The Witch Collector Part I (5 page)

He stepped forward, placing a cold hand on my forearm. “They might still be in the apartment. Let's go back inside.”

It was then that I saw his eyes. The iris and pupil melded together, forming two black holes in a face the color of chalk. His fingers curled around my arm, gripping my flesh. My panic kicked into pure terror. I knew what he was. I'd never seen one before, but every witch had heard stories of demons. They were the stuff of our nightmares.

“Right now,” he said tonelessly.

I flung myself backward and kicked at the gate, trying to close it on him, but he was too fast and pulled me forward, drawing me in close. The foul stench of decomposing garbage hit my nostrils, and my stomach heaved.

Think, Breeda
.

His grasp on me loosened slightly and I sank down, dropping like dead weight to his feet. I surprised him and scrambled away, but he recovered, grabbing my ankle and flipping me over onto the sidewalk. I felt the weight of him on me, pinning me down, his breath over my face.

I needed a weapon. I thought of the girl, Shelley, in the alley—sending the ball of fire flying through the air.

And then I saw it. The flames gathered into a fearsome, glowing ball, hovering just above my fingertips. I flicked my wrist and the fireball shot upward, hitting the demon cop in the jaw.

I think he screamed, but I didn't bother to wait for a reaction. I clawed at the cement, raised myself to standing, and took off into the Chicago night.

“I
wish you were ready now,” Brandon said. “I wish you could come with me.”

We sat on the stone wall protecting my mother's garden from the forest beyond. A light rain fell softly against our skin, cold droplets of water mingling with the tears running down my cheeks. I couldn't think of what I could say to make us feel better. We were supposed to be happy. I felt anything but.

He wrapped his hand around mine. “My dad called today and said everything is ready. I'll get special training. He wants me to lead the coven someday.”

“Really?”

“You're surprised,” Brandon said, a note of hurt in his voice. “I guess I would be, too.”

I wasn't, though. I could clearly picture Brandon standing at the head of our feast table, tall and broad-shouldered as Gavin, blond hair gleaming like a Nordic god's. “Don't be silly. It's not hard to imagine,” I said. “You're going to do great.”

The wind kicked up, slapping the icy rain against our bodies. We huddled together, not ready to go inside.

“I'm not strong enough,” he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed up by the approaching storm. “Not nearly enough.” He brought his mouth to my ear. “And I think he knows it.”

The vision stole only a few seconds, but I'd stopped running, my feet teetering on the edge of the curb. A rush of fear startled me into the present. The demon had recovered, walking swiftly toward me with confident, measured strides. He didn't doubt that he'd catch me.

I started to run again, but each breath seemed to cut out a piece of my lungs. My brain crashed against my skull, sending tentacles of pain through my nervous system. St. Sylvester's loomed in front of me, its Gothic entrance dark and forbidding. It wasn't the best option, but it was the closest. I stumbled, crashing headlong onto the church steps.

With a silent cry I crawled toward the arched doorway. I could smell the demon drawing closer, the overwhelming stench of sulfur making it even more difficult to breathe. With a final push I threw my body against the wood door. It opened, and I collapsed at the shiny black shoes of an astonished priest. He was a small man, but strong, pulling me into the church with one hard tug. I blinked up at his shock of white hair and clear, watery blue eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Can't . . . breathe . . .” I choked on the words, coughing while the priest half carried me farther inside. He led me to a font and encouraged me to lean back against it. I remembered what my mom had told me and took the air in slowly, breathing through my imaginary straw.
Calm down
, I told myself. If all the stories I'd heard were correct, demons couldn't step foot in a church. I was safe. At least for a few moments.

“Should I call nine-one-one?” The priest withdrew a cell phone from his black suit pocket.

I grabbed his arm. “No,” I whispered.

Concern knitted the priest's snow-white eyebrows. He watched with intense curiosity as I slowly regained my breath, and winced when the pain prompted a moan. Finally, when I could speak without lapsing into a coughing fit, I thanked him.

“Anyone would do the same,” he said, shrugging it off. “Now, you can rest here while I call your parents.”

I wished it were that easy. The priest was silent, patiently waiting for the number. When I hesitated, he said, “Look, my name is Father Brennan. I don't mean to cause you any harm.” He smiled and gestured to his collar. “I need to do one good deed every day or they revoke this. And all I've done today is curse out my beloved Cubs while I watched them hand a win to the Braves on a silver platter.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Will you let me help you?”

The urge to tell him everything was strong, but I stopped myself. Was I crazy? A priest? He'd call the police. What if my parents had done something really wrong back in Oregon? What if they sent me to a hospital or locked me up in a mental-health facility? A real police officer might prove more difficult to deal with than a demon dressed as one. “No need to call my mom and dad,” I said, my voice raspy. “I'll be fine. I just need a few minutes. You know—asthma.”

The priest moved closer, his kind eyes filling with pity. “I could call Child Protective Services,” he said quietly. “If that's what you need.”

That was the last thing I needed. “I'm fine,” I said, coughing. “I forgot to take my medicine.”

“I don't like the sound of that cough. I'd really feel better if I could talk to your parents. Where do you live?”

My mind was still too muddled to come up with a decent lie, so I went with some semblance of the truth. “I'm staying with my aunt.”

“Can I at least drive you home?”

“No,” I said. “She lives down the block.”

“Still . . .” He paused and looked down at the floor, seemingly weighing his options. “I'm going to get you a glass of water,” he said. “Let's start with that.” He walked out of the nave and down a corridor that led to a well-lit room.

The church was eerily silent. I managed to stand, trying to focus on coming up with a plan for what to do next and to ignore the slowing spasms in my lungs.

After a few minutes, I wondered why the priest hadn't returned yet. How long did it take to fill a glass with water? A terrible feeling came over me. A witch did not belong in a church. I needed to get out of this place. I knew it, but fear of what lay outside the door stopped me. Instead, I crept down the corridor, my tired limbs slowly following the priest's path. I knew what he was doing, and the desire to stop him sent a surge of energy pulsing through my veins.

The phone was already at his ear.

I saw the numbers in my head. The nine transposed into a six; the ones bent into sevens.

“Darn thing,” he muttered. “Why aren't you working?”

The priest spotted me, his features crumpled in confusion. “What's going—” Then he stopped, and a sudden understanding alighted in his eyes.

“Don't,” I whispered, before everything went bright.

“Race you!” Sonya dove into the lake, her dark brown hair fanning out over the water. She swam halfway to the pier before realizing I hadn't been swimming behind her. When she surfaced, her face glistened in the hot summer sun. “What gives?” she shouted back to where I stood, still on the shore.

I shrugged, embarrassed. I couldn't tell her that I hadn't wanted to move, hoping to capture this moment in my mind, so I could always remember it: the warmth of the sun, the sand hugging my toes, my best friend, as psyched about my birthday as I was. We were both twelve now.

Sonya swam back and wrapped herself in an oversized towel. “Present time!” she said, falling to the ground, laughter in her voice. She reached into her beach bag and pulled out a slim package. “Open it!”

It was a friendship bracelet, woven with thread the color of honey. She'd sewn gemstones into it and they sparkled in the radiant natural light. “They're semiprecious,” Sonya said, “but your mom said they're even prettier than diamonds. She helped me with it.”

I fastened the bracelet around my wrist, and stared at it, mesmerized.

Sonya drew her knees to her chest. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I said, tears springing to my eyes.

“I'm sorry,” the priest said gently, “but I have to ask you to leave. You can't stay here.”

“What?” The vision of a happier time had knocked me off balance. The sun still blinded me.

“I said that I'm sorry, but you have to leave,” the priest repeated. “You've brought evil to the steps of our church. Do you understand?”

“Oh,” I said, understanding better than he could have known. “I didn't mean to.”

“I didn't say you did.” He took my arm, guiding me back to the front doors of the church. We stopped at the fountain, and he scooped up some water and sprinkled me with it. “This should give you a few minutes,” he said.

I stared at him, completely confused.

“Holy water,” he said. “I saw him, but I wasn't sure what he was until I was sure about you. He'll stay away until the water dries.”

“How did you know?” I asked. “I mean, about me.”

He smiled. “I'm an old priest and an even older man. I've seen everything at least once, though no one will believe I saw a demon.”

He opened the door. The night had turned inky dark, and the night's cold air brought on another coughing spell.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, and hesitated for only a second before he closed the doors behind me.

I quickly examined the street, searching for the demon, but it was empty. The coughing started again, and it hurt to breathe. My feet started moving, more from panic than anything else, and I tripped down Sacramento Boulevard. I felt like I was walking underwater, my movements labored and clumsy.

At the intersection a police car cruised past slowly. Had the priest been able to call them? I knew I should run, but my body wouldn't do it. The sedan rolled past, the two officers inside staring at me with curiosity, not menace. I forced my features into a neutral expression, as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

But that was so far from the truth. My parents had disappeared. The magic I'd waited so long for was destroying me.

I needed help.

Though the sign said Belladonna's was open late, the paisley curtains were drawn and I couldn't hear any music. Still, the cement frog held the door open a crack. I pulled at it and threw my weakening body into the restaurant.

I spotted Shelley first. She stood over a table, wiping it down. “Hey, you're back,” she said, smiling.

Then my knees hit the floor, sending a bolt of pain directly up my spine. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing much came in, either. I closed my eyes and stars burst along my lids.

“Miro!” Shelley shouted. I heard footsteps, then felt strong arms lift me up, the tips of my toes brushing the wood floor. I gasped, fighting for breath, but my throat constricted. Miro lowered me, but kept his hands circled around my ribs.

“Look underneath her eyes! She's pulsing.” Shelley's face loomed close, her features swimming across my sight line.

Miro's face replaced hers. His mouth twisted angrily. “In the alley . . . was that the first time you did magic?”

Was it?

Shelley hit at Miro's arm. “It doesn't matter. Just bring her in the back. She's
pulsing
, can't you see?”

They half dragged me around the counter to a crowded storage room. “One, two, three,” I heard Shelley say, and again I was off the ground.

A moment later, I found myself staring at the ceiling, my body stretched out on a cot.

“Can you talk?” Shelley asked me gently.

I arched my back, trying to force some air into my lungs. Panic took over and I reached out, as if I could grab the air and push it into my body. I couldn't
breathe
.

Miro leaned over me. “Shhh. Just try to relax.” He turned my face, forcing my eyes to meet his.

I had been wrong before. Miro's eyes weren't black, but dark, dark green, warmed with brown like the forest floor.

“Open your mouth and let the air in,” he said.

Slowly, I drew in a thin stream of oxygen. When it hit my lungs, the pain exploded and my body buckled, sending my limbs flying.

“Shit!” he whispered. Then, louder, “Hold her down.”

Shelley pressed my arms into the cot while Miro ran his hands over the legs of my jeans, turning out my pockets. “Where is her book?” His eyes were wild. “Where the hell is it?”

“I don't think she has one with her,” Shelley said quietly.

“Make her a tisane.”

“I can't. How will I know what to put in it?”

“Make her a generic one!”

“What if . . . I could hurt her. I could
poison
her.”

“She will die without it.” He pushed at her arm. “Go.”

Shelley stood. She took in both of us.

“Just put in what you think she needs,” Miro said, his voice softening. “It'll be okay.”

She left, and Miro turned his attention back to me. “I know it hurts, but you have to try to breathe. It helps to close your eyes.”

I did, and when I blinked them open Shelley was back, holding a glass mug full of a cloudy liquid. She passed it to Miro with shaking hands.

He lifted my head and brought it to my lips. The liquid dribbled down my chin, my throat too closed to take it in.