Witch-Child

by Gerilyn Marin

  Silence descends, and Grey steps smoothly around me, placing his body between the grave and me.

  I can't help but think he's bracing himself, like he expects to have to shield me from something worse than a disembodied voice that's going to jump out at us. For a long, strained moment I simply hang back, watching him—the tense set of his shoulders, the way he curls his hands into fists and opens them again and again.

  He is bracing himself, I realize with a little thrill of fear rippling in the pit of my stomach.

  But I what I feel is a blankness. Whatever spirit was here, is gone, and hadn't been malicious in the first place. I'd just felt spooked because it snuck up on us.

  I am left to wonder—whether I want to think about this or not—what he's been through that would have him reacting so strongly when the other times he's been around incidents, he's not so much as twitched an eyebrow.

  Reaching up, I slide my hand lightly from the side of his neck, down his shoulder and let it rest there—can't say why, this gesture just feels like a natural thing to do. Rather than jumping away from my touch, or giving a start, or pulling away, the tension seems to ebb out of him.

  A little tremor goes through him, like he's trying to force his muscles to tense again, so finally I say, "It's all right, Grey . . . it's over. It left. Really."

  After a moment, I hear him huff out a sigh, and his shoulders slump.

  He turns his head, meeting my gaze, and then looks at my fingers, still lingering against him.

  Letting out a short, awkward laugh, I drop my eyes to the ground and pull away my hand.

  "What were you saying a minute ago?" Grey seems intent to get us back on point as he turns to face me.

  "Huh? Oh." I have to take a moment to get my bearings. Am I the only one noticing these weird little moments between us? Or is it nothing, and I'm overreacting to simply not totally hating him like I'd hoped I would? "I was saying that melody sounded like something a mother would sing to her child."

  I look up to see him move his gaze about, like he's thinking back, as he says, "I'm not sure that's possible. Gabriel Addison's mother—um, her name was Bridgette—died decades later, after the family had moved away. How could she possibly be here?"

  Glancing from him to the headstone and back again, I can only consider that there is a very good reason that he faces most things unflinchingly, that he'd thought something was going to jump out at us. What if it's not because he's following his family tree? Could it be that maybe something is following him?

  "She may have been pulled back here by something."

  He raises a brow, but a moment passes before the way I'm looking at him registers. Suddenly, he shakes his head, going a bit wide-eyed. "Oh, no—it can't be me."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, for one thing, this town was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs before I even got here . . . ."

  I make an exasperated little noise in the back of my throat. He's got me there. "Is there a second thing?"

  Grey reaches up, pushing his hair behind his ear and looks away—like the bagel shop through the fence has just become super-interesting or something. "Those other places where my family's been . . . they're weird, too."

  I feel like my knees are going to give out from under me in a strange, mixed rush of relief and disbelief, so I reach out to steady myself and find that his arm is the closest thing to me. I manage to keep myself upright, so I play the slip off, like I'm insisting on verification—I'm not sure I want him to realize how much this information affects me—and clap my other hand around his wrist, as well, shaking him. "Are you serious?"

  Once more, he looks at me like I'm touched in the head. "Who would make that up?"

  "Okay, fine," I relinquish my grip on him, easily done now that I know my feet are steady beneath me. "So something else pulled Bridgette's spirit back here, is what you're saying?"

  "That's what I'm saying," he nods firmly as he echoes me.

  "All right, then let's just ask her."

  Paling instantly, he drops his voice to a shocked whisper, "Can you do that?"

  I shrug, giving a derisive snort as I step around him and go to the last spot beside the grave where I'm sure I'd heard the humming. "Heck if I know, but I can try."

  He gives me a look that's so immediately deflated, and even irritated, that I have to stop myself from bursting out laughing. No, have to be serious. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying hard to remember the exact tune. Once I think I've got the rhythm, I begin humming softly, trying to be as delicate with the sound as the specter of Bridgette Addison had been.

  Nothing happens, and I feel just a little bit stupid, but I can't stop yet.

  I sense a touch on my shoulders. The feeling of hands on me when there's no physical presence to justify it sends a wracking shiver up my spine. I force the shiver away, slowly opening my eyes to confirm that Grey hasn't budged an inch. There's a light nudging pressure now, trying to turn me, so I let the disquieting sensation guide me.

  I'm walking away from Gabriel's headstone and farther into Old Part, remembering to keep up the humming until I feel the pressure fade.

  When it does, I find that I'm standing between two of the oldest, most badly decayed mausoleums, and right in front of me is a vine-covered, old tree that had grown, long ago, to make itself part of the crumbling stonework-and-wrought-iron fence beyond it.

  The thick, unkempt grass muffles Grey’s hurried footsteps behind me, and he nearly trips over me as he stumbles to a halt.

  I frown as I cast a brief glance up at him.

  "What are we doing?" He whispers.

  I hate that he's just done that thing again where he lowers his head to speak into my ear, because I have to adamantly remind myself that I don't like the feeling of his warm breath on the side of my throat.

  "I'm not sure," I reply in a wilting tone, shaking my head. "It, um, Bridgette, just led me . . . ." My words slide off as I notice weathered gray stone, all but swallowed up by leafy dark-green vines at the foot of the tree. "Oh wow—that weirdness worked!"

  "It did?" I guess by his tone that his eyebrows have shot up in surprise.

  Nodding, I step closer to the tree and kneel, determinedly pulling dry, but rubbery limbs away from the stone. Looking back at him, I feel a little bubble of triumph in my chest as his jaw drops open. I try not to smile too widely about being right, as I turn back to the gravestone and set my fingers to feeling out the worn name, just as I'd done with Gabriel's.

  My heart gives a bizarre little leap as I hit a match to something Grey had told me. "It's him!"

  "Him?" he asks in puzzlement.

  "Yeah, that guy you mentioned. It says Jack Addison."

  Suddenly, Grey's whole body sags and he leans against a mausoleum wall for support.

  Alarmed, I jump to my feet, unthinking of the way I latch my hands around his forearm. "What is it, what's wrong?"

  He takes a moment, drawing in a few sharp, ragged breaths—whatever this has revealed to him is clearly knocking him for a loop. "When the Addisons moved away from Drake's Cove, Jack wasn't with them . . . because he'd disappeared without a trace."

  Blinking slowly as I try to piece together the bits of information he's given me thus far with what makes sense and coming up with nothing, I can only say what comes to mind. "I don't understand."

  He turns so that he's leaning his back against the wall, rather than his shoulder, and looks down at my hands around his arm, like he's considering removing them, but doesn't, instead raising his gaze to mine.

  "And this is what I was afraid of." His voice is very quiet. "I thought you were all hiding something."

  "No!" I childishly tug on his arm, insulted despite how unnerved this entire episode has made me—he's basically just called the entire town's population liars. "We weren't hiding anything; I'll bet no one even knew this was here!"

  "You didn't know you were hiding it is all. And I think I know why."

  I frown up at him. "Well, would you fi
ll the rest of us in on it, then?"

  "I said I had my reasons, right?"

  I give a quick nod, my curiosity fighting my nervousness over how oddly he's acting.

  "It . . . ." He pauses, his gaze becoming sharp and hard as he looks at me, like he's now expecting me to disbelieve whatever he's going to say next. "It has to do with rumors and old folk tales from the other places we've been to. It's about what Jack Addison is said to have been."

  "What?" Going by the timeframe, I try to recall if any hysteria fads were still raging that might have spilled over into Drake's Cove, but I don't remember ever learning anything of the sort. "Was he a witch or something?"

  He actually laughs. It's a sad, dark, somewhat chilling sound, but there's still a bit of genuine mirth buried under all that, making it even more unsettling.

  "No, Cadence." Grey clamps his hand over my fingers, holding me in place as his voice lowers again, his tone level and deadly-serious. "They say he was a devil."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Folklore

  I forcibly blink my eyes a few times as I let his words bounce around in my head. I think maybe I'm waiting for him to do something, to crack a grin, burst out laughing, or even just yell, "Gotcha!"

  He doesn't bat an eye. It's like when he'd first said I could help him; the weird way his face had just shut down before is how he looks now. His fingers don't tighten around mine, but they don't loosen either; I'm suddenly acutely aware of him holding me in place.

  "Yeah, okay. You're ancestor's The Devil."

  He shakes his head. "Uh, no. Not like Lucifer, stupid. I said a devil."

  My eyebrows shoot "Huh?"

  "I'll just sum up what I learned from a lot of reading and say there are things out there that are thought of as The Devil, or demons, or whatever ridiculous evil thing religion tells us they are, but that's not what they are."

  The weight of his hand feels heavier with each passing second. "What are they?"

  "Well, I don't know, exactly. Just . . . something else," he says with a shrug.

  "You aren't kidding here, are you?" I ask in a small, hollow voice.

  Grey frowns a bit at this. "Again, who would make up any of this?"

  Glancing pointedly at his hand over both of mine, I try—knowing this won't work—to lightly tug out of his grasp before bringing my gaze back up to meet his. "A crazy person?"

  He rolls his eyes toward the sky and exhales heavily as he appears to think the situation over.

  "All right," he says with a small, uncertain nod, sliding his fingers from my hands. "I know it sounds nuts, and I'm not saying it's true, I'm just telling you what was said."

  I let my hands drop away from him and cross my arms, making a show of digging my heel into the ground to prove I'm not going to bolt on him.

  "You," I say with a little, defiant lift of my chin, "did say 'all the cards on the table,' right?"

  That stoic mask crumbles from his face instantly, replaced by an obvious look of relief. "So then you believe me?"

  My lips twitch as I consider believing anything that follows my ancestor was a devil, but he added that it's what was said, and just about stated that he doesn't think whatever the story is true. Jury's still out on how crazy Grey may, or may not, be.

  “I'll listen to what you have to say. I can't guarantee I'm going to believe it."

  Grey sighs and gives a shrug. "I suppose that's all I can ask. I mean, you only live in Spooky-Hijinks-Central, I can totally get why believing me would be a stretch."

  My mouth falls open and I'm unable to do anything but stare at him as I fish around in my head for some snippy retort. When I can't immediately come up with one, I throw out my arm, catching him in the bicep with my fist.

  "Ow!" He clamps a hand over the site of impact and scrunches up his face. "That was uncalled for!"

  "You keep insulting Drake's Cove!"

  "You don't really take it so personally, do you?"

  "I—" I cut myself off immediately as I think this over; I know this place is nutty, so why does Grey saying the very same thing bother me so much? "Maybe I do!"

  "Maybe? You just hit me over a 'maybe?'" His face tells me he's confused by the word.

  "You keep calling me—and basically everyone I've grown up with—nuts. Oh, and you called us all liars, too, but your family thinks your ancestor was a devil!" I spit the words out in a low hiss.

  "You were the one who wanted to know what was going on with me. Well, this is it!" His voice has lowered to match mine.

  “You could have just told me to leave it alone and walked away twenty minutes ago!" Instantly after I say this, my face falls and I dart my gaze around a few times. Why are we fighting?

  When I bring my attention back to him, his expression mirrors my own as he says, “What are we arguing like this for?"

  "I have no idea,” I say slowly, before giving myself a shake, deciding to let it go and force us back on topic. “Okay, so just tell me what’s said. Tell me what’s supposed to have happened to Jack Addison.”

  He shrugs, tossing his hands up. “That’s just the thing, no one really knows. The first 'record' we have is Bridgette's journal. She said too many weird things were happening around her children that she needed to start writing things down. It wasn't just Gabriel's death that made her decide to move, but I'm sure for some people, that would have been enough."

  "Wait," I don't want to interrupt, really, but I am trying to gauge how dangerous these happenings in his family can get, "I'm not sure I see the connection. Did Gabriel die because of, ya know, the weird stuff?"

  "No," he says with a look that resembles shock. But that can't be right, since none of this is news to him. "Gabriel died of pneumonia, but Bridgette swore he, well, visited her sometimes. She didn't mention that much, but I have to think it was a big part of why she took the rest of her family away from here. But then, occurrences kept happening—even after Bridgette and her children died—so my ancestors decided to keep logging things; to log basically everything that happens, even the normal stuff. You know, locations, documents they filled out, how the seasons were different in a new area. I guess anything that would add value and um, credence? Credence to their experiences."

  I find him testing his vocabulary skills kinda cute. Cute? Ah, crud.

  "Why?" I push past my irritation at myself to ask, mystified by the idea. "I mean, didn't people back then want to pretend that supernatural things didn't happen to them so they wouldn't be persecuted?"

  "I guess so that when their grandkids, and their grandkids' grandkids, started seeing stuff they wouldn't think they were losing their minds?" He scowls just a little and I get the feeling that it's going to be a while before he forgets that I called him crazy.

  "Okay." I respond. I guess that's fair enough, since I'm clearly still bothered that he, in not so many words, called my entire hometown a bunch of insane liars. "First, you said your family records go back to Jack boarding a ship from England, but now you're saying that Bridgette Addison only began writing things down when her kids started having experiences. How can it be both?"

  Grey waves a finger at me. "It isn't. Public records have him boarding the ship. According to Bridgette, she met him on the ship. In fact, I think they were married in this town. She recounts it in the journal after they left Drake's Cove—"

  He stops speaking abruptly as his eyes light up. "Do you want to read Bridgette's journal yourself? I have it . . . I mean, it's at my house, but I have it."

  I furrow my brow at the sound of an odd little catch in his voice, and rather suddenly, I realize, unlike the rest of this whole mess of a hangout-slash-date, he's nervous. Probably because he sort of just asked me—a girl I am really starting to get the feeling he likes—to his house. I mean, there is a reason, and maybe he just doesn't want me to read too much into this clumsy invite.

  "Sure," I say, doing my best to act like this doesn’t set off a single, tiny, nervous butterfly in my stomach. After all, I'm just helping him f
ind out what happened to his ancestor. "Let's go."

  I move around him, but only manage a few steps before my knees give out. I cringe, instantly bringing my arms up to break a fall that never comes. My head feels fuzzy and there's a second for which I can't get my eyes to focus. When I come to my senses, I feel an arm around my waist. Shaking my head, I swing my gaze up to find that Grey is holding me anchored against his side.

  "Holy shit! Are you okay?"

  I blink hard a few times, attempting to banish the sudden, near-overwhelming exhaustion that's clawing at me.

  "Yeah," I say, trying to nod, but it only results in my head wobbling on my neck. "Connecting with Bridgette must've just sapped my energy."

  After sleeping for a solid twelve hours yesterday from simply picking up a warning, I shouldn't be surprised something that took conscious effort on my part would have a much more immediate, and dramatic, effect.

  "If you'd told me this might happen, I'd have told you not to try it." The look on his face is an odd combination of annoyance and concern as he adjusts his grip on me, like he's trying to emphasize the consequences of my little self-induced episode. "Maybe I should just walk you home so you can rest."

  Without waiting for my answer, he turns us back toward the entrance and starts making his way to the path, dragging me along beside him. The lack of any real sounds, anything besides our feet crunching over the gravel path that winds through cemetery, is a little unnerving.

  "How did you know how to do that, anyway?"

  I give a lopsided shrug. "I'm not sure; I was just going with my gut. Wait a sec." I push away from him as he halts, and trudge a few steps away to lean against the nearest headstone. Looking briefly at the name, I mutter a quick apology to Andrea Ramsey—grandmother of one of my classmates—for using her grave as a rest stop.

  When I glance up at Grey, he's watching me. "Should I call someone to come get you?" He moves his head to catch my gaze.

  "No, I just need a minute. Besides, my mom works late and my brother doesn't have a car."

  Thankfully, he just nods, not bringing up that I don't mention my dad. I also don't mention that I need this minute so I can walk out of here without looking like I’ve got Grey Addison draped all over me.