Witch's Brew - Spellspinners 1 (Spellspinners of Melas County) (22 page)

When I finished reading, I felt the same way I had on Black Mountain when I woke up on that rock after the spell. Just…spent. I knew that witches and warlocks were separated by the Seven Sisters, but I never understood the details. How brutally harsh it all sounded written so definitively.

Murder? And the part about forcing us to live forever without true love? Condemning us to want them, for them to desire us, but with no chance of fulfilling those desires? It seemed so…cruel.

The last sentence rang through my ears like a rogue spell:

“Witches and warlocks were granted a hundred year window to amend past mistakes and break the cures, or abort their powers forevermore.”

Make peace?

With the warlocks?

But how?

One thing was clear. I needed answers immediately. Quickly, I memorized the pages and placed the book back on the shelf.

But when I reached the door to the staircase, it wouldn’t budge.

Frantically, I yanked on the knob, desperate to get home and talk to Iris, feeling so betrayed that she hadn’t told me about this before. So I
wasn’t
screwing up my magic after all? My magic was screwed up because of this curse! And now, without a peace treaty, we’d lose it forever?

I took a deep breath.
Calm down.

A tinkling sound, like wind chimes, made me turn to face the stacks again. A lone volume hovered between two aisles. It flew toward me, fast, and I held out my hands just as it smacked into my palms. I lowered them and let the book settle itself in my arms; then I watched as the pages flipped desperately to a glowing page in the middle.

BREAKING THE CURSE: THE ROGHNAITHE

Before the hundred year cycle is complete, a male spellspinner who claims the powers of both light and darkness, and all the magic that title possesses, will appear in the spellspinner community. This chosen spellspinner— the
roghnaithe—is the sole key to unlocking the curse before the great syzygy*.

*
Syzygy
may refer to:

Syzygy (astronomy), a straight line configuration of three celestial bodies

Syzygy (Gnosticism), male-female pairings of the emanations known as aeons

The Oracle

The Oracle offered only this clue (loosely translated from Gaelic to English)

Under a broken rose moon

Lies a broken magic man

With the art of a broken rose moon.

The page ripped itself out and folded itself into a glittery origami rose. I blinked, and tucked it into my backpack. The door opened for me, and I ran down all five flights of stairs, practically flying out the emergency exit.

I didn’t know what the riddle meant—but I could do simple math.

The Hundred Year Curse began in 1911.

We were living in June 2011, weeks away from the Summer Solstice.

The Year of The Curse was about to begin.

I wanted so badly to discuss with Mom what I found out at the library, but first I had to find out what else she was keeping from us—and why.

As I rode my mint green Electra beach cruiser up to the front of my house I was surprised to find my mother sitting cross-legged on our overgrown lawn, cupping what looked like a dead bird in her hand.

I leaned my bike against the garage door. “Mom? What happened?”

She looked up at me, frustration glistening in her eyes. “This baby bird fell out of his nest up there in the old oak tree. And I can’t…seem to do anything for him.”

“You’re trying to”—I lowered my voice—“revive him?”

Bringing things, anything, back from the dead was something we weren’t supposed to do. Those particular spells invited in a darker magic than we practiced, and conflicted with our greater mission of blending in with humans.

“Trying. Trying and failing,” she said, exasperated.

“Mom, but why are you trying?”

“She is just so young,” she said. “And her mother is yearning for her.”

This was bigger than a baby bird.

“But should you…should we be messing with nature like this?”

First Orchid’s revelation about Camellia the secret keeper, and now my mom was breaking strict coven rules in our front yard?

As Iris rocked back and forth, humming a regeneration spell in the old language, bits of which vibrated from her lips, her words hit the air like lightning during a hot summer storm, cracking the air like fireflies.

After, I touched the bird’s neck, searching for a pulse I knew innately wasn’t there.

“Can I try?”

“No. It’s too dangerous.”

“Why is it not too dangerous for you but would be for me?”

“Because you’re my daughter. It is my job to protect you.”

“Mom,” I said, touching her shoulder. “I’m sixteen now. You can’t protect me from everything. Not anymore.”

Her eyes met mine and looked so scared; it made me both angry and sad, because I knew why. Because we were losing our magic and she wasn’t being honest with me about it. But then she squeezed my hand in hers, and I couldn’t be mad at her. She must have a reason. She was probably trying to protect me, like she said. I sighed.

I had to prove to her I was old enough, mature enough to understand what our coven was facing.

If I could revive this bird…

She didn’t say anything, but I knew it was okay for me to try.

I closed my eyes and laid my palm on the bird’s crooked, broken wing. I breathed in the scent of her life force, imagined her open beak begging for food, her new, eager eyes blinking for her mother, the hope and confidence in her soul when she jumped, prematurely, from her nest—trusting that she could fly before she was ready.

Under my hand, a hint of a heartbeat started up. Small at first, and weak, like the baby bird itself. But under my touch, it sped up, and suddenly she was crawling to her clawed feet on my mother’s hand. After a few minutes, while we waited for her to adjust back to life, Iris held up her arm and stared in disbelief as the baby bird flew back up to its nest, where its grateful mother and siblings were waiting.

“Lily Rose,” she said, the weight of what happened indenting the syllables of my name. “How in the world…?”

“I don’t know,” I said. What I wanted to say was, “I went hiking on Black Mountain a few days ago, and since then my magic has been so intense and I keep seeing this guy staring down at me, and I have no idea what’s going on.” But I wouldn’t. Not until she filled me in on the endangered magic.

“You shouldn’t have those skills until you rise at least two more levels,” she said, mostly to herself. “But I’m so…happy you could, honey. Nothing I did was working.”

Her face looked as crushed as that bird’s wing had moments go.

I pressed. I had to. “Do you know why yours wasn’t working?”

A warm wind picked up. My mother’s hair fluttered around her face. “My magic is failing me.”

Mom’s magic, too? “Do you know why?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I do. I haven’t wanted to tell you, sweetie. It’s just…so horrific. We are cursed, the lot of us.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“My magic has been all over the map lately, so I did some research on the Fifth Floor.”

She sighed. “My bright daughter. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

“How do we make peace with the warlocks? I read something—well, here.” I unzipped my backpack, and the origami rose fluttered into my hand.

“Can I…unfold this?”

“Sure,” I said. But she didn’t have to—the paper unfurled itself, spreading out in her palm. She read aloud:

“
Under a broken rose moon

Lies a broken magic man

With the art of a broken rose moon
.”

For a moment, her face was still, her lips pursed. She didn’t look surprised.

“You know what that means?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “The broken rose moon is a mark, a mark on a warlock.”

“A mark?”

“Like the warlock’s ink, but much more important. A transparent mark that only his
mheaitseáil
—his match—can see.”

“Match?”

“His…magical equal.”

“Equal? But they’re our enemies.”

“Indeed,” Iris said. “Which is why breaking the curse has been impossible. And why I fear that in a year’s time our magic will be eradicated forever.”

“What if I can find a warlock who bears the mark? The Roghnaithe?”

“What makes you feel you’d be up to the task?”

“The book said this boy would resist the characteristics of the warlock, right? So he wouldn’t have the rapid aging, he—Mom, it said he’d be able to do something no other modern spellspinners could do. It said he could breathe underwater.”

“Yes.”

“I can breathe underwater, Mom.”

“Yes.” She nodded again.

“So I look for someone like that! If he’s like me, he’ll be in the water as much as he can be.”

“But warlocks aren’t allowed to leave their academy.”

“I’m technically not allowed to leave my boundaries either.”

Iris looked at me with this knowing pride. Like, most kids would’ve been grounded and she was all happy about my conviction. “If the Seven Sisters gave us a clue on how to fix things, they must want us to try. I need to try.”

Iris was quiet.

“You knew I’d want to try.”

“Yes,” she said.

I reread the torn-out page, where it outlined the Roghnaithe’s foretold powers. “So other than the Breathing, and the youth, and whoa, flight? He can fly? How will I know the difference between a human boy and a warlock?”

My mother looked at me, her lilac eyes round with secrets. “You won’t know when you
see
him. You will know when you feel him.”

Feel him?
Spidery unease crawled through my veins, only tinted with something else, something oddly pleasant—a spoonful of honey in bitter green tea.

My throat tightened around my next question, “What does it feel like to be around a warlock?”

I swore Mom’s face flushed when my question hit her ears. “It will feel like…” She glanced down at her long-fingered hands, before tilting her nose in the air like the answer was a bubble she hoped might land on the tip. “It will feel like what you’re doing now.”

“Recovering from a spell?” I glanced up at the bird’s nest, where the reunited avian family was happily singing.

“Like you’re climbing up the tracks of an old roller coaster. That moment right before you fly down the other side. That anticipation that something is going to happen, and then when it does, is wilder than you imagined. When you get off, you’re dizzy and your balance is off, and even though you feel sick and flustered, you’re exhilarated. And the only thing you want to do is get right back on.”

“Really? I thought the whole experience would be painful. Have you ever encountered a warlock outside the Stones, Mom?”

While I waited, I clenched a handful of grass. I’d never heard anyone describe a warlock in anything but negative terms before. What she’d just described sounded, well, not exactly terrible.

Her eyes had filled with inexplicable sadness—a look that made a million questions pop into my head. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Nothing was worse than detecting a crack of weakness in my rock-solid mom, especially when I felt so broken myself.

“Remember, Lily Rose, just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”

Feels good?

“But warlocks aren’t just not good for us. They are our enemies.”

“Yes, since the split they’ve carried hatred in their hearts, gazing upon us only in animosity and hatred. Wanting our magic, yes, but nothing else.”

“But once upon a time it wasn’t like that?”

I waited to see if she’d fess up to any more historical lies she’d thrown my way in their regard, but she didn’t.

“If you go about this mission, tread carefully. Warlocks are terribly dangerous, and no matter what happens you need to remember that at all times. They don’t have our best interest at heart. They only care about themselves.”

“But according to this”—I pointed at the page in the book—“this boy will be different.”

The crystals of melancholy left her face, evaporating altogether, and were replaced by a thin-lipped smile. “That’s right,” she said matter-of-factly. “And in that passage lies a glimmer of hope. But Lily?”

“Yes?”

“Remember, this clue has been around for a hundred years. A warlock suddenly in contact with a curious witch will say anything to make you believe he’s the one. It’s in their nature to want to spend time with you. He’ll say anything to get just one more moment around your energies, your youth. This
roghnaithe
—this chosen one—is different. But the other warlocks are the worst things about our world.”

“But you’re saying I can try.”

“I’m saying”—she held my hand tightly in hers—“never let down your guard.”

I pumped the pedals of my beach cruiser and flew toward the beach so furiously, I thought we might quite literally ascend into flight. To keep the thick rubber tires from fleeing the sidewalk, I ran a grounding spell, forcing my beach-town broomstick to chill out. The last thing I needed was some sort of false UFO sighting in broad daylight, or some kid shouting from his backyard swing, “Look mom, it’s the kid from
E.T.
, only without the alien in the front basket!”

Still, I was pretty freaking fast, whizzing in and out of beach traffic, using my mad clairvoyant skills to anticipate oncoming cars, light changes, and other cyclists.

By the time I got to the beach I was pretty beat, but determined to prove to Mom I could do this for our coven. If a broken magic man existed. And he could Breathe? I was going to find him.

I slipped out of my flip-flops and, holding them in one hand, I ran down to the shore. I knew it was a total long shot. Warlocks weren’t allowed to leave their boundaries, but like I told my mom, witches broke rules, too. We’re not allowed to spin spells in public, and yet we do.

Rules are…bendable.

And I knew from my own experience, the desire to get into the water was so great, there was no way someone who possessed that gift could simply ignore it.