Spells of Blood and Kin (11 page)

Stella seemed to be trying. She wasn't around in the evenings—working, Lissa assumed. Her suitcase was neatly stowed behind the sofa, her clothes folded on top of it.

Lissa could only tell she was eating in the house at all by the occasional misplacement of a clean salad plate or cereal bowl; the reappearance of a fat, thorny brown pottery mug that Baba hadn't used in years; and the lowering level of milk in the carton. Stella replaced what she used too; the new milk was a different brand, but still 1 percent.

Stella left a little envelope of her tip money beside the grocery list. She cleaned the bathroom, right down to the grout. She didn't touch Baba's room or any of Baba's things; she might have dusted the shelves in the kitchen and living room, but she did it without changing the arrangement of the objects on them, so that Lissa was not even sure it had happened.

Lissa heard her in the shower late at night and smelled her shower gel and her expensive scent. Found a couple of her long hairs on her towel or in the sink. Saw her spare shoes neatly side by side on the mat.

Barely saw the girl herself, though. If Stella was just washing up her tea mug when Lissa came in to make coffee, she ducked her head and hurried out. One night when she wasn't working and Lissa had been out, Stella was still awake when Lissa came in: curled on the sofa under a light blanket, with her face scrubbed clean and her hair tied up for sleep. She had a magazine and a pencil, and Lissa thought maybe she was doing crosswords. She saw Lissa in the hallway and smiled shyly and waved good night.

Lissa couldn't remember whether she'd waved back.

The problem wasn't in anything Stella was doing or not doing. She seemed sweet. Well raised. More than Lissa would've expected, considering it was Dad doing half of the raising.

The problem wasn't in the idea of having a roommate, either. Lord knew she could use a bit of help with the household and the bills. Having to keep her rituals secret would be a pain, but she could invent something—a church meeting to pretend to host, something like that.

The problem was that Stella was family. Stepfamily, sure. Still too close for Lissa to pretend she was just some friendly but distant connection sharing a financial arrangement and alternating turns with the washing machine.

Family went one of two ways. They ruled you, or you ruled them. You couldn't be equal; you couldn't be neutral. If you didn't want to play, you had to go. Dad went: first overseas, then into a whole new marriage. Mama went too; exhausted and irritable at the end, she didn't seem sorry to be going. One of the last things Lissa remembered hearing from her mouth was a vindictive comment to Baba, that now she'd have Lissa all to herself, just like she wanted.

And Baba had wanted. As soon as Mama died, she began training Lissa in earnest. She put away all the photos of Mama and Dad with Lissa and had one taken of just the two of them at the portrait studio at Sears: Baba in her best gray dress, with her hair coiled around her head, and Lissa in a purple skirt and a blouse with purple kittens on it, hair in two long braids. She was nearly ten, and the other girls in her class were starting to pay attention to fashion and steer away from things that looked too childish, but Baba did not hold with fashion and thought children should be children.

That photo was still on Baba's dresser.

After a few days of tiptoeing, Lissa left Stella a note on the refrigerator.

They met at an organic-food café on Queen Street, which Lissa had picked because it was affordable but sounded trendy enough for Stella to appreciate. Stella was a few minutes late, which gave Lissa time to find a seat on the patio with a wall at her back. The air was humid and smoggy, but with the sun down behind the buildings, the heat was starting to lift; the smell of toner still lingered in Lissa's hair, and she unbraided it and shook it out, inhaling, instead, the fragrance of the blooms in a nearby garden and the café's aroma of toasting cumin.

She ordered a juice made from beet, ginger, carrot, apple, cayenne, and lemon, which arrived, capped with brilliant pink foam, just as Stella slid into the opposite seat.

“One of those,” Stella said to the waitress, round-eyed. “Hey, Lissa.” She made a motion that might have been an impulse to hug Lissa hello, but she checked it, instead slinging her purse over the back of her chair.

“Hey,” Lissa said, and her mouth went dry and thick, and she blinked across the table at this stranger who was her stepsister, and the things she'd thought to say were gone.

Stella's juice came. They both sipped and raised their eyebrows and licked pink foam from their lips.

“Stay for now,” Lissa said. “I don't want to make promises.”

“Are you sure?” Stella said. “You don't seem very sure.”

“I don't know what to tell you,” Lissa said. “I haven't done any of this before. I'm not going to lie to you; I don't think I'm going to be easy to live with.”

Stella paused and thought. “If you think it's not working, can you give me two weeks' notice? Because I don't think I can take it if I come home to find my stuff on the lawn and have to get a hotel like a cheating hubby.” She grinned as she said it, but it wasn't a happy grin.

“Two weeks' notice,” Lissa said. “Got it.” She held out her hand across the table, and Stella took it.

Lissa had been expecting a handshake, but Stella put her other hand over top and squeezed.

“Thanks,” Stella said, and she bit her lip, and damned if that didn't make Lissa tear up a bit too. With her free hand, she took a gulp of her juice so that she could blame the watering eyes on the cayenne.

MAY 5

  
WANING CRESCENT

Maksim, snarling, slammed his fist into brick.

“Ouch,” said Gus.

“There is nothing,” Maksim said. They stood at the corner of Queen and Bathurst. A streetcar rumbled heavily past, followed by a string of cars and a rickshaw. The wall Maksim had punched was painted purple, and now flecks of that paint decorated the bloody scrapes on Maksim's knuckles. He brought his fist to his mouth and licked the injury clean.

“Maybe if we make a wider circle,” Gus said.

“We already have. I cannot find it. Too many scents.”

Understatement. Even Gus, used to Parkdale, had said she found this stretch of Queen Street difficult in the warmth of May—rotten fruit, pigeon droppings, Indian food, hot metal, motor oil, sweat, spunk, ammonia, liquor, coffee. People and all their mess.

“Maybe if we go back to Palmerston again,” she continued. “Maybe if you weren't fucking yourself up with the witch's business—”

Maksim caught her gesturing hand in his own, roughly. He did not speak, but he let her lead him up to the alley, the capillary north of Queen. The people they passed did not look, absorbed in private business: urinating, making out, sharing joints or bottle tokes. Maksim kept his head lifted, searching for that elusive scent.

Gus stepped in too close beside him once, and he whirled on her, baring his teeth.

“You're stalking,” she whispered. “You'll find no prey here.”

Maksim watched his hand wrap itself around Gus's forearm and squeeze, bruising the pale skin.

She scowled and raised her other hand. “Does that mean it's time to hit you?”

“You promised,” Maksim said. “You promised you would not let me hurt someone.”

“Someone
else,
” Gus said.

Maksim lunged at her, knocking her against a garage door, but not in an attack. He slid down until he was crouched against her legs and let go of her to wrap his arms tight about himself.

“I know,” Maksim said. “I know, I know. I cannot remain among people like this.”

Gus shook her head. “Okay. My place. We can fight some more, tire ourselves out.”

“Give me something now,” Maksim said. “I will go mad otherwise.”

Gus hauled him up by his ear and punched him in the mouth. “I'm sober,” she hissed. “And you're not.”

Maksim licked blood off his teeth. “Keep going,” he said.

Gus kicked him in the kneecap, and he fell, twisting.

“It's no fun if you aren't fighting back,” she said. “Get up!”

Farther down the alley, a trio of heads turned, and a conversation ceased.

“I have already marked your face for you,” Maksim said. “Mark mine.”

A hammering blow across his cheek. “Well done,” he said; it did not feel split, but the instant heat of a bruise rose below the skin.

The next one caught him almost by surprise a half second later, rocking his head into the garage door. He had sprung up and tapped Gus in the chin before he recollected his purpose.

Gus danced back. “That's it,” she said. “Keep it up.” And she darted in under his half-formed guard with a straight to his ribs and a second, random blow that caught him under the arm.

Maksim coughed. He dropped his hands and lifted his face, wide open to Gus's next punch, and it took him in the forehead and made him see gold-shot black.

When his eyes refocused, he saw that she was standing back, frowning fiercely and waiting for him to recover.

“I needed to know you would do it,” he explained, although she had not asked. “I am ready to go home and sleep now,” he said. When he tried to move away from the support of the garage door, he wavered.

Gus seized his arm and held him upright. “My turn to bully you,” she said. “You're coming to my place, where I can keep an eye on you, and if you do decide to break something, it won't be something you love.”

“What about,” Maksim said and spat blood. “What about the things you love?”

“None left but you,” Gus said.

 

Three

MAY 8

  
WANING CRESCENT

Lissa came up her walk to find Maksim lying asleep on the porch steps. She could smell him as she got closer: stale sweat and rye, mixed uneasily with the heated lilacs. He slept heavily, with his face pressed into the crook of his arm.

“Evening,” she said in his ear.

He bolted up and grabbed at her, catching her braid in his fist and pulling her head down.

“Hey—ouch!”

He sucked in a deep breath.
“Koldun'ia,”
he said, and his grip relaxed fractionally. Lissa yanked her hair back and pulled away, while Maksim blinked and stared and finally unlocked his posture and sank back against the stairs.

“It is not good to surprise me,” he said.

Lissa backed off. “You hurt my neck.”

“I am sorry. Only do not wake me up with a touch. It is best not to step close to me if I am unaware.”

“You plan on crashing on my front steps a lot, then, do you?”

This seemed lost on him; he was rubbing his face with both hands and did not answer.

“Hey,” Lissa said. “I haven't forgotten what you said last week. I'd like to help you. My grandmother said you needed help. But that means I need to hear the whole story.”

“Your grandmother spoke of this?”

“Some.” Close to the chest: she'd learned very early that being a witch meant mystery, and mystery was best preserved by keeping your ignorance to yourself. Maksim did not need to know that Lissa had no idea how they might be kin to each other or why Baba hadn't mentioned him earlier. Or that Baba was still able to communicate with Lissa, even if only under constraints.

Maksim asked her for a drink. She led him into the kitchen, where she could see that he was dirty again (still?) and had not shaved, and his face looked puffy and bruised.

She filled a bowl with borscht and made him up a plate of Izabela Dmitreeva's cabbage rolls and a stack of toast to go alongside, and she opened him a bottle of Stella's lager.

“You do not need to do this for me,” he said.

“I didn't. Some other people did it for me. You're just getting the benefits.”

This seemed to be the right thing to say. Once reassured, Maksim proceeded to eat everything in front of him, plus two more beers and a second helping of borscht.