Chapter 19
By the time I awoke, it was night. Instinctively I knew it was only a half hour or so before 12pm. Before the beginning of a new day.
The pain was not gone, and neither was my injury. I was lying on a sofa, staring up at the ceiling, and as I tried to move my good arm over to pry at my wound, a jolt of stiffening shock rippled through me.
“I really wouldn't move,” someone said.
It was Jacob, it had to be.
Ignoring him, I pushed myself up as much as I could, and with my bleary eyes sought him out.
He was sitting in a chair just opposite me. There was a roaring fire in the hearth behind him, and he had his gun on the table just beside his legs. His arms were crossed and his expression unreadable as he stared my way.
I met his strange gaze for as long as I could before finally resting back down; the pain in my arm becoming far too much for even my belligerent mind to handle.
“Why did you climb out the window?”
I blinked hard at his question. What with the searing, throbbing pain making its malignant way through my arm and into the rest of my body, I didn't really have enough brain power left over to listen to him.
He repeated his question. Was it just me, or was his tone unusually cold? It went beyond the bullyish edge he'd always showed me, to something I didn't understand.
I placed my good hand over my eyes and blinked my eyelashes against my fingers.
I was cold. Horrendously cold. And I didn't even want to start on my arm. I could hardly move the sucker.
“Esme, answer me.”
“I... wanted to go find my grandmother,” I finally managed to push the words out.
He snorted.
Was that relief?
What the hell was going on here?
Ignoring the pain, biting my teeth against it, I shifted on the couch, rolling over until I faced him. “What happened?”
“You foolishly climbed out the window and you were attacked by another one of those skeletons with swords.”
I watched him as he spoke.
This injury must have been doing funny things with my mind, because I could have sworn the shadows pooling under Jacob's face were darker than usual.
Being an influence witch, I could appreciate that any mood could affect the way you saw the world. From a cheery disposition to a black depression caused by being stabbed by a freaking skeleton; the state of the body always affected the thoughts you had. It was a sacred relationship a witch like me took advantage of all the time. If someone was feeling blue, you lightened up their house with candles and heaters and lamps and blankets. If someone wanted to run for president, you made them work out all day long until all their body could remember was the feeling of strength and resilience.
“That was really, really stupid,” Jacob acknowledged through a sigh, relaxing back in his chair.
“I guess it was,” I groaned, trying to find a position that wouldn’t send pain spiking through my back and torso.
“That skeleton could have killed you.”
“Yep,” I gave a glum smile and poked at my wound again.
There was something tied around it, but as I pried the bandage back, I could see that that was all. There were no potions tucked under there, no healing talismans, not even a bit of antiseptic gel.
“You shouldn't have left like that,” he repeated.
I got the message, loud and clear. I seriously did. But I had a greater problem here. Flicking my gaze up and back at Jacob as he sat there all dramatically, I cleared my throat. “Not to sound too demanding or anything, but do you think you could possibly do some of that healing magic of yours on my arm? Or if you're all spent or something, can you direct me to the kitchen so I can make up a poultice? I'm no magic medic, but this thing feels dark,” I frowned as I patted at it lightly. As soon as my fingers came in contact with the bandage, I practically had to pull them back. It felt like ice down there.
“You'll be fine, it will heal up as long as you stop poking it.”
I looked up at him and couldn't hide my disbelief. “Are you pulling my leg? There's black blood seeping out of it,” I made a face as I peered under the bandage again. It made me sick to even look at it, let alone to think of what it was doing to my body.
“Esme, you'll be fine,” Jacob said again, this time with a great deal more power.
It stilled me, it really did. One minute I was getting ready to force my point, the next I was like a puppy cowering in the corner.
A very sharp and uncomfortable silence spread between us, punctuated only by the crackle of the open fire.
I glanced towards it. I usually loved open fireplaces; there was something suitably caveman about sitting around a naked flame and staring into the dancing mass of heat.
I was not comfortable right now. I was far, far from it. Which made me frown. Because I was back in the safe house, the same damn place that had made me feel safer than I ever had in my whole life only hours before.
Why the sudden change? The walls were still the same, the foundations and roof presumably hadn't changed while I'd been knocked out, so why was I now getting a far darker feel from this place?
“We haven't had much luck tracking down your grandmother. I know you want to help,” he put up a hand.
I was struck by the way the firelight played around his fingers. It made them seem longer, and the shadows between them appeared to be far darker than reason dictated they should be.
I swallowed.
“Esme, we really want to help you. And now you've proved how much you want to help, by stupidly climbing out a window and getting skewered by a sword, I'm giving you that opportunity. We think your grandmother has gone somewhere.... We're pretty sure she's still at your house. Do you have any secret rooms? Anywhere she would go to be safe?”
I frowned. It was instinctive. It wasn't at what he was saying so much as... my lips just turning down of their own accord. In fact, if I had let my body do what it wanted to at that point, no doubt it would have stood me up, walked me out of the door, and found a way back home.
Because something wasn't right here. Maybe it was just the effects of the dark wound, maybe it was something else.
“Esme, please. Do you think she could be in your attic?” Jacob sat forward in his chair, his face suddenly more animated, and I swear the fire chose that exact moment to crackle, sending a lick of firelight forth to illuminate his expression in full. From the wide open eyes to the sharp line of his mouth.
I recoiled instinctively.
“Esme, what's the matter? I'm trying to help you here. We think your grandmother might have gone into the attic. That or there is another room in your house, something secret. Do you know where it could be? Do you know how we could get in there to get her out?”
I clutched at my wound. Covering it protectively as if I didn't want any more of my fear to seep into it, tainting it further.
“Esme, we've managed to control the evil creatures who had amassed at you house. We just need to get your grandmother out now. To check that she's safe.”
....My friends and family members had once accused me of being gullible. When I'd been growing up, I'd been the kind of witch to easily accept anyone's story, taking it on as a fact of my world with little or no critical assessment.
It was a stage all influence witches go through. A necessary step in our quest to change the world through the small details.
Yet I would also like to think that I was now very much over that stage. The Esme of today was suitably cynical.
The Esme of right now, however, was totally and mind-numbingly confused.
Jacob had helped me. He'd saved me on numerous occasions, and I would be very much dead if it hadn't been for him. And despite the fact I'd been spending a chunk of the day convincing myself that my grandmother had been wrong and he wasn't my type, I couldn't deny that on some deep level I was attracted to him.
So why was I so damn tense right now? Why did I want to get as
far away from him as I could? Why was there this rising sense of panic within me?
And why oh why didn't I believe what he was saying?
Maybe he sensed my hesitation, because he got up. He waked up to me and leaned down on one knee, right in front of the couch. “Esme, I know you are probably confused; that skeleton's blow was a vicious one, and I'm sure the residual magic it left in the wound is playing havoc with your system, but trust me,” he tried for a smile, it didn't really work though, “I've been looking after you all day, haven't I? I saved you from that skeleton in your house, pulled its hand off your throat. I got you out of your yard, and I brought you here. And if it hadn't been for me... You would have died out in the garden a couple of hours ago. So all I'm asking is that you give me a hand now. My Agency is determined to protect your grandmother, but you've got to help us find her. Before it’s too late.”
Now that he was right in front of me, I couldn't shift any further back into the couch to get away. All I could do was stare right up into his face.
“Esme,” he tried one final time.
“Take me with you,” my voice croaked. “I can try to find her. If the house is safe, then take me back. I'm sure she'll come out if she knows I'm back.”
It was a reasonable suggestion. In fact, it was more than that, it was smart. It was also a challenge.
I needed to see how Jacob would react to it.
His previously broad smile twitched into a frown for a bare second then righted itself. “You can't move, not in your current state.”
“Then show me to a first aid kit and I'll deal with my wound.”
“It will heal, you just need rest.”
“But I'm sure if you take me to the house my grandmother will... come out of hiding.”
“No, Esme, you have to stay here. We can't put you in anymore danger,” Jacob stood up.
He retreated over to the fire and stared down into it.
I locked my gaze onto his back and I wouldn't have let anything distract me in that moment. Because it was time for this little witch to make a decision.
Why would my grandmother be hiding in the attic? Why wouldn't she be out in the yard waging war with the dark side, or trundling down the street, drafting in all the other members of the extended Sinclair family, getting them to help her fight her war?
I knew her. I'd lived with her for a very memorable five years, and she had made me into the witch I was today.
She didn't hide.
She didn't run.
So why should I?
I pushed myself up. I didn't care that my arm suddenly felt like it was going to explode. I just pushed right through that pain until my feet rested on the floor and I faced Jacob's back.
“Rest, don't try to move; you'll hurt yourself,” he tried.
Something was not right here. It was time to stop apologizing for that fact, time to stop rationalizing it away. It was time to find out why and to goddamn use some magic to fix it.
Hours ago I had wasted the magic of time slowing down; rather than use it to my advantage to figure out a way to defeat the skeleton, I'd just let it attack me instead.
I was done wasting my opportunities.
As soon as I concluded that, a funny thing occurred; magic, pure and simple, seemed to fill me up. From my head to my toes, the dark suspicious sensations that had been waging war within gave way to the unmistakable light of a witch.
In reality, I had always been filled with this light. Since I had been born, magic had always been with me. Over the years I had simply forgotten. The sensations of oppression, hardship, and a general moping, complaining nature had taken over.
I stood up. It was probably the stupidest thing I could have done, but that didn't matter; I took the opportunity to finally rise and face this situation, and I did not look away.
Jacob turned slowly to face me. For the first time he did not look like the annoying, bullying Agent I had come to know over the past several days. He looked... confused. And something else. Something that I suddenly realized had always been there. A nervous, pressured tension.
Magic. But not one I recognized and not one I ever intended to practice.
“What are you doing?” he moved slowly away from the fire.
“Jacob Fairweather, you aren't telling me the truth,” I forcefully placed my arms by my side, ignoring the boring, burning sensation of my wound. I knew that the more I ignored it, the more I did not let it affect me, the less hold it would have.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about. From the moment we met, you lied to me. And I think you haven't yet told a single truth. So now I'm inviting you to start.”
He snorted. “You're delusional. Sit back down before you fall down.”
“Delusional? I'm feeling sharper than I have in days. Now start spilling the beans. What exactly is going on here? What are you, who do you work for, and why are you so god damned keen to get your hands on my grandmother?”
He opened his mouth, probably intending to tell me to sit back down again, but he didn't utter a word. Instead he took a careful step backwards. “You're ungrateful, Esme. I've gone out of my way to keep you safe, and this is all the thanks I get?”
“Who do you work for? What's going on here? Why are you so keen to get into my attic?”
“I've already told you, we're the good guys. We're here to mop up after your mistakes,” he snapped back. There was far more emotion behind his words now, and the pressure they came out with was unmistakable. They felt raw, unfiltered by the facade Jacob had kept up over the past several days.
Because it had been a facade. I was starting to realize that good old Agent Fairweather really did have a wealth of secrets. And I had been a damn fool to let him keep them up until now.
I straightened my back, but instantly my arm complained to the tune of a stabbing pain that practically made me fall over.
Groaning, I tried to ignore it, but glancing down, I realized blood was now seeping out from underneath the bandage. Black blood.
“Look what you are doing to yourself. Just sit down already. I can't keep you safe unless you let me.”
There was a real sense of desperation behind his words now.
It did something to the suspicion rising within me; it mollified it. But it did not take it away completely.
“What the hell is going on here?” I snapped, cheeks flushing, palms sweating, and heart racing as I tried to keep up. I was so confused. One moment I thought Jacob was the good guy, the next I thought he was neck deep in the dark side. Then my beliefs would switch places again like they were playing freaking leap frog.
There was no steady ground to stand on.
I looked down at my feet. That was wrong; I was standing on the floor, and it certainly wasn't shifting about like sand.
“You know what’s going on. You’ve been systematically undermining your existence, and now you are under attack. You’ve been influencing yourself in all the wrong ways, and now you’re reaping your bitter reward. Now could you please just sit down before I have to handcuff you to the couch?”
I’ve been influencing myself in all the wrong ways and now I am reaping the reward... his words stuck in my mind. No, they burrowed in there like a goddamned parasite. I could feel them taking up root and spreading like fire.
I was the first to admit that I hadn’t been the most competent influence witch over the past several years, and yes, I’d complained way, way too much. I also appreciated that that had meant, ironically, that I had used my own magic to undermine myself. I had influenced myself, as Jacob had just pointed out, in all the wrong ways.
Yet that was a remarkably perceptive thing for simple Agent Fairweather to point out. Okay, he was clearly magical, but that had sounded like something my grandmother would have said.
“Esme,” he began, “you know this storm is after you. You know you’ve made yourself weak and the dark side is trying to take advantage of this. You brought this
on yourself, you started this. I’m just trying to help.”
I started this.
I frowned, and for the first time in days, I started to really think about what was happening here. I didn’t suddenly remember my grandmother’s words, and neither did I give in to Jacob’s observations. I swept all their opinions aside.
I thought for myself. And what I thought was this: I hadn’t started this, Jacob had. My current troubles had all begun two mornings ago when a certain belligerent but troublingly good looking Agent had knocked on my front door.
Up until then I had been fine. Yes, I had complained, but no, I had not hated my life. I’d been muddling through as best as I could. I had not been a virus destroying my world; I’d just been a woman growing up, settling down, and trying to get things right.
Other people had decided that I had brought this storm and all its monsters upon me. It was up to me to choose to see the situation as they did, or to make my own story.
Everyone from my grandmother to Jacob, to the freaking skeletons and lightning had been trying to influence me. Especially Jacob.
With his blustery attitude and quick jibes, he’d spent the past several days systematically undermining my power. I couldn’t count the number of times he’d called me the world’s worst witch.
He’d kept me small.
All I’d done in response was tell myself to stand straighter and to glower at him more, but unsurprisingly it had not worked. Because I’d been missing the true power, the true magic behind influence.
The influence you have on others is a pale shadow of that you have on yourself. Control yourself, control your world. I finally understood that ancient and sacred adage. The crest, in fact, of the Sinclair Family.
“Esme,” he closed the distance between us and latched a hold of my shoulders. I instantly felt how strong his hands were, I instantly saw how taller he was. “Esme, I’m trying to help you fix your mistakes. I’m trying to protect you. You aren’t strong enough to fight this on your own, and neither is your grandmother. Now tell me how to get into your attic.”
It would have been easy as I stood there to believe his words. To let his voice into my head. The voice that told me I was the world’s worst witch, that this was my fault, that I could not fix it on my own. That I was weak, so much weaker than he was.
I had let that voice in for the past two days. It was time to kick it out so I could hear my own again.
I smiled. I wasn’t nice. I wasn’t meant to be. I shrugged him off and looked up into his eyes. Suddenly it didn’t matter that he was taller than me and physically stronger. Opportunity favored the prepared, not necessarily the butch. And when it came to magic, opportunity favored those who would take it.
“Get out of my head,” I said, no, I commanded.
“Esme...”
“You,” I pointed at him, “are an influence witch.”
As soon as the words were out, I knew they were true. I understood his magic and how he had used it to manipulate me.
He faltered. It looked as if he were about to tell me to sit down again, then he stopped. He straightened.
Then I fancied I saw the real Jacob Fairweather. He wasn’t the handsome but belligerent Federal Agent. He wasn’t the mysterious but apparently compassionate magical creature. He was a confused but powerful witch. He practiced the very same magic that I did, but up until now he’d been doing it a whole lot better.
“You don’t know what you are doing,” he said. His voice flickered. At once it was dark and ominous, and yet at the same time it was lost. The sense of confusion poured through it like blood from a wound.
“Don’t undermine me,” I snapped, “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m leaving. Presumably you are going to try to stop me, we are going to fight, and I’m going to win.”
It was a bolshie thing to say. Not only was I announcing my plan, but I was making the unlikely prediction that I would come out on top.
“You won’t win,” he replied.
The light started to leave the room. The fire dwindled to embers and then extinguished itself in a hiss.
The last thing I saw was the angle of his jaw and the glint of his eyes.
“You won’t win,” he repeated.
It was a suitably creepy thing to say, and the force of his voice as it boomed through the room seemed to rattle my bones.
Great. It was, presumably, minutes from midnight, but my horrendous day was not over yet. There was one more thing I had to do. I had to defeat Agent Jacob Fairweather. The very man my grandmother had tried to hitch me up with. The very man who had, apparently, been manipulating this whole situation. It was clear he was after my grandmother, and it was clear he was going to use me to get to her.
Why, I didn’t know. Who he really was, I didn’t know either.
But one thing I did know was that I was a witch. And it was finally time to start acting like one.
I ducked back, fast despite my pounding injury.
I could hear him moving before me. Though it was clear he was trying to be as quiet as he could be, I felt his movements ripple forth like a stone thrown in a pond. He disturbed the magic around him, and it buffeted and lapped against my form.
He was going to move behind me, latch his hands around my middle, and knock me out.
I could sense his intensions so clearly, they might as well have been my own.
I heard him shift, felt a puff of air against my cheek, and smelt the subtle scent of his cologne.
I fell to my knees deliberately, kicking out behind me.
I didn’t connect with anything.
Again I felt air push against my hair and cheek. I fell back, lashing out with my arms.
Nothing.
He had to be in front, or just behind, I knew it. But I could not land a blow.
I lashed out again, as I did, desperation set it. Sweat covered my brow, my heartbeat reverberated through my tensed neck and jaw. But no matter what I did, I could not reach him. He was always just out of reach.
Then he moved. As soon as the frustration and panic set in, he pounced.
I felt his arms snaking around my back.
I could have screamed. I could have pitched back.
I didn’t.
I didn’t give into the fear. I didn’t let it influence me, render me to the spot, turn me into a bucking, wild witch swallowed up by desperation. Instead I used it.
Influence, don’t be influenced, and you will carve the future you want. A creed I could have repeated, but not understood until now.
I rewrote my fear. The sensations I felt were not a sign of my body giving up, they were a sign of attention spreading out, my mind snatching at any opportunity it could find.
That was true influence. Changing the perceptions of the mind over the body. The foundation of all magic.
Jacob latched hold of me and pulled me back.
I pulled forward, against his grip. And I broke his hold.
He was physically stronger, but in that moment as my magic surged it sort out every opportunity he gave me. As he shifted his weight, I pushed against him. As he sucked in a breath, I jammed my shoulder into his torso. As he stumbled, I pushed.
Even the strongest things have weaknesses. True strength often lies in stopping others from seeing where that weakness lies.
I heard Jacob fall to the ground.
He reached for something.
The table. His gun was on it.
His gun was what made Jacob strong; it summed up the mysterious Agent perfectly.
I got there first.
I plucked it up and I held it in front of me. It didn’t make me feel strong, but as I took it from him I knew it made him feel weak.
He made a noise, a frustrated, desperate breath. He pushed forward, intending to ram into me, probably to steal back his gun and finally knock me out.
I got there first.
I did something I had never done before, and no, I didn’t shot him. I did however kick at the table and send it f
lying in front of him.
He tripped, fell over it, and knocked his head against the corner of the couch.
I heard a dull thump.
Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. Don’t ask me how I knew; it was dark, after all. But I was a witch, and if you could not dabble in the unexplained and unexpected, there was no point to your existence.
The fire suddenly roared back into life. With it, the light returned to the room.
I saw Jacob knocked out by my feet.
I knew he wasn’t dead, I also knew that unlike most other soft-fleshed people, he would be fine. The smack to his noggin would keep him down for now. That was all.
I stared down at him.
I’d done that. Okay, no, I hadn’t technically done that; the table and his own velocity had. Yet I had brought those two things into contact; I had altered the situation subtly until my desired result had arisen. I had practiced influence magic, and I’d used it to win a fight, of all things. There hadn’t been any fireballs or explosions, but the result was still the same.
I knelt down to him and placed my hand flat on his back.
I still had no idea who he was, and I really didn’t understand why he had done any of this. But it was over for now.
I leaned over to his pocket and plucked out his phone. Then I did the one thing I could think of, I called my grandmother, who called my Aunt Tessa, who called my Uncle Frank, who called the rest of the family.
Then I got in my monster truck and drove away.
It was a new day, and I had a feeling it would be a sunny one.