Bloodstone (5 page)

More importantly, I have identified an Enemy within our midst. Immediately upon entering her sanctuary, I knew that the woman who calls herself Monique (seriously, does anybody think those frontal lobes are real?) is an anti-pagan. My people have struggled for years, nay, centuries to snuff out such hatred, and I, as the newest member of the Geraghty Clan, shall single-handedly turn her head, if not her heart to the Light! (Okay, so all she did was call me Sabrina, but she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so it should be a cake walk).

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

FIFTEEN

As we waited for the food to arrive, I discussed with Ivy the very real possibility that in a situation like this, Birdie might be the only one that could help. She didn’t like the idea, but acquiesced to the plan of heading to the cottage to get the book and if there was nothing in there—nothing in Meagan’s predictions about a missing Geraghty—then we would go to Birdie and the aunts. Of course, I had to promise that we would work a spell and that I would gather all the magical tools I had in my possession. This amounted to a few crystals, a sword, and a charm hanging in my doorway. All gifts from the Geraghty Girls. I didn’t even have a cape. For some reason, I could never keep them clean.

“You don’t remember anything from your teachings? There was nothing in the pages of the book about our mother being in danger?” she asked.

Chance excused himself when the doorbell rang. I called him a coward under my breath. Boy, was I going to be a disappointment to this kid.

“Ivy, the truth is, I’m about as new at this as you are. I learned a lot when I was kid, younger than you even, but something...happened...and I stopped...practicing.” I wasn’t ready yet to discuss my father. Wasn’t ready to know if she remembered any mention of him or if my mother tossed his memory aside like she did me. “The first time I even laid eyes on the book was a few weeks ago.”

I didn’t say that it was the first time I even wanted to see it, or the first time anyone had trusted me with it. The night Birdie gave it to me, I pored over everything I could, mostly to keep her off my back because I was sure she would have quizzed me sooner or later, but also because it fascinated me. The stories, the lore, the recipes. It was as if I was in the center of a Women’s Circle, soaking up their wisdom, their light, their magic.

Still, the thing was thicker than War and Peace. It would take a lifetime to read all of it. I wondered if by then, I might start to actually feel like a witch.

Geez, I hoped not.

Ivy looked surprised. “But I’ve heard things about your talent when I was looking for you. People around here think you’re a pretty powerful witch.”

The thought of Ivy wandering around town talking to strangers made me shudder. Amethyst had more fruit loops than a box of Kellogg’s. I was pretty sure the town mascot was officially a Whackadoodle.

“Sweetie, people around here also think that the Cubs will win the World Series and that Old Style is the elixir of the Gods. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

Or see, for that matter.

“And don’t talk to strangers,” I added. Seemed like the situation called for it.

Chance came into the kitchen with two brown paper bags. He set them on the counter while I hunted for plates and napkins.

Behind me, Ivy said, “I got this.”

She tossed two twenty dollar bills on the table and ripped open the first bag.

Chance and I exchanged a look.

I said, “Ivy, where is all this money coming from?”

She shrugged, pulled a bulging white carton from the bag. Steam poured from the lid as lo mein noodles spilled over the sides.

“I told you. Mom left me some money.”

How much money did she leave her? I set the plates on the counter and went for some silverware. It was none of my business, but now that she was in my care, I wondered if perhaps it was dangerous for a teenager to have too much cash on her. Then again, that might have been the last of it.

“Put your money away, Ivy,” Chance said.

“It’s okay, I want to chip in,” she said.

The ten bucks she laid on the bar earlier was in my pocket. I had flipped Monique my own money and tried to return Ivy’s to her, but she argued with me the entire time it took for Chance to arrive to pick us up, so I let it go. I figured I would sneak it into her backpack when she wasn’t looking.

Sometimes you have to pick your battles. I shook my head at Chance and he let the money sit there.

The second bag was screaming my name. I reached for the beef with broccoli and set it on a plate. We gathered around the pub table, the three of us exchanging sauces and food. We made small talk as we ate and Ivy offered me an egg roll.

It was perfectly crunchy with just a hint of oil. I dabbed a napkin around it and bit in, listening to Ivy and Chance talk about the Wii match they would have over the weekend. Billiards, tennis, Mario, and a game called Black Ops, which I was about to protest until I bit into something metallic.

I grabbed a napkin and spit into it.

Ivy made a face. “Ew, that’s vile, Stacy.”

“Tell me about it,” Chance said. Then he looked at my face. “You okay?”

“That didn’t taste right.” I opened the napkin, examining the contents.

There, between the cabbage and the carrots, was a penny.

I dumped the egg roll onto my plate and walked to the garbage. My thumb on the penny, I slid the contents of the plate into the trash and headed for the sink.

When I didn’t make a fuss about tasting the head of our sixteenth president, Ivy knew something was up.

Chance folded himself into the refrigerator, carefully lining up the leftover cartons and avoiding eye contact while I offered to take the garbage out.

“What’s with the weirdness all of a sudden?” Ivy asked.

No one answered her.

“Fine! Don’t tell me, but you know I’ll find out sooner or later.” She stomped into the living room and turned on the television.

Later, please. Much later.

Outside, I took the penny from where I had stashed it and looked at the date.

Just as I feared.

The year Ivy was born. Or at least the year she says she was born. Or the year she was told she was born.

Birdie taught me from an early age that pennies were sent from our spirit guides. According to her, those who passed on left us little messages in the shape of a molded piece of copper. Not just me, but everyone. Mostly, the message simply said, “Hi, I’m doing fine. Thinking of you.”

But not always.

The day she told me that, my father had been dead for three months. We were gardening—planting rosemary in remembrance of him. I stuck a steel trowel in the mud and along with a clump of soil, out popped a penny.

It was a bright shiny copper, the color of Birdie’s hair, not dull as you might expect a penny buried in the dirt to be.

She looked at the date and noted that it was the year my father had come into this world.

“There, now,” she said. “You see that, Anastasia? That is your father waving hello.”

There are rules to reading these messages. A penny cannot just be lying in the street. You can’t walk into a grocery store, see a penny on the floor near the cucumbers and assume it was sent from a spirit guide. It has to be in an unusual place. Like on top of a lamp. Or in an egg roll.

Here’s what Birdie hadn’t know then. And still didn’t, today.

Weeks before my father’s crash, I was finding pennies stamped with the year he was born
everywhere
. In my sock drawer. In my locker at school. Inside my gym shoes. Once, I even found one at the bottom of an ice cream cone. Coincidence? I think not.

So to me, they are more than a wave. They are a warning.

Right now, all I could think about was the danger waiting for me—for us—just around the corner.

IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS

by Ivy Geraghty

Entry #5

Tonight marks the start of our Mission. Anastasia and I will stealthily break into her cottage and retrieve the Blessed Book (right, so she has a key, but we’re still going incognito so as not to disturb the Old One). It is the treasure that holds the secret to the whereabouts of our mother. I am certain of it!

We shall tread quiet as mice. Slink careful as cats. And then, finally, we will have the Knowledge that will lead us to our mother’s Salvation. We shall slay those who have taken her (or at least kick ‘em in the nads) and Victory shall be ours!

P.S: (There’s something freakalicious about the whole penny-in-the-egg roll thing. Can’t wait to crack that code.)

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

SEVENTEEN

A few hours later, dressed head to toe in all black (Ivy’s idea), we left Chance’s house and headed up the hill to the inn. Thor wanted to come with us, but since The Geraghty Girls thought Chance was doggie sitting, I decided it might not be a good idea to have him wandering around the property, coating the windows with slobber. To Thor, giant house equaled warm, yummy food. Fiona spoiled the crap out of him, fixing him pot roast and mashed potatoes every Sunday. Which more than made up for the fact that Lolly treated him like a dress-up doll.

The streets were bare, lit only by a few scattered streetlights and a sliver of moon. Aside from a few raccoons robbing a garbage can, the town was deadly quiet.

The porch light glowed at the house, highlighting her best features. The Queen Anne was well over a century old, dripping with gingerbread, spindles and turrets painted in complimentary shades of teal, red, and purple. It was the details that made it stand out from the rest of the homes on the block. Amethyst boasted many architectural gems in various styles from Italian Renaissance to Federal brick, but something about the Geraghty Girls’ House beckoned you to step inside and discover her secrets.

It was built by my maternal great-grandfather who willed it to his three daughters when he passed away. Since none of them had a husband at that stage in their lives, they decided to turn it into a bed and breakfast.

There were three cars in the driveway. Presumably the three guest rooms were full. There was no movement from inside and just a few lights on. Wine and cheese hour had long passed so most likely, everyone was either asleep or enjoying a nightcap on Main Street.

The black wrought iron gate framed only the main house so I tapped Ivy and pointed towards the cottage and she nodded.

We hurried along the side of the property and headed straight for the back door of the cottage. I shoved the key into the lock, but didn’t need to twist it.

The door creaked open.

I hesitated, looking for a spider web, or some sign that someone had been there. Birdie had taught me long ago—and I had since learned it was laser beam accurate—that a spider’s web netting a doorway meant an uninvited guest had come into your home.

Ivy whispered, “Did you forget to lock it?”

I put my finger to my mouth and shook my head. After years of living in the city of Chicago, I would never leave a door unlocked.

She cupped a hand over my ear and whispered again. “What should we do?”

I stood perfectly still, listening to my body, trying to decide if I had nausea or just a gut feeling that something wasn’t right.

Nothing.

Quietly as I could, I told Ivy to wait on the stoop and entered the cottage.

The back door emptied into the kitchen, which spilled into the living room. There was one bedroom to the left and a bathroom to the right. I didn’t have a flashlight and I was afraid to turn on any other lights because I didn’t want to alert Birdie or the aunts to my presence.

What to do?

I decided that if there were someone in the cottage, the Geraghty Girls would be the least of my problems.

Just before my hand hit the switch, Ivy whispered loudly, “Stacy.”

I turned and she tossed me a pen light.

The kid reminded me of Inspector Gadget.

I gave her a thumbs up and turned it on, pointing it around the cottage from where I stood in the kitchen.

“Son of a pussbucket,” I said softly.

“What, what is it?” Ivy asked.

“Fiona re-decorated.” I didn’t bother to hide my irritation.

When I first moved into the cottage it looked like the inside of a genie bottle. Slowly, I had given the place a more scaled down decor thanks to the clearance sales at Pier 1 Imports.

Now, it looked like a club on the corner of a red-light district. Red and pink velvet everywhere, a leopard print sofa shaped like lips and more beads than a topless drunk girl at a Mardi Gras parade.

What the hell did she do that for? It would take weeks to get the scent of jasmine out of the carpet.