The Witch Collector Part I (17 page)

I just had to figure out how to find them.

The Mysteries of the Unmarked
didn't offer much more specific help. It reiterated what Shelley had told me and what I now knew about my magic—that it was mercurial, wild, and as difficult to control as my emotions. Dobra's understanding of my powers appeared to reflect the book's author as well—any witch's gift I saw being practiced eventually became a gift of mine as well.

The final page of the book depicted an obese witch overwhelmed by an enormous talisman, which was illustrated as a gas gauge marked “full.” The illustration was vulgar and obnoxious, but its message was clear. Unmarked witches were gluttons who took and took and took with little regard for anyone else.

The washer stopped whirring. I fished out my clothes and threw them into the dryer with a linen sachet full of lavender. The room filled with the familiar scent, and I closed my eyes. It was time to think.

My parents were running from Gavin. By now, I assumed he had followed us to Chicago. Had Brandon joined his father, or did he follow him only in order to find me first and protect me? How did Brandon find this apartment? And if Brandon knew where I was sleeping, why hadn't Gavin shown up on Dobra's doorstep to claim me? So—Brandon must not have told Gavin. But did that mean he still cared about me?

I had no answers for those questions, so I moved on. My dad was addicted to old mystery shows and novels, and I remembered that in those stories, detectives who don't have much to go on start by examining the victim's life. My parents' pasts needed scrutinizing—but how much did I know?

Had they made enemies in Chicago before leaving for Portland? One—my aunt Evie. But were there others? Could Gavin have an accomplice, someone who held a grudge against my parents, here in the city?

I could think of only one possibility—Sandy. Sandy knew my parents before they moved to Oregon, and she knew my mom's and Evie's history. It was a long shot, but I needed to talk to her, to at least find out what she knew. I knew where she lived, and though I didn't think she'd be thrilled to see me show up at her door, I was not above using Evie as a threat to get information. Sandy obviously feared her.

The desire to act—now—was all consuming. I decided that I would gather my clothes, dry or not, and get dressed.

“You're wearing Molly's blanket,” said a masculine voice behind me.

I yanked my head out of the dryer, whacking the top of it in the process. “Ow—what?” I turned around to see Miro standing in the doorway.

He stared at me, the teasing quality back in his eyes. “I'd put that back if I were you. Molly's mean as a demon.”

“I'll be done in a minute,” I said, drawing the blanket closer around my middle. “She'll never know.”

He moved a step closer. “She'll smell you on it.”

I gave him a questioning look.

“Molly is my neighbor's Doberman.”

“Oh,” I said. “Ew.” I wanted to toss the blanket off but, as I had nothing on underneath, I held fast.

“Give me those,” Miro said, gesturing to the bundle of clothes tucked under my arm. He took them from me and tossed them on the table.

“I can do it,” I said.

“It's okay,” he said, and smoothed down Shelley's skirt, folding it neatly in half. “I do the laundry for the house. And I want to talk to you.”

“Okay.”
Dr. Jekyll
, I almost added.

He sifted through my clothes, picking which piece of cloth to fold next. I surreptitiously hooked a finger through my bra strap and slid it to the side. He chose a T-shirt.

Miro moved slowly, placing my things in small piles. When I watched him fold Shelley's cardigan for the second time, I knew he was definitely stalling. I stayed silent, letting him figure out what he wanted to say.

“You're a sitting duck at your aunt's place,” he finally said, “and Shelley said that crazy witch in the apartment below didn't want you around.”

“I'm not staying here anymore,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster.

“You could stay above Donna's restaurant, with Shelley,” he answered casually.

“I don't know if that's a good idea.”

“You question my judgment,” he said. Miro turned to me. “It
is
questionable.”

I laughed. “Clearly.”

He brushed his thumbs lightly over the delicate skin under my eyes, then dropped his hands. “Back at Belladonna's,” he began, taking a breath, “when I said helping you was the right thing to do, I was telling you the truth. Did my father tell you what his punishment for dabbling in Black Magic was?”

“Yes.”

“The reason our coven exists is to help witches in trouble. We both take that seriously. My father and I are both responsible for Piotr's death, so I think we should both do what we can to make up for it.”

“Please don't help me out because you feel obligated.”

“But there's honor in that!” he said vehemently. “Shouldn't we feel the need to make up for the times we screw up?”

I nodded. “I guess so.”

“Will you allow me to do that?”

“If that's really why you're doing it.”

He held my gaze, the soft light illuminating the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. I was painfully aware of my nakedness underneath the blanket, the wool fibers tickling at my bare skin. It smelled of spring grass and daffodils. I tried not to think too hard about its owner, or what it would feel like if it slipped from my shoulders.

“Why were you so angry with me before?” I asked him.

Miro's face flushed. “I'm sorry for being such an ass. It's just, I hated the thought of you seeing me . . . that way. I don't want you to look at me and see only darkness.”

“That isn't how I see you at all,” I said. “I look at you and I see hope.”

Surprise froze his features for a moment, and then he reached out and grasped the ends of the blanket surrounding my shoulders. My breath caught as he pulled the blanket tighter, wrapping me, both of us, in the soft wool, bringing our bodies closer together.

Miro leaned in and kissed the side of my neck, his lips stilling at the tender place just under my ear. His mouth moved to my jawline, so, so close to my lips. I knew we should stop, but I wanted him closer.

“Is this okay?” he murmured.

I should have said no. But I turned my head and kissed him back. He tasted of honey and cloves. Sweetness and spice. I curled my hand around the back of his head, feeling the softness of his hair, the strength of his neck. Miro's grip on my blanket loosened. . . .

And my cell phone chirped, its sound bouncing cruelly off the cinder-block walls. I jumped back from Miro. We looked at each other, bewildered. Then my phone sounded again, prompting me to do something about it. I held the blanket to my chest with one hand and clawed at my backpack with the other. No one had tried to get in touch with me on my cell phone for days. Who was trying to call me now?

I jabbed at buttons, stopping cold when I saw who sent the message. Brandon. I read the text quickly, Miro leaning over my shoulder.

I quickly texted him back, hoping Brandon was still looking at his phone.

Miro and I stood side by side, gaping at the phone as if it held the mysteries of life. Which in a way, it might've. Of my life anyway.

After a couple of quiet minutes, Miro asked, “What's going on? Who's Brandon?” His tone was mild, but the question felt anything but.

I scrambled to collect my thoughts. “Brandon is my friend—my boyfriend from back home. Gavin's son. I've been trying to contact him, but I hadn't heard a thing from him for months, since he went away to train for his transition.”

Miro's mouth pressed into a thin line.

“I think he's here in Chicago,” I said. “I'm just not completely sure why.”

“Gavin is his father,” Miro said, “yet you don't know why he's here?”

“He might have come to help me.”

Miro threw his hands up. “Do you seriously think so?”

“You don't know him,” I said, wincing as the cliché left my mouth.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Do you think you know anything for certain right now?”

Brandon could be working for Gavin, or he could be running from him. Evie could be hunting for my parents, or she could be holding them somewhere as an act of revenge. If my parents were alive, the kidnapper had a reason for not killing them. If they were dead—the thought hitched my throat—then whoever killed them would come for me next.

Miro was right.

I had no clue what was ahead of me, but that didn't mean I didn't have any control. I could learn to control myself.

“Evie said I couldn't be trained to guide my magic, but what if she's wrong? I am getting better at steadying my breathing. Maybe some training could help keep the magic's aftereffects from overtaking my system.” I took a deep breath. “Will you do it?”

“You want me to teach you how to control your magic?” Miro asked, his expression dubious. “I'm probably the worst possible candidate for that position. Do you know how difficult it was to get my own magic under control after Piotr's death?”

“Which is exactly why it should be you,” I said.

Miro paused for a moment, frowning. “You must do what I tell you to, no questions. Is that possible?” he said with a smirk.

“I'll . . . try,” I said. My mind flashed back to our kiss. I felt my cheeks grow hot.

He gave me an odd look. “If we work together today and tomorrow, we can cover some ground.”

Tomorrow. Would I stay here another night? I didn't want to put anyone else at risk. And I definitely didn't want to stay where I wasn't wanted.

“My father will let you stay,” Miro said.

“That's not it. I don't want to put anyone here in danger.”

“There is always danger in this house, Breeda,” Miro said quietly. “That's nothing new.” He reached over to my clothes and grabbed my jeans and the T-shirt I wore when I walked into Belladonna's the night before. “As much as I'd like to see Molly tear that blanket off you, if I'm going to teach you anything, you need to get dressed. Meet me in the garden.” He tossed the clothes at me, flashed a wicked smile, and then bounded up the stairs.

I dressed quickly and slid all the rest of my things back into my bag. My phone, still blank, went in my front pocket.

I tucked a sprig of rosemary behind my ear, then rethought it, placing the protectant back in its jar. I didn't want to keep danger from my door. Now was the time to face it.

My phone sounded again. I tugged it out of my front pocket and stared at the text.

So be it.

THE WITCH
COLLECTOR

PART II

I
took the basement stairs two at a time, excitement humming in my veins. But when I reached the small hallway leading to Dobra's garden, I stopped cold.

What, exactly, was I excited about? Training with Miro or finally seeing Brandon after so many months?

I'd kissed Miro. It didn't matter that his lips had found my skin first; my desire had drawn him to me. My body still trembled from its strength. Part of me wrote my feelings off as the force of the transition, but another part of me had known something was between us since the moment he'd first said my name in the alley by Belladonna's. I'd been taught to distrust strangers, yet I wanted Miro close to me. I could tell myself I was simply looking for comfort, that for a few seconds I could forget my situation, but that would be a lie. I was curious. Miro did everything with such incredibly focused intensity. I wanted to know what that energy felt like. I wanted to drink it up. I wanted it to be mine.

A week ago I would have harshly judged a girl who'd acted as I had. My parents were missing. I had a boyfriend.

Technically. The thought of seeing Brandon filled me with just as many confusing emotions. In some ways I couldn't wait to see him. He was home and I desperately wanted to be transported back to the safety of my coven, even if it was just to smell the forest in his hair, to see the light of a thousand candles in his eyes. If Brandon knew what Gavin was up to, he'd tell me. I'd bet my life on it.

I stood in the shadow of the doorway leading outside. Miro paced a small circle in the middle of the garden, lost in thought. Unaware he was being watched, he showed worry, concentration, and something I wasn't accustomed to seeing on his face—fear.

Was he afraid of what I might do, or what the training might do to me? It was hard to imagine me sparking fear in anyone, but things had changed since I'd arrived in Chicago.

I paused, thinking about what all I'd thought about myself, and the people I loved, before coming here. The past few days should have taught me better about making assumptions. And if I was capable of causing harm, I had to accept the possibility that Brandon could, too.