Bloodstone (3 page)

The day was bitter cold. Wind and snow slapped my face as I walked the two blocks from school to the abode I shared with my mother. Immediately upon opening the front door, I sensed Chaos. And then I saw it—the spider’s web (for those not as far along the Path as me, that means an uninvited guest. Totally handy information right there. Check it.)

Light on my feet, I crept through our small house, searching for another Sign. There was no destruction. No sign of a struggle anywhere. I continued on until—I saw it! A note.

It was brief, as if written in haste. I followed the instructions to go to my “special place.” And there, between the chimney and the gutter (yeah, I like to star-gaze) was a purple velvet box, emblazoned with the symbol for the astrological sign of the Libra—or so I thought. When I opened the box, there was a newspaper clipping written by a woman named Stacy Justice.

The Scales!

Balance between Good and Evil!

Lady Justice!

I must find her!

-Ivy Geraghty, Junior Apprentice Warrior Goddess (in training)

EIGHT

“That’s all that was in the box? The newspaper article and this note? Ivy, are you sure?” I fingered the article. There was nothing unusual about it. Nothing highlighted or circled, no markings. A simple story I had covered about local events.

“Well there was also travel money. Trains are crazy expensive!” She was writing in that notebook again as she talked.

“But how did you know to come here? To Amethyst?” Chance asked.

Ivy rolled her eyes, slapped the bindings on her notebook together and hopped on the counter. She began counting on her fingers. “Easy. Mom always talked about this beautiful place she would take me one day when the time was right. She said it was magical and that it was written in the stars that I would come here,” she paused and said to Chance, “I’m sort of an astronomy buff.” Then to me, “And that it was home to the most special person I would ever meet.”

“So,” she continued talking to us like we were her third grade class, “not only is the symbol on the box the scales of justice, but the box is purple. Inside is an article written by a woman named Justice and the paper is called the Amethyst Globe.” She snorted. “Didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”

“And Stacy—how did you find her?” Chance asked.

“Please, that was even easier. This town is full of blabbermouths.”

Good point.

She thought for a moment. “The Anastasia thing threw me off for a bit.”

“That would be Birdie’s doing.” My given name is Stacy. It was my father’s name and it irked Birdie to no end that her granddaughter was named after a male family member rather than a female.

“Plus,” she tapped the note, “it says right here.
Be smart. Be safe. Be One.”
She looked at Chance. “Be one, like sisters. I just knew you had to be my sister. You look so much like mom.”

That was when it hit me.

“Oh boy,” I said.

Chance and Ivy both gave me a puzzled look.

“What?” Chance asked.

Slowly, it came back to me, the words of Maegan Geraghty as I read them once in the Blessed Book. And then—her voice inside my head. Melodious. Cautionary. Like a bird’s song warning of an approaching predator.

The Seeker of Justice shall cross with one who embodies the old soil, the force of which will have great impact on Geraghtys past, present, and future. The choice she makes shall decide her fate. One path leads to unity; three become one. The other leads to destruction—which shall never be repaired.

“We have to get the book,” I said.

“Yippee!” Ivy said.

Chance didn’t say a word.

I hadn’t understood the meaning behind that passage when I first read it, but I had a gut-wrenching feeling that it meant something now.

I only hoped I could figure it out before it was too late.

NINE

The Book was back at the cottage and Ivy was trying to convince me that she couldn’t meet Birdie yet. She didn’t explain why, she just said she had a feeling the time wasn’t right, that she didn’t want to meet her grandmother until she had proven herself worthy or some such nonsense.

“But, Stacy,” her voice reached an octave that would shame Celine Dion, “I’m just not ready. I overheard Mom say once that she wasn’t certain Birdie would…accept me.” Her big eyes pouted at me as I fed Thor his lunch.

“That is not going to happen,” I said, but at that moment, a bell chimed in my head. There was something familiar about her words, but...I couldn’t locate the memory.

Sure Birdie and my mother had disagreements, but who didn’t? And if that was the case—if she really felt that way—why did Mom just leave me with Birdie? My head was spinning around all the questions I would ask if I ever saw my mother again.
Where have you been? Why didn’t you at least contact me? Or Birdie? And most importantly—who is Ivy’s father?

“Ivy, when is your birthday?” I asked abruptly.

“October 5th.”

Libra. The scales. The only astrological sign on the zodiac chart that is neither creature nor human.

The date didn’t help much. Those days were such a blur to me, I couldn’t remember if there was snow on the ground or if the sun had been shining when my mother left. I would have to ask Birdie.

Then again, what if she was some high-strung kid who thought it might be cool to hang out with a witch? Everyone from three counties away knew my family. Plus with the business my cousin owned, the Bed and Breakfast Birdie owned—lots of tourists that came through Amethyst knew my family. This could be some kind of scam. My reporter instincts were on high alert.

I only wish my witch’s instincts were too.

Ivy must have seen the doubt on my face because she backed away, cringed ever so slightly. “You...you don’t believe me?”

There was a knot in my stomach, an uneasy sense that I needed to tread carefully.

“You don’t seem too upset, is all,” I said quietly. “If Mom were truly in danger—“

“Don’t!” She held a hand to my face. “Don’t call her Mom, like you believe I am your sister.”

“Ivy,” I said and stepped forward.

Before another word left my mouth, she grabbed her backpack and bolted out the door.

TEN

“Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night…”

-Bruce Springsteen, Thunder Road

I plowed right into Thor and his elevated bowl of Meaty Dog in an attempt to go after her. It flipped through the air and landed on my head as a sticky hat.

The noise must have startled Chance. He charged from the bathroom, a towel draped below his waistline.

His legs were muscular, glistening with fresh water. That’s all I could see from my vantage point.

Thor licked my forehead as Chance asked, “You okay?”

“Not really.” I shoved the dog away and scrambled to my feet. I eyed Chance’s towel, but decided on a sink rag instead.

Wiping the mess from my hair, I said in a rush, “Ivy’s gone. She thinks I don’t believe her.”

“Well, do you?”

“I don’t know, but she’s fourteen years old. I need to go after her, Chance.”

Chance wrinkled his forehead. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“What?”

“You take a shower, Stacy. I’ll find Ivy,” he said.

That sounded like a better plan.

The hot water massaged my skin as I scrubbed the muck of dog food from my hair, trying not to think about the ingredients that went into it.

I felt crappy about hurting Ivy’s feelings. The truth was, it would be wonderful to have a little sister. She had really opened up to me in the short while we’d known each other. I learned that she and (our?) mother never spent a lot of time in one place, that most of the townhomes and apartments they lived in were in and around Chicago and the last place they called home was Skokie, a sprawling suburb filled with trendy restaurants and shops just north of the city. From the time Ivy was two years old, she had been enrolled in every martial arts class known to man. Taekwondo, Karate, Jujitsu, even fencing. It was just the two of them. No siblings, no dad, not even a boyfriend. As beautiful as mother was, that was hard to believe.

Perhaps a boyfriend would have complicated whatever she was hiding.

Or hiding from.

I turned the water off and stepped from the shower as a sudden, sharp pain stabbed my skull. I leaned against the sink, steadying myself.

The vision hit me hard and fast. A man, a knife and dripping blood.

And then it was gone. No features I could see, no discerning clothing even. It was more of a silhouette except for the bloody knife. I filed it away in my mind, slipped into a robe I found hanging on the door and hurried to the living room to retrieve the bag with my clothes in it. I grabbed a pair of black jeans, thick socks and a purple turtleneck sweater. It was nearly March and still cold out, though not as brutal as the evening of the Black Opal fire.

I put a fresh bandage on my shoulder and thigh, grateful that the sprain in my wrist turned out to be just a bad bruise. I was debating if I need the sling or not as the memory of that night penetrated my thoughts. The smoke strangling me, the heat of the flames threatening to consume Cinnamon, Thor and myself.

The pure terror of being trapped in a burning building.

It was the night of the Imbolc, a Celtic Festival of Lights known as Brighid’s Day in Ireland. In Kildare, a fire is still lit every year to honor this ancient triple goddess, my grandmother’s namesake. Now, the pagan calendar was approaching the Spring Equinox, Ostara, when the Earth comes back to life. One of only two days of the year where there is perfect balance between light and dark—twelve hours of sun, twelve hours of moon.

I finished dressing, massaged my arm a bit and decided to forego the sling. The stitches would come out tomorrow anyway. I applied some mascara and lip-gloss and dried my hair. When I was finished, the clock on the stove read 12:08 and I wondered what was taking Chance so long to retrieve Ivy.

By six o’clock, I was a complete wreck. The carpet was wearing thin because I could not stop pacing around the house, checking every window, door and my phone at least 87 times. Chance forgot his so I couldn’t call him and I didn’t want to leave in case Ivy showed up. Thor was at my heel, eyeing me questioningly, which lent a little comfort, but I was still on the verge of a breakdown.

Where was she?

Where was he?

Sister or not, I certainly didn’t want to see the kid hurt. And while there were lingering doubts—why didn’t I ever sense her, dream her, envision her? I vowed to keep them to myself. She needed to feel at ease until I could discern what was going on.

My cell phone rang then and I rushed to answer it.

“Stacy Justice,” I said.

“Are you in town?” an annoyed voice asked. I cringed, recognizing that it belonged to Monique Fontaine.

“Uh...”

“Look, Stacy, I’m in no mood for games. There’s a kid sitting at my bar right now with a bag of rocks, a pentagram tee-shirt and a smart-ass mouth. I’m willing to bet she’s one of yours, am I right?”

Dammit, Ivy. I couldn’t stand Monique Fontaine. Of all the places she could have gone.

“Don’t play with me,” Monique warned, “or I’ll hang up this phone right now and call Leo. I’m sure the Chief hasn’t arrested anyone yet today and I’ll bet he’s itching to.”

“No, no. Don’t do that! I’m on my way.”

IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS

by Ivy Geraghty

The New Book of the New Generation of the Great Geraghty Clan

Entry #3

Curse the day I met Anastasia Justice! Curse it! Blood of my Blood, rebel sister turned BETRAYER. How could a witch as powerful as she (that’s the word on the street anyway, personally, I don’t see it) not feel the bond that flows between us like water down a rushing river? How does she not know when she looks at me that we were born of the same flesh (okay, so my hair is straight out of the bottle, Hot Tamale #546 or something, but still)?

Oh, the pain is great, but I shall not sway from my Quest. I shall forge on and find my mother. I shall stare Evil in the face and fight it with all my might. I shall discover my own familiar, gather my own magical tools and the Universe will guide me to Victory!

Cautiously, I continue my lonely Journey, for the Darkness is everywhere. As a Solitary Practitioner, I shall keep my Enemies close, wherever they may be. Up ahead, I spot a refuge where I will gain sustenance, strength and stamina. (Plus, I gotta find out what kind of asshattery goes on in a place with a neon sign of a bleached-blond winking as her boobs spill into a martini glass.)