The Witch Collector Part I (2 page)

“Here it is,” Mom said, before I could ask any questions.

The spot my dad squeezed into seemed too small for a tricycle. Our car was dwarfed on either side by SUVs, and, I realized, hidden as well. Dad was being careful. We all got out of the car and stretched, squinting into the post-rain glare of a hazy sun.

I looked around and studied the block. It was a boulevard, with a wide strip of grass and trees cutting through the middle. Apartment buildings, solid structures made of no-nonsense brick and mortar, lined both sides of the street. Most were three stories high, with tall, transom-topped windows and grassy courtyards protected by black wrought-iron fences.

My mom walked up to one building and pushed on the front gate. It creaked open, and she marched down a cobblestone walkway and up the crumbling front stoop. The door looked ancient, heavy—the dark wood broken only by a rectangle of leaded glass and an intricately etched brass doorknob.

Mom touched the turquoise stone at her neck. I could almost see the magic working, a wave of mist leaving her body, snaking around the dead-bolt lock, pushing it aside. When she was done, she released the talisman and turned the doorknob, certain it would open easily. It didn't.

“Is it broken?” I asked.

“Maybe it's protected,” she said. “Let me try again.” This time she held the blue stone tightly with one hand while using the other hand to jiggle and turn the knob. Nothing. With a cry of frustration she gave up on magic, slamming her body against the door instead, again and again until my dad placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Lupe,” he said. “It's okay.”

“No. It's not.” She brought one trembling hand to her talisman and the other to the doorknob one more time. A grimace tore at her mouth.

I curled my hand over the knob as well. “Mom, we'll find—”

A rush of pure energy coursed from my toes to my fingers. Impulsively I clutched at my mother's hand.
Click
. The dead bolt turned.

Dad sighed, relieved. “You did it. It worked.”

My mother stared at me, her face a mix of shock and pride. “No,
we
did it,” she said, her fingers icy against mine. I leaned into her hand, her touch soothing my skin, which felt like it was on fire. Then I
smelled
fire: the acrid, smokiness of burning wood.

The fire rose too close to the trees. The lick of one flame could engulf my body, and I'd disappear into a pile of ashes. The adults weren't afraid, drinking wine and singing to celebrate Beltane, the herald of summer.

The forest at my back was a stranger. These people were strangers. I huddled into my blanket, forming a tent around me.

“Can I come in?” asked a voice. A small voice. Another child. The fire raged behind him, setting the world around us ablaze.

“Don't be scared,” he said. “My father would never let anything happen to you.” He pointed to the large man holding his arms up in an attempt to quiet everyone. It worked.

The boy took my hand and we joined the bigger circle, walking three times around the fire.

“We are a new coven,” the man boomed, “but among the most ancient beings of the natural world. The growing season begins, and we celebrate new life. The oath we make to each other is another beginning, and one which will have no end. Our coven is the unbreakable circle.”

The adults began chanting and I grew lost in the sounds of their words. When the circle finally broke, the other witches slipped back into small groups, faceless shadows brushing against me. I stumbled around the fire, anxiously searching for my parents. “Mom! Dad!” I shrieked.

Strong arms encircled my waist and lifted me up. The large man settled me onto one massive shoulder, high above the celebration. Right away, I spotted my father and mother by the forest's edge. “You have no reason to be afraid here, Breeda Fergus,” he said. “The fire, the air, the forest, the river—they were all waiting for you. If you stay here, they will protect you.”

I blinked, returning bleary-eyed to the dull Chicago afternoon. Every cell in my body missed the heat of the roaring fire and I began to shiver. “Why did we leave?” I said, fighting tears. “Can we go home? Please?”

My mother studied my face. “Is that where you went? Our forest?”

I nodded. “It was years ago. I haven't thought about that night in forever. How long was I out?”

“Just a few seconds. It's completely normal,” my mom said. She sounded confident, more like herself. “The visions are part of the process.”

“So this is it? I'm getting my magic?” The questions ended in a coughing fit. My lungs seized in my chest.

My mom smiled. “I think so. At the beginning of the process things aren't always so predictable. Having visions is a pretty clear indication, though. You'll have one every time you do magic, until your body gets used to the change.”

I tried hard to listen to every word she was saying, but the pains shooting through my lungs had only begun to calm. My breathing was shallow and labored.

“Are you okay, Breeda?” my dad asked, his voice on edge.

“Yeah. Fine,” I lied.

“Go inside with your mother,” he said. “I'll get the bags.” He dashed for the car as though he didn't want us to be alone for too long. Dad's movements were quick and jerky. He opened the trunk and then stopped, bringing his hand to the Irish jade stone at his throat. I knew what he was doing. The numbers on the license plate wouldn't look anything like what they had just minutes ago. He awkwardly gathered the bags in his arms. Instinctively moving to help, I pitched forward and twisted my ankle, landing backward onto a small patch of grass. The sun shone through the bare limbs of the tree above me, which shook gently until green buds appeared. They morphed into leaves, shielding the reddish gold apples hiding underneath.

The apple I wanted hung high in the tree. I tried jumping, climbing, throwing my shoe at it—nothing would bring it down.

“I can help,” Gavin said. I had to lean back to see his face. He was smiling at me, and his hair shone in the late summer sun. He picked me up, sitting me on his shoulder. “Now, I want you to stand up, Breeda. I'll hold your ankles.”

I shook my head. No. Way.

“Trust me. I won't let you fall.”

Shaking, I placed my hands on top of his head and slowly pushed myself up. I swayed just like the tree in front of me. “Grab it!” he said. I reached out and pulled the apple from the tree. Laughing, Gavin spun around and my small body felt like it would lift off toward the clouds. I hadn't known terror and exhilaration could be felt so closely together.

“Inside,” my mom said, and tugged me into the building. I felt the apple-scented air rushing around my head. I could still see the clouds whizzing by.

We burst into the foyer. It smelled of burned meat and mildew, and my stomach flipped, nausea catching in my throat. The air I could get in came out again in a burst of coughing.

“It hurts,” I rasped.

“I can help you to control it,” Mom said, taking my arm. “I don't want you to worry.”

The three of us sat on the stairs while I recovered my breath. “I had another vision,” I said, once I could manage the pain. “But I didn't do any magic. Dad did. Why did that happen?”

My father shared an uncomfortable glance with my mom. “Magic is unpredictable,” he said.

“Something's not right,” I said, a leaden feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. “You know what's wrong, don't you?”

“We'll be fine,” he said, dodging the question. “We really will.”

“We?”

My mom's gaze shifted to the carpeted stairs. “It's the apartment at the top.” She grasped the banister for support.

“Can't we just sit here for another minute?”

“It's safer upstairs.”

“Mom—” My lungs protested and I coughed again, painfully. I had to stop talking.

She twisted her arm under mine and grasped my hand, binding us together. “Dad will bring our stuff. We'll make it if we help each other.”

My mother never needed help with anything, but obviously things had changed. I nodded.

“Breathe in and out slowly,” she explained. “I know it hurts, but try to use the pain to your advantage. Inhale during the worst of it, and you'll see the exhale as a relief. Once you're ready, take a step on an exhale.”

Inhale—sharp, piercing pain—exhale
. I didn't feel anything even close to relief. I was able to get enough oxygen in, small bits of air going in and out as if through a sieve.

“Better now?” she asked.
Did she expect worse?
But I managed a smile. “Better.”

“My brave, beautiful witch,” she said, and tightened her grip on my arm. With a sigh, we trudged toward our new home.

M
y dad barreled around the living room, testing light switches and running his hand under the radiators. Though the apartment was nearly empty, the effect was very bull-in-a-china-shop. “We'll need at least one key,” he said. “I don't want to tire you out with the locks every time.”

“We'll come up with something,” Mom said. She leaned against the tall windows and tilted her head toward the sun.

Dad tugged at his messy ponytail. “We could ask for a spare.”

“No,” Mom said weakly. “Not yet. I need to rest first, and so do you. Then we'll ask around and see if—”

“If what?” I said, my anger finally surfacing as my body calmed down. “If anyone else thought Evie was dead?”

Mom and Dad looked at the floor and stayed silent.

I trusted my parents. Witch kids usually did. We learned the language of witchcraft at their feet, after all—the rituals and ceremonies and spells, along with a respect for the natural forces binding us together. Witches believe in harmonious rings of community—nature, coven, family. They often overlapped but never crashed against one another. Choices affecting any of these were made after great consideration.

That's why I didn't ask questions back in Portland when my dad walked into a rental-car office with an expired credit card and came out with the keys to a seafoam-green Ford Fiesta. Or earlier that day, when my mom's low, soothing voice gently pulled me from a dream and into the gray shadows of my bedroom before dawn. I silently accepted my backpack, already full, and followed her down the dirt road leading away from our house. Excitement quickened my step.
Maybe it was my time
. My closest friend, Sonya, had left for Seaside, the witches' training center, months before, and my boyfriend, Brandon, followed shortly afterward. When my sixteenth birthday passed, I had anxiously waited for my parents to tell me it was my turn to pack a bag.

The others never snuck out in the dead of night, but then, no one had left during a time of mourning, so I didn't question it. I could still smell traces of funeral incense in my mother's hair. The girl who died, Greta, was older than me, but not by much. She was new to our coven, and I had just been getting to know her before she left for Seaside. Her sudden illness meant I never would have a chance to deepen our friendship.

She wore a deep purple dress to her going-away party, the color of blackberries. Her laugh, light and airy as the good-luck balloons filling the room, had me smiling from ear to ear. But now Greta had no future. As excited as I was that it might be my turn to go, the thought of celebrating while her body still warmed the green earth made me slightly nauseous. It was right to leave in the cover of darkness.

Sensing my mood, my mother wrapped one arm around my shoulder and drew me as close as she could without breaking her stride. We walked for about an hour, the light of the moon providing a clear path to the desolate bus stop where my dad stood guarding two small suitcases. He shifted from foot to foot as we approached, and tugged on his gingery beard.

“Were you seen?” he asked my mother.

She shook her head. In the emerging light I could clearly see the anxiety pinching their features.

I grasped the straps of my backpack, pulling it tight. “We're going to Seaside, aren't we?”

They shared an uneasy glance. “Are you certain no one saw you leave?” my father asked again, ignoring my question.

“I don't think so,” my mother said. “Even if someone did, it would take Gavin more than an hour to get here. That gives us a good head start.”

“But Gavin's in Seaside,” I said, trying to work out what was going on. “I don't—”

Mom grabbed both my shoulders and turned me to face her. She softly brushed her hand against my cheek, though the tears were spilling down her face, not mine. “I'll explain everything once we're on our way,” she whispered. “I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you to be patient.”

“I'm not going to see Brandon and Sonya?”

My father shifted his gaze to empty road, stretching indefinitely toward the east. “No, Breeda. I'm sorry.”

“Then where are we going?”

Silence. My mother finally placed a hand on my father's arm, and some unspoken communication passed between them. “Home,” he said. “We need to go home.”

“But this is our—”

Mom pulled me into a tight hug. “Patience, Breeda,” she breathed into my ear. “Just give us some time.”

On the long drive across the country I'd been more than patient, but there was a limit. We'd abandoned our coven, our closest friends. Evie was alive. My mother was not well. And still I wasn't getting any answers. The anger I felt at being kept in the dark was barely tempered by the faith I had in them. I was ready to burst, caught in the few seconds between tripping the wire and the explosion that follows.

What else were they hiding?

“How is Aunt Evie alive, Dad? Aren't you going to answer me?” I grabbed his hand and pulled him over to where Mom sat on the window ledge, slumped against the glass. “Enough is enough. I've been going nuts in the backseat of that car for three days! Don't you care?”