The Witch Collector Part I (3 page)

“Of course we do.” Dad sighed. “Let's sit down and have a family talk.”

“Family talks” usually meant negotiating my curfew or discussing who had laundry duty. I choked on a laugh.

“Breeda.” My mom's hand on my back felt so light,
too
light. I turned to her. Her eyes seemed set back in her head, the deep purple smudges underneath so dark they looked black.

I bit my lip, ashamed by my tantrum. She folded me into her arms.

“Did something go wrong?” I dug my head into her shoulder and thought of Greta. “Is that why we had to leave?”

“My sweet girl,” Mom murmured, patting my back. “The next few days will be confusing, but we'll get through it.” She gently pulled away. When I looked up, my mother's smile had reached her eyes, and I caught a glimpse of the warmth they usually held. “I need to sleep for a while,” she said. “After that, we'll make a big pot of coffee and have a long talk. Okay?”

I nodded, and she touched my shoulder before slipping into the dim hallway.

My dad watched her, staring long after she disappeared into one of the bedrooms. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, knocking the leather cord to the floor. The sound made him jump.

“Dad? Are you all right?”

When he turned I saw how far from all right he really was. My dad, always pale, had turned ghostly. Dots of sweat covered his brow and upper lip. He didn't answer my question, motioning for me to follow him instead. “Want the grand tour? There's not much to see. You up for it?”

I was up for getting answers, but it was clear I'd have to wait. I picked up my backpack. “Yeah.”

As we walked down the narrow hallway my mom had just gone down, he pointed to three doors lining one side of the hall. “Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom,” he whispered. “Bathroom and closet on the other side. Kitchen in the back, leading to a balcony.” He turned into the bathroom and pulled on a string hanging from the ceiling. The light was almost too bright, and bounced off a white, claw-foot tub sitting like a fat Buddha in the middle of the room. The sink and toilet looked ancient but appeared clean. Spotless, even. Someone had recently scrubbed this place down. On the sill of a recessed, oversized window, a tower of white, fluffy towels obscured the view and offered some privacy.

I thought about easing my tired body into the comfort of warm, scented water. “Is it okay if I take a bath?”

My dad seemed relieved I'd asked a question he could answer. “Of course. It'll be good for you,” he said, backing into the hallway. “Do you, uh, have everything you need?”

I nodded, and closed the door on his worried face.

For the first time in three days, I was alone. I almost didn't know what to do with myself—unease made me restless—but then I drew my backpack onto my lap and pulled the things I'd been using to keep myself clean on the road out of the front pocket. A wedge of lavender soap, toothpaste and a toothbrush, lemongrass deodorant, a comb. I lined them up on the rim of the tub, then fished through the bag for a fresh T-shirt, careful to avoid the sentimental objects at the bottom. The pale pink seashell Brandon found on our coven's trip to Catalina. The friendship bracelet Sonya gave me for my twelfth birthday. It hurt to look at them. I missed my friends so much.

Water poured from the faucet and I held the lavender soap under the gushing stream, filling the air with the scent of my mom's garden. Then I held my palms over the tub and said:

A schoolgirl chant, but it couldn't hurt. Spells like that were meant for everyone—even witches who hadn't yet gotten their gifts. They addressed general wants and needs, whereas a grown witch's gifts were individualized and much more powerful. And hereditary. Soon I'd have my dad's gift—his talent for numbers allowed him to solve any equation, or change numbers in a sequence at will. Or my mom's—the ability to open anything from a space, to a door, to something as simple as a jar of mayonnaise. The process was pretty straightforward. Once I began to show signs of coming into my magic, I would leave for Seaside to learn to best use my gift, come back, and live the rest of my happy days in our small community. So what happened?

It was unfathomable to think of my parents or anyone in our coven in serious trouble, and it had to be serious if my parents stole away in the middle of the night. Had they fought with Gavin? It didn't make sense. Our coven leader hadn't even been around much now that most of the older kids had left for training. He'd been in Seaside for most of the past month, helping out.

Gavin stood nearly seven feet tall, a mountain of a man with a soft-spoken, thoughtful manner—a gentle giant. Sometimes he could be emotionally distant and moody—my mother called those times his blue periods—but I couldn't imagine him ever raising his voice. Our coven, sequestered in the rolling hills of Northwest Oregon, was tight knit and insular—if something was going on, wouldn't I know about it?

I ached with the need to speak with Brandon. I hadn't had any contact with him since he left, since we weren't allowed to contact each other. I didn't know which gift he'd received. His father's gift was simple and useful—creating light. Gavin could call forth a glowing virtual candle to light the darkness. Brandon would have been delighted to get it. His mother left the family long ago—so long he'd grown up without even the slightest acknowledgment of her presence. His father never talked about her, so Brandon didn't even know what her gift was. And in his mind, she wasn't worthy of any.

Regardless of the gift, magic changed a person. My parents always said as much, but they were vague when it came to how the change actually worked. Rumors flew among the coven's witches around my age, but no one had a firm grasp on how magic came to us when we were ready. We weren't an ancient coven, like so many others, but a makeshift one. None of my friends had returned from Seaside yet, so there was no one to ask. The only thing we knew for sure was that the process took time. And, as I knew now, made a witch feel sick and see strange visions.

I knew it was unfair, but I mentally cursed Brandon for not finding a way to fill me in from Seaside. Maybe he thought I'd be there soon enough.

What would he think when he realized I wasn't coming?

An ugly part of my mind spat its usual questions at me at me.
Did it matter? Was I already a distant memory for him?

I pulled my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans. A simple text wouldn't do. I dialed Brandon and waited to hear his voice telling me to leave a message. “I miss you,” was all I said. I didn't know if he'd hear it, but just saying the words made me feel better.

I knew they weren't allowed to respond, but I'd been calling Brandon and Sonya for weeks. Listening to their prerecorded voices kept me from growing desperate with loneliness, especially when I was on the road. I'd called them from gas-station bathrooms and rest stops, hiding my cell from my mom and dad, who didn't know I'd brought it with. The deception bothered me, but it was more important my friends understood that I hadn't deserted them.

I thought about this as I stripped and lowered myself into the fragrant bathwater. The heat liquefied my bones, the stress of the past few days pouring out of my pores and evaporating into the air. I held my breath and went under, my hair fanning over the surface of the water, my body floating peacefully.

Until one thought pierced through my mind. I bolted upright, water streaming into my eyes. My hands caught the side of the tub and I stood, dizzily grabbing for a towel. In record speed, I dried myself, dressed, and threaded my hair into a makeshift braid.

When I walked into the kitchen, my father was pouring some milk into a steaming mug of tea.

“Feel better?” he asked. “I think there are a few edible things in the fridge.”

“I'm not hungry,” I said, the words catching in my throat. He turned then and gave me his full attention.

“What is it, Breeda?”

“Did you break the oath with Gavin?”

Dad paused, and I knew he was trying to decide what to tell me. In those few seconds, I knew things would never go back to the way they were before.

“Life can get kind of complicated sometimes,” he finally mumbled, turning to set the cup back on the counter.

“I can understand complex things,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “And you didn't answer my question.
Did you break the oath?
” A witch's oath to her coven was sacred. If my parents broke ours, I would never see Brandon again. Or Sonya. Or my home. My life before this apartment would be gone, erased.

“We lost faith in Gavin. He wasn't what we thought.”

My patience, already thin, wore to nothing. “Dad, just tell me. Did you break the oath?”

His broad shoulders straightened and he waved his large hand through the air, as if to bat away the question. “No,” he said, anger in his voice. “There wasn't time.”

“But why—”

“Ryan . . .” my mom moaned from the far bedroom.

“What's wrong with Mom?” I asked, panicked. “Is she going to be okay?”

Dad's expression softened. “She'll be fine, Bree. The trip was just hard on her.”

Hard on her? My mom routinely outran me in 5Ks. She dug up half our backyard last year and single-handedly built a twenty-foot retaining wall for our garden. Sitting in a car for three days might be boring, but why would it make my mom so ill?

Before I could ask any more questions, my dad dashed to the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. I heard the lock turn and the low, singsongy voice of someone soothing the sick.

I took the mug of tea from the counter and headed for the bedroom farthest from my parents. It was as spare as the rest of the apartment. A plainly dressed twin bed was flush against one wall. A dresser made of blond wood stood directly opposite. A great deal of space lay in between.

I sat on the bed and sipped my tea.

Alone.

I
woke up with a crick in my neck. Security lights from the apartment building next door kept the room from fully darkening, and everything seemed covered in a cool gray film, including me. I tossed around in the bed for a few minutes, trying to get back to sleep, but only managed to tangle the sheets.

I padded to the bathroom, turned on the light, and found myself blinking at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Surprisingly, I looked pretty normal. Better than normal, even. The whites of my eyes were neon bright, contrasting with the dark brown of my irises. Unlike my mother's, the skin underneath was smooth and didn't show any sign of our sleepless nights on the road.

How long had I slept?
I quickly redid my braid and walked to the kitchen. The clock above the stove said 8:03.

That was it?

I tiptoed to my parents' room and placed an ear against the door. Nothing but the faint sound of my dad's snoring. As much as I wanted to knock on the door, I didn't have the heart to wake them up. Our talk would have to wait.

My stomach couldn't, though. It had moved past the growling phase and had resorted to pushing itself against my rib cage in protest. I made my way back to the kitchen and stuck my nose in the fridge. I hoped Aunt Evie had a thing for sushi or ready-to-micro burritos.

She didn't. Expired milk, OJ, yogurt, a block of unpronounceable French cheese covered in mold. Eggs. Ketchup. Some murky sludge in a jar marked “Do Not Eat.”

How long had it been since Evie lived here?

I could take a chance and whip up some scrambled eggs, but I didn't want to make any noise and wake up my mom. I wasn't sure what was wrong with her, but if I wanted to help, I needed to let her rest. I'd have to go out.

I pulled two twenties from my mom's purse and shoved them in my jeans pocket. Then I brushed my teeth, swabbed some more lemongrass deodorant under my arms, and ran my mom's berry-colored lipstick over my mouth. I didn't pay that much attention to makeup, but this was a different city, and for some reason I wanted to look like a different person while exploring it. Nothing about this neighborhood reminded me of Portland, but maybe that was exactly what I needed. To take a break from all the wondering. To forget.

I walked down Sacramento Boulevard, figuring if I kept my path simple I wouldn't get lost. The pointed spire of St. Sylvester's made the perfect landmark up ahead, its peak stretching just beyond the roofs of the surrounding buildings.

The night still held on to the day's warmth—not what I was expecting from Chicago in the spring. Women wore funky dresses and ballet flats, or jeans with running shoes. The men walking beside them wore polos and cargo shorts. I fit in, though my thin T-shirt and rolled jeans were more surfer-chick than urban explorer. My ballet flats slipped against the cement, catching occasionally on the uneven sidewalk. I'd put them on in Oregon because I wanted to wear something nice to the training center. I thought about the comfortable hiking shoes sitting in my closet back home. Hopefully, we'd return before I had to replace them.

I kept walking but soon realized I was going to have to turn at some point. Sacramento was pretty residential. The upcoming intersection showed only more apartment buildings. I stopped at the mouth of an alley, trying to figure out which way to go.

Then I saw the sign.

An arrow pointed down a well-lit alley to my right. I followed it.

The entrance to the restaurant faced the alley, which—given the many rat warnings posted on the telephone poles—seemed a little unhygienic. It looked cozy, though, with paisley café curtains and a bright yellow door held open with a ceramic frog. The aroma of roasting chicken filled the air and drew me in.