covencraft 04 - dry spells (6 page)

Paris was hit with a complicated understanding of what she could mean. He’d known they shared everything, but suddenly hearing her talk about relationships, he was flabbergasted. The intimacy required between Jade and Lily must have been, and perhaps still was, staggering. Jade had told Paris once that she and Lily had no secrets and at the time, he heard her words, but it wasn’t until this moment he felt the sheer gravitational weight of them. Everything. Every thought, every moment, every intimacy, shared not only with other people, but with each other. Nothing left unknown or secret.

“What happened?” he asked, knowing immediately and intuitively that something
had
happened. Something had gone wrong.

Lily breathed deep and looked up. “I made a mistake. A really big mistake. I was angry and felt crowded and…,” She struggled for her words. “I don’t know. I felt like I wasn’t in charge, like I would never be in charge again. Like neither one of us could be in charge, in control. I thought we were sick or broken. I resented it. I resented her and she felt all of it, all the time.”

“I’m sure she felt the same way at times,” Paris offered, wanting to give comfort.

Lily lips curled wryly. “If she did she was a hell of a lot better at hiding it than I was. Sometimes we can keep things from each other. But not often, and usually not for long.” She picked at the skin around her nails, something he saw Jade do a lot. A habit he recognized as a nervous tick in Jade that Lily shared, it seemed. “I asked her to trust someone she didn’t because it was what I wanted. I was tired of not always getting what I wanted. It was a big mistake.”

“What happened?”

Lily opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. It wasn’t magical or supernatural. She looked as though she couldn’t find the words she wanted or couldn’t say them. She pulled at a hangnail, wincing as it started to well with a droplet of blood. She jammed it in her mouth and shrugged and he didn’t know what he should take from that.

“People make mistakes. It’s part of life,” he offered, feeling as though she needed to hear it.

“Yeah.” The word came out slightly mumbled as she worried the bleeding finger with her teeth. He wondered if he should get up and get her a bandage or a cloth, or tell her to stop; she was making it worse.

“So… I need to know that you’ll continue being patient with her,” she said finally.

“Of course,” he replied immediately. Was that all this was? A strange circular conversation asking him to continue being patient with Jade? If so, it was a promise he could and would easily make.

“Give her space,” Lily continued, pulling her finger out of her mouth and flexing her hand as if stretching it, “but not too much space.”

Confusion tumbled through him again. Unsure how to reply, he simply nodded and said, “All right.”

Lily smiled. “Good.” She took a deep breath and let it out, apparently relieved to have settled…something. “I’m glad we had this talk.” She stood up suddenly. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

He was utterly baffled by their chat and the quick change in subject. “I suppose so. That would be … nice.”

“Great. I’ll go see what there is to drink and then make something. And by make something I mean find a menu and place an order online.” She paused foot midair as she was poised to take another step. “Jeez, do you think Seth’s still in the pantry?”

“I hope not.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if he is or not. I’ll just leave the door shut for now and Jade can decide what to do about him when she wakes up. Italian okay with you?” She called the last bit over her shoulder as she left the room and entered the kitchen.

“Yes.” He was left staring down at Jade in repose, brooding over his strange conversation with Lily and what it meant.

CHAPTER THREE

It was absolutely ridiculous that Paris should be sitting in his car, in his own driveway, staring at his house, unsure if he should go in or not. He was a grown man, the leader of a very powerful Coven, and well respected. He should not be watching the doorway to his house, turning his phone over in his hands, contemplating going back to Jade’s and asking if he could sleep on the couch or thinking of going to the Coven and sleeping at his desk. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept at the Coven. But it would be the first time he did it because he didn’t want to face his mother.

His presumed-dead mother.

He’d always understood the adage “Be careful what you wish for” and so he’d been quite careful not to make foolish wishes. The Law of Unintended Consequences was always in the back of his mind. Certainly in his few dealings with the Fae, he’d been careful with his words as one could never be sure what they would consider a wish or what they would consider a slight and he didn’t want to make either of those in front of them. A mistake like that could you get you killed. Or worse.

Worse like now - sitting in his car, staring at the door. Completely ridiculous. Before he could think too much more on what he was doing, he pocketed his phone, and opened the car door.

The scent of his mother’s magic whipped out and enfolded him, like a thick syrup enveloping him. She’d been casting wards on the house. Demon wards. His house was already sufficiently warded, or so he thought, but clearly she’d seen fit to cast more. He thought he’d gotten used to the tang of demon magic being around Jade. He was no fool. Though she tried not to let it show, it was clear she liked the structure of demon magic. The logic and reason behind it. There was less intuition involved in demon magic and more form and pattern. Like intricate knots, layered and tangled with one another. It may appear to not have rhyme nor reason, but it had both, if only it could be untangled. Jade was quite good at untangling it.

Paris paused. Whereas Jade’s demon magic felt like lattice work - full of open spaces and room to stretch - his mother’s demon magic was layered, intricate. Like a cross-stitch done over and over again, the threads too deep. The scent of licorice intermingling with the scent of magic he remembered from her was jarring. He always associated the scents of sage, vanilla and mint with his mother. They were all still there now, but beaten down and strangled by the cloying scent of licorice. Jade’s magic smelled like cloves and linden blossom: sharp, but agreeable. Paris wasn’t sure what scent Jade’s demon magic leant to her regular craft; she’d been casting demon magic for as long as other spells. He wondered what component the demon magic played in Jade’s spell craft scent.

Unmistakably, for his mother, it was black licorice. He couldn’t recall the scent of it growing up. She must have hidden her demon craft from him well. Until Jade had found his mother’s demon grimoires, Paris never had an inkling his mother practiced demon magic. Now he’d also learned that in addition to the demon magic in which his mother was a considerable expert, she was also under a demon deal and had faked her death… well, perhaps it hadn’t been so ridiculous to consider turning the car back on and driving away after all.

Before he could reach out and turn the handle, the front door swung open silently for him. An invitation. He was assaulted by the memory of it doing the same thing every day when he was younger. His mother always knew as he came up the drive and used a small burst of magic to open the door for him. Stepping into the house, he could feel the demon wards collapse around him, perusing over him and then drifting away, satisfied he was allowed in. He spun his keys in his hand, listening to the jingle of them, trying to determine where his mother was in the house.

“I’ve just made tea and there’ll be scones in a few more minutes.”

The kitchen. The center of most houses and certainly the center of the house as he was growing up. He set his keys down carefully on the ledge by the door and walked slowly to the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he thought he would find, only that a deep sense of dread coiled in his stomach as he moved closer and closer. Now that he was in the house, now that he was no longer dealing with the fresh assault of the scent of his mother’s magic on his senses, he could smell the jasmine tea she favored and the doughy smell of fresh scones. Walking into the kitchen, seeing his mother standing there, pouring a cup of tea for him, he wasn’t sure if it felt like a dream or a nightmare. She was dead. Or rather, she was supposed to be dead.

She turned and smiled at him and though she looked older, she was still the same. He wished there was something slightly off about her or perhaps something too different that would make him say, ‘Ah, see? There it is. Something
wrong
. This woman cannot be my mother. My mother is dead.’ But there was nothing. She even wore the same hairstyle - her hair still dark without a touch of grey. Unlike his own. He couldn’t be bothered to spell away the few grey hairs coming in at his temples. He rather thought he’d earned them. Certainly since Jade had come to the Coven at least.

“Just in time. You must have your scone sense working overdrive,” she said, winking at him.

Paris sat down heavily at the kitchen table, feeling both like a child and also like a giant. It was as though he didn’t belong in this moment. This moment, with his mother pulling fresh scones out of the oven, was for a younger him, a childish him, for the boy he used to be. It wasn’t for who he was now. The forward march of time, which should have been immutable somehow tangled and twisted in on itself.

“There,” his mother said, sliding a plate with a fresh scone in front of him. She also set down a cup of tea, going back to the counter for the sugar and cream, popping three sugar cubes into his. He rather wondered if she’d stir it for him as well.

“I take it Jade is still unconscious?” she asked, sipping from her own teacup.

“Yes.” The word sounded rough to his ears and he realized he’d not yet spoken since he’d come home to find his formerly presumed dead mother baking in the kitchen.

She shook her head. “I told you. Too heavy with the cardamom. She’ll be out for the evening, I’m afraid.”

Paris stirred his tea, watching the dark liquid swirl and eddy in the cup. “Her migraines are quite severe and it’s been a trying time for her. She needs the rest.”

“Well, you know what they say. No rest for the wicked.”

He set his spoon down and looked up at her again. She was brushing imaginary sugar dust off her hands and then murmured a quiet spell to coalesce the debris into pile that she then sent through the air to the sink. She’d always been able to do things like that - small spells that required immense precision, as easy as breathing.

“Why would you say that?” he asked, one of his hands clenching.

“Say what?” she replied, her eyes falling on him. He recognized them well enough. The same shade stared back at him from every mirror he looked in.

“No rest for the wicked. Why would you say that? You don’t know her.”

“It’s just an expression. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Didn’t you?” Paris asked, not sure what he was implying. It was certainly something he’d heard her say before. Like all people, she used her share of idioms and colloquialisms. But now, his entire life had been a lie and he needed to examine anything and everything closely.

“You seem rather fond of her. Of Jade.”

He shifted in his chair, moving slightly back from the table, feeling uncomfortable and somewhat defeated. “Mother.” The word tasted like ashes in his mouth. Bitter and acrid.

“It’s true. She seems a little taken with you as well.”

Paris stood. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Too old to speak to your mother about this sort of thing?”

“It has more to do with the fact that until this afternoon, I believed you were dead. Also, now I know you dealt with demons and are in service to one.”

Another one of her sayings from his childhood rang in his ears.
Do not speak of demons, for they listen carefully.
He looked down at the tea and scone on the table, looked over at the counter where the remnants of her baking sat out, along with the clear indication of her demon warding work. Chalk, rune markings, burnt embers and a knife with blood on it sat along side flour, sugar and butter. It shocked him when he realized he couldn’t be sure that it would be her blood. That perhaps she’d killed a small creature or… something else to ward the house. It was suddenly cramped and small in the kitchen.

“You seem to be under the extraordinary delusion that you can come back here and act as though this is no small thing. Making scones and tea in the kitchen as though I hadn’t believed you dead this entire time.”

“Well. As a point of fact, I’ve not been dead.”

Without thinking, a burst of magic swept out from him, colliding with his tea cup and sending it crashing into the wall.

His mother did not flinch. She merely turned her head to look at the broken shards, snapping her fingers to grind them to dust and then deposit themselves in the dustbin. “You can control your magic better than this. Don’t be so impulsive. It’s unbecoming.”

“Until this moment, I don’t believe I ever understood matricide.”

That caught her ire. She drew herself up in her chair and although she didn’t stand, she immediately gave off the impression of being larger than her stature. “Do not take that tone with me.”

Paris had a sudden surge of sympathy for every time he accused Jade of using a tone on him. He could hear himself now, in his head. He sounded just like his mother when he said those things.

“I raised you to be a Coven Leader,” she continued. “I tried to teach you that there are difficult decisions that need to be made and unfortunately, you’re the one to make them. Commitment, confidence, inspiration, intuition and…” She raised her eyebrow at him, waiting for him to fill in the last word.

“Sacrifice.” The word came out between his lips, almost unbidden. She held up all five fingers, waving them once he’d completed her quintet. He knew the words well. She drilled them into his mind from a young age. He couldn’t remember a time he didn’t know them.