True Witch

  “Friday? What happened?”

  “Some asshole stole the radiator right out from my engine. The whole radiator! Who the fuck does that?”

  He hadn’t gone out Friday after all? That was interesting to hear. “Someone who really needs a radiator, I guess.”

  Aaron smiled. “You’re cracking wise. I think you’ll be okay soon.”

  “I bounce back fast.”

  “Don’t I know it?”

  Our conversation fell into a slight lull as Aaron finished disinfecting my wounds. I stared at him, unable to process how he—the man I had been casually fucking for months—could be so caring.

  “Aaron, “I said, “thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “No, really.” I took his hand. “I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if you hadn’t been there. He had a knife and I—look, I don’t want to keep you here.”

  “You aren’t keeping me here. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you alone right now.”

  Warm blood rushed to my cheeks, and it hurt. “Aaron,” I said.

  “I’ll crash on the sofa. If that asshole comes back he’ll have me to answer to. I’m just sorry I let him get away.”

  I let go of his hand and hopped off the counter. Standing wasn’t quite so bad. “I could argue with you—”

  “Or you could just go to bed and rest, and let me sleep on that couch.”

  I shook my head.

  “Amber, I’m not going—”

  “And I’m not going to bed.”

  I had never appreciated Aaron’s face like I did tonight. He had a face that seemed to have been sculpted-by-the-Gods for as long as I could remember, but until recently he had always been Kyle’s best friend to me. Even after we started hooking up our time together was too short for me to ever truly appreciate him the way I did in that moment.

  Aaron did everything for me that night. He asked me to stay on the sofa while he went around the house ensuring all windows and doors were closed and locked and he even retrieved the duvet and a couple of pillows from my bedroom. He then ordered take out and we ate together while watching trashy reality TV.

  Seriously? The Real Witches of New Orleans? That’s a thing?

  I could’ve sent Eliza a text message, or called her to let her know what had happened and how I was doing, but that would’ve just worried her. Also, she would have probably rushed down to my place only to find me eating dinner with a man I supposedly hated.

  No.

  I decided I would be far more comfortable with Aaron—alone and fully clothed.

  My tough exterior didn’t crack while we were awake. I would make jokes, laugh—despite the pain—and ate my fair share of the food. But once Aaron fell asleep and the lights went out every little bump and croak, every darting shadow, was the man with the knife; and I was glad to have Aaron with me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Breaking the news to Eliza wasn’t an easy thing to do. She had a tendency to worry herself sick over nothing, so whenever something big happened she would morph into a blubbering mess of grief and anxiety. But Eliza brought me food the next day, told me not to worry about the psycho coming back, and forbade me from going to work. The little being growing in her womb was capable of throwing her into fits of rage, but it also brought out a motherly side in her that I thoroughly enjoyed.

  Tuesday night was a lonely one, although Aaron promised to patrol the neighborhood from time to time and asked me to call him whenever, day or night, if I needed something. This entire time I thought he didn’t care, but Aaron hadn’t been his usual self ever since the attack. This strange, protective side of him was as unusual as waking up one day to find that blue is red and red is blue, only more-so because you couldn’t keep having great sex with red if it suddenly turned blue.

  Despite being off work and away from class I devoted the majority of my free time to reading course material, writing my notes, and surfing the web for more information the textbooks simply couldn’t provide. I didn’t want to just keep up with class; I wanted an edge in any upcoming exams. I was engrossed in an article on Mary Baker Eddy, a woman whose controversial perspectives challenged the religious beliefs of the 19th century, when the doorbell rang.

  Instantly, my heart started to fly.

  With a renewed sense of caution, I approached the door. But the walk seemed to take ages, and when I finally got to it I spared a second to grab a baseball bat I kept in the umbrella bin before doing anything else. Though my logical mind reassured me that nothing would happen to me in broad daylight, I wasn’t about to take any chances; and I didn’t trust my own Magick power enough to throw it at someone yet.

  Besides, witches aren’t supposed to hurt people with Magick.

  But when I checked the peephole I saw Damien on the other side of the door with a backpack over his shoulder. I smiled, but then remembered the state I was in. He’d want an explanation, and I didn’t think I was willing to provide him with one. At least, not one I thought he would appreciate or accept.

  Consequences be damned, I unlocked and opened the door, and bore my bruises and markings for him to see. “Damien.” I said, throwing him a smile.

  “Hey,” he said, “Can I come in?”

  I nodded and stepped aside, allowing Damien to enter the house with a worried look on his face. When I closed and locked the door behind him, he turned around and got a good look at my face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, why?”

  “I had no idea,” he said, “I went by the shop today to give you something and Eliza told me you were here. She told me what had happened.”

  “Of course she did.” I said it in jest, although really I could’ve killed her. “She must like you if she told you.”

  “I’m glad she told me. I’m sorry this happened to you, Amber.”

  I shrugged. “It’s nothing, I’m fine now.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. Do you want a drink, though?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  I opened the fridge and grabbed a diet coke. “It was just some jerk with an attitude problem. No big. I’ll be fine and I’ll probably have a few cool scars to show for it.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No,” I said, taking a sip. Damien narrowed his eyes and strange, warm tingles descended on the crown of my head.

  “You didn’t tell Eliza the whole story, did you?” he asked.

  “Did you just do something to me?”

  “Amber, you need to tell me the whole truth about what happened that night.”

  “It was nothing,” I said. An angry heat rose to my cheeks.

  Did he just use Magick on me?

  Damien surged forward and for a moment I wasn’t sure if he was going to pin me against the wall and kiss me or hit me. An inner warmth radiated from my chest, exciting my skin and my senses. My breath quickened. “Please, Amber,” Damien said, stopping only a few inches from me, “Whatever you remember, I need you to tell me everything.”

  “Damien—”

  “I wouldn’t push if I didn’t think this was important.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  We sat down on my sofa and I told Damien what I could, despite the haze obscuring my memories. The attack came and went quick as lightning and I didn’t get as many details from it as I would’ve liked, but then someone did pull a knife on me. Surprisingly, the nip on my neck hurt the least. That boot to the stomach left the ugliest and most painful mark on both my body and memory.

  “How’d you get away?” Damien asked.

  “Someone saw us and shouted out, I think. The guy dropped me and ran. I guess he didn’t want anyone to see him do the deed.”

  Damien’s face took on a deathly pallor, like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Damien?” I asked. He’d gone silent. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but something was going on behind his darting eyes.


  “I think someone killed my sister,” he said.

  It came out of nowhere. I didn’t know how he had linked what happened to me to his sister, or what the hell was going on in that brain of his, but I couldn’t help it, the words sent me reeling.

  “What?” I asked, “Why do you think that?”

  “I wasn’t allowed to see the body for more than a moment when I went in to identify her. She was… I know I saw knife wounds on her.”

  “Knife wounds?”

  “It didn’t make sense. They told me she’d drowned in her pool, but I know what I saw.”

  “Damien, that’s—”

  “I’m not a Diviner,” Damien said, “I’m not a clairvoyant or good at reading entrails, or even cards. There wasn’t a spell I could use to help answer the questions I had, but the feeling I got... you couldn’t make it up. That cold thing that happens to your stomach when something grips you so hard—”

  This was tough for him. Somehow, I pushed my attack into the back of my mind, stretched out for his hand, and took it. My heart broke for him all over again. “Why didn’t you tell me this the other night?” I asked.

  “That’s not important,” he said. “What’s important is I think you’re in greater danger than you know.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because… during the days leading up to my sister’s death, my dreams were full of images of a wavy knife covered in blood.”

  That same cold thing Damien just described overtook me. I shuddered like a fig leaf, and all of the pain in my body numbed for a moment. “A wavy knife?”

  “Like the one we used during the rite of Mabon.”

  “I… no, Damien, this guy didn’t have a wavy knife. It was a switchblade. I saw him open it.”

  Damien seemed to be waiting for me to get it. Whatever it was I was supposed to get wasn’t coming, at least not initially. Then, in a flash of light—or pain—it came.

  “You dreamt about the knife again,” I said. “That’s why you haven’t been speaking to me.”

  He licked his lips, turned away, and closed his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

  “Damien, tell me,” I said.

  “I wasn’t there. I should’ve been there for you.”

  “There’s no way you could’ve known.”

  “I’m just sorry. After everything that’s happened, the last thing I want is to see you get hurt.”

  “So, okay,” I said, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. “What you’re saying is that you think someone killed your sister, and that it could be the same person who hit me last night?”

  “I don’t know… but the dreams....”

  “He can’t be same person,” I said.

  “No?”

  “I saw the reports on the news,” I said brushing hair over my ear and further exposing the swollen skin on my cheeks. “I followed the story. The cops thought it was suspicious at first, they even had a suspect. Then you see the body and spot the blood. A while after, they say her death was accidental.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What I’m saying is that if someone did kill your sister like you’re suggesting, the person who attacked me wasn’t the same guy. I’ve read enough police procedurals and crime novels shows to recognize a sloppy attack.” I couldn’t believe the words falling out of my slightly busted mouth. My insensitivity knew no bounds once my logical mind took over. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

  “It’s alright, but Amber, this guy was waiting for you. This wasn’t a coincidence, it was premeditated. Maybe he wasn’t the same guy, but that just makes me feel worse.”

  “So then we have to do a little more digging before he comes back.”

  Damien stared at me doe-eyed. “You want to help me investigate?”

  “I’m involved now,” I said, “I can’t go back to my regular life now, not until this is over.”

  Birds chirping gleefully outside filled the silence that fell between us.

  Damien checked his phone. “I have to go,” he said.

  “So soon?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry—there’s something I have to take care of. I don’t want to do it, but I’ve got my phone on me. Call me, okay?”

  Damien nodded and left in a hurry without a word of explanation. I guess he didn’t need to explain himself, but this wasn’t the first time he had disappeared on me and I was getting damn tired of it. He may not be a clairvoyant, but I didn’t know what my powers were like yet.

  It was time I started to test the limits of my own Magick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The hatch to my attic squeaked open. After hoisting myself up with a groan that may have come out of a woman three times my age, I took a moment to scan the room for my mom’s old Wiccan things. I found one of the dusty brown boxes marked “Mom” stuffed away behind my dad’s chest of old clothes, beneath a rug which at first looked brown, but upon moving it I realized was actually red. I coughed and covered my nose as dust attacked me from all sides, then pulled the box into the center of the room.

  Sitting on my knees, I pulled the box open and had a look around inside. I had decided to take what I needed anyway, figuring that the “everything has to be given to you” rule was made up. A white Venetian mask with a silver trim stared up at me from inside the box, which was full of books—hardbacks and paperbacks—and other trinkets of indeterminate age and use.

  I pulled the mask out of the box and set it down on the floor, then retrieved and inspected as many books and trinkets as I could find in the box, setting them next to the mask as I went. Inside the box, and among other things, I found a copy of The Wiccan Bible, A Witch’s Guide to Herbs, Nordic Runes, Celtic Symbolism and Their Meanings.

  Each of these books seemed to have been printed sometime in the last decade and came complete with barcodes and even pictures. Unfortunately, none were sacred tomes of knowledge inaccessible to anyone else. I actually already owned a copy of the same black, paperback Wiccan Bible. But it was beneath these relatively mundane titles where I started to find some books worth looking at. I had found the secret beneath my mother’s secret.

  One by one I unearthed a number of hand-written books, most of them in my mom’s handwriting. I flicked through the first few pages of each and learned, immediately, that they were her Books of Shadows. She had written four volumes! But why did she stuff them away in the attic? Why not take them with her?

  At the bottom of the box I found a memory. The plain orange book, the type kids are given in elementary school, had my name on it. “Amber Lee – Age Six”. I’d completely forgotten my early school years, but in the pictures drawn on the pages I rediscovered my six year old self; that little girl obsessed with the story of Little Red Riding Hood.

  I watched my younger self’s interpretations of the story unfold on the pages. Little Red Riding Hood was a Witch, and the big bad wolf was her most trusted friend. Together they ventured through the forest and helped old ladies with their gardens, fought off dangerous and fantastical creatures, and kept their homes safe. A smile swept across my face.

  Another memory crept into my mind. I saw the little girl with the platted copper hair sitting down, waiting for her mother. I was at school. Behind the door to my right my mom was viciously arguing with a teacher whose name I couldn’t remember about the content of my drawings and the things I would say, and had said, in class. The teacher told my mother I was displaying un-Christian-like behavior, that I had claimed to be a White Witch in class, and that she demanded to know where the influence was coming from.

  When my dad found out about what happened at school he and my mom had a big fight at home. I remembered the way my father waved the little orange book in my mother’s face, his accusatory tone, and the tears streaking from her face.

  “How could she possibly have learned all this unless you put them into her head?” my father said, yelling so loud the
building shook.

  “She’s six, Harold! She’s six and she reads! How can you expect her to not make up stories?”

  “Books and movies don’t make your kid parade herself as a Witch at her school! Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?”

  “Embarrassing? I’m the one who had to deal with the teacher because you were too much of a coward to go talk to her!”

  “Coward?”

  “You don’t want her challenging your beliefs because you know you—”

  My father cut her off with a backhand slap so hard it made her head spin. He threw the book in the trash and left the room, now, years later, I found myself wondering how I’d ever forgotten that reprehensible scene.

  I ran my fingers over the book and fought the sadness building inside of me. My mom and dad seemed so happy the last time I saw them. It was hard to believe I may have been blocking out traumatic experiences growing up, and that those same scenes could be playing out to this day. I wondered if fear of my father’s hand was what caused her to lock her Magick away in a box forever.

  And whether or not she knew anything about True Witches.

  After shoving the box back into its place in the darkness I took my mom’s Books of Shadows and the mask and placed them on the altar I kept in the center of the room, along the longest wall. Then I went about the attic and set up a comfortable reading space with pillows, candles, incense, and some of Marilyn Manson’s more melodramatic ballads playing softly from my smartphone dock.

  Then I came down to the bed of pillows and sighed loudly as my pained body relaxed for the first time in a while. When my mind was clear, I picked up my mom’s books and set upon the task of looking for a simple spell to cast. Her handwriting was neat, warm, and motherly. Reading her words on the page was like listening to her soft voice in my ear.

  But as I stumbled upon the outline of a Clairvoyance spell my mother had outlined in her first Book of Shadows I found Damien’s voice creeping into my mind.

  “I’m not a diviner or a clairvoyant,” he had told me.

  I had never before used my psychic senses to look into a faraway place as Clairvoyants could do, but I could see how having the gift would have helped him with his sister’s death. I wondered if Clairvoyants could look into the past too, or the future.