Chapter 24 #2
I’m pretty sure Maggie did still have her magic, but I don’t mention that to Hunter because I don’t want to break the spell, pun intended.
Hunter isn’t being cold. He’s not looking at me with age-old anger and conflicted emotions.
He’s giving me exactly the information I’ve been trying to pry out of my grandmother.
He’s finally telling me the secret she’s been so desperate to conceal.
“So why didn’t the families—I don’t know—threaten her? Or contact other witches somewhere else in the world to see if there’s a counterspell?”
Hunter peeks at the rat skeleton and gallantly picks up the box, while I pick up one with rolls of old-timey register paper for our next dumpster run.
“Witches are very private,” he tells me.
“Grimoires are never shared. When parents teach a spell to their children, they write it down only when the child can perform it perfectly. It’s not like there’s a secret map of witches or a subreddit where we can exchange tips and tricks.
Just like it won’t be spoken to non-witches, magic won’t appear on the internet; someone must’ve cast a very powerful spell to prevent any kind of communication.
That’s why what Maggie did was especially terrible.
Because sharing magic, doing a spell all together, was a new idea that she convinced everyone to try, and then she used it to take advantage of them. ”
Our boxes tumble into the dumpster in a puff of dust.
“But why? Why would she steal the spells? Did she not like magic?”
She does like magic. I know this. Even in cockatoo form, she taught me a spell. She was still using an anti-dust spell, and I bet her grimoire is somewhere around here and more functional than Hunter believes. But I just don’t understand the why of it all.
Below.
Her grimoire is hidden below.
Damn it, magical dictionary, below what?
“Like I said, she claimed innocence, according to my grandmother. She was stubborn as a mule. I saw her at Chamber, I gave her estimates when she asked, I wished her good morning if I passed her on the street. But most of the witches in the area acted like she didn’t exist. Since the magic was stolen, Diana was the only person who really knew her, and Diana died with her. ”
Back in the office, I realize that the rest of the boxes are in the “maybe” category. I wish I could put them in the storage room that is currently being used as a poltergeist playground, but I’m not trying that door again.
“There’s got to be some way to get the magic back,” I say, thinking out loud. “Has anyone tried—I don’t know—the library? Oh, it’s closed. Or what about inventing a new spell?”
At that, Hunter stiffens and looks away. “Let’s get these boxes out to the dumpster,” he says, not meeting my eye.
“But—”
“You don’t need any of this shit, Rhea. Nobody does.”
He picks up a box and hurries out the door.
I don’t have much choice but to pick up my own box and join him.
I try my question one more time, but he pins his lips and shakes his head.
It feels like a warning. If I thought he was stormy before, this feels like when the sky goes green and sick before a tornado.
The anger seems to motivate him, though.
Soon all the boxes are gone, leaving the office…
Well, not clean. Definitely not that. But far less cluttered.
When we’re done, all that’s left are a heavy desk, three chairs, a credenza, and a file cabinet, plus approximately seven pounds of dust. It’s stuffy and lightless, but I’m starting to have hope that I can make this place my own—once I find a vacuum and give the room a glow up.
At some point in our work, Hunter tied his flannel around his waist, revealing his tattoos. One arm swirls with koi, while the other has a mountain sunset. I want to ask him about his art, but now is not the time. He feels like a barely restrained tempest.
“I’ll be by tomorrow at nine,” he says. With a brief nod, he’s gone.
Frustrated by the way he suddenly shut down, I pace around the video store, looking for something to do.
An old man is standing at the glass door, hand cupped over his eyes as he stares inside.
I head back into the office, pull a piece of brittle printer paper from an extremely old dot matrix printer, find a marker, and write Closed for Renovations.
The tape I find in a drawer is probably from the eighties, but it works well enough to stick the sign on the front door.
The old man squints as he reads it and shouts, “What about the peanuts?”
I pull the sign down and write: (We Will Still Have Boiled P-Nuts). He smiles and gives me a thumbs-up.
So I guess I need to add “learn how to make boiled peanuts” to my massive to-do list.
I make sure all the doors are locked and head upstairs. Maggie is waiting for me in the kitchen, right inside the newly revealed doorway.
“How’d it go?” she asks.
“We found a poltergeist in the storage area and cleaned out the office, and I spent the entire time trying to figure out what Hunter is thinking. I swear, it’s like one moment we’re on the same page of the same book, and then I say the wrong thing and he’s in a whole other genre. I don’t smell, do I?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask.” She clicks her beak. “Because I’m not a person anymore, and my sense of smell is all messed up. Like I told you, Blakelys are trouble. You’re better off keeping your distance.”
I gaze down at her, this pretty pink-and-gray bird, and head to the fridge.
I need to get her some fruit and vegetables, but I haven’t made it to the store yet.
Instead, I take out one of her Diet Cokes and sit at the table with what’s left of Shelby’s box of goodies. I take out a cookie and consider it.
“So I know why everybody is mad at you,” I say before taking a bite.
“You don’t know anything.” Her eyes focus on the cookie.
“Why’d you mess up everyone’s grimoires?” I tear off a piece of cookie and hold it up.
Maggie snorts and turns away. “You can’t bribe me with Shelby’s cookies.”
“Oh, so you’re enjoying your pellets?”
“Not particularly, but I still have self-control. I’m not a fool.”
My gambit failed, I put down the cookie.
“Okay, here’s what I don’t get. Maggie Kirkwood is dead to everyone but me.
You’re a bird. You poop in a cage. You should be beyond shame.
Why do you care more about the past than you do about me?
Why won’t you just tell me the truth? Why’d you do it? Why’d you steal the magic?”
After a long, charged, silent moment, she turns around to face me.
“I’ll tell you if you’ll go to the store and buy me some fruit. You’re right. I’m sick of pellets.”
I stand up immediately. “It’s that simple? A few berries is all it takes?”
“Well, like you said, if I eat too much cookie, I die a painful death, and I don’t think I get to come back after that. So, yes, I’d like to taste some actual food.”
“You got it, Grandma Cockatoo!” I grab my bag and keys and head for the door. This is too easy. I needed to go to the store anyway. There’s not much toilet paper left, and we need Band-Aids in case she gets mad again, and, well, this is my home now. I’m ready to start making it feel like mine.
But the second I open that door, Maggie is ready. She launches herself outside and off the balcony, fluttering to the ground.
“Oh, you ornery idiot!” I bark. “Something’s going to kill you!”
“It’s got to catch me first!”
I guess she’s been practicing with her wings, as she’s getting more air than I’d prefer.
Although one of her wings is clipped, preventing her from bursting up into the clouds, she can get some good distance as is, fluttering for ten feet or so, and she’s already got the lead on me, as I have to go down the stairs.
She’s hopscotching down the alley, much faster than I thought she could go.
Damn a stubborn human brain in a bird’s body!
I trip on the stairs and almost fall, barely catching myself on the railing.
As my feet hit the concrete, she flutters over a tall wooden fence and disappears.