Chapter 4 #2
“In later centuries, grimoires became known as handbooks for magic,” I said. “And presently, the term is used by Wiccans to refer to their personal spell books, which are more remedy-based to serve their communities.”
“You’re very knowledgeable,” Claire observed.
I shrugged. “I read a lot and I have a good memory for obscure facts and odd details.”
“Good?” Claire shook her head. “Agatha said you have an extraordinary memory. She said she’d call it a photographic memory if such a thing existed.”
“Which it doesn’t,” I said.
Miles leaned forward eagerly. “Still, having such a skill must be an invaluable tool in your work.”
I shrugged. “It helps with law statutes and sports statistics.”
“How do you recall things?” Tariq asked. “Do you see pictures in your head of pages you’ve read?”
“Not pictures,” I said. “It’s more like I have all of this information sorted in my brain and I just need to find the right section.”
“Like a very large filing cabinet, then?” Claire asked.
I nodded. “That’s as good a description as any other.”
“What Major League Baseball player won two World Series, had an average of .312, and was only struck out 114 times?” Tariq asked. I stared at him for a beat and he shrugged. “Sorry. Huge baseball fan.”
I nodded. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the statistics I had learned during my time as the librarian in charge of acquiring the sports books. The answer popped into my brain just like that. “Joe Sewell.”
Tariq gasped.
“What are the only four words in the English language to end in d-o-u-s ?” Miles asked.
“ Horrendous , stupendous , hazardous , and…” I stared at his nose. “ Tremendous .”
Miles slapped his knee. “Ask her more questions.”
I glanced at Claire. I wasn’t here for this. Before she could say anything, Tariq asked, “What is Fermat’s Last Theorem?”
I hated math questions, but I couldn’t refuse him.
I was a librarian. I stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to bring the formula forward in my brain.
“The equation is a ^ n = b ^ n + c ^ n which states there are no positive integers a, b, and c that can satisfy the equation for any integer value of n greater than 2.”
Tariq glanced at his phone and his jaw dropped. “She got it.”
He and Miles looked giddy.
Olive held up her hand and gave the others a quelling glance. “Enough. We need to deal with the grimoire at hand before we get sidetracked.”
“You’re right,” Claire said. She gestured for Olive to continue.
“What was your mother’s maiden name?” Olive asked me.
“My mother was Juliet Donadieu Ziakas,” I said. “She was the only child of Mamie, my grandmother Antoinette Donadieu, who never married and never told my mother who her father was.”
“Donadieu?” Olive’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “That’s French and is usually used as a surname for orphaned children.”
That made sense. I knew Mamie had been raised in an orphanage in France before coming to the United States as a young woman. I didn’t share this family factoid, as I was already feeling overexposed.
“It’s also the family name of a French coven of witches known for their gift of necromancy,” Miles said. It took a moment before his words sank in.
“Get the hell out of here.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Olive turned to Miles with a questioning look and he said, “No, you may not.”
“Fine.” Olive sighed.
“Are you telling me that my grandmother could raise the dead?” I asked. “That’s just…that’s not…no, just no.”
“Potentially, if this is your family grimoire.” Miles gestured to the book. “Whether your grandmother or mother had the gift or knew how to use the book…who knows? Arcane abilities are genetic, much like red hair or brown eyes. The gift skips around.”
I had no idea what to make of this. Not to sound woe is me or overly dramatic, but my mother essentially abandoned me at the age of fourteen when she dropped me off at boarding school in Wessex and signed over guardianship to Agatha.
Prior to that, my mom and I had spent five years constantly moving.
If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought we were on the run from the law.
My mother’s behavior had been erratic to say the least. All I knew for certain was that at age nine, when my father had been killed in a car crash, I’d lost my mother, who had previously been lovely and kind and full of light, to her guilt and grief, and I’d never gotten her back.
Was this book my mother’s? Would it explain why she left me? Did I really want to know? Yes, I did.
And yet it involved magic—something I had sworn to avoid, something I wanted to avoid.
“What should I do?” I asked.
No one answered me. I suspected they believed I had to decide for myself.
Olive broke the silence. “A grimoire usually begins with who wrote it and for what purpose. If you really want to know if this is your family’s book, the answer is likely inside.”
I met her dark stare across the table. I was surprised to find the tiniest flicker of compassion in her gaze.
She knew this was a monumental decision for me.
She glanced down at the book and back up at me.
I knew she was right. There was only one choice.
And, I rationalized, it wasn’t as if I were performing magic and breaking the vow I’d made to my mom to never practice witchcraft.
This was merely fulfilling a blood oath—potentially.
Newly resolved, I ripped the bandage off my finger. Last night’s wound hadn’t completely healed. I squeezed the tip of my finger until a droplet of blood beaded on the tip. I moved my hand toward the book and felt everyone lean in with me.
I hesitated. “Do I need to say an incantation or something?” If I had to say something, that would be crossing the line and breaking my promise.
“That’s a Hollywood thing,” Olive scoffed. She looked dismissive and I wondered if I’d imagined the sympathy I’d seen moments ago.
“If the grimoire belonged to your family, just your blood should do the trick,” Miles said.
I noticed my hand was shaking as I moved it over the hexagonal medallion. I squeezed my finger again and watched as several drops landed right in the circle. It occurred to me then that what I had thought was rust or tarnish on the hexagon had actually been dried blood. Ew.
I stared at the hexagon. Was I supposed to twist it? Was there a button to press? Anything? Nothing happened. We all leaned back.
“I guess that’s that.” I refastened my bandage. “This grimoire clearly didn’t belong to my family and whatever this book wants, it isn’t from me.”
Click. Screech.
I glanced down at the book. The hexagon was rotating all on its own. Shit.