The Witch Collector Part I (15 page)

“I don't remember having one,” Shelley said, confused. “How much is it?”

“$164.67.”

“What? No way! That can't be my file.”

Agneiska slipped a paper out of the file, then tossed the folder back in the basket. She placed the paper on the desk. A long list of books covered the entire page, ending with a dollar amount.

“I didn't take those books out,” Shelley said. “You know I didn't.”

Vadim stepped forward. “There must be some mistake.”

Agneiska turned to him, an expression of total innocence on her face. “The numbers don't lie.”

I saw the numbers in my mind's eye, twisting and folding into one another until they read $000.00. “Check again,” I said softly.

Agneiska's smirk disappeared as she glanced down at the paper. “What the hell?” she said. “How did you do that?”

O
utside, the snow fell in big, fat flakes
.

“Tilt your head back, Breeda,” my mother said, her hands framing the sides of my face. I leaned into her and she deftly separated my hair into three sections and began to braid it. I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of my mother pulling my hair softly.

She finished and gave my hair a tug. “Open your eyes,” she said. “It's so beautiful outside.”

It was. The snow drifted into white crests, so stark against the inky night. “Your father's here,” Mom said a second before my dad opened the door. His arms were full of wood, and his beard full of snow. He walked over and shook his head over us playfully, the flakes melting on our flushed faces.

This is what it means to be happy,
I thought
. Happy, happy, happy . . .

Tears were running down my face. Miro threw his arm around me and I collapsed against him.

“Freak show,” Agneiska muttered. “You really know how to pick them, Miro.”

“We'll be up in room two,” he said, and led me toward the back of the library, supporting my weight.

“Is she okay?” I heard Shelley say.

“That was really weird,” Ion said. “She totally zoned out.”

Miro pushed the door open and supported my weight as we walked into the room. I tried to draw a breath through the imaginary straw, but my throat closed up and only a thin stream got through. I wanted to yell, but the sound was stuck inside me, and my body convulsed.

“Run back to the coffee shop,” Miro said to Shelley, his voice urgent. “They've got healing herbs in the back. Ask for Vicki.”

“I'll go with,” Ion said, shaken.

“So will I,” Vadim said, looking at Shelley.

The three of them took off.

Miro sat next to me on the bench and drew my head onto his lap, his arm underneath me. “Close your eyes and imagine the air going in,” Miro said softly. “Imagine your throat opening, your lungs filling, the air repairing the damage—just like in the alley by Belladonna's. Talk to the magic. Tell it what you want.”

A laugh managed to escape my lips. Miro frowned. “I'm not kidding,” he said, then started laughing himself. “Okay, yeah. That does sound kind of weird.”

The laughter forced more air into my lungs. They opened, and I took a minute to just breathe. I could feel Miro's pulse on the back of my neck, the strong, steady flow of blood in his veins. I knew I could've sat up, but part of me felt comforted, soothed lying there. That part won out and I stayed where I was. “I saw my parents,” I said, my voice gravelly. “I'd almost forgotten how happy we were once. I didn't want to leave the vision. It hurt to come back. Really hurt. Is that crazy?”

“No,” he said. “Not crazy at all.”

“I need to find them,” I whispered. We sat quietly, and I tried to concentrate on the rhythm of my breathing.

Miro began speaking after I'd steadied myself. “I talked to my dad about what happened to you this morning, when you did the dream spell. You shouldn't have reacted the way you did to a simple child's spell, but you did. My father thinks it's because when you do magic, you don't have anything to help you guide it, to control it.” Miro paused. “Do you think your parents have your talisman?”

“They knew what was coming,” I answered. “I'm sure they do.”

Miro nodded, but I could tell his thoughts were drifting elsewhere.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Without a talisman, it's more likely you'll pulse like you did yesterday. Uncontrolled magic is so dangerous, and without anything controlling it . . .”

“I'll get worse,” I finished for him. I pushed myself up, finally taking in the small reading room, narrow and windowless. A pendant lamp hung over our heads, and we sat next to a long blond wood table. At the center of the table sat a heavy, black rotary phone, the kind I'd seen in old movies.

“What's that for?” I asked.

“We have the lovely Agneiska at our beck and call.” He smirked. “It's come in handy before.”

I rolled my eyes. “You said you had an idea,” I said. “What was it?”

Miro reached across the table and opened the book about unmarked witches between us. His tanned, thin fingers paged to the index. “We need to read about how unmarked witches transition into their magic. Everything seems different for you so far, so maybe how you conduct your magic is different, too. Maybe something other than a talisman will help.” He slid the book to me. “This might not help get your parents back, but it will help us keep you safer while we're looking for them. Can you think of anything else we should look up?”

I knew exactly where to begin. “Can someone cure an unmarked? Is it possible to somehow make an unmarked witch . . . normal?”

In the bright overhead light I could see pity slide into Miro's eyes, dulling the tiny flecks of emerald and gold. “Why do you think that's even a possibility?” he asked.

“Gavin convinced my parents he could. If it's impossible, we'll know he lied to them.” I sighed. “Then I just have to figure out what else he lied about, and what that has to do with my family.”

Miro traced his finger down the lists of topics. “Did your aunt tell you this about Gavin?”

“Yes. She also told me what she knew about unmarked witches.”

“Which is?”

“Same thing your dad said. And according to Evie, I'm a target for Black Magicians everywhere.”

Miro looked at me, the color blanched from his face. “That's not something to joke about. Do you think she was trying to deflect attention from herself?”

It was a valid question, but my feelings about Evie's innocence had grown stronger. She frightened me, but she really was helping in any way she could, and in her own way. “I don't think she'd do that, but I can't be certain. I don't think she knows where my parents are.”

“You should trust your instincts,” Miro said as he picked up the black phone. “Now more than ever.” He began to dial and stopped, finger hovering over the number two.

“What are you doing?”

Miro shook his head and replaced the phone in its cradle. “Nothing. Forget it. Right now we should talk about what happened with Evie.”

I told him everything that had happened in Evie's shop. Surprisingly, he listened without interrupting, taking my every word and gesture in with open ears and clear, watchful eyes.

“Alchemists can be brutal,” he said when I finished. “They have to live by their own moral codes. I'm surprised your mother's coven accepted her.”

“They're family,” I said, shrugging. “Sisters.”

He nodded, his face clouding with some mysterious thought. “You're certain she doesn't know where they are?”

“Pretty much.”

“What's next, then?” he asked after a moment.

I needed to find Gavin. Since I had no clue where to look for him, I needed to find out
about
him. I picked up the rotary phone and punched two. I had a hunch. Miro stared at me quizzically.

“Yes?” a female voice purred. “What is it now?”

“I need information on Black Magicians,” I said. “I'll take whatever you've got.”

Agneiska went silent, the sound of her breathing the only evidence she was still on the line. “Okay, Breeda,” she said after a long moment. “You sit tight and I'll be right up.”

I hung up and turned to Miro. “It couldn't hurt. I don't know what else to do.”

He picked up the copy of
Unmarked
and tossed it on the table in front of me. “Put this in your bag and let's go. Forget the other books. Let's just go.”

“And do what?”

Miro drummed his fingers on the table, a gesture I was coming to understand as one of his nervous habits.

There was a sharp rap on the door and Agneiska pushed in. She held a black binder, its cloth spine worn to shreds.

“Take it back,” Miro said, his jaw tight. “We don't need it.”

Agneiska ignored him, taking in how close Miro and I sat next to each other, and the tension alight in the room. “This is what you want,” she said coldly to me. “Be careful with it. Our branch has only one copy. I'm not supposed to let anyone so much as flip through it unsupervised.”

Miro shot her a withering look. “Then why make an exception?”

Her smile held no warmth this time. “I would never stand in the way of the acquisition of knowledge.”

“What is it?” I asked. I didn't have time for whatever drama they were performing.

“The Crowley Book,” she said. “You have heard of it, haven't you?”

I shook my head.

“It's a directory of witches who've been accused of practicing Black Magic. It's updated as reports come in.”

“Agneiska—” Miro said.

But we both ignored him. “Who gets the reports?” I asked, interrupting him.

Agneiska turned to Miro. “Is she for real?”

Miro stood, his face twisted with anger. “Leave,” he said. “Right now.”

Agneiska placed the binder on my lap. Then she left, slamming the door behind her.

I hugged the binder to my chest. “Are you going to explain?”

“Maybe. I don't know.” He stared at the Crowley Book as though he wanted to rip it from my hands.

“Well?”

Miro sighed. “Covens self-report incidents of Black Magic to a watchdog group, and the information goes in this book. If someone is accused, members of the group investigate until they're certain the accusation is based in truth.”

“Is that fair? What if they're innocent?”

“If it's proven, the report is removed.”

“What if they're . . . not innocent?”

“An accused witch often disappears before anything can be done, which is often an admission of guilt. They run loose, or try disappearing into another coven. It helps for coven leaders to have this record if someone new shows up. Most covens wouldn't associate with a Black Magician, so sometimes they join groups of their kind, whose members think that Black Magic shouldn't be so taboo. They tend not to call attention to themselves.”

“What if the accused witch stays?”

“If the accused refuses to leave, the coven breaks the oath with that person, forcing the witch to live as a regular human. If the accused accepts responsibility and agrees to leave on their own, they have to abstain from witchcraft for a certain period of time, and to help witches in need.”

I couldn't imagine Gavin, powerful and proud, performing witch community service, picking up spent candles after a Samhain Festival. My mind reeled. If he really was a Black Magician, there was the possibility my parents had reported him. Was he punishing them? Was this why we ran in the middle of the night? But what about the rest of the coven?

“What will this directory tell me?” I asked.

“If anyone has reported Gavin as a practitioner of Black Magic, it'll be listed in here. The names of the accusers who came forward first must be printed as well.”

If my parents' names were here, at least I could understand why they left. And a possible reason Gavin might be after them. I flipped through the pages of the directory. The names of the accused witches looked back at me, their photos accompanying the lists of magical crimes. I paged quickly through the first part of the alphabet, part of me hoping Gavin Doheny would be listed, half of me hoping he wouldn't. I got to the
D
s.

“Breeda . . .”

But my eyes stopped at the first entry.

Shock burned through me like a lit match.

Miro inched closer. “I can explain.”

T
he narrow room suddenly felt claustrophobic. There were so many things—too many—I didn't understand. Every rock I overturned had a mass of worms underneath, squirming over one another in an effort to hide from the sun. “Were you going to tell me?”

Miro winced. “Is it really any of your business?” Then, “I'm sorry for that. I guess it is.”

I ignored him, quickly paging through the rest of the
D
s. No Gavin. “He's not here.”

“Just because he isn't in the book doesn't prove he isn't practicing Black Magic,” Miro said. “But we do know no one has reported him yet, including your parents.”

But even if Gavin
wasn't
guilty of Black Magic, my parents still had a reason to run from him. And then there was Brandon. Was he running, too?

I looked at Miro, who stared down at the Crowley Book, at his tender mouth, always held in a faint sneer. There was something about Miro that muddled my thinking. Did I trust him? I didn't know. I
did
know that I needed more information about Black Magic, and that I now had someone with direct experience.

My instincts said yes—that I did trust Miro. And if I believed anything that he said, it was that I should start trusting myself.