by H. A. Wills
In a dazed stupor, I head toward the angry mutterings from down the hall, fortunately dodging the feather duster flying toward my head on its way to the television past me. I notice the broken lamp is put back together, though it now shows seams where it was cracked. Felix somehow went full poltergeist on it last night, or so they told me-- another mystery that no one can seem to figure out, since it should be impossible.
That phrase has been thrown around a lot lately.
When I finally make it to Mildred’s office, I’m stunned to find my unflappable aunt vigorously flipping through one of the large tomes stacked around the room. Her hair is mussed with multiple pencils sticking out of it, her cream blouse is wrinkled, and there’s a hole in her stocking. She looks like the bizarro version of herself.
“Aunt Mildred?” I murmur in disbelief, hovering in the doorway.
Her head snaps up, and there’s a cacophony of crashing sounds all throughout the house.
I wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Numerous feelings flash through her eyes. Her initial anger gives way to surprise, followed by guilt, concern, resignation, and landing somewhere around weariness.
“I’m so sorry, darling. I imagine it’s quite a shock walking in on all this,” she apologizes, then looks down at herself. “Oh my, and I look a bit of a fright, don’t I?”
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my waist, like, if I can hold on tight enough, I might be able to stop the sinking feeling in my gut.
“I’m guessing the coven won’t help us,” I surmise, chewing on my bottom lip.
She presses her lips together as if she’s attempting to swallow the next array of insults that are sitting on her tongue. Clearing her throat, she puts the book down and starts pulling the pencils from her hair while answering, “She had to, most respectfully of course, deny our request as she felt it wasn’t her or the coven’s place to get in the middle of council business. She advised that if the matter is so dire, I should probably make plans to get back to London and appeal to the council.”
I jump as a pencil snaps in her hands.
“What truly infuriates me is how much she seemed to enjoy denying my request,” she proclaims, the bits of pencil tight in her grasp. “As if your life and the lives of the people in this town weren’t important compared to the opportunity to put someone from the original bloodlines in their place.”
“Don’t feel too bad. Her daughter is the same way, so I don’t think it was about you personally,” I offer weakly, fear beginning to flutter in my chest.
“I can’t say I wasn’t warned,” she sighs, flopping down in the wheeled chair behind her desk.
Looking at the small window on the far wall, I watch dust motes dance in the sinking afternoon light.
In a small voice, I ask, “So, what are we going to do?”
“Don’t worry, darling. We’re not giving up,” she reassures with a tired smile. “I told you, the coven was the easiest option, not the only one. I’ll simply find another way to harness enough magic to break the spell.”
With memories of the Bastard’s methods pressing hard against my skull, I stutter out, “Is there a way to use the magic already leaking out of me?”
She tilts her head to the side, her expression calculating and curious, and taps one finger against her lips. “It might be possible. Here, come with me.”
Mildred bounces up out of the chair and grabs my hand, leading me back out into the living room. With a few flicks of her wrist and various commands, Fantasia is back up and running, then she heads toward the stairs.
Maybe it’s because I shared parts of my past last night or maybe I’m tired from a long day, but I freeze at the base of the stairs, and my heart starts pounding in my ears.
My aunt squeezes my hand when she feels the tremors shaking through my body.
“We could find another place,” she offers softly. “Somewhere that doesn’t have stairs.”
The idea of leaving makes the panic worse, and I shake my head vigorously. Not only for the first time in months does Felix have a home filled with life to come back to, but it’s also the first place for me that’s felt truly safe-- despite the evil stairs.
“No,” I reply, trying to make my voice as even as possible. “There are stairs everywhere, and I’m going to learn to climb them without freaking out even if it kills me.”
I release a tinny laugh over my morbid joke.
“If that’s what you want,” she replies simply, her eyes sad.
I take a few fortifying breaths, and my aunt holds my hand all the way to the top of the stairs, patiently taking each step at my pace. She doesn’t let go until we reach her room, so she can go digging in her large walk-in closet.
Starting the process of shoving down all my anxiety, I ask in a way I hope sounds causal, “What are you looking for anyway?”
“You’ll see!” she bellows, sounding like she’s buried under god knows what.
How much crap does she have in there? We just moved here. She can’t have that much stuff.
Waiting for her to come back from Narnia, I look around the room. This is more in line with the always put together aunt I’ve grown to know. Her bed is made with a floral bedspread and a mountain of decorative pillows. The bedside table is neat with only a lamp and her phone charger on it.
I wander over to the wall closest to the closet and run my fingers along the smooth glass on top of the long, wooden dresser. Only a few things sit atop it: a small bottle of perfume, a Cherrywood jewelry box, and what looks to be a picture of my aunt, my mom, and a man that appears slightly older than the other two.
Do I have an uncle out there somewhere? It’s strange that Mildred hasn’t mentioned him.
Picking up the perfume bottle, I take a sniff and smell my aunt’s familiar rose scent. A soft smile tugs at my lips, until I glance up at the mirror that hangs over the dresser.
Ugh, I look worse than I thought, like I’ve never seen a hair brush before, and I’m pretty sure this shirt wasn’t navy blue when I put it on this morning.
“Here it is,” she cries, startling me so badly, I nearly drop the bottle in my hand.
Carefully, I put the perfume back down, while Mildred drags out an old fashioned, black trunk with scuffed gold accents. There’s an elaborate lock on the front with exposed gears and no visible place to put a key, just an indentation that seems smeared with rust.
After she’s dragged it out into the middle of the room, she kneels in front of it, loud pops announcing her descent.
“Why didn’t you magic the trunk out here?” I ask, crossing my arms and leaning against the dresser. “I mean, we have half our house cleaning the other half of our house downstairs. Which, by the way, can that be one of the first things you teach me? I like the idea of never having to pick up after myself again—also, the guys will think it’s hilarious. Well, at least Felix will.”
She chuckles. “Yes, I’ll teach you, though it takes a while to learn enough control and concentration to have so many active spells working simultaneously. If you’re not careful, the items crashing to the floor could be the least of your problems. They may try to keep cleaning forever-- and no, that isn’t a good thing.”
“Got it. Try not to make magically possessed mops,” I reply with a smirk.
“Now, as for this,” she continues with a gesture toward the trunk, “it’s magicked to repel any spells performed on it-- well, except for the lock.”
From the watch she always wears, a delicate piece of jewelry that looks more like a bracelet, she pulls on the gear that winds the watch, and out comes a long tapered needle. Shock makes my chest jump as I watch her stab her right thumb, encouraging a bead of blood to form, then press her finger against the rust colored indentation. She mutters a phrase in a language I don’t recognize. It sounds vaguely Slavic, and Volkov is mentioned.
The trunk snaps open when she’s finished, and there’s an immediate scent of old parchment and leath
er.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, eyes wide as I stare at the magic chest that apparently requires blood sacrifice.
“That was me unlocking one of the oldest and most valuable of the Volkov possessions,” she answers with a grin, clearly enjoying sharing this bit of family history. “This trunk is so old, no one is really sure how long it’s been in the family, only that it’s spelled to only respond to someone of the Volkov line-- and only if they’ve been trusted with the phrase to unlock it.”
“Cool,” I murmur, shock giving way to open curiosity.
She gives me a bemused smile, shakes her head, and laughs, “Yes. Very cool.”
Peeking inside, I see stacks of different types of books, some looking centuries old, a few odd knick knacks whose significance I can’t even begin to understand, and a small box that has all the glint and gilding of a Faberge egg.
Mildred picks up the box and runs her fingers along the curling details of diamonds and gold before cracking it open. Cushioned in aged blue velvet is a beautiful necklace the likes of which I’ve never seen. Surrounded by platinum filigree, the golden center stone is about the size of a large robin's egg and has swirling veins of red, blue, green, and creamy white.
She carefully takes the necklace out and puts the box back into the trunk, before rising to her feet.
Turning toward me, she says with a misty glint in her eye, “This is a very special necklace that is reserved for each first born daughter of the Volkov line. It was your mother’s, and now, it’s yours.”
I take the necklace from her and put it over my head, noticing there’s an engraved stylized wolf on the back. The chain is long enough that the stone sits between my breasts, and it looks way too fancy to be wearing with sweaty gym clothes. It feels surprisingly warm against my skin considering it was locked up in some old chest.
I pick up the stone so I can get a better look at it, and ask, “It’s pretty. What’s it for?”
“That’s an arcane focus,” she explains, gazing at the stone in my hand. “It’s given to a witch when they come of age to help them learn to control their gifts. Excess magic is filtered through the stone, keeping the witch from calling on too much and releasing destructive bursts of magic. I planned to give it to you when you were finally released from the binding spell, but it seems you need it much sooner.”
“So this will keep me from blowing up the town?” I ask, hopefully.
Hope that’s quickly dashed with one sad glance from my aunt.
“I doubt any stone is powerful enough to contain your magic if the binding spell were to burst,” she answers gently, her hand resting on my shoulder. “But it might help with the random flare-ups you’ve been experiencing.”
“Well, that’s something,” I mutter, dropping the stone under my shirt. “What does this have to do with using all of my leaking magic?”
“Well, objects can be imbued with magic,” she says this while, once again, gesturing toward the blood magic trunk.
Gotta really want what the hell is inside of it to bleed every time you need to open it-- or be me, I suppose.
She continues with the first signs of real optimism, “I’m hoping that I can come up with a spell to allow your excess magic to be collected in the stone instead of simply filtered through it. The amount and purity of the magic that flows through you should be more than enough to remove the spell.”
“Since this wasn’t your first idea, I’m thinking there’s a ‘but’ coming?” I fold my arms over my chest, and Mildred takes back her hand.
She laces her fingers together and looks back down at the open trunk. “But, I don’t know how your magic will respond, which is going to be the difficulty of the spell. You’re no ordinary witch, and your magic is not like the rest of ours.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that,” I sigh. “Fancy spirit magic that allows me to control life and see ghosts.”
“Oh, darling. It’s so much more than that,” she murmurs.
Mildred leads me over to the bed; and we both sit, our knees brushing as we face each other. She gathers my hand between hers. They’re cold and dry against mine. Wrinkles collect around her eyes and lips, as her face weighs down with a seriousness that isn’t at all comforting.
“You are the closest being to a goddess that the mortal realm will ever see,” she speaks with an uncomfortable reverence. “With one look, you can see the measure of a person-- the core of who they are and what motivates them, and with that knowledge, you can elevate them or destroy them.”
I blink stupidly at her, sure that I didn’t hear what I thought I just heard. “Did you-- just call me a goddess?”
She releases a breathy laugh. “I said you’re the closest facsimile to a goddess that this realm will see. Technically, the earth is the goddess of this realm, but as the voice for her, you hold unimaginable power-- including her control over life and death.”
I shake my head hard, because I’m seriously not ready to hear this. I just learned magic was fucking real, and now she’s talking about gods.
This is not happening. This is not happening. This is so not fucking happening!
My heart pounds loudly in my ears, and panic squeezes my throat, air now fighting to get in and out of my lungs.
“You said I was a spirit witch,” I whisper, disbelief pressing hard against my already overtaxed mind. “I’m just like you-- only, I don’t-- stronger?”
“Sweetheart, stronger doesn’t even begin to encapsulate all that you are,” she answers, which is the exact opposite of what I want to hear. “As powerful as I am, I might as well be a light breeze against a hurricane compared to you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I cry.
Mildred gives my hand a tight squeeze, her face etched with an understanding sorrow.
Fine tremors I can’t control quake through my body, and I curl my free hand into a fist so I can’t see it shaking. I concentrate on the sharp bite of my nails pressing into my skin, wishing that I’d picked up my sweater downstairs, so I could curl into it now. I feel naked and exposed with my bare arms.
“It means that if we don’t remove that binding spell, you might eradicate half the town-- but once you have access and control of your magic, you could obliterate the whole town with your will alone.” She looks down at our joined hands and sniffs. “What humans call Acts of God, you can create on a whim. Spirit witches at the height of their power could literally change the very fabric of person’s being.”
This is too much. I want to go back to joking about reenacting Fantasia and making fun of the weird blood magic chest. I want the stairs to be the hardest thing I face today. Not fucking godhood. No. No. No.
“I’m seventeen,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. “I don’t know how to be a normal person… I was never taught how to be a normal person.” My chest convulses under the pressure of my emotions, as I fight to keep from shutting down. “I can’t-- I can’t be a-- goddess. I don’t want to have this much power.”
She gathers me in her arms, which is an awkward reach over our laps, but I don’t care. I feel like I’m free falling, and Mildred is my last hope for an anchor. She rocks me gently, my head pressed against her shoulder and her hand stroking my hair. With a shuddered breath, I breathe in her rose perfume, the scent a growing connection to the feeling of safety and love.
“Oh, sweet girl,” she murmurs wetly, and I can feel her tears drip against my forehead. “If I could, I’d take away all of your pain, and give you the life you desire, because you deserve that and so much more. But I can’t. All I can do is hold your hand through the unknown, offer you all the knowledge I have, and guide you to the best of my abilities.”
“I’m scared,” I choke out, the first time I’ve openly admitted to such a thing.
I feel jittery inside. My stomach is a tumultuous mix of desperation to lay my fears at someone else’s feet and the knee-jerk feeling to keep it all inside. The call is strong to retreat into the safe numb space in my mind where
the world can’t reach me.
“I know, but remember, you’re not alone,” she says, squeezing me tight. “Your friends stand with you, and now that you’re with me, the council will have to pry you from my cold, dead fingers.”
“Can you not talk about dying, please?” I demand.
“I’m sorry, but not to worry. I may be a breeze compared to you, but I am quite powerful in comparison to everyone else,” she assures me, then mutters bitterly, “and that Neva woman is going to thoroughly regret underestimating me.”
I kind of snort-choke over my aunt’s distaste for Gina’s mother, and with a harsh sniff, I wipe at the tears that have escaped. Between my earlier workout and my rollercoaster of emotions, I feel bone weary and hollow.
“Just try not get us chased out of town with fire and pitchforks,” I request jokingly, trying to collect myself. “I kind of like it here.”
“Oh please, I’m far more subtle than that,” she scoffs, then after kissing the top of my head, announces, “I do have some good news. We’re not working completely blind.”
Mildred gives me another hard squeeze, before releasing me and getting up to walk back over to the trunk. She kneels back down and begins rummaging through the books.
“What are all of those books for?” I ask with vague interest.
I surpassed my threshold of batshit insane several revelations ago, and I give up the fight. A familiar numbness starts to take hold, and with it, an almost full disconnect to the rest of the world. It falls like a sheet of glass between me and reality-- and my feelings along with it. Healthy? No. But this keeps me functioning.
Part of me worries that letting all these people in, I’ll lose this safe place in my mind. Then I consider last night and wonder if anywhere in my head is safe.
Mildred glances up from her search to offer me a weak smile, then says while she continues to dig through the trunk, “These are the recorded histories of the Volkov family. Journals, fabled tales, research, and grimoires of some of the most powerful witches in our family.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. When I got home, I was all ready for a hot shower, but now I just want a nap, no longer caring how sweaty and gross I am. With my luck, I’ll end up stuck in another nightmare.
