced at myself in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, my auburn hair sticking up in places. I smoothed the strands, adjusted the collar of my white blouse.

  Bound, unbound, I hadn’t seen anything strange or unusual since Ellen had placed her hands on my head yesterday. And I really didn’t care.

  Mastering myself, I walked to Ellen’s downstairs bedroom at the rear of the house. I changed the sheets, smoothing the blue coverlet.

  I searched for the bed’s remote control. We’d bought one of those adjustable beds six months ago, when Ellen had begun having problems getting up on her own. The remote was supposed to be in the mattress holster. I found it beneath the bed, along with a warren of dust bunnies.

  Sneezing, I got a broom and vacuum from the junk closet. My aunt had warned us about letting things clutter beneath the bed. Bad energy, she’d said.

  I paused, dustpan in hand, and took a long look at the room, with its walls painted a blue so pale it was near white. A sapphire-colored, glass globe hung in a window — a witch’s ball. I’d learned about them during my time in Boston. People hung the glass balls to ward against evil. And the doors painted black, a color to repel evil. The doors, the witch’s ball, the broom Ellen kept on the porch to sweep away negativity — my aunt had been obsessed with protection. Was that normal? Or a reaction to the curse she believed she’d been fighting all these years?

  I ditched the cleaning supplies on the floor and hurried upstairs. Reaching for the pull cord, I drew down the ladder to the attic.

  The ladder clattered in its tracks, banging hard on the floor, and I winced. Slowly, I climbed up, hesitating in the trap door. The attic was my aunt’s private space for her witchcraft, and I’d honored that in the past. But now, I needed to know.

  In the attic, sunlight streamed through the paned windows, painting golden squares on the rough, wood floor. Boxes sat stacked in neat rows on one side of the room. On the other side stood an antique secretary, with a drop-down desk on the right and a tall, glassed bookcase on the left. The desk was open, a wooden chair before it, inviting. The warmth embraced me, pulling me in, and I climbed the remaining steps into the attic.

  I turned away from the treasure trove in the secretary. An invisible force towed me forward, dragged my reluctant feet deeper into the maze of dusty boxes.

  I stopped beside a locked chest, brown and battered. Taut, leather straps belted it shut. I unhooked the straps, and they cascaded to the floor, their metal hooks thunking against the rough wood. My fingernails slid between the thin metal and the leather of the chest, and I tugged at the clasp.

  It didn’t budge.

  Exasperated, I blew out my breath. There was no key in the keyhole. I tugged on the chest. It was heavier than I’d expected, but it edged forward. Something shifted inside.

  If I was a key, where would I be?

  I ran my hands along the straps, but there was no key tied through any of the holes. Scrunching my face in frustration, I shoved the chest back, too far, past the line in the dust. A bit of metal gleamed on the floor.

  A thin key.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I inserted the key.

  It turned smoothly.

  I raised the lid. Its hinges creaked. Wary, I glanced down the corridor of boxes, toward the exit in the floor. I was invading Ellen’s private space, but the need to know crowded my thoughts, overrode my manners.

  I turned to the chest. The scent of musty linens wafted through the air. I pulled aside a 1950s-era woman’s jacket. A thick, leather-bound book lay beneath it, and my heart leaped. I picked it up, turned it over.

  A Bible.

  I lowered my head, disappointed. And here I’d been certain magic had drawn me to the chest, that it had been more than luck that had led me to the key. My lips twisted. I dug past layers of clothing that grew older and more brittle the deeper I dove.

  There were no magical talismans. No books of spells.

  I sat on my heels. Oh, well. The Bible was old, and that at least made it interesting. Cradling the heavy book to my midsection, I shut the chest’s lid, leaving the key in the lock.

  At the antique secretary, I peered through the glass cabinet. Books of witchcraft lined its shelves — astrology and moon magic, crystals and shamanism. Most of the books were modern paperbacks, but one was leather-bound, worn. I tugged on the handle to the glass case.

  Locked.

  Setting the Bible on the floor, I ran my fingers across the hinged desk. Small drawers with elegant metalwork lined the top, and I opened one. Trinkets and treasures winked at me. I set them in a line on the open desk. A stone with a hole in the center. A blue feather. A broken pocket watch. A one pence coin from 1900. An old-fashioned key.

  Ha! A key!

  I inserted it into the bookcase lock. It turned with a satisfying click.

  Fingers tingling, I reached for the leather-bound book.

  Below me, a door slammed. “Karin?”

  “Up here!” I shoved the Bible on the shelf beside the book I’d found and scrambled down the attic ladder. I retracted the steps into the ceiling.

  “Can you give us a hand?” Jayce shouted.

  “Be right there!” I raced downstairs. The front entry stood open, and I walked onto the porch.

  Lenore’s Volvo sat parked in the driveway. Lenore bent inside the open, rear door. Her blond ponytail cascaded down the back of her sleeveless tunic.

  Jayce stood beside the passenger side door, her hands gripping the handles of a wheelchair. She looked up at my approach and tugged down the hem of her black, lace tank. “Can you help Aunt Ellen into the chair?”

  “Sure,” I said, anything but certain. I always felt clumsy with my aunt, so fragile as her illness progressed.

  “I can stand,” Ellen croaked.

  That was doubtful. “That’s great.” Vision blurring, I squeezed between the wheelchair and the car. I helped my aunt swing her legs out, stand, and take two, unsteady steps. She wobbled, and I lowered her into the wheelchair.

  Jayce wheeled our aunt to the stairs and turned backward. Between the three of us, we lifted the wheelchair up the porch steps.

  “Where would you like to go, Ellen?” I asked.

  “Here. The porch.” Ellen’s eyes drifted to half mast.

  Jayce rolled the chair beside the low wicker table and chairs.

  Lenore darted inside, returning with a lightweight, sand-colored throw. She tucked it around our aunt. “What about that book on tape you were listening to? Do you want me to set it up here?”

  “No. Just… sit.” Her voice was a wheeze, and we glanced at each other worriedly.

  “I’ll make a pot of tea.” I walked to the kitchen, its walls painted a delicate pale green. Drying herbs hung above the butcher-block island.

  I ran my fingers across their crackling leaves. They were all a part of Ellen’s magic. We’d marinated in it, taking the herbs, the witch ball that warded off evil, for granted. I picked up a heavy mortar and pestle, its white marble streaked with gray striations. Sniffing its bowl, I imagined the scent of ground spices and remembered our aunt hunchbacked at the counter, grinding.

  On impulse, I went to the cupboard and set a Mason jar filled with garlic and herbs and amber liquid on the work island. Ellen had forced shots of her spicy, cider vinegar brew down our throats since we were kids. For protection. Now, Jayce was the keeper of the flame, preparing the tonic for the family.

  From beneath the sink, I grabbed a spray bottle filled with Ellen’s vinegar and water cleaning solution. This too did double duty — as both a physical and magical cleanser.

  Yawning, Jayce wandered into the kitchen. Darkness shadowed her eyes. She picked up the glass spray bottle, put it down. “Oh, goodie. Are you going to clean?”

  “Not on your life,” I said.

  “So what’s with the cleaning supplies?”

  “Am I crazy?” I tapped the label on the spray bottle, and the Nordic rune for protection Ellen had drawn up
on it in her careful script. “Or has Ellen always been a bit obsessed with protection?”

  Jayce rubbed her cheek. “Ellen made me wash the windows in a clockwise motion to remove any dark magic, but that’s just common sense, isn’t it? I mean, if you’re going to clean, why not go all the way?”

  “Maybe. But she did say she’s been working against this curse all along. All these rituals must have been a part of it.”

  Lenore sidled into the kitchen. “She’s sleeping,” she said in a low voice.

  Jayce turned the glass jar of herbs in her hands. “And the Four Thieves tincture, to ward against ill health and psychic vampires.” Her green eyes widened. “Holy crap, we don’t have vampires in Doyle, do we?”

  “What are you talking about?” Lenore asked.

  “The curse,” I said. “Ellen’s protective magic. Are other witches as careful about protection as she is?”

  “Probably not,” Lenore said, “but they should be.”

  The wall clock ticked, and we watched each other, thoughtful.

  “Did the doctors say anything more about Ellen?” I asked, changing the subject.

  Lenore took a teapot from a moss-green cupboard. Filling it with water, she set it on the old-fashioned gas stove. “Nothing you don’t already know. The hospital’s arranged for a hospice nurse to come by in the morning to check in, and…” She looked away. “To be here when it’s time.”

  My heart ached. I didn’t ask what time. We were on a death watch.

  Jayce took a canister of tea leaves from the cupboard. Bowing her head, she held one hand over it, palm down, meditative. Her power whispered through the kitchen, charging the tea, and then she slumped against the sink.

  “Jayce, you must be exhausted,” I said. She’d spent last night at the hospital as well. Even with the earplugs, she couldn’t have gotten much sleep.

  Jayce nodded. “I’m going to go home and crash. See you tonight?”

  “I’ll call you if there’s any change,” I said.

  “There won’t be,” Lenore said. “Not today.”

  “Thanks.” Jayce left.

  “How can you be sure there won’t be any change?” I asked.

  “Trust me. I know.” Lenore’s voice lowered, deepened. “It won’t happen today.”

  I swallowed, believing. We had a reprieve, and I was grateful. I’d thought I’d prepared for my aunt’s passing. I hadn’t. You can never really prepare.

  The teapot whistled, and I filled two cups. I dropped in tea strainers and wandered onto the porch, setting the cups on a wicker table beside Ellen.

  Her eyes blinked open. “What time is it?”

  “Only ten fifteen.” I sat on the porch rocker. “You weren’t asleep long. I brought you some tea.” I nodded toward the table. “Jayce charged it.”

  Ellen smiled, wan. “She has such lovely energy in her workings. Unfortunately, I’ve no appetite.” She stared over the front garden, the shade trees rustling in the light breeze, the clusters of ferns and greenery.

  We sat in silence, and I rocked, toes light on the floorboards.

  “I was upstairs, in the attic,” I finally said. “There was an antique writing desk and books on witchcraft.” I shouldn’t have invaded her privacy, and my jaw clenched, bracing for her reaction. She had every right to be pissed.

  “Yes, those books are mine. After you girls left for college, I turned the attic into my magic workroom. I thought I could find something on curse breaking. But nothing I found seemed to apply. Did you see the book?”

  “The old leather book? Yes.”

  “Go get it.”

  I walked inside, passing Lenore in the hallway blowing on a mug of tea. Hurrying up the stairs, I pulled down the ladder and climbed into the attic, slowing as I approached the old desk.

  The book seemed to pull at me now. My scalp tingled, and I slowed. Was it drawing me closer, or was I imagining it?

  I stopped, and a force hooked beneath my chest, tugging me forward. The sensation didn’t feel unhealthy or unpleasant. Not like last night in the forest. I shuddered, remembering.

  Pulling open the glass door, I reached inside and picked up the thick, leather-bound book. It hummed in my hands for a moment, and then it was only a book again.

  I walked downstairs and onto the porch. Lenore had stolen my seat on the swing. I made a face at her and handed the book to our aunt.

  Ellen made a faint motion with her head. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. You read it.”

  “The whole thing?” I asked. “Out loud?”

  Ellen closed her eyes. “That would get boring fast. You’ll recognize it when you find what you need.”

  I opened the book and craned my neck over its thin, browning pages. “It’s a book of shadows.” My breath came more quickly. A real book of witchcraft, and it must be centuries old. How could this have existed in Ellen’s house without me knowing?

  Lenore rose, coming to stand beside us.

  “Book of Shadows is a modern term,” Ellen corrected. “This is a witch’s recipe book. Mainly herbal remedies, but yes, there’s witchcraft in it, if you want to call it that.”

  I flipped through the pages, Lenore hovering over my shoulder. The spidery handwriting was difficult to read. The recipes seemed ludicrous — curing warts and incontinence, finding what was lost. But from a historical perspective, it was remarkable.

  “Have you tried any of these?” Lenore asked.

  Ellen laughed, a croak. “Of course!”

  “And?” Lenore asked.

  Our aunt slumped in her chair. “Read the final entry,” she whispered.

  Careful of the fragile binding, I shifted the book and turned to the last page. In faded ink, someone had scrawled a poem.

  “Read it.” Ellen reached for the book, and her arm dropped to the blanket.

  I drew a breath. “Nathaniel hied away to the fae spring

  To gather herbs and flowers for his bride.

  Belle, mischief mad, behold anon the man.

  Oh Moon, she raved, smit dreadfulle to her heart,

  She wove her magic spelle and bound him close.

  Away to me, she called, forget your love,

  Forget your mortal pledge, a haunting cry.

  Three days he tarried in the fairy bower.

  His home and hearth forgotten in her couch.

  Then fire more fierce than fae’s blew through his soul,

  And waking, stumbled to his mountain home.

  Return! She cried. I bind you with my charms,

  I call the Morrigan, tie fast his fate,

  If he resists, its Uffern’s gate he’ll knock on.”

  I shut the book. “Not much of a rhyme.” But I thought of Nick, and my cheeks heated.

  “Was one of our ancestors a poet?” Lenore asked.

  “If you can call this poetry,” I said. “It’s kind of sexy though. Three days in a fairy bower with the man of your dreams?” It was the sort of blind passion I’d write into one of my novellas, the kind I’d never experienced. But demanding someone love you or die was a twisted sort of love. No wonder Belle had been cursed.

  “That poem is written in iambic pentameter,” Lenore said. “It’s more about the rhythm than the rhyme, and it’s not bad. That style was all the rage back in the day.”

  Lenore would know. She’d been writing poetry in little spiral notebooks since she was a kid.

  “You girls are missing the point,” Ellen said. “It’s the original story of Belle’s curse.”

  “Our ancestress,” Lenore said. “So this is how it happened. I’m presuming he didn’t return to her bower, and he died. Do you think it rebounded on Belle?”

  “On her entire line,” Ellen said. “People say if you play with the black arts, it rebounds on you threefold. I suspect the explanation for this curse is simpler. Guilt. She killed the man she loved and cursed herself.” She picked up the tea cup and saucer. They rattled in her gnarled hands.

  “The fairy bower,” I
said, eyeing her cup. “Could that refer to the fairy spring?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Ellen said. “I tried to learn when the spring first got that name, and I found it in an old tourist guidebook from the 1920s. I wasn’t able to find an earlier mention, but that doesn’t mean people weren’t calling it a fairy spring for centuries.”

  “It’s a weird place,” I said.

  Lenore laughed, leaning against the porch railing, her hands behind her back. “Weird? It’s beautiful! Little wonder people call the place a fairy spring.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. My sister hadn’t seen the spring last night.

  “No, Karin is right,” Ellen said. “It is weird, in the classic sense of the word. The fae are strange, dangerous. Or people used to think so before fairies became cutesy cartoon characters.” She smiled. “Fortunately, I’ve never run into any fairies in Doyle.”

  “The Morrigan…” I said. “I’ve heard that name before. Something to do with King Arthur?”

  Lenore looked down, a wave of blond hair escaping from her ponytail. “A Celtic triple goddess associated with war, sovereignty, and divination.” She smiled thinly. “You weren’t the only person researching our heritage. I took a course on Celtic mythology in college.”

  “We’re not Celtic,” I said.

  “No,” Lenore said, “but there are definite Celtic elements to our magic. And to that curse story.”

  I ran my fingers down the brittle page. “It says she cast a love spell on him to lure him to her fairy bower. Did you find any love spells in the spell book?”

  “No,” Ellen said. “There were lists of herbs attributed to love, but that was all.”

  I frowned. “And lunar magic?”

  “Oh, that’s in there. Read the book. It’s time you learn it all. But for now, put it away.” Ellen leaned back with a sigh and closed her eyes. The teacup slipped from the saucer and shattered on the porch.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The doorbell rang, and I checked my watch. It wasn’t eleven yet. The doctor was early. I hurried from my aunt’s bedside to the entryway and peered through the peep hole.

  Nick Heathcoat stood on the porch, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His white t-shirt stretched taut, showing off his broad chest and washboard stomach. Not that I cared about either.