Chapter Fourteen #2
What she’d said to me last night came to mind, and though it wasn’t the time for it, I asked, “Margaux, what makes you believe I could run a coven?”
“Many reasons,” she replied, and tapped inside one of the whorls with her fingertip. “Put your element there.”
I picked up a pocket-sized burlap bag of Siete Saguaro soil and poured it on the spot she’d indicated. The excess coating my hands vaporized then absorbed into my skin. The power surge felt good, welcome.
“Reasons? What, like my elemental magic? Or my demon side? Or maybe it’s the way I attract trouble like a floodlight attracts moths.”
“Those are lower on the list of coven leader priorities,” she said and pointed at me with the chalk. “Now, one of us must be a conduit for the spell. It’s risky. The location will flow directly into the brain of the chosen person, and—”
“Chosen person, my ass. Cut it out, Margaux. We both know it’s going to be me.”
She lifted and lowered one thin shoulder. “You’re the strongest choice, but others could do it. Not the inebriated gnome, perhaps, but certainly Fennel or me.”
“Exactly how dangerous is this spell?”
“Magic always carries risks, you know that. But, as I said before, this is outside the norm.”
“Then my partners aren’t getting anywhere near that circle, and neither are you. The conduit is me. End of discussion. Let’s do this.”
“That,” she said, with a knowing smile that irritated the hell out of me, “is reason number one.”
“What are you talking about?” This whole conversation was giving me whiplash, and I was pretty sure it was my fault.
“What makes me believe you could run a coven? Responses like that. Your first instinct is always to protect others. I can’t conceive of a finer quality for a leader.” She looked so damn pleased with herself it was ridiculous.
“Stop complimenting me. It pisses me off,” I grumbled.
“Okay, next Coven Mother.” She ignored my muttered curse words and inspected the circle, turning her head this way and that. Added a series of flowing lines to a smaller circle in the center. Erased one with the heel of her hand and redrew it.
Fennel meowed softly from his fluffy bed beneath the planter of his namesake.
Cecil was crashed out beside him in his bed—a mosaic planter with tiny seashell feet filled with a flourishing string-of-pearls plant I’d given him.
My partners were staying out of the way for now, but remaining close in case things went sideways.
At least, one partner was. Cecil was three sheets, two comforters, and ten down pillows to the wind. I wasn’t sure how much help he was going to be until he sobered up.
“We’re ready. All we need now is some magic to power this thing up. Hopefully, then we’ll find Aurora and be able to devise a way to bring her home safely. Mason, too.”
The reason for the spell, the reality of the situation hit me.
Not that the need to find Aurora Pallás hadn’t been on my mind since that fateful phone call, but I’d been so distracted by everything else going on in the hours since, I hadn’t allowed the urgency of the matter to fully sink in.
It was sinking in now.
If we didn’t find Rory, Ronan was going to bend the knee to his bastard of a father. He was going to lose the pack, and anyone who’d ever aided him would be punished, including Gladys, because that was what the gym attack had been about. Revenge for allying with Ronan.
And when every last “traitor” wolf had been dealt with, they’d kill him. Maybe not right away, but it would happen. Ronan was powerful—more than anyone, including me, even knew—but he wasn’t a god. He was as mortal as the rest of us.
Brass tacks: if Floyd won, we were all going to die.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Sit in the center of the circle. Don’t smudge the chalk, bump the hairs or the clip, or disturb the soil. All are important to the spell.” Her voice quavered on the word spell. That tremble, the caving of her shoulders, and the slump of her head told me she wasn’t sure this was going to work.
“When do I use my magic?” I asked.
“You’ll know. For now, sit very still and close your eyes while I power up the circle. Open your mind and receive any images that flow in, no matter how ridiculous, impractical, or surreal they seem.”
Great. An LSD trip spell. A hellish end to a hellish day.
She drew in a breath and exhaled over her shoulder, away from the chalk lines and soil. Then she began to chant in a forceful, deliberate tone as if in direct challenge to her own doubt.
I closed my eyes.
Magic hit the circle with a thunderclap of power, surprising me into accidentally opening my eyes. The hair clip made clicking sounds against the floor. The pile of soil shivered then crawled away from the chalk whorl in rolling contractions, like the movement of a slug, dragging itself toward me.
Margaux picked up speed, words spitting out of her like Eminem in a rap battle. I was afraid to break her concentration, but she’d said the soil was important as a grounding agent and, from what I could tell, it wasn’t providing a safe path for the magic to flow. It appeared to have its own agenda.
“Uh, Margaux? The soil is—”
The pile gave one last shudder then, like metal shavings to a magnet, flew into my open mouth and rocketed down my throat.
Fire.
I’ve never eaten ghost peppers, but I have bitten into a habanero or two in my lifetime. This was beyond chili-pepper hot. It was miles from boiling-water hot. It was an oozing, slithering heat that incinerated my esophagus and steamed all the air from my lungs.
Margaux, I tried to scream, but I had nothing to use. No throat, no lungs—even my brain was on fire. Black flames licked at the edges of my vision. Sparks of power burst like fireworks above my head. I tried to reach out to her, but my body felt glued to the floor, my arms stitched to my sides.
Margaux kept chanting.
Fennel picked up on my distress. He raced to the witch’s side, looked from me to her then did the only thing he could without introducing even more magic into the situation.
He bit the absolute shit out of her ankle.
She yelped and grappled for her bare foot. “What are you doing, gato tonto? You know how important it is that I complete the spell without interrupt— Betty.” Her gaze went from the chalk whorl where the soil had been to me. “My goddess … your face. Por favor, ayúdame, diosa.”
Please help me, goddess? I couldn’t decide if she was breaking out the Spanish because she was panicking or praying.
Her gaze fell on the spot where the clip and strands of hair were—had been. They were gone. “Stay focused on the spell, Betty. Remember everything.”
It was then that I became aware of something vital—I wasn’t breathing.
And yet, I wasn’t dying. Given Margaux’s reaction, I should’ve been freaking out even worse, but I wasn’t doing that, and I had every right to. My insides had felt as if they’d been charred with a blowtorch a moment ago. Now they didn’t hurt at all.
Margaux gentled her voice. “Use your magic. Harmonize with the spell. Tell me what you see.”
Lights danced above my head like fairies in a wildflower garden.
The sky was both darker and brighter than before, the stars like shiny metal screws bolted into a walled-in galaxy.
The garden room was illuminated by a harsh yellow light, and it felt as though hours had passed. As if it were noon instead of midnight.
Cecil scrambled to the edge of the circle, a sobering charm tucked into his beard. His hat glowed. The sable ends of Fennel’s fur glimmered—I saw each individual strand.
Margaux’s hair had come loose from her braid and framed her face. Without her severe makeup and hairstyle, she looked young. Her russet eyes were round and glossy, spilling over with terror. She wore her fear like an elegant dress that swirled around her, the hem dancing around her bare ankles.
Her words floated through my head: “My goddess … your face.”
Oh no. I wasn’t in pain because the numbness had returned. The apathy.
The demon.
“Not now. I can’t do this now.” My croaking voice was small and fragile. If I’d been able to feel, I’m sure it would’ve hurt to speak. “Please go.”
Margaux appeared confused. “You want me to go?”
Fennel flattened his ears and thumped his tail on the floor. Cecil stood beside him, purple hat lying flat, mimicking the cat’s ears.
The demon said nothing, but her power wrapped around me like a python, squeezing in pulses that slithered along the edge of pain. Pain I wanted to drink like wine. Pain that felt like sheets whispering against bare skin, like breathless ecstasy in the darkest part of the night.
Ronan.
“Please stop.” I forced out the words. If you don’t, I’ll lose him. And if I lose him, I lose me—us.
Lose… us? The voice sounded like me but felt removed.
“Yes.” The power stroked up my thigh, and I shuddered. It wouldn’t take long now. Another squeeze, another delicate susurration in my ear, another tempting promise of retribution.
“Lose us.” I whispered the reminder as the last of my worry rode the winds of apathy into oblivion.
The numbness held on for another few seconds. Was Demon Betty weighing her options? It felt that way, though I didn’t know if she ever thought twice about anything. She was a driven creature, a thing of pure, delicious intent.
Pain slammed into me. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a wheeze. The apathy was gone. In its place was an agony so deep it ripped at the marrow of my bones.
Margaux scooted to the outside edge of the circle, beside my partners. Her fear was no longer beautiful. It was an ugly thing, and it hurt to look at.
Tears clouded my eyes as I mouthed the word, “Help.”
Margaux put her arm out to hold back Fennel and Cecil, who, if I was reading their expressions correctly, had been gearing up to jump into the circle.
“Pour your magic into the pain. Give it as much power as you can. You’ll have to lean into it if you want the spell to work.”
Cecil chittered at her. Fennel looked ready to bite again. With the apathy gone, I wanted to pass out from the lack of air and the agony of trying to reach for it.
“The only way out is through,” she said. “You took this on for Ronan, to help him find his sister—now, find her. Pour everything you’ve got into it.”
Ronan. No matter how hard it was, no matter how much it hurt—for him, I could do this.
I called for my element, and it answered.
Dirt shivered in the pots and planters surrounding us.
The soil acting like a flamethrower on my insides writhed within me.
It all felt charged with power, and I wanted to absorb every molecule of the sand, silt, clay, roots, humus, rock, air, and water contained within it.
Find Rory.
Visions I’d had of the garden room returned—the yellow light, the stars like bolts holding the universe together, the fairy lights sparkling. And then it was gone, and I was transported away from the garden room and into another.
A locked cell, its walls dripping with liquid silver.
Outside the cell, a yellow light glowed weakly.
It was the sort of light a desk lamp gave off, which made sense when an old wooden desk bled into view.
A wolf the size of a tiger prowled around the desk, periodically snapping at something in the air—like a dog after a moth.
In the distance, someone screamed. Male? Female? I couldn’t tell. It all just sounded like pain.
“Betty, come back.”
I did as the voice commanded, though parts of me remained in that room, screams playing like demented music in the background. Everything that was good and just in me wanted to do something to make them stop.
“Come back now, before you get lost.” Compared to the screams, Margaux’s voice sounded like the delicate song of a sparrow.
I tried to speak, and a gulping, “Guh,” was all I could manage before everything went black.
My exit from the darkness was gradual and in direct response to my body being pulled, turned, embraced.
“Mmm mmm mmm. Mmm mmm mmm.”
Someone was humming the opening to Redbone’s “Come and Get Your Love.” The song haunted me in the best possible way.
I tried to hum along. Who could resist “Come and Get Your Love?” A monster, that was who. And I was no monster.
“That’s right, sing it with me,” Margaux whispered into my ear. When she pulled back, there was moisture on my cheek. She was crying? Why?
“Mmm mmm mmm mmm,” she continued.
“Meow yow yow,” Fennel sang, mimicking Margaux.
Cecil let loose with a series of chitters that sounded a lot like Lolly Vegas’s guitar style.
Joy bubbled up in me like a geyser. Memories of Mom singing the song to me as a little girl, a preteen witch, a teenager dancing in the middle of a wheat field somewhere in the Midwest flowed into me.
The two of us kicking up soil while sending love and magic and joy into the element that powered us.
We sang the chorus as my lungs inflated, as my trachea repaired. We sang until my voice smoothed out enough to take on the high “hoooo” at the end.
I opened my eyes and found myself collapsed against Margaux. She’d pulled me onto her lap and was holding my upper body infant-like in her arms. Her tear-streaked face smiled down at me. Cecil perched on her shoulder, his hat peaked. Fennel stood on my chest, his tail thumping my belly.
“I feel like the spell failed.”
“It wasn’t as successful as I’d have liked,” Margaux’s voice was soft, a little tired, “but it didn’t fail.”
“You keep bringing me back to myself,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” she said, and hugged me.
And in that garden room, with its cobbled-together cast-off windowpanes and floor made of clay, with the early morning light streaming in through the clear corrugated roof, and the scent of lush, healthy herbs all around us, a miracle happened.
I stared up at the woman I’d blamed for my mother’s death for over three years and hugged her back.