Chapter 13
Chapter
Broder’s words ate at me, but what ate at me more was the complete lack of change at the parsonage.
I could still sense the presence of the bag if I was close enough, and I started driving by every day, checking it was still there, waiting to see the fruits of my work.
It was a stupid thing to do—Zeke or Rachel would probably notice my truck, especially if Evelyn was right and there were already rumors swirling about me and their son.
But I couldn’t stop myself. I worried at it like a hangnail, desperate for some sign that the pastor could be driven out.
There was no way to tell what form the hex bag’s influence would take—hallucinations or nightmares or sickness, maybe all three, or maybe something else entirely—but the longer they stayed, the worse it would get.
Every day, I told myself I would see a moving truck, or that Georgie would call and tell me Zeke was calling it quits already, and every day, the unchanged parsonage mocked me.
I had to know if it was working, if it would work. And there was only one way to find out.
Belladonna was not a plant to take lightly.
I gave it the southwest corner of the meadow at the edge of the forest; it didn’t keep well as a pet.
Even from yards away, I could see the berries glinting like black jewels in the sun.
Truly, they seemed purpose-built to lure in humans, with the tempting glisten of their skin and the sweet burst of juice inside.
The sanctuary itself was equally sirenic that day—from the house, the autumn sun had appeared as soft amber daubs playing over the gently waving grass of the meadow, but now that I was here, the light was brassy and harsh.
There was still no sign of the storm I called up, and the dry meadow bristled with razor grass and thistle.
The maple trees that formed the edge of the forest were the red of old blood, and the thought made me pause and glance behind me automatically for the fawn.
She wasn’t there, of course. I’d left her in her stall, although looking now I saw that she had come out into the run to watch me, a little smear of copper against the weathered boards of the barn.
I turned away, straightening my shoulders and trying to clear my head. I had been too lax with the hex bag, and I had paid for it. Belladonna was even less forgiving of mistakes.
When I came to the bushes, I set down my basket and my shears momentarily to murmur a few words of gratitude. I’d gotten out of the habit of these little rituals, but now that most of my magic had been torn out by the roots, I was seeking it everywhere, drawing on every source I could.
The stand of belladonna had become thuggish and overbearing since last I paid it any mind, and I didn’t hesitate to cut whole boughs rather than taking only the berries.
The green wood and the leaves were powerful as well, and I needed all the power I could get.
I took them back to the house, hurrying to escape the unwelcoming rasp of the meadow grass.
I put the boughs in water, careful to avoid the sap that oozed from the cut ends.
From their vase, they seemed to mock the lavender and cornflower and other gentler plants that hung drying from the kitchen beams. I couldn’t resist the urge to stroke my thumb over one of the berries, just to feel the gloss of its skin.
I distracted myself with other tasks for the remainder of the afternoon—there were more than enough piling up, and I had barely made a dent in the laundry when I glanced out the window and saw the sun was dipping behind the tree line.
I still had preparations to make, but for the rest of my materials, I’d have to go to the back room.
The cellar of my house was like any other cellar; dim and low-ceilinged, with spiderwebs in the corners and a hard-packed dirt floor. I kept a larder down there, but didn’t have much reason to visit it otherwise. Years had passed since I had cause to go through the plain wooden door at the back.
No one else had ever seen what was in the back room, and no one could.
I built the room when my mother and grandmother’s fear was still running strong in me, and back then, there was cause.
I had dug it out myself, shoring up the walls with plaster and stone.
There was no electricity, and no windows either; I took a candle in with me and didn’t flick the wheel of my lighter until the door was locked behind me.
I had never killed for my magic, but I wasn’t above harvesting from the dead. In my line of work, there was plenty of it. It was not uncommon for me to take the fur or teeth of a dead mother possum or raccoon and weave it into the spells of healing and growth I spoke over her offspring.
But none of this was so innocent. Even the hex bag, full of malice as it was, was purer than the things I kept in the back room.
That had been forged in the hot, cleansing fire of anger, and these I had allowed to sit and suppurate in the secret dark, their presence a growing stain on my soul.
Here were the hearts of predator and prey alike, suspended in formaldehyde and lined up neatly in their jars.
Here were the vials of snake and spider venom, the wines I’d dosed with mandrake and lily of the valley.
Here was my grandmother’s grimoire with its homemade goatskin cover, its yellowed pages full of magic my mother refused to teach me—love potions, spells to call on the dead, curses, hexes.
These were all the things I’d harvested for myself, forbidden knowledge, bones and claws, eyes and organs. And my mother—or what remained of her.
There was not much left of her hair and lashes, despite my efforts to ration them over the years, but her teeth and finger bones had not been touched.
I only handled them in their little box, but that didn’t stop the memories that wanted to flash before me—the way the pliers slipped, the bristling crack of cartilage, how black her cold blood looked under my fingernails.
I pushed the thoughts aside, gathering up the box and the wooden trencher that sat on the shelf beside it, its bowl worn glossy smooth.
The last thing I needed was in the medicine cabinet upstairs.
The bathroom seemed bright and homey compared to the back room, but I avoided my reflection in the mirror, only glimpsing the darkness that clung around my eyes and in the hollows of my cheeks.
I opened the cabinet and pushed aside the soaps and gauze packets I used to hide the bottle, then stopped short.
The bottle of belladonna antidote was tipped over on its side, sitting in a tacky puddle of what once was clear fluid.
I snatched it up as if it would prevent any more from leaking out, but the damage was done; I heard only the barest rattle of liquid inside.
The label was stuck to the shelf of the cabinet along with most of the contents, but there was no mistaking it for anything but what it was.
Cursing whatever hurried moment in the past led to this, I tore open the drawer beneath the sink. The syringes were still there, safe in their wrappers. I’d just have to hope there was enough left in the bottle for one last use.
I bundled everything into a basket and went outside, trying to ignore my waning confidence.
The spilled bottle of physostigmine seemed like a sign if ever there was one, but it wasn’t the one I needed now.
There was simply too much at stake, and besides, it was only a backup plan.
I’d used belladonna enough in the past to get the dosage right.
I came to the small, stone-circled firepit in the center of the yard and stopped, finding myself unwilling to set the basket down.
It was fully night now, but the moon was shining above like a great silvery eye, laying down a blanket of pearlescent light so bright I could make out the colors of the dahlias in their bed.
Even up here on the hill, behind my gate and safe within my remaining wards, I felt exposed.
Anyone could walk up the driveway and see what I was doing—they could leave before I even knew I’d been observed, or worse, take advantage of my vulnerable state. No, I couldn’t do it in the yard.
I readjusted the basket on my arm and went down to the gate, looking out across the lustrous, billowing sea of grass and the towering dark of the forest. Once again, it looked peaceful from here, but I wouldn’t know the truth of its mood until I ventured out.
I opened the gate and entered the meadow.
It seemed to take a long time to reach the trees.
A breeze moved through the grass as I walked, turning the moon-soaked leaves to liquid, and for a moment I had to shut my eyes and take a long, slow breath through my nose.
The sensation of drowning passed, and I pressed on, the forest rising like a black wall before me.
No sooner had I crossed the line of the trees than the light faded. I turned, apprehension skittering down my spine, and found only darkness; perhaps the moon had gone behind a cloud, or perhaps the trees had closed behind me. I pressed on into the forest, seeking a place for the ritual.
I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, other than a place to build a fire.
I’d never done a ritual like this beyond the safety of the yard.
Like belladonna itself, the trees kept their own secrets and were not to be trifled with, and unlike now, when raw panic was a breath away, I wouldn’t notice the creeping roots and stretching limbs when my gaze was only half in this world.