Witch Season: Does she have what it takes to outsmart the craft?

by Larissa May

  “That was interesting,” Ion said. “And something I’d rather not do again.”

  It started to rain as we boarded the L train to Dobra’s neighborhood, Irving Park, where we had planned to meet Miro and Vadim. I quietly watched the city roll by through tear-stained windows, Shelley and Ion staring at me expectantly. I’d fill them in later. The train was packed with all kinds of people, regular people with little or no sense of the world we inhabited. Ion and Shelley moved so freely among them, but it still made me nervous, among people who weren’t like me, who weren’t witches. It was becoming very clear how sheltered I’d been in our forest commune. Here in the city, witches didn’t broadcast their inclinations, but it didn’t seem like such a big deal to intermingle with the larger human world. There were only a handful of covens in Oregon. None was as sheltered as ours, but we all practiced our craft quietly. Magic enriched our lives, and our relationship with the natural world sustained our bodies and our culture. I was starting to think that it was just different in a big city like Chicago.

  The train rumbled to a halt and the conductor announced our stop. We moved with the sea of bodies heading onto the platform. “We aren’t anywhere near bad-ass compared to your aunt,” Shelley said when we broke away from the crowd. “Is your mom like that?”

  “Nothing like that,” I said.

  “My mom says alchemy hardens the soul,” Ion said as we descended from the platform onto Irving Park Road. “When Evie draws her power from the metal on her body, it becomes part of her. Eventually, her skin will harden like steel. When that happens, bad-ass won’t even begin to describe it.”

  Deep down, Evie must be so afraid, I thought.

  “You can be sad later,” Shelley said, reading my mood. “Right now we have work to do.”

  We crossed the busy intersection and quickened into a run as the rain grew more intense. A Victorian house, its faded yellow paint flaking, stood on the corner. In the second-floor bay window there was an iron sign in the shape of a cat, the word café in white script across its belly. A group of people our age hung out at the entrance, huddled under a striped awning. They weren’t witches.

  “Is that where we’re going?” I asked nervously. Downtown, people rushed by me, barely sparing me a glance. In a café, I’d be sitting among nonwitches, trying to keep my voice down while I discussed alchemy and Black Magicians.

  “Don’t worry. It’s just a meeting place,” Shelley said. As we approached the café, Miro and Vadim pushed out the door. Miro walked quickly toward me, his gaze traveling from my hair to my shoes. “You’re okay,” he said, and I noted the relief in his voice.

  “She wasn’t that bad,” I said, but he looked skeptical. Did alchemists really have such terrible reputations?

  “I’m so full of coffee my eyes have turned brown,” Vadim grumbled as Shelley, Ion, and I tried to squeeze under the protection of the awning. The crowd meant we were only half-covered, and the cold spring rain raised goose bumps on my skin.

  Shelley laughed. “They’re still a gorgeous blue,” she said, and Vadim reddened, smiling faintly.

  “How was the apartment?” I asked him. “Find anything?”

  Vadim shrugged, and the warmth he’d just shown Shelley disappeared. “Not a thing. I could hear the dust settle.” I felt an ache of disappointment. If Brandon could find me at Dobra’s, then wouldn’t he look for me at Evie’s, too? Maybe I had been seeing things and he wasn’t in Chicago, but still at the training center in Seaside?

  “What about your aunt?” Miro asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Did she know anything?”

  “I . . . yes? It’s hard to explain.”

  Miro frowned. “What does that mean? Aren’t you going to tell us what you know?”

  What did I know? Evie was violent and unpredictable and still angry with my mother and my family. She made me feel uneasy, but also strangely protected.

  “Well?” Miro pressed.

  “Evie still cares about my mother, even though they had a disagreement and my mom broke their oath before taking me to Oregon. She’s still angry, but I don’t think she’d hurt us. And . . . she had the demon that had chased me locked in a closet in her office.”

  “What?” Shelley asked, suddenly pale. “Evie has the demon?”

  “She could have bewitched the beast,” Vadim said.

  “I think an alchemist can do something like that,” Miro added. “Or force someone to do it for them.”

  “He was tied down with protected chains,” I said, fully realizing how naive I sounded but not caring. “She caught him.”

  The sky darkened, threatening a more severe storm. Miro pushed his damp hair back from his forehead. “Forget about the demon for now. Trust your instincts—good guy or bad guy?”

  “Good question,” Ion muttered.

  “Good, I think.”

  The rain picked up and Shelley hunched into her jacket. “Can we discuss this somewhere dry? It’s cold. I would conjure up a fire, but I have an audience.”

  “The library,” Miro suggested.

  We all stared at him blankly.

  “Come on,” he said, heading down the block. “I have an idea.”

  I hesitated only for a second before drawing my sweater more tightly around me and following him into the storm.

  “You’re too trusting,” he yelled as we sprinted down Irving.

  “Apparently so,” I yelled back. I had no idea why we were going to the library. My boots were not the best footwear for running in torrential rain, and I skidded as we rounded the corner onto a more residential street, the storefronts interspersed with modest apartment buildings and single-family homes. I figured it was better to get soaked than fall on the muddy sidewalk, so I slowed my steps. When Miro noticed he backtracked to me, and without a word opened his dark coat and held it over both of us, creating a makeshift umbrella. His scent—cinnamon and cloves, mixed with the spring rain—enveloped me. I hoped I didn’t still smell like Evie’s goopy concoction.

  “Second house from the corner,” Miro said as we neared the end of the block. “Door’s usually open.”

  The house was a classic graystone, nondescript except for the wine-colored velvet curtains shielding what was behind the massive front windows from curious outsiders. Miro opened the oversized door and we all walked in together. I tried to ignore how cold I felt when he removed his coat from around our shoulders and hung it on a silver hook.

  “Anything open, Roddy?” Miro asked the man perched on a stool behind a counter. The walls behind him were covered in chartreuse wallpaper with delicate black velvet flowers.

  “2B,” Roddy said. He ran a hand over his bald head, brushing the scalp as if he still expected to feel hair. “Or not to be. Who’s the new girl?”

  “She’s with me,” Miro said, and picked up the brass key from the counter. He waved Shelley, Ion, and Vadim up a narrow wooden staircase, then his hand pushed gently at the small of my back. “Up we go.”

  The stairwell was dark and narrow. In the dim light I could see the shadowy outlines of Shelley and Vadim ahead of me. At the top of the staircase, the four of us stood on dirty carpet in front of a plywood door. The hallway looked like it was in a cheap hotel, not a library.

  “There are some things we need to keep under the radar,” Miro said. He opened the door.

  My jaw dropped. Behind the door was a cavernous, two-story atrium topped by heavily paned stained-glass windows, the raindrops shining through like multicolored diamonds. Shelves of books ran around the room and all the way up to the ornate ceiling, like a layer cake topped by a thick coating of sculpted frosting. Deep green ferns sat in antique urns, their leaves fanning over the richly upholstered sofas adjacent. The polished oak floors shone like mirrors.

  “Where are we?” I whispered.

  “The Chicago Private Witch Library,” Miro said, his voice low and reverential. “Northwestern branch. It’s not as nice as the one downtown, but they have private rooms, where we can bring books and t
alk. Also, their reference section is top-notch.”

  Relief flooded my veins, and I smiled.

  Miro looked curiously at me, his eyebrows raised. “Why? What did you think it was?”

  “Forget it,” I said, smiling at him. “I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

  He brightened. “I actually do have some of those. Wait here.”

  Miro walked over to a desk of iron and glass. The girl behind it sat twirling her long blond hair around a pen, her face drooping with boredom. Then she noticed Miro. “What do you need help with this time?” she asked, suddenly alert, bright-eyed, and smiling broadly.

  Shelley stood beside me. “Now there’s trouble,” she muttered.

  The blond girl pretended to swat at Miro with her pen. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally come to pay your late fees. With what you owe us we could build a new wing.”

  Miro ducked his head. “I’ll bring it—”

  “Next week?” she teased.

  “Promise.” He gestured for us to join him at the desk. When we did, the girl, this witchy version of a reference librarian, appraised us with cool eyes.

  “Agneiska, you know Shelley, right?”

  “Of course,” she said, her lip twitching with disdain.

  Shelley smiled tightly. “I’ll be over with Vadim and Ion by the new arrivals if you need me.” She turned to head toward a circular rack by the door, making a face at me when she passed.

  I choked down a laugh and snorted, prompting a look from Miro. “This is Breeda. She’s helping my father with research on unmarked witches. What do we have on that topic?”

  Agneiska nodded. “Let me check.”

  She sauntered over to a large wooden file cabinet, slowly, swaying her hips. To my surprise, a burst of anger pulsed inside me. Was I jealous? Strangely, the emotion felt new to me, raw and unbidden. My face grew hot. When I looked up, Miro was staring at me.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “This . . . is all so new to me.”

  “Don’t you have libraries in Portland?”

  I tried to laugh. “I didn’t live in Portland. And anyway, Portland didn’t have anything quite like this.”

  “Then you’re going to want to see Agneiska in action. She can find anything.”

  I didn’t want to see Agneiska do anything except go away. But she didn’t, and returned to the desk to face us. “There’s not much,” she said to Miro, “but I found something that might be helpful to you. The Mysteries of the Unmarked. Want it?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Agneiska drew her hand to her chest. At first I thought it was some kind of display for Miro, but then she pulled out a long chain with a gray agate attached. She grasped the talisman and her eyes went from Miro to the far reaches of the library. I felt the familiar tug of magic in the room, but it stopped short before sending me over the edge.

  “There it is,” Miro murmured.

  A book had dislodged itself from a top shelf, and floated down like a bird into Agneiska’s open palm. She handed it proudly to Miro. “Do you want to check it out? I can erase any holds.”

  “Not necessary. We have a room.”

  “Perfect,” she said through her teeth. She moved to the other side of the desk, ignoring us.

  Miro turned to me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good,” I said. For a second I was puzzled, but then I realized why I still felt okay. “I already collected levitation, remember?” I said, trying not to feel guilty.

  “I told you not to worry about it,” Miro said quickly as Vadim, Shelley, and Ion rejoined us. “This is a step in the right direction.”

  Shelley placed a book on the desk. “Excuse me? I’d like to check this out, please.”

  Agneiska bent to sift through some files in a wire basket. She plucked one and opened it, then smiled savagely at Shelley. “You can’t. There’s a hold on your account. You have an overdue fine.”

  “I don’t remember having one,” Shelley said, confused. “How much is it?”

  “$164.67.”

  “What? No way! That can’t be my file.”

  Agneiska slipped a paper out of the file, then tossed the folder back in the basket. She placed the paper on the desk. A long list of books covered the entire page, ending with a dollar amount.

  “I didn’t take those books out,” Shelley said. “You know I didn’t.”

  Vadim stepped forward. “There must be some mistake.”

  Agneiska turned to him, an expression of total innocence on her face. “The numbers don’t lie.”

  I saw the numbers in my mind’s eye, twisting and folding into one another until they read $000.00. “Check again,” I said softly.

  Agneiska’s smirk disappeared as she glanced down at the paper. “What the hell?” she said. “How did you do that?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Outside, the snow fell in big, fat flakes.

  “Tilt your head back, Breeda,” my mother said, her hands framing the sides of my face. I leaned into her and she deftly separated my hair into three sections and began to braid it. I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of my mother pulling my hair softly.

  She finished and gave my hair a tug. “Open your eyes,” she said. “It’s so beautiful outdoors.”

  It was. The snow drifted into white crests, so stark against the inky night. “Your father’s here,” Mom said a second before my dad opened the door. His arms were full of wood, and his beard full of snow. He walked over and shook his head over us playfully, the flakes melting on our flushed faces.

  This is what it means to be happy, I thought. Happy, happy, happy . . .

  Tears were running down my face. Miro threw his arm around me and I collapsed against him.

  “Freak show,” Agneiska muttered. “You really know how to pick them, Miro.”

  “We’ll be up in room two,” he said, and led me toward the back of the library, supporting my weight.

  “Is she okay?” I heard Shelley say.

  “That was really weird,” Ion said. “She totally zoned out.”

  Miro pushed the door open and supported my weight as we walked into the room. I tried to draw a breath through the imaginary straw, but my throat closed up and only a thin stream got through. I wanted to yell, but the sound was stuck inside me, and my body convulsed.

  “Run back to the coffee shop,” Miro said to Shelley, his voice urgent. “They’ve got healing herbs in the back. Ask for Vicki.”

  “I’ll go with,” Ion said, shaken.

  “So will I,” Vadim said, looking at Shelley.

  The three of them took off.

  Miro sat next to me on the bench and drew my head onto his lap, his arm underneath me. “Close your eyes and imagine the air going in,” Miro said softly. “Imagine your throat opening, your lungs filling, the air repairing the damage—just like in the alley by Belladonna’s. Talk to the magic. Tell it what you want.”

  A laugh managed to escape my lips. Miro frowned. “I’m not kidding,” he said, then started laughing himself. “Okay, yeah. That does sound kind of weird.”

  The laughter forced more air into my lungs. They opened, and I took a minute to just breathe. I could feel Miro’s pulse on the back of my neck, the strong, steady flow of blood in his veins. I knew I could’ve sat up, but part of me felt comforted, soothed lying there. That part won out and I stayed where I was. “I saw my parents,” I said, my voice gravelly. “I’d almost forgotten how happy we were once. I didn’t want to leave the vision. It hurt to come back. Really hurt. Is that crazy?”

  “No,” he said. “Not crazy at all.”

  “I need to find them,” I whispered. We sat quietly, and I tried to concentrate on the rhythm of my breathing.

  Miro began speaking after I’d steadied myself. “I talked to my dad about what happened to you this morning, when you did the dream spell. You shouldn’t have reacted the way you did to a simple child’s spell, but you did. My father thinks it’s because when you do magic, you don�
�t have anything to help you guide it, to control it.” Miro paused. “Do you think your parents have your talisman?”

  “They knew what was coming,” I answered. “I’m sure they do.”

  Miro nodded, but I could tell his thoughts were drifting elsewhere.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Without a talisman, it’s more likely you’ll pulse like you did yesterday. Uncontrolled magic is so dangerous, and without anything controlling it . . .”

  “I’ll get worse,” I finished for him. I pushed myself up, finally taking in the small reading room, narrow and windowless. A pendant lamp hung over our heads, and we sat next to a long blond wood table. At the center of the table sat a heavy, black rotary phone, the kind I’d seen in old movies.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “We have the lovely Agneiska at our beck and call.” He smirked. “It’s come in handy before.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You said you had an idea,” I said. “What was it?”

  Miro reached across the table and opened the book about unmarked witches between us. His tanned, thin fingers paged to the index. “We need to read about how unmarked witches transition into their magic. Everything seems different for you so far, so maybe how you conduct your magic is different, too. Maybe something other than a talisman will help.” He slid the book to me. “This might not help get your parents back, but it will help us keep you safer while we’re looking for them. Can you think of anything else we should look up?”

  I knew exactly where to begin. “Can someone cure an unmarked? Is it possible to somehow make an unmarked witch . . . normal?”