Chapter Three
Mara
“Quit itching,” Lace scolds.
“You saying that doesn’t stop the itching,” I point out, continuing to scratch my skin.
“Spell it,” she whispers, looking around the store. There are a handful of people roaming the shelves.
“I’ve tried,” I mumble. Anything I do doesn’t help. I have the feeling Savy was right. Someone is coming.
“I can’t wait to meet him.” She grins, and I roll my eyes. A man wanders to the counter, smiling at me, and sets down his purchase.
“Did you find everything?” I ask, picking up the book. Gardening. Huh…I wouldn’t have guessed that.
“I did.” He stares at my gloved hands. “Are you alright?”
“Of course.” I smile tightly. I never get sick of that question. I scan his book and reach for a bag.
“It looks painful,” he says. He trails his fingers over the skin I was itching, just above my glove. That’s when it happens. I wasn’t expecting it, and I didn’t move fast enough.
My eyes glaze over. I drop the bag, and everything he has done floods my mind.
He’s not a good man. He’s bad. Very bad.
He’s had two divorces. He beat the first wife, and the second left after the first slap.
As the years pass, his anger escalates to even more dangerous levels.
I see him at a lake. He throws the bodies in the deepest part.
It’s always dark, and he keeps a boat there.
His girlfriends never make it out of his house.
He likes everything his way, and when they don’t obey, he forces them to do all kinds of horrible things.
They fight him. When they fight, he kills them.
Fuck, he kills them. I feel their desperation and terror.
I experience the power he feels as he hits them with a shovel or stabs them with a knife. His favorite tool is the drill.
“Mara,” Lace gasps, her voice panicked. She doesn’t touch me, knowing her emotions on top of his will make it worse.
“What’s wrong with her?” the killer demands.
“She’s fine. Here’s your book, sir.”
“Fucking freak,” he mumbles, walking away.
I’m stuck in his memories. His love for what he does. I know it’s wrong, but he finds his work satisfying. That’s what he calls it: his work. His day job is an accountant. Wearing suits every day. No one knows the killer underneath.
I start to sweat and ease myself to the floor behind the counter.
“Shit, Mara,” Lace cries. I try to avoid touch, especially around her. She hasn’t seen me experience the visions many times.
“I’m…fine,” I say, my teeth chattering. It’s difficult to talk when in the throes of memories, but I need to assure her. “Leave me here.” I scoot to the wall, hidden by the counter. If the customers didn’t see my collapse, they won’t be able to see.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I tuck myself into a ball, getting as close as possible to the shelves underneath the counter.
Those women were innocent and saw only the surface of a psychopath.
They wanted love, instead, they won’t ever love again.
I see their faces. One was blonde, another brunette, and another with black hair.
The fourth one had multicolored hair. Her dress was long and flowed down to her feet.
Her sandal was still on the floor, bloody and torn, when he got back to the house.
He burned it in the fireplace and then ate dinner while watching the news.
She fought the most. His skin had to be under her nails.
I try to guide the memories back to the lake.
I usually don’t try, hoping they are over quickly, but I’m compelled to know where the bodies are.
My breath is loud as I concentrate, imagining flipping through a book, skimming the pages until I find the right one.
There. I point to the page in my head. The location looks familiar.
I memorize everything about it. I spell it as if I am bookmarking it.
Hopefully, when I recover from the massive headache after this, I will remember, and my magic will show me the way.
“Mara, they’re gone. I closed the store.” I feel her crouch in front of me.
I lick my lips. “Water,” I croak. It’s lessening.
I see the last woman again, her beautiful face set in determination as if she is speaking to me.
“Name,” I whisper. I need to know her name, all of their names.
My vision speeds back to when they met as if rewinding a tape.
‘My name is Leslie.’ Her voice is soft in his memory of their first date.
He pulled out her chair and smiled softly at her.
It’s been a long time since I have been touched by someone so evil.
This is nothing like the people who steal, have dreams of divorcing their wives, watch porn all day, or have crushes on their coworkers.
These are just a few examples that constantly come through.
“Here.” Lace holds a bottle to my lips. I can focus on her face. It’s pinched in worry.
“It’s almost done,” I say, pushing the bottle away. “Did he use a credit card?”
“Yes.”
“Write down his name,” I instruct.
“Why?” she asks.
“Just do it.” I don’t know what I’ll do with the information or how he can be brought to justice.
Witches are more light than dark. When young, we dabble in questionable magic, like how to win money or lie to our parents.
We use our magic to make our lives easier, but rarely for bad. That’s too dark.
I could go to the police, hoping they would do something if they believed me.
How do I explain how I know? Being questioned by them doesn’t sound fun.
I never thought I could use my magic for something good, but not everyone I touch is a murderer.
How would I direct it to those who deserve punishment?
I’ve never tried and have avoided getting involved.
“I wrote it down,” Lace whispers, sitting beside me. “I hate this. This one was bad. I’ve never seen them affect you so badly.”
“I know,” I rasp, clearing my throat. My eyes are clear, and I blink. “It’s gone.” A sharp pain shoots through the front of my skull. “I need to lie down.”
“Let me,” she starts as she stands, holding her hand out. “Shit, I can’t help you.” She drops her hand.
“It’s alright.” I know it hurts her, and it would probably be okay since I have the gloves on. Taking chances right now isn’t an option. “I got it.” I slowly push up, holding on to the counter. “I love that you want to help.”
“Maybe your bond can?” She stays beside me as I walk to the back of the store.
“We don’t know if he is coming.” I stop next to the comfortable couch among the shelves.
“Savy is sure.”
“You know magic is never a sure thing.” I stretch out on the cushions, sighing. “It’s subjective and often misinterpreted.”
“Mara,” she says, crouching next to me. “You have to believe. You’ve taken care of everyone else your whole life. It’s time for someone to be there for you.”
“Protecting you isn’t a burden,” I hiss. “We’re family, and you mean everything to me.”
“I feel such guilt,” she admits. “You were taken because of me.”
“I was not. I trusted the wrong person. They used you just as much as me,” I say harshly. “They forced me to do those things.”
“Yes, but you could have escaped if it wasn’t for me.”
“Lace, we’ve been through this. Do not blame yourself.” She bows her head. “It’s in the past. Don’t think about it again.”
“You can’t demand not to think about it.” She lifts her head, her eyes filled with humor.
“I can and I did. I’m your big sister. You have to listen to me.” When we were children, I loved to point out that I was two years older.
“That doesn’t work anymore,” she says, laughing.
“It was worth a shot.” I wince. The headache is getting worse.
“Crap, I’ll let you rest. If you need anything, I’ll be in the back.”
“Thanks,” I say, closing my eyes. I hear her footsteps as she leaves. After an episode, I need to be alone to concentrate on healing my emotional distress.
Placing my hands flat on my chest, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly.
I replace the memories of his darkness with love and light.
I picture my mother's hands while she braided my long hair.
She had such capable, loving hands. She used them to do her magic, healing everything she touched.
Most of the time, they were covered in dirt.
Flowers and birds were her passion, and she could bring dead plants back to life and seemed to communicate with the animals.
The backyard was filled with all kinds of vegetation, and the colors were blinding.
We would sit for hours watching her tend them, basking in the sun and her beauty.
Her smile would light up the darkest day.
Whenever I got hurt, she would heal the cut and kiss it.
I was always getting into trouble, running through the trees, and I would always fall.
I miss her, but I’m grateful that because of my magic, I will never forget her face.
She was killed when I was fifteen. Someone saw her in her garden using her magic.
He came back, eager to use it, to use her.
She refused, and he got violent. She tried to defend herself, but he was too strong and filled with rage when he killed her.
I found her among her flowers, her bird friends singing a sad song, an hour after her death.
We were at school and didn’t know the devastation we would come home to.
I made the mistake of touching her, and I saw the man and the events that led up to her death.
She tried to reason with him, but it didn’t work.
He was determined to make her pay for rejecting him.
The money he offered her to heal him made no difference.
The man was dying. My lovely mom cupped his cheek and told him it was his time, and he had to pay for the actions of his life.