Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Five minutes later, the enchiladas have been scrubbed away, the lights still haven’t come back on, and I’m sitting in a circle with the Sinsters as Mrs. Fontaine clears her throat. It feels like storytime at the library, except my hand is burning and Mrs. Hernandez is nursing a giant glass of bourbon.
“What do you know about this?” I say, digging the piece of paper that Ella scrawled the scroll on out of my purse and holding it up in my good hand. “The mark of the Blood Witches, you called it? Why is it popping up everywhere I turn? Why is it burned into my freaking palm ?”
Mrs. Fontaine pales. “Who drew that? Was it you, Rune? Because that symbol is dangerous, and you can’t just leave it lying aro?—”
“I drew it.” Ella leans forward, getting so close to the candle in front of her that I’m afraid her boobs might catch fire.
“What do you mean, you drew it?” Mrs. Grant’s voice rockets upward, painfully close to a squeak. “Where did you see this?”
“In my head. When I read Rune’s cards for the fair. Maybe if the three of you weren’t busy hoarding secrets, I would’ve known better. But no, you didn’t say a word, and now here we are.” She glares at the other Sinsters. “Answer Rune’s questions, if you please. And then I have some questions of my own.”
Mrs. Grant fidgets nervously on her cushion. “Before we explain about the Blood Witches, there’s something else you should know. We—Dru, Louise, and me—we’re…well, we’re a…”
“A coven,” Mrs. Fontaine says, her voice clear and firm. “All right? Now you know.”
Stunned silence falls over the room—or, at least the part of it that Ella and I inhabit. And then, despite everything, I start to giggle. “A…a coven? Are you saying you’re witches, too?”
“This is no laughing matter, Rune.” Mrs. Hernandez glares at me over the rim of her glass of bourbon.
I try to bring myself under control, but it’s useless. The events of the past few days, starting with my premonition about Cooper and culminating in this absurd moment, are just too much. I laugh so hard tears run down my face and my stomach aches, so hard that all four of the Sinsters are a blur. Dimly, I hear Ella demanding to know what they mean, whether they’re serious, how they could have kept this from her, but I can’t make out their answers over my hysterical giggles. I only wind down when Mrs. Fontaine plops a cool, wet cloth on my forehead, shoves a glass of bourbon into my non-burned hand, and tells me in no uncertain terms to shut up.
“If you’re quite finished,” she says, when my laughter subsides into hiccups, “yes, we are witches. Our families have been in Sapphire Springs for over a century. We were drawn here because of the power of the?—”
“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “The ley lines.”
“How do you know that?” Mrs. Grant doesn’t sound anything like the adorable old lady who wins Sapphire Springs’ Peach PiePalooza every year. In the flickering candlelight, the lines of her face are menacing, and her voice is…not creepy, exactly, but demanding. The kind of voice that takes no prisoners, rather than taking your milkshake order.
“Officer Cooper told me.” I take a sip of bourbon. It burns going down, settling warm in my stomach. “Apparently that’s why he’s here, too.”
“Andrew Cooper? The handsome young policeman you tackled in the street?” Ella frowns harder. “What does he have to do with this?”
“I’d like to understand that myself,” Mrs. Hernandez says. “If the High Priestess sent him, we’re in deeper trouble than I care to consider.”
“The—High Priestess?” I gape at her. “Who the hell is the High Priestess?”
“Language, Rune,” Mrs. Fontaine tuts, clicking her tongue.
“We’ve never spoken to her directly.” Mrs. Grant’s voice is hushed. “But she’s in charge of all the southern covens. We speak with the regional rep, who passes our concerns on.” She turns to Mrs. Fontaine. “Really, Louise, you’d think Marilyn might have done us the courtesy?—”
“Enough!” Ella pushes to her feet. Even in the dim light, I can tell her face is red with rage. “I’ve spent hours with the three of you since I moved to Sapphire Springs. Knitting sweaters for your grandson”—she gestures at Mrs. Grant—“participating in your fundraisers”—she points at Mrs. Fontaine—“staffing the bake sale table so your robotics students could make it to regionals!” Her accusing finger points at Mrs. Hernandez. “We’ve had enough dinners together to feed all of Sapphire Springs. Discussed enough dirty books to set Rune’s ears on fire.” Now the finger is leveled in my direction. “I told you all about my little gifts, worried you’d laugh at me. That you’d think I was a fraud. And all along, you’ve been keeping…this…a secret! You tricked me into trusting you, but did you trust me? Not one whit!”
“We—” Mrs. Fontaine begins, but Ella isn’t done.
“All along, I thought you wanted to be my friends. I was so happy that you reached out to me when I moved here. Can’t believe my luck, I told my daughter. Met the nicest ladies. But this whole time, you’ve been lying to me about who you are!” Her voice is so loud, the Hummel figurines in Mrs. Fontaine’s curio cabinet begin to tremble. “Were you ever planning to tell me? Or was all of this a test, so you could decide whether you wanted to recruit me into your little club?”
“Now, Ella,” Mrs. Grant begins in an attempt to smooth things over. But instead, it has the effect of dumping gasoline onto a raging fire.
“Don’t you ‘now, Ella’ me! You’ve been lying to Rune here, too! Do you want to know what I saw in her cards today?” She glowers at each one of them in turn. “Well, do you?”
No one answers. At last, Mrs. Grant ventures carefully, “Is this a rhetorical question?”
Ella’s eyes bulge so much, I’m afraid she’s going to explode, Violet Beauregarde-style. “I don’t care if you’re the goddamn Witches of Eastwick,” she snaps. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re liars, first and foremost. Rune can stay and talk to you all night long if she wants. As for me, I’m going home.” Turning on her heel, she storms from the room, slamming the front door so hard that the resulting gust of wind puts half the candles out.
A stunned silence follows her departure. Mrs. Hernandez breaks it. “Namaste, my ass,” she says as she bends to light the candles again. Only, there’s nothing in her hands. Tiny flames shoot from her fingertips, setting each of the wicks aglow.
“Holy shit,” I mutter. This time, Mrs. Fontaine doesn’t correct me. “Did you just—how did you?—”
“We’ll explain everything to you, Rune, I promise,” Mrs. Grant says. “But now, with the Blood Witches’ symbol on your hand, and Ella seeing it in your cards…there isn’t time.”
Mrs. Fontaine takes my good hand in hers. “For generations, our mothers and their mothers before them have watched over the ley lines, just as we do today. Our gifts are tied to their power. But they’ve been unpredictable lately, ebbing and flowing. These outages,” she says, waving around at the darkened room with her free hand, “have nothing to do with the electric grid. They’re shorts in the ley lines, blowouts. And Rune—I think they’re tied to you. Why else would the scroll-and-dagger be in your cards? Why would it brand itself onto your hand?”
“Me?” My voice cracks. “But I’ve been here for years,” I protest, the same thing I told Cooper. “Why now?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, squeezing my good hand. “But we’ll figure it out.”
A shiver racks me, thinking of what Ella said when she read my cards. “I don’t understand any of this. Who are the Blood Witches? What would they want with me?”
“They’re an ancient, power-hungry clan,” Mrs. Hernandez says. “And a dangerous one. As for what they’d want with you, Rune…there must be more to you than meets the eye.”
Hope surges within me. Cooper believed me, after all. Maybe they will, too. “Here’s the thing. I’m cur—” I begin. But before I can finish the word, an odd buzz rises in the room—the sound of electricity crackling through the air. The lights flicker and come on, along with all of the other appliances in the house. And then, just as quickly, everything goes silent and dim once more.
What the hell?
I try again. And again. But the same thing happens. Apparently it’s not enough not to be believed; now, I can’t speak the words at all.
Tears well in my eyes, and Mrs. Fontaine pats my hand. “That’s all right, sweetheart. For now, tell us what the cards said when Ella read them. And about Andrew Cooper.” She bites out his last name, as if it tastes bad.
I want to believe I can trust her—trust all of them. But how can I? An hour ago, I thought they were just a bunch of spicy-book aficionados. All my life, they’ve hidden their true identities from me. How do I know they’re on the side of the angels?
They want information. Well, so do I. And there’s no way I’m giving up what I know until I take my shot. They’ve been here forever. Maybe they have the answers I’m after.
“I’ll tell you,” I say, looking from one of them to the next. “But first—I’m trying to find my birth parents. Do any of you know who they are? Where I came from?”
One by one, the Sinsters shake their heads, and my heart sinks. But then Mrs. Grant speaks. “My gift is to see into the past,” she says. “To see what was, but only through the eye of the beholder. I don’t know anything about your parents, Rune. But if you know—if the truth is buried in your mind somewhere—then I can show you.”
I have no idea how such a thing is possible. If trying it might cook my synapses like the deep-fried Snickers bars I saw at Books, Bites, and Bedlam today. But I know one thing: if there’s the slightest possibility it’ll work, then I’m in.
“Yes,” I tell Mrs. Grant, my heart pounding so hard I can taste it. “Let’s do it. Now.”