Blood Magic

  I swallowed. My fist tightened around the letter opener.

  She smiled, and still there was nothing behind Wendy’s eyes. “I can teach you to live forever. With your father’s bones—”

  “His bones!” That was why she wanted the grave. I got to my feet, brandishing the letter opener like a sword.

  “Essential ingredients, my darling.”

  “You can’t have them.”

  “Why protect him? It is because of him that your mother is dead,” she sneered.

  “You killed my mother. Not Dad.” My voice lowered. The urge to fling myself at her, to attack, made my bones shake. “You did. Get away, go away. Leave. Us. Alone.” I stood over Wendy, the letter opener shining in the afternoon light.

  “Give me the spell book, and I’ll consider it.”

  “No.” The letter opener shook in my hand as Wendy climbed to her feet and offered me a wide grin.

  “I can take more away from you, Silla, dearest.”

  I didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. I’d find a way to protect Reese and Judy. And everyone.

  Her grin slowly fell away. “I bet … I bet your boyfriend knows.”

  Before I could react, she leapt up and bowled into me. Her shoulder hit me, and I went down, crashing back into a desk. I slammed into the floor, cracking my tailbone and the back of my ribs against the edge of the desk. For a moment, I sat there, barely breathing as my vision blackened and then returned and my brain wailed at all the jarring.

  Josephine was gone, along with Wendy’s body. Where did she go?

  I threw myself to my feet. Whirled around the empty room.

  Nick. She’d gone after Nick.

  June 13, 1937

  So many years since I left Boston, where this old book slept in the library amongst tomes of forgotten lore and poetry of the last century.

  Does it matter what I have done, and where I have lived between then and now?

  Philip would say that it does. That I should remember, though I say to myself, How could I ever forget?

  It was the Great War that drew us away from Boston.

  The aftermath, the devastation in Europe called to my Prospero like a haunting ghost, keeping him from sleep until I agreed to cross the ocean with him.

  Once there, I found solace in society, while Philip preferred the low streets, the towns and villages devastated. In the cities, where many had nothing, a few had enough to drown their sorrows in dancing and drink. We moved through London and Edinburgh, and on into France, where I found my home in Paris.

  Oh, how I remember the nights I have made Philip forget—with dancing and theater and the company of the finest in Europe. I excel at gathering a crowd to me, and Philip is so quiet, so handsome and gentle, that it is impossible not to adore him. He found joy in running off to meetings on science and philosophy, while I held delightful séances to entertain those more interested in the esoteric realms of nature. We came back to each other in whatever flat or house I’d bought with transmuted gold, and he regaled me with all the ideas battering his head—I listened, and loved him all the more for the passionate glow in his cheeks, for the way knowledge lights up in him. All night we might spend talking of theories and imagining the great potential of our blood. Philip sees it still as a privilege, a responsibility, while I view it as a gift. It makes us stronger, better, capable of anything. Most often our arguing transmutes into laughter or love as readily as granite into gold.

  How happy I am! When he calls my name, it thrills me, and our charms are never as keen as when we create them together, blood with blood. The only shadow falling over my joy is that he refuses to wed me, after all these years. It is the one thing he is more than willing to lie about, and when I ask again why, with all his morality and strict ethical views, he does not care that we live as husband and wife but are not so.

  “Josephine,” he invariably says, “one day you will tire of me, and if I marry you, you will be trapped.”

  “That is the thing for which divorces were made, darling,” I reply, though only because he does not believe any protestations of mine that I shall never tire of him in a thousand years.

  “You know the power of rituals. They are not so easy to undo with pen and paper and a legion of lawyers.”

  “But I love you.”

  He kisses me. “And I love you.”

  I believe him, and that is why tomorrow we leave Boston again in our new Tin Lizzie and travel west into the state of Kansas, where the Deacon has carved himself land among the flint hills. He sent word to Philip that he wishes, finally, to meet me and to share with Philip some new method of cooking medicine. Kansas! I do not have high hopes for the society there, and wonder why the Deacon chose it.

  My time in Europe seems but a dream now, perhaps because I did not take my book, and did not write things as they happened. I will tuck this into my bag, for all those years ago my Philip was correct: to write memory is the only sure way to preserve it.

  NICHOLAS

  I caught myself whistling as I slathered paint onto a circular-cut piece of plywood. The paint was purple, and I had no clue what it was eventually going to be. But I didn’t care. The late afternoon was warm, and starting to get that weird golden glow we totally lacked in Chicago. I didn’t know if it was about different pollution or the lack of reflective steel skyscrapers, but I kind of liked it. It made the leaves thicker and puffier as they changed for the autumn, instead of just brown and dead. Leaning back on my heels, I contemplated the ridge of trees and the way the sky behind them was so pale a blue it was almost silver. Had I ever noticed that kind of thing before?

  A few yards off, the other crew guys hammered away at what I think was going to be a platform, and I was glad to be on my own. Wind blew over the trees, and the leaves moved in a long wave like dorks at a football game. And that’s when I realized I was whistling.

  It wasn’t any tune in particular, and probably pretty off pitch. But that didn’t change the fact that my lips were pursed and noise was coming out of them. I stopped. In the silence around me, I heard the laughter of the rest of the crew swell, and the roar of a car engine. Over on the soccer field, the football team was grunting in a weird staccato pattern. Probably beating each other up.

  And I was whistling.

  Because of Silla.

  As soon as she got here, I’d tell her about my mom, about the lacquered box, the magic I used to do—I’d show her something beautiful, and watch her face light up. I’d kiss her, and we’d go home to make the amulets with her brother, and then for a long walk. Something really romantic, like girls wanted. Out to the meadow behind my house, the one next to the cemetery wall. I’d spread out a blanket. Steal a bottle of wine from Lilith, if I could convince Silla to drink it. Grab some dark chocolate and we’d have a real picnic, alone out here. All night, if I could help it.

  Kisses offered up

  Like leaves turning red as blood

  Red as tongues and hearts

  I needed to write that one down, despite the lack of rhyming. Turning around, I saw my messenger bag lying wide open in the grass. I stood and walked toward it. A crow cawed behind me, landing in one of the trees so hard it startled a flock of little birds up into the sky, where they flew around like crazy confetti. My neck tingled with that you’re-being-watched sensation. Glancing back at the school, I realized Lilith’s Jeep was still lording it over the parking lot. What the hell was she still doing around? I sighed in disgust just as the rear doors of the building flew open and Wendy, Silla’s friend, came running out toward me. “Nick!”

  Straightening, I frowned. She pelted toward me as if her life depended on it.

  Silla. There had to be something wrong with—

  I ran. “Where’s Silla?”

  “Do you have the book?”

  “The book? The …” I slowed my pace as I approached her. “Where’s Silla?”

  “She’s inside.” Wendy panted, but managed a fast smile. Her hair was all over the place. “She’s
fine. Just wants me to bring her the spell book.”

  “Why?”

  The rear doors slammed open again, and Silla came running, too. Desperation in every step. I looked back at Wendy. Her expression hardly moved. But her lips tightened.

  I stepped back.

  “Nick,” Silla yelled, halfway to us. “It isn’t Wendy. It isn’t—”

  Wendy leaned away, then out of nowhere punched me in the mouth. The pain detonated across my skull and I tasted blood. Stumbling back, I touched my lips. Wendy whirled and ran past me toward my bag.

  “No!” Silla grabbed at Wendy’s hair, but it slipped through her fingers. I ran with them, catching up in three long strides and snatching Wendy’s arm. She tried to tear her hand from me, but I jerked her around. She bared her teeth like a wolf and snarled, “Let go!”

  “It isn’t Wendy,” Silla gasped again.

  Wendy’s body kicked out at me, but I held her away. I smeared my free hand across my bloody mouth and then slapped it onto her forehead. “I banish thee from this body,” I said, willing it to be true. The power rushed through my hand, burning my palm. A stranger’s face, angry before mine: “I banish thee,” he snarls.

  She collapsed like a pile of sticks.

  “Wendy!” Silla knelt beside her friend’s body, but Wendy’s eyes didn’t open. She was breathing, though, calmly, like she’d fainted.

  It was totally silent. Even the hammering had stopped. I glanced over to see the handful of crew guys standing and staring, tools lowered to their sides and mouths hanging open.

  God, I hoped they hadn’t heard what we’d said.

  A crow shrieked from the edge of the forest. Followed by another.

  “Nicholas.”

  I looked at Silla. She sat with Wendy’s head in her lap. “How did you do that?” Her wide eyes reflected the expansive sky. “That wasn’t in the book.”

  Improvisation, I could have said. Or inspiration. But looking at her eyes, I couldn’t lie again. “My mother taught me.” It wasn’t as romantic a moment as I’d been hoping for. My voice was low and flat. This was going to go very badly.

  It was amazing how her face changed. One moment raw with emotion, and the next turned hard and still.

  The crows cackled again. They lifted out of the trees and flew toward us. Silla’s gaze darted at them, but I couldn’t stop staring at her. She climbed to her feet and slowly bent to pick up my messenger bag. Lifting it high, she yelled at the crows, “I have it! Here. Come and get me!” And without wasting another look on me, she ran back toward the parking lot.

  I ran after her. “Silla, wait! My car.”

  She completely ignored me. I caught up, reached out, and grasped at her elbow. “Silla, stop.”

  Whirling, she tore loose. “Let me go!” Her eyes narrowed, and they flicked behind me. “They’re coming. I have to get them away from Wendy.”

  “Come to my car, we’ll get out of …” I touched her elbow again.

  “How do I know you aren’t possessed?” Silla jerked back from me. Her eyes looked behind me again, and stayed there.

  I turned my head, saw the crows were staring. Just watching us with their heads cocked. Some of them wobbled dizzily, like they didn’t know what was happening. “Ask me anything,” I said, turned back to Silla.

  “Maybe you’ve always been someone else.”

  The quiet accusation slammed into my chest. “Silla,” I whispered, unable to dredge up more voice than that.

  She pushed her lips together and spun on her heels. But her steps didn’t pick up. “She could possess anyone in the school,” she said. Her fingers tightened around the strap of my messenger bag. “I have to keep her away from Wendy. From everybody. From the spell book.”

  “Let—let me drive you home,” I said.

  Slowly, she nodded. Then she glanced back through the cloud of crows spread across the grass to Wendy, who was slowly sitting up, surrounded by a couple of guys from the theater crew. Silla’s lips pressed together again, and she made fists. “Let’s go.”

  The crows didn’t fly after us. They didn’t have to. Whoever was possessing them, or had possessed Wendy, knew we had the spell book and exactly where we were going.

  So I didn’t head for Silla’s house.

  She scanned the trees, the fields, the road, the sky. Because the bad guy could be anywhere. In any of the birds, in those cows we were passing, or that dog—in anything. I gripped the wheel and drove. Wind tore at us as I pushed the convertible faster and faster. At least I knew I was me.

  It was only a few minutes before Silla said, “This isn’t the way to my house.” She shrank away from me, pressing herself as far into the side door as she could. “Stop the car!”

  I shook my head, but didn’t look at her. “He knows where you’re going. He could be waiting there. We can’t walk right into his hands.”

  “Or she’s hurting my brother, or Judy. Take. Me. Home.”

  “No.”

  “You’re kidnapping me?” A gust of wind jerked her words away.

  “No!”

  “That’s what this feels like. Stop the car.”

  “Silla—”

  Before I could finish, she unfastened her seat belt and reached for the door.

  I hit the brakes. The car swerved and Silla slammed forward, catching herself with her hands against the dashboard. The world spun, and I was being torn in twelve directions at once. Then—we stopped.

  I was shaking. The car was shaking. But the road and the fields were firmly fixed in place.

  Slowly, I took my foot off the brake. It weighed a ton. The back wheels dipped off the asphalt and onto the gravelly shoulder. I breathed again. “Silla?” I said, just as she opened the door and fell out.

  I heard her scrambling up as I turned off the car and climbed out, too. “Wait!” I dashed around after her as she stumbled down into the ditch and up the other side into a field of harvested corn. My bag still slung over her back.

  My combat boots dug into the damp grass, but once I was on level ground with her, it was easy to catch up. “Silla,” I called again, from just a couple of feet behind her.

  Silla spun, swinging my bag at me, and smashed it into my gut.

  All the air slammed out of me and I bent over. “Christ,” I hissed when I could gulp in some breath. Thank God it hadn’t been a little lower.

  “You lied to me.”

  Straightening, I met her glare. “I was going to tell you.”

  “Right! That’s so lame, Nick.” Her lips pulled into a frown, tipping from anger into hurt.

  “I was—I told you I had something important to talk about.”

  “Conveniently.”

  “Look, it was just bad timing, okay?”

  “I can’t trust you.” She stepped back, her face sliding back into stillness.

  I ignored the grinding in my chest and held out my hands. “What was I supposed to say? It’s magic. A secret. You don’t just go around talking about it.”

  “But you saw me doing it. You knew. And you did it with us. Come on, you had so, so, so many chances.” She crossed her fists over her stomach. “Like Friday night. After we … Or Saturday in the cemetery.”

  “I—”

  “We’ve just been screwing around, guessing, trying our best with the slightest information, and you’ve known the whole time! How could you just go along like you were new to it?”

  “Silla—”

  She shook her head. “Why should I trust you? How can I?”

  I stepped forward and grabbed her. “Listen.”

  Silence. She was stiff in my hands, but watched me. Her hair spiked up crazily from all the wind, and her cheeks were flushed.

  Licking my lips, I released her slowly. “I hated the magic. I didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it.”

  Nothing.

  “And I didn’t remember everything. Not clearly. My mom—you know she didn’t stick around. And when we did it together … I was young. Before my ei
ghth birthday, okay?”

  “But you recognized it.” Her voice was quiet. Her eyes lowered from mine. Settled on my lips. Then she closed them. As if expecting my answer to be too painful.

  I didn’t want her bracing herself from me. Withdrawing. “Don’t do that.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Do what?” She tugged away from me.

  “Hide. That thing you do, like when you’re onstage. The masquerade.”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m—I’m coping. I’m surviving. Getting through the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m sorry if you don’t like my methods, Nick.” My name spat off her tongue.

  “Don’t be a bitch, either.”

  Silla turned and stomped away.

  “That’s hiding, too!” My mouth curled into a snarl.

  She paused, turned back, and came at me. “What do you want from me? You lied to me, and now you’re attacking me? Fine. Go ahead. I can take it. I can take a whole lot.” Her fists pushed hard into her stomach.

  “Maybe it isn’t about you, Silla. Maybe it’s about me.”

  “Really? My parents being murdered by some psycho body stealer has anything to do with you? How so?”

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “Murder? You think your parents were murdered by someone doing the magic? I didn’t know you thought that. Nice thing to leave out, speaking of lies. ‘By the way, dear Nick, this person chasing us might be a murderer? How long have you known? How long have you been keeping that a secret?”

  Silla’s mouth snapped shut. Her knees bent, and she just plopped down on her ass, dragged her legs up, and wrapped her hands around her shins. I stared down at her, panting like I’d run a marathon.

  “You’re right,” she said in a monotone. Toward my toes. “It was dangerous for you not to know. For me to involve you without telling you the possible stakes.”

  I crouched.

  “If you thought it was just a game, or just fun, and then you got hurt, or …” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Remember I told you my mom tried to kill herself?”

  “Yes.”