Beautifully Broken (10 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Good morning, my sweet girl.” Dad entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “Hey—you never said anything about your interview at Ravenhurst?”

I dropped two strawberry Pop Tarts in the toaster. “It was good. I got the job.” I sipped my coffee and sighed as the first traces of caffeine hit my system. Sudden alertness settled over me. “I’m psyched.”

He frowned, his eyes darkening. “I hope you’ll be careful…”

“Uh-huh.”
Whatever.
I grabbed the frosted Pop Tart from the toaster and took a bite.

His lips tilted up slightly in a tense ghost of his ordinary smile. “Speaking of a job, have a belated birthday present for you. Come with me.”

I followed him into the living room. He parted the drapes on the front bay window. A used black Jeep Wrangler was parked in the driveway. I almost choked on my Pop Tart.

Yippee, a car! Wicked awesome!

 
So awesome that I impulsively kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Dad. You’re the best!”

 
“You’ll need somethin’ to drive to work and back this summer. I got a great deal on it. The body needs a little work, but it runs great.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I still feel bad about putting off your party.”

“A
car
more than makes up for it.”

Dad handed me the keys. “Was, um, Maxwell Donovan at your interview?”

“Yeah, but he left for the airport while I was there.”

He stepped back to look me over. “Honey, you look exhausted.”

My bubble of happiness deflated. I crisscrossed my arms and said in my stop-bugging-me tone, “I’m fine, Dad.”

I stupidly hoped my dad wouldn’t notice. I knew he’d get that look on his face. Dark circles ringed my eyes and made me resemble a zombie. Makeup had helped, but not much. I wanted to tell him why I didn’t sleep at night. About the bizarre twists my life had taken. Except I was afraid he’d start asking questions I didn’t know how to answer. Questions regarding the indiscernible shadows. He wouldn’t understand. He’d proven he didn’t believe me years before. Parents told their children monsters weren’t real. But they were.

 
“I’m good. Honest,” I said with more effort and studied my fingernails, picking at the chipped polish. “Can I drive the Jeep to Ari’s house? Please?”

“Sure.” Dad ruffled my charcoal hair, thick around my shoulders, as if I was five years old. “Drive safe, kiddo.”

“I will. Thanks again!” I hugged him and dashed upstairs to change out of my PJs. I threw on a fuchsia cropped long-sleeved shirt that rested above my bellyring, ratty jeans, and my low-top black All Stars.
A cool car deserved a cool look, right?
I texted Ariana and told her I was coming over. “Be back later,” I yelled to my dad as I ran through the door. In the front yard, deadheading the roses, Jillian gave me a brief wave.

Ten minutes later, I parked at Ariana’s house, and honked. Two rusty cars sat in the narrow driveway, weeds growing between the cracks in the pavement. Mangy cats slept on the wooden deck perched upon the side of the trailer. Ariana came skipping out in purple velour sweats and black Uggs. “Your Jeep rocks!” She climbed into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

I shifted into gear and drove out of the trailer park, telling her I wanted to check out this occult bookstore in Castro Valley. We chatted about finals on the drive and I found the store two blocks from the freeway. The building appeared to be a typical bookstore with violet drapes hanging over the storefront window. Opal lettering on the pane said
Everyday Magick
.

I pushed open the heavy glass door, and an overhead bell chimed. The bookshop appeared spacious, but cluttered. Suspended from the rafters were dozens of witch balls in a rainbow of hues. Ariana went to look at an array of magical paraphernalia, candles, crystal balls, raven feathers, runic tablets, and a jar of rats’ eyes on the metal shelves while I maneuvered past a round table displaying bittersweet nightshade on sale. With the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, I ventured into the book section. At the counter, across from me, sat a girl with wild, bleached hair hanging loose over the shoulders of an indigo dress covered in gold shooting stars. Her small, pallid hands clutched a thick cloth-bound book. She didn’t bother to look up.

I read the spines on the shelves crammed with volumes on the occult: heavy and well-tooled leather books, old musty-looking tomes, and dense hardbacks. One caught my eye,
Evolution in Witchcraft
. I tugged the book from its place. My eyes scanned the first page:
The twenty-first century saw an increase in acceptance of Witchcraft via popular TV shows, books, and movies. Many practitioners saw this resurgence of Wiccan beliefs as an indication that society was ready to accept their unorthodox practices in magick that had been developed previously. In the 1840s, many new covens and clans emerged and met in public gatherings. In the United States, the customs of the original families that had come to the Americas were a mix of European witchcraft and Native American beliefs.

Revolving emotions storming inside me made it hard to breathe. Electrifying sensations—thirst for knowledge, tingles of power, unfathomable curiosity—were roused inside me. Unfamiliar and frightening at the same time. One part of me wanted these unbidden emotions to take a siesta. Another part wanted to embrace this newfound awareness. Develop and nurture it.

I decided to buy a book on auras and a journal bound in gold-stamped leather with marbled endpapers. Oversized and dense. My own grimoire. I walked my purchases to the counter, and along the way, grabbed a bundle of red candles. I dumped it on the glass counter, and the woman looked up. She sucked in a breath and sprang off the stool she’d been sitting on. “Wow. I can’t believe it! You’re a
heritage
witch.”

“Say what?” My gaze darted around the store.

The clerk scanned my items while she answered. “Heritage witches are from one of the founding Wiccan families that came to the States back in the1600s. It means your power comes from within. A heritage witch is born into a family of blood witches and inherits different psychic abilities—you’re gonna be super powerful one day. More so than the average practicing Wiccan.”

Sheesh, it’s not like I have a hairy mole on my face or a super long nose. Or I’m wearing a pointy hat and carrying a broom. My name is Shiloh—not Sabrina!

“How do you know that?”

Her tawny eyes bore into mine. “We can sniff each other out.” She smiled and put out her hand. “Merry meet! It’s nice to meet you—I’m Mary
Proctor
.”

I slipped my hand into hers and an odd electric tingle shot up my arm. “I’m Shiloh Ravenwolf.”

“Where are you from?”

“Whispering Pines.”

“I was born there too, but we moved to Castro Valley when I was eleven after my older brother, Jacob died.” She examined my merchandise, then eyed me for a moment. She tapped a finger on her chin. “Hmm, I bet you’ll need info on telekinetics too.” She bent down and popped back up with a thin hardback. “This one’s on me.” She shoved it into the plastic bag.

“Uh, thanks,” I said awkwardly. “But why will I need that?”

“I’m a cognitive witch. I can sense things about people. I’d bet my magickal rites that you have the power of telekinesis.
It
’s the ability to move things with only the power of your mind. It can be channeled through the eyes or hands. It’s a very cool ability to have.” She appeared thoughtful, staring at me like an organism under a telescope. “Hmm, I feel you’ll eventually develop the use of
energy balls, too
.”

“What the heck are
those
?”

“A very handy talent. Any witch with this power can form balls of energy, which resemble electrical discharges, within their hands, and throw them with varying levels of voltage.”

“That
is
cool. You’re pretty amazing.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been studying the craft since I was five. How about you?”

Um, how about, never? That’s not true, I have studied my ancestor’s grimoires.

“Not too long.” Wanting to change the topic, I said, “I think I know your grandparents.
”

“Yeah, they still live in Whispering Pines.”

“Wait—wasn’t Jacob Proctor your older brother?”—it hit me then— “
Ohmigosh
—w
asn’t he the first kid to disappear?”

Before Mary could reply, Ariana walked over and tapped me on the shoulder. “This place is wicked. Whaddya buy?”

I flinched. “Um, books on Wicca and a few candles. You getting anything?”

“Yeah. A love potion. Brandon Rouke’s not gonna know what hit him.” She grinned and I cracked up.

“Come back and see me,” Mary said after we paid for our merchandise.

I had the urge to linger and ask Mary more questions, but for some reason I didn’t want to with Ariana there. It wasn’t like I was afraid she’d make fun of me, but it felt personal. Private.
Something only shared between witches.

Was I seriously starting to believe that the energy I’d felt over the last few days was because I was a witch? That the rumors about my family being descended from witches were true? I just couldn’t see any other explanation. I didn’t just have second sight. I had magick!

After taking Ariana home, I knew it was time to find some answers. Instead of driving home, I turned the sturdy four-wheel-drive vehicle onto Miller Lane then left on Lesley Drive. Homes in this part of town were clustered like aged crones still reminiscing on the brilliance of their youth. As I drove through the
neighborhood
, I couldn’t help thinking about ways I would renovate these sad older homes. Someday I’d set up a housing fund to restore these house to their former glory. I parked near a Victorian with yellow flaking paint and windows garlanded with decaying cobwebs. I climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. No one answered. I pushed it again, longer and more persistent this time.

The door cracked open.

 
“Aunt Lauren? Hey!—it’s me, Shiloh.”

A rusty chain lock prevented the door from opening further. “Merry meet, Shiloh.” She brushed auburn hair off her forehead and smiled. “Wow, how long has it been?”

“Five years. Since my tenth birthday, when you gave me that trunk full of old stuff.”

She laughed, blushing a bright pink. “And you’ve read the grimoires?”

“You bet. I have tons of questions. Like, why did you give me those? Because we’re really witches, right?”

She sighed. “I can’t talk about it—
she’ll
know. I’m sorry, you have to go.”

“Who will know?” My face scrunched in confusion. “May I come in? I really need to talk.” She hesitated, so I quickly rushed on, my words tripping over themselves before she shut the door. “Please, I’m so confused. Weird stuff has been happening to me, and well, I hoped you’d understand. Give me some answers.”

She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes evading mine. “You shouldn’t be here. I can’t help you.”

Rejection washed over me. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I’d missed my aunt. Had been denied her presence for years, and here I was, on her doorstep, practically begging her to help me. Maybe she was just like Jillian. Cold. Indifferent.

“Don’t get upset,” I said, my shoulders sagging. “I’ve read the books cover-to-cover. I know what I know. Well, what I think I know—that
you
already know…” My voice died away. She wasn’t going to help. Trapped and drowning in a deep dark well of rejection, I turned my back to her. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have come.” I stomped down the steps.

“Wait.”

I twisted around on the bottom step. My jaw tightened. “Well?”

She stared unblinking. Her marigold aura fluttered wildly around the crown of her head. “Yes. We’re witches.”

My mouth opened to say something snarky, but my jaw just hung there. My brows furrowed in confusion for a moment. I hadn’t been expecting her honesty.

“The stories about our family are true.” When I kept staring blankly, she added, “We are heritage witches.”

“I heard you the first time. Do you know anything about Claire Donovan’s death? Why Maxwell was charged with her murder? Or about the mystical disappearances?”

 
“Leave it alone, Shiloh.”

How can I—when I’m on a quest to conquer evil?

 
I was shaking, so I crossed my arms. “I need answers. If you know something that could help—”

“Why are you going to work at Ravenhurst?”

“What? How did you know?”

 
“This is a small town.” Aunt Lauren bit her lip, then blurted, “Working there is too dangerous for people like us.”

Yes, I should have shut up and left it alone. Naturally, I didn’t.

“You mean witches?” She nodded, so I said, “Sheriff Boyd claims it’s an unknown psycho kidnapping teenagers. That’s a lie. They’re covering something up. Something bad.”

She blew out a breath and said, “You’re right. Since the disappearance of Sherriff Boyd’s daughter the Heritage Founders claim it was a kidnapping.
Not
the town curse. Partly true…the children
were
abducted, but by a supernatural entity.”

I swallowed thickly. Hearing it stated like that—so straightforward—made it sound dreadful and shocking.

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually,” Aunt Lauren continued. “You have a good head on your shoulders. Smarter than your mother or me. All right. Wait here.” She left the doorway and reappeared after a minute, thrusting a book and a crystal Tigers Eye amulet on a thin silk rope through the door.

The book sat heavy and thick in my hands. I glanced at the cover. “
Almanac of Witchcraft and Demonology
?” My brows knitted together. “More books?”

 
“Trust me. Read it. When you’ve finished, we’ll talk. And wear the amulet for protection.” She sighed heavily. “You have a destiny, Shiloh…but you’re too young yet to understand it all.”

Destiny? Pooh on destiny! I have enough to worry about.