The Witch Collector Part I (11 page)

I was grateful she'd fallen into my life at just the right moment. I needed people I could trust. But Shelley's friendliness made me ache for Sonya, my oldest friend. To her I wasn't an unmarked witch; I was Breeda.

I felt in my heart Sonya knew something was wrong. I had to believe she'd help if she could.

I pulled out my phone and texted her:

I typed a similar message to Brandon, then hesitated before hitting send.

Betrayal. Ignorance. I didn't want to think it, but I couldn't avoid the possibility that one of those could refer to him. The only logical reason for Gavin to focus on me was my unmarked status. And if Gavin valued an unmarked witch, then it made sense for him to ask his son to get close to me.

The kids in our coven were tight. We had to be, as we only had one another. Brandon was always around—quick to help in the garden and with the fall canning, slow to leave after we'd had our evening tea. But on one clear Saturday morning he asked me to go mushroom hunting the next day. I couldn't understand why he felt the need to ask me to do something we'd done a hundred times before—until my mother, grinning like a Cheshire cat, wanted to show me a new way to fix my hair before we left together.

Brandon held my hand as soon as we entered the canopy of trees, and kissed me against a giant redwood, its enormous majesty making me—and what I was experiencing for the first time—feel so small. Brandon was quiet and sweet, like he always was. During that first walk together, he found wild daisies growing at the edge of a clearing. He picked some and wove together the flowers, placing his makeshift crown atop my head.

Daisies open in the morn, pick a flower and luck is born
.

Harmless, simple spells like the kind we learned at our parents' knees were our understanding of the witching world. Now it was more than apparent that I only understood a fraction of what our life held.

My parents had kept me in the dark my entire life. And as far as I was concerned, that was proof that good people sometimes made bad decisions. Could I offer the same charitable thoughts to Brandon? I'd held his hand. I'd kissed his lips. Head on his chest, I'd placed my ear against his beating heart. Deep down, I couldn't believe Brandon was a bad person. Like me, he could be completely removed from his parents' decisions.

I cradled my phone in my hand for a moment longer, and then I sent Brandon the text.

I pushed the curtain to the side, sat on the window ledge, and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. The night was slowly fading, and I could see the rows of the first plants of spring pushing their way through the soil in Dobra's kitchen garden. The natural world provided such solace.

No response came from either of my friends. I placed the phone on the sill and nestled into a corner of the window frame. My eyes grew heavy and I closed them, relieved to lose myself for a short while.

I jerked awake what felt like seconds later to a crashing sound breaking the early quiet. Squinting, I looked down at the garden. A flash of movement by the garage caught my eye: a figure too tall to be an animal. Instinctively, recklessly, I threw open the window and stuck my head into the crisp early-morning air. “Hello?”

The figure stepped onto the garden path and peered up at my window. His familiar, shy smile tugged at my heart.

“Brandon!” I called in an urgent half whisper.

I looked down to stuff my feet into my shoes. “Wait, I'll be right—”

I had been away for a second, but the garden was empty. He was gone.

I slapped at the window in frustration, cursing magic and its cruel visions, then stopped, my heart jumping in my chest. I hadn't done any magic. Which meant . . .

Brandon had gotten my messages and he'd come.

For me.

“T
ime to get up,” a girl's melodic voice said. “I come bearing gifts!”

It was past dawn. I could feel the bright sunlight dancing against my closed lids. I opened them to the midmorning sun.

For a moment I didn't know where I was, until I saw Shelley balancing a bundle of clothes on outstretched arms, her offering smelling of rain and gardenias. “Fresh out of the dryer!”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Nine thirty, sleepyhead.”

I bolted upright and looked around the room for my things. “I need to get ready.”

Shelley placed the clothes on my lap. “Breathe,” she ordered, and I did, inhaling and exhaling loudly.

She smiled, the corners of her mouth tilting upward. “You feel better?”

Physically, maybe. But I nodded anyway.

“Well, in that case,” she said, “what's on the agenda?”

I explained Ion's offer to take me to Evie's place downtown.

“I'm going with you.”

“I don't know . . . you heard what Sandy said. Evie sounds like a piece of work. Maybe I should take care of this on my own.”

Shelley flopped onto the bed next to me. “No, you shouldn't. Come on, you want me to come with and you know it.”

I was glad of her support, but Ion was already coming. I wouldn't be confronting Evie without someone there with me. “Ion will be there, Shelley. It's fine.”

“You don't know Ion.”

Technically, I didn't
really
know Shelley, either. But like my mother, and Sonya, the sense of safety Shelley evoked when she was around warmed me from the inside out, like a sip of freshly brewed chamomile tea.

Shelley stretched, catlike, and combed a hand through her thick golden curls. “I'm good with difficult people,” she said.

I barked a laugh. “I can't argue with that.”

“So don't. The bathroom is down the hall to the right. Get dressed. And then
you're
going to tell Miro where we're off to.”

I looped my backpack over my shoulder. “I thought you were good with difficult personalities.”

“Not until I've had my coffee,” she said, heading for the door. “I'll meet you in the kitchen in fifteen.”

Like Evie's, the apartment was railroad style. To my left was the kitchen and Dobra's office. To my right was a darkened passage lined with open doors. I headed down it, then shut myself in the master bathroom. I wanted a few undisturbed minutes to gather my thoughts before jousting with Miro. It wasn't a stretch to assume he'd want to come with Shelley and me, but that couldn't happen. It was enough to bring Shelley and Ion, but Miro's go-to expression in any situation was a vivid glare, with more than a hint of suspicion. No, that wasn't going to work if I needed Evie to talk.

That is, if she would even open the door to see me.

But first, I needed to clean myself up. I looked around the bathroom. White, fluffy towels had been tied with a sprig of rosemary to add to the bath for protection. A dried bouquet of calming herbs hung from the light fixture. Amber and cobalt bottles crowded the tub, each containing mysterious concoctions and etched with an ornate letter
D
. For Dobra? Or did Miro's last name start with that letter?

Oh, goddess. I didn't even know Miro's last name!

Or Shelley's. Or Vadim's.
What
was I doing?

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, waiting for the rosemary to calm me, and tried to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. I was doing what I should be doing. Finding my parents. I thought about Brandon's face, his crinkly blue eyes and easy grin. Earlier, I'd been convinced I'd really seen him. I knew he wasn't a vision, but what did I really see? Shock and exhaustion had addled my brain. In the bright light of midmorning, the thought of Brandon in Dobra's garden seemed somewhat ridiculous. Was it real—or had my desire guided my imagination?

I opened the medicine cabinet, relieved to see that witches across the country could at least have in common the inability to throw anything away. I squinted, reading the carefully written labels until I found what I needed.

The bottle of angelica oil was nearly full. Apparently, Miro and Dobra had found no reason to relive their dreams.

Angelica oil had an elusive fragrance, like the fine petals of a flower right before it blossomed and died. I poured a few drops of the oil onto my fingers and rubbed it onto my temples, my third eye, and at the place where my hairline met my neck. Then I laced my hands together and gently covered my eyes.

I repeated the spell three times and waited. Nothing. The subconscious held tightly to its secrets, and this spell was weak. I pleaded with the magic.
Please. Please. Please show me
.

An image slowly came into focus. It was my mother, her form softened by the dream haze, standing at the edge of a forest. She clutched her talisman, eyes closed, shouting words I could not hear.

“Mom?” I whispered. But the dream faded at the sound of my voice. I wanted to scream, to call her back, but instinct told me to keep silent. What else was there to see?

Definitely more. Sonya laughing in a circle of witches. Shelley standing at a stove, then suddenly at a beach, building a castle made of ruby-colored sand. My parents lighting a birthday cake with sixteen candles and then tossing it in the air. These images had flown through my consciousness, snippets of real life contorted by sleep. Then . . . darkness. I never saw Brandon.

Either the spell didn't work, or I hadn't dreamt seeing him—Brandon could be in Chicago. But how on earth did he find me here, where we didn't know anyone? And why did he leave? When would he be back?

What did he know?

“Breeda? Are you almost done? I need to talk to you.”

Miro.

“Just a minute!” I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth. I threw on the gauzy purple skirt, white embroidered peasant blouse, and gold cardigan sweater Shelley had given me. I glanced in the mirror. The soft, bohemian style of Shelley's things didn't match the sharp, intense look in my eyes. It felt odd, like I wore another person's costume.

I needed to wash my own clothes today. They weren't much, but they were mine.

“Are you okay in there?” Miro called again.

I answered by unlocking the door, sending Miro, who had obviously been pressed up against it, rocketing into the small room. He wore jeans and a concert T-shirt, his pale blue talisman hanging over the image of a melting guitar. Miro's eyes darted from my dirty clothes on the floor to the open vial of oil to the hairbrush on the edge of the sink. He sniffed the air and then gave me a funny look.

“Angelica oil? Those simple spells rarely work to any degree. Surely you know that, or did they skip that lesson as well?”

I ignored him and returned the oil to the cabinet.

“Ah,” he said, his voice softening. “You did see something, didn't you?” He moved around me and perched at the edge of the tub. “What was it?”

I couldn't tell him about Brandon. He would want to chase after him, and though that is exactly what I wanted to do, it made more sense to approach Evie for information first. Also, I'd known Brandon all my life, and Miro and his coven for less than twenty-four hours. They might assume the worst, as I had been starting to do about Gavin—would they hurt him, even? I had to balance risk with discretion.

“I saw my mother,” I said. It wasn't a lie.

Miro nodded but said nothing. He stayed on the edge of the tub as I finished straightening the bathroom and reorganized my backpack. The silence stretched into something so heavy I felt I might suffocate.

“I'm going to visit my aunt Evie today,” I said, breaking the stillness.

“Do you know where you'll find her?” Miro asked.

And I told him about Ion's offer. “She's an alchemist,” I explained, “and works downtown.”

“We'll all go with you,” he said.

“I think you'll make Ion skittish,” I said. “And Vadim definitely will. Shelley and I will stick together. We'll be fine. I mean, Evie's my aunt, right? The worst that could happen is she doesn't know anything.”

“That's far from the worst thing that could happen! Especially with an alchemist.”

“I wouldn't have found out where she was if you and Vadim had gone to the neighbor's apartment last night,” I replied.

Miro paused, and I knew he had no answer for that. “I suppose you're right,” he said begrudgingly. “But you've got to be careful.”

I couldn't hide the smile tugging at my mouth. “We'll find you right after.”

“Shelley knows where . . .” he began, but in a flash Miro stood and placed his hands on either side of my face. Suddenly I was aware of how small the room was and how much Miro filled it. He leaned over me, his forehead inches from mine, a puzzled look on his face. He slowly brushed his thumbs across the delicate skin under my eyes. “Look at yourself,” he said quietly, and turned my body toward the mirror.

I nearly gasped. Where my skin had just been clear, purple smudges formed angry half moons under my bottom lashes. I touched them tentatively. They felt like deep bruises, a soft pain vibrating beneath the skin.

“Did you just do any magic?” Miro's voice was tight.

“Just the dream spell,” I said, watching his reflection, then shifting back to my wide but tired-looking eyes.

“That's a child's spell. It shouldn't have any effect . . .” he began, then paused, frowning.

“I'm
not
sick. I feel fine,” I said. “I didn't have any visions. Maybe this is a delayed reaction to yesterday?”

“Maybe,” he said, “but it's still weird. I need to talk to my father. I wish you wouldn't go anywhere until after.”

“I'm going now,” I said. “I feel fine, and Ion might not wait.” I caught his eye. “My parents definitely can't wait.”

At the mention of my parents, Miro ducked his head and stared at the floor. “I guess I understand. But don't bring this Ion back with you,” he said, his tone becoming insistent. “We don't know him.”