Twenty-one
ZACH
Since today is the last Saturday before the wedding, my dad decided we should do a guy's night. A two-person bachelor party of sorts.
He takes me out to Witch's Brew Brewery, where they're having a pre-Halloween "spirits" party. Which basically means some patrons have come in costume, and they have a special menu of fancy, Halloween-themed drinks, all containing alcoholic spirits.
Dad and I are in our regular clothes, me wearing jeans and a University of Minnesota sweatshirt, where I went to college. Not wanting something like a Blood Orange Vampire, I go for the in-house ale. There's a DJ in one corner, and it's a little too loud to talk near the bar, so we take our beers to the heated patio.
Seeing the tall heaters makes me think of my night with Morgan, how she used a spell to warm the air around us. Too bad she's not w?—
Nope. Not thinking about her. I got all my anger out at rehearsal today. There's none left so I don't need to think about Morgan Goode at all.
Except now that the anger's mostly worked out of my system, I'm left with a deep hurt. And I fucking hate it. I'd rather be angry.
"So, how's things?" Dad asks as we settle into a two-person table. We can still hear the music out here, but it's much subtler.
I shrug and take a pull from my beer. "You know." I'm not about to tell him how I was fucking his fiancée's daughter, foolishly caught feelings for her, and am nursing a broken heart. None of that is information he needs.
"No, I don't know. That's why I'm asking." He gives me an odd look I can't interpret. "You seem grumpier than usual. And you only break out the U of M sweatshirt when you're in the dumps."
I do?
"Do you remember, shortly after your mom died, you decided to go there, like she did?" He smiles faintly, caught in a memory. "So your aunt Lacey gave you a sweatshirt from there, and you wore that thing every damn day. I couldn't get it off you to wash it and it reeked. It was your security blanket."
I look down at the burgundy printing on my gray sweatshirt. Is that why I picked it? I haven't worn it in months.
Shit.
I fucking miss Morgan.
"You ever thought of seeing if Angela's daughter could talk to your mom for you?" he asks.
The question is a blow to the chest, right as I'm taking a sip of beer. I sputter and cough, the ale getting stuck in my throat.
For a long moment, I just stare at him. Where the hell is all this coming from, anyway? We never talk about my mom .
I guess it's natural that he's thinking about her, what with his wedding to a new woman in a few days.
"I have not. Have you?"
He assesses me for a long moment. "I actually had Hazel summon your mom, a few months ago. It was very... enlightening. And cathartic."
"You… you talked to Mom?" My brain seems to have stalled out, like a stick-shift car driven improperly. My neurons aren't connecting the way I need them to.
"Technically, Hazel talked to your mom. But yes, we had a conversation." Dad cocks his head to the side as he plays with his damp cocktail napkin.
My heart is pounding in my chest and my cheeks feel flushed. I get that there are witches who can talk to spirits. I really do accept that as real now. But... but Mom?
"When did you talk to her?" This is the first question I ask?
"Back in August."
And shortly after that, she supposedly sought out Morgan.
No, I still can't wrap my head around this.
"Did you talk about me?" A more logical question, at least.
"We did."
As usual, Dad gives only the information asked and doesn't expand on it. You'd think he was a trial attorney.
"What did you talk about?"
He pulls at his lower lip, his nervous habit. He's not gonna answer me. He looks off in the distance for a long time, long enough for me to finish the rest of my beer. I could get another, but I don't really want one.
I'm trying to think of a new question for him when he says, "She's worried about you. Says you're not happy."
"I wouldn't say I'm not happy." Except the past few days; those I've been miserable.
He looks at me as if he doesn't believe me.
"Well, I'm not unhappy. I'm just living life, getting through from one day to the next." And until I met Morgan, that was enough.
Wasn't it?
"I love my job." Even to myself, I sound defensive.
"That's good. But that's not a life."
"I'm in the band."
"That's also good."
"So I'm unhappy because I don't date a lot? Is that what you and Mom think?"
Dad drops his gaze, staring at his beer bottle. "Your mother thinks you blame yourself for her death."
I couldn't be more stunned if he dropped a piano on me. For a minute, I'm pretty sure I leave my body and am watching the two of us from a nearby table. Then I'm back in my body, gaping at him.
I don't blame... except I totally do. Fuck. I really don't want to talk about this right now. Or ever.
"If she hadn't been mad at me, she wouldn't have gone out for a drive," I say. Even to myself, I sound a little like the petulant child I was that day.
"Jesus Christ, Zachary. Is that really what you think?" He sits forward in his chair, leaning in toward me.
I instinctively lean back. "Yes. Because it's true."
"You were a kid!" He sounds almost angry, like he's mad at me for thinking these things. "Of course you were acting up. It's what kids do. And your mom wasn't great at handling you without losing her temper. She went for drives all the damn time."
I frown at him. She did? "I don't remember that," I say softly, trying to assimilate this new information.
"Zach, she had a low threshold for conflict, and you were a regular kid who got rambunctious. She knew she'd lose her temper with you if she didn't remove herself from the situation. So she did. A lot." He sighs. "Have you spent all these years blaming yourself? "
"I..." Yes. I have. But I can't say it aloud.
"You gotta let this go, kid. The blame for her death lies squarely on one person, and that is the man who hit her car with a blood alcohol of point three."
I didn't know what that meant when I was eight. I do now, of course; the man was shitfaced. He killed my mom and spent time in prison for it. But to a little kid, it wasn't that cut and dried.
"I don't mean to be flippant. But have you thought about talking to someone?" He no longer seems angry, his forehead creased in concern.
That idea makes me squirm. I don't want to pay someone to talk about my feelings.
"I saw a therapist after she died, and it helped a lot." He reaches his hand toward me, then pulls it back. My hands are wrapped tightly around my empty beer bottle. "For a while, believe it or not, I blamed myself too. I regret not sending you too, but at the time, I thought eight was too young for therapy."
That's a minor shock to my system. But I've had to absorb too much tonight, so I don't ask the obvious question of how it could've been his fault. I can leave that for another day.
"Just think about it," he says.
I nod.
I really need to be alone right now. Even more, I want to talk to Morgan. But I don't know how to even begin bridging the huge gap I wedged between us.
Shit. I rub my hand over my face, then run it through my loose hair.
"Can I change the subject for a minute?" Dad asks.
Yes, please. I nod again.
"Would you consider, maybe as a wedding present to me, cutting your hair?"
Wasn't expecting that. "Why?"
He won't meet my gaze. "I don't really care what you do with your hair. It's your choice. But Angela, well, she says you look so much like your mother with long hair that it bothers her."
I did not expect that. I mean, I'm a head taller than my mom apparently was, and built like a pretty typical cisgender man. My mom was built like a cis woman. I don't see it at all, other than the long black hair.
This does not endear me to my future stepmom. I’ve been thinking about cutting it lately. It’s a pain to deal with. But my knee-jerk reaction to being asked by Angela, essentially, is to keep it long.
"I'll think about it."
"It would mean a lot to Angela, which means it would mean a lot to me." He gives me a mildly sheepish smile.
"I know this is our guys' night, but I think I need to head home. Do some thinking." I put my hands on the arms of the chair, ready to stand up.
"Yeah, I get it. Lots to process. This got a lot more serious than I was intending."
"Thanks, Dad. And, uh, thanks for telling me everything."
Now I just have to figure out how to deal with pretty much everything I've ever thought about the world changing in the course of an evening.
MORGAN
I could have waited until tomorrow to head to my Grandma's old house, the mansion at the center of our family's land, on top of a hill. A storm just rolled in, and normally I love a good thunderstorm. I curl up in my reading chair with tea and a blanket and get lost in a book while Mother Nature works some magic outside .
But now that I know where these missing pages are, I can't wait.
After my dad leaves, my first instinct is to text Zach. Tell him I finally found the pages. Well, haven't found them yet but know where they are.
A week ago, I'd have done that, invited him to join me. Probably have convinced him to bend me over a dusty old sofa and fuck me while we were there. Or up against a window, watching the storm while he pounds into me.
This train of thought does nothing but frustrate and arouse me, so I shove it away. I have work to do. A Grimoire to reassemble.
I dig out a sweater and umbrella and head out. The wet grass is chilly between my toes, but I kind of like it. It grounds me in the moment so I can't let my thoughts wander. These days, they always wander to Zach. To what I could have done differently.
But I had to tell him. It wouldn't have been fair to continue deepening our relationship and keeping that secret. If he would just give me a chance to explain...
Nope, I’m focusing on the cold grass squishing between my toes. About halfway to Nana's house, my feet start feeling uncomfortably cold, so I whip up some warmth around them. Only my feet and lower legs—I rolled up my pants so they don't get wet too. The bracing wind feels good on the rest of my body.
A bright flash of lightning illuminates the sky, highlighting Nana's house up ahead. The clap of thunder that follows is so loud, my teeth rattle.
I fucking love storms like this. But I would so much rather be watching it through the window from my chair. Or even better, from my bedroom window, curled up in Zach's arms.
Shit. Wouldn't it figure I finally am able to fall in love, I fall for the first available guy, and he shatters my heart. Because at the core, he thinks I'm a liar. Believes I would hurt him that way.
And screw him. I don't need someone like that. I did my part, I fell in love and apparently I have more faith in myself now. Bronwen can go ahead and fall in love, and my sisters will have their happily ever afters and I'll be the old crone auntie.
And that idea definitely doesn't make my eyes burn like I'm going to cry. That's just the wind. My chest is heavy because... I don't fucking know why. But it's not because I'm lonely. It's definitely not because I miss Zach so much it hurts deep into my bones.
Thankfully, I'm at Nana's front walkway. I focus on the job ahead and push away all the other thoughts.
Even though Nana has been living with my mom for two years—ever since she fell and broke her hip—the house is well maintained. Nana eventually wants to move the offices for Goode Witches' charitable foundation into it, but it'll need remodeling. Which would be a shame. It's a gorgeous old house. Nana's grandparents built it, then Nana's parents lived here. Nana grew up in the house, then married my grandpa and they raised my mom and aunts here.
My sisters, cousins, and I spent a lot of time here growing up. I know this house as well as I know my own. And Mom's house, where I grew up. It would be a shame to not have a Goode family living in it, but it's also a shame to leave it empty. And how would Nana decide who inherits it?
Whatever, not my problem to solve tonight. I head up the porch steps to the front door, leave my umbrella leaning against the exterior wall, use magic to unlock the door, and step inside.
It's pitch dark inside, and I grope for the light switch. I can't find it, so I turn on the lights with magic. The foyer is illuminated by the ornate chandelier, which has cobwebs draped over it .
I snap my fingers and they're gone. Apparently it's been a while since someone did a cleaning spell on the house. I'll have to get a few supplies and come back tomorrow to do that.
Dad said to look in the attic, in the old boxes of stuff they moved out of Mom's house to make room when Nana moved in. So I climb the three flights of stairs to the tower room attic. It's semi-finished, and something out of a fairy tale. The rain pounds on the roof above me, the occasional crack of thunder adding to the storm symphony.
Two bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling are the only light, but it's a small, cozy room. Stacks of boxes line roughly half the wall, opposite the stairs. They're a mix of cardboard and plastic tubs.
Standing in front of the boxes, I close my eyes and empty my mind. I focus on the boxes, and also picture Mom's Grimoire, tucked safely in the top drawer of my dresser.
"Deities, if you wouldn't mind, I'd love a timesaver tip. Can you lead me to which box the missing Grimoire pages are in? Or at least indicate which stack I should start with?"
I wait for an answer, a thought in my head or an instinct to move to a certain stack. I wait long enough, I'm ready to give up and start digging in order. Then I wait a little longer.
Third stack from the right .
I don't recognize the voice in my head; it's not mine and it's definitely not Bowie's. Nor is it a deity I've communicated with frequently. But it feels like a message from a deity, making me tingle inside as the voice speaks to me.
"Thank you, whoever you are. Appreciate it."
Second box from the top .
"Awesome. Thanks even more. Which deity am I speaking to?"
Hera.
Yep, she's new to me. Obviously I know who she is. But we've never chatted before. "Thanks, Hera. You've saved me hours."
You're welcome, Morrigan Goode .
I wait another minute to see if she has anything else for me, but she doesn't say more.
I lift down the top box of the stack she indicated. It's above my head and must be full of books or bricks or something. It's heavy. I have to resort to using magic to help me get it down without falling on my head.
The second box, the box, is almost as heavy, but I don't need magic to maneuver it to the ground. I set it next to the first box.
Sitting down on the first box, I pull off the tape sealing the second. The flaps open to reveal several more leather-bound journals like the one in my dresser. Along the spines of each one, it says Grimoire of Angela Goode and has dates.
Not what I'm looking for, but it's on the right track. The notebook I have has the same inscription. One by one, I pull out the Grimoires and shake them, hoping loose pages will fall out. And one by one, I'm disappointed.
Shit. Either Dad was wrong, Hera was wrong, they were both wrong, or one of them midled me.
I pull out the penultimate Grimoire, and jackpot. Wedged between it and the final Grimoire in the box is a stack of loose pages bound with a silver binder clip.
Heart pounding nearly as loud as the rain on the roof, I pull them out. The left side of the pages are jagged, like they were torn from another journal.
Hands shaking, I flip over the first page, which is empty. My breathing is erratic, my whole body tense with anticipation.
My eyes scan the top of the page, and this is it! The date is the day after the last entry in Mom's Grimoire that I have, right before the missing pages.
I've found it !
Holy shit, I did it! I solved this stupid fucking mystery.
Tears well up in my eyes and I blink rapidly to hold them back. I can barely breathe, I'm so excited. My whole body feels electric with victory.
"Thank you, Dad! Thank you, Hera! Thank you for your help!" I laugh a little maniacally. "I did it!"
OK, I need to calm down. I press my feet into the floorboards, grounding myself. My hands itch to pull out my phone and text my sisters to tell them the news.
To text Zach and tell him.
It hurts that I can't text him. Or call him. I ache to reach out to him.
I miss him so much.
But it'll get better with time.
My memory flashes back to July, when Sirona and Grant broke up because he moved to Chicago for work. Time definitely didn't help my sister. She was miserable. The only thing that helped her was when Grant quit his job as a surgical resident to move back to Owl Cove. For her.
Fucking sappy romantic shit.
And I want fucking sappy romantic shit with Zach. Dammit. I am not a sappy romantic person. Or I wasn't until him.
Focus. The Grimoire pages. I'll read them first, then text my sisters once I know what's in them.
There's roughly six months of entries to read through, and the box is uncomfortable, the lighting in the attic too dim to make reading feasible. So I take the pages down to the first floor, remove the dust cover from the cozy couch in the living room, and settle in to read.
Over the next hour, it feels like truth bomb after truth bomb is exploding in my world. Mom was debilitated by grief, and it turns out, guilt, after Dad died, and spent nearly six months in bed. Apparently she spent a lot of that time writing in her Grimoire, even though she wasn't performing much magic. No big spells or rituals.
But lots and lots of confessions. By the time I finish, the storm has passed, but it feels like there's a storm raging in my body. Nothing feels right anymore. I'm huddled in a ball on the couch, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them and holding the pages so I can see them over my knees.
I get to the end of the pages. Nana threatened Mom if she didn't get out of bed and start caring for herself, unborn Bronwen, and me and Sirona, though Mom doesn’t say with what.
I toss the pages down and hug myself, rocking back and forth. I had no idea about any of this and my mind can't quite wrap around it. But I know one thing. I need my sisters.
With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and text them.
Me: we need to talk. Serious shit. First thing tomorrow. My house, 7am. I'll have coffee.
Bronwen: She used punctuation. It must be serious.
Sirona: We'll be there.
I won't be able to sleep, but might as well talk in the morning and let them sleep. I can do an energy spell on myself.
I spend the next ten minutes opening my text chain with Zach, starting to type something, then deleting it. Type, delete, type, delete.
Finally, fuck it, I hit send instead of delete.
Me: I know you're upset with me, but I have something really important we have to talk about. Like, really serious. Can we talk at dinner tomorrow?
I have no idea how long my sisters will stay, but we can't miss dinner at Mom's.
Now I get to go home and try to process the idea that my mom did, indeed, kill my father.
April 20
No. No no no no no no no no no. This didn’t happen. It can’t. It didn’t. This isn’t real and tomorrow I’ll wake up and it’ll be a horrible dream and Fred will be there in bed with me, snoring. And I’ll want to smother him with a pillow but I won’t because he’s my Fred and he’ll be alive.
I can’t believe this is real. He’s gone. How do I live in a world without him? And what’s going to happen to me when they find out how he died? What will happen to my girls if I go to prison for his murder? I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it. This isn’t at all how the spell was supposed to go.
Fred wasn’t supposed to die!!!!!
I just wanted another baby so badly. And now I never will. I couldn’t possibly have another man’s child. No one but my Fred.
I have to find Mom. She’ll know what to do. She’ll help.
-Angela
April 21,
I didn’t sleep at all last night. Between sobbing while staring at the empty space in my bed where Fred should be, and Morgan teething, I got maybe ten minutes.
Mom has a plan. She says we can make this look natural. Make it look like a tragic accident, a heart attack too young. And then I just have to lie for the rest of my life. Lie to Sirona and Morrigan about why they don’t have a father. Lie to them about why they’ll never have another brother or sister. Lie to them about everything.
And pretend I’m OK when I’m not. I don’t know how to go on without him. I don’t even want to get out of bed.
-Angela
April 23,
It’s done. Mom and I did the spell to make it look like a heart attack. When they do the autopsy, that’s what they’ll find. They’ll see an undiagnosed heart condition. I don’t know why, but Mom told Sarah, Betsy, and Diana. Sarah and Betsy don’t like it but understand. Diana was livid. Threatened to leave town if we don’t come clean. Got all high and mighty, saying we’re using magic for the wrong reasons.
She doesn’t have kids. She doesn’t understand. I’m doing this for my girls. They’re already without a father. I can’t leave them without a mother too. Then who would raise them? Queen Diana? Hah. As if.
-Angela
June 7,
I can’t get out of bed. It’s all too much. Sirona brought me a picture book to read her, and I didn’t have the energy. Mom had to do it for me. If I didn’t have to pee, I wouldn’t get out of bed at all. I barely have the energy to be writing. I don’t know why I am. All I do is stare at the walls and think about Fred.
I’m pregnant. Turns out we didn’t even need the damn fertility spell. If I hadn’t been so stupid, so selfish, he’d still be with me. I’m trying to be excited about this baby, trying to see it as a silver lining. But I can’t. I’m too numb. If I let myself feel things, it’s all pain. I don’t know how to do this.
-Angela
July 14,
Diana left. Just up and left town in the middle of the night, didn’t tell anyone. As if Mom can’t find her. Diana’s stupid if she thinks she can hide from Hazel Goode. But good riddance. She can go live among the nullas and pretend she’s not a witch and live a lie.
At least we’ll have that in common.
Every day, Sirona looks more like Fred and I can’t stand to look at her. If this baby is a boy who looks like him, I’m not sure I can raise him. Why did the deities let this happen?
-Angela
August 22,
Mom threatened to report me to child services if I don’t get out of bed and get a prenatal exam for this baby. Bitch. She just wants me to take care of Sirona and Morgan so she and Betsy don’t have to anymore. Like it’s such a hardship to deal with her granddaughters. She retired, what else does she have to do?
But I made an appointment. Mostly to shut her up.
I don’t want this baby. Not without Fred.
-Angela