Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty-Two

Grant returned before we made it up the lawn, a crushed camera in his hands. He held the most important part between his fingers—the memory card.

His face was grim as he crushed it, his T-shirt damp with sweat.

“He saw you burn the sign,” Grant told me. “I think I scared him enough that he won’t speak, but we won’t know for sure unless he blabs. There’s nothing else I could have done short of killing him.”

I was hollowed out with exhaustion and fear. “It’ll have to be enough.”

“Morda,” my aunt said sternly, reminding us that she was there. I took a deep breath.

My hands shook violently as I followed my aunt inside, Eve and Grant following close behind me, both offering support.

The entire front half of the house was dark. Someone had covered the windows with heavy curtains and blankets and cardboard—anything to maintain privacy against the protesters.

All the lights were turned off as well; the only light offered came from flickering candles that were casting long shadows along the walls.

The air was cold too, like fall had come early and infected my home. I shivered as my aunt led us into my mother’s voodoo room, her bright eyes shining.

“This happened soon after you left, Morda,” my aunt said as she led us over to the couch. I walked around it slowly, lungs holding the air hostage in my chest.

My mother lay on the couch, her eyes shut and her body completely rigid underneath a thin blanket.

Her skin was ashy and tinged with yellow, her eyes ringed with dark circles, and her mouth pressed into a small, thin line.

It was her hair that frightened me the most. I knelt beside her and let my hands hover over her beautiful dark hair, graying at the tips.

I looked over my shoulder, up at my aunt. She shook her head at me, face grave.

“W—” I stopped and cleared my throat. “What’s wrong with her?”

Aunt Robin let her hand rest on my shoulder.

“There are things we haven’t told you about our world, Morda. Dangerous and terrible things that we didn’t want you to know about until you absolutely had to.”

I touched my mother’s hair gently, it was brittle and coarse, like it may fall out at any moment.

“I don’t understand,” I murmured, fear and anger gnawing away at my gut. “I was only gone for a day…how…what…”

I felt sparks jump through my skin and turned to see Grant, his hand pressed lightly against my neck, his pale eyes unusually warm and kind.

“Maybe we should step outside for a bit, let your mother rest?”

I turned back to my mom, a horrible idea surfacing. “Is she dying?”

My aunt opened her mouth and closed it. She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved to the small table in front of the window and sat down.

She picked up my mother’s tarot cards and shuffled them. She didn’t draw any cards, she didn’t dare.

“We don’t know.”

I lost all my senses. I couldn’t feel the carpet underneath me. I couldn’t hear Grant’s words. I couldn’t smell the burning sage. I couldn’t taste the tears that had slipped into my mouth.

I could no longer see my mother dying before me.

Then it all came back, slamming into me with enough force to squeeze the air from my lungs. My mother might be dying. And somehow, deep down, I knew that it was my fault.

“What happened?” I demanded, urgent for answers so I could find solutions.

“Bellarmine,” my aunt stated. Eve drew in a quick breath. I had heard that word before. Grant had used it when we first met him, when he was asking my mother about the children of the moon.

I turned and looked back at him. Sure enough, his expression was as grave as Eve’s and Aunt Robin’s.

“What is that?” I asked, panic slinking down my spine.

“It’s sometimes called a witch jar,” Grant told me softly. “It’s used to target and harm witches.”

“And someone has what—targeted my mother?”

My aunt’s frown was deep. “Bellarmines are extremely dangerous. In most cases they are… they’re fatal. Someone ~is~ targeting your mother.

“They would have had to collect her hair for the bellarmine, along with other items that aren’t as easy to come by in modern times as they were when we were young.

“Someone has gone to great lengths to harm her.”

“But ~why~?” I pressed.

Eve shrugged. “She’s Clan Mother to a large group of witches. It makes her powerful, and powerful people are always a target.”

My aunt nodded. “Yes, but she didn’t think that was why.”

I whirled. “What? She was awake while this was happening?”

“Only for a few minutes after the bellarmine was planted,” my aunt corrected. “She was only awake long enough to warn me that they were getting rid of her to come after you.”

She held my eyes for a long beat, her face settling into a pattern of resolve. She would protect me.

Grant was rigid beside me. “Who?” he demanded.

“At this point I only have suspicions,” my aunt said.

“I want names,” Grant growled.

I didn’t need to turn around to know that his fists were clenched, that his shoulders were taut, that his lip was raised in a snarl. I knew this, but I couldn’t bring myself to comfort him.

My body wouldn’t turn and take his hand, offer him a smile or some sweet nothings.

My aunt was exasperated. “You don’t understand! None of you do! If you understood, then you punks wouldn’t have run off after some son of the moon.

“If you understood how important Morda’s ceremony was, then you never would have disrespected the clan by fleeing from it.” Her tone was sharp and shrill and completely foreign to me.

She turned to Eve. “You knew better, Eveline. Of course, not one witch was surprised you fled in order to win Morda’s favor.

“All you’ve ever wanted was to take the Celestial Oath, and it seems like you will betray anyone and anything to get it.”

“Hey!” I cut in, defensive. “Eve was helping—”

My aunt whirled to face me, her hair framing her face like a wildfire.

“And ~you~—after everything the clan did to prepare for your ceremony. You left us ~vulnerable~. You left knowing full well what you were going to put your mother and I through. You left for some boy—”

“He’s not—”

“No, he is!” my aunt yelled, scaring me. “He is just ~some boy~. And you chose him, ~you chose him~, over your mother and me. Over the women who have raised and loved and protected you.

“And why? Because you think you love him.” I felt Grant flinch behind me. “Because you’ve been told that this mating bond comes before any other. Let me tell you, Morda, just how wrong you are.”

“Robin,” Eve cut in.

My aunt raised a finger to no one in particular and then let it fall.

“I just don’t understand, Morda. I really don’t. I understand the lure of lovers, of course I do, but I never thought you would hold men above your family.

“I wish you had been alive as long as me, I wish you had my perspective and knowledge, I wish you could see just how ~foolish~ and ~childish~ you were last night.”

I didn’t know how to respond. My mind was completely blank. All I knew was that I hadn’t felt like I was betraying my family in going after Ben, I felt obliged to save him.

But now I knew better, now I realized that I hadn’t felt like a traitor because I hadn’t even stopped long enough to consider how they would feel.

I looked down at my mother, and a pang of guilt chimed through me. She had always been there for me, had always closed the shop, dropped everything, ran to me if I needed her. I had let her down.

“She was trying to save someone she loves,” Grant rumbled. “How was she supposed to know that this would happen? You’ve already admitted to withholding information from her—”

My aunt was on fire. “What would you know, werewolf?”

“I know betrayal,” Grant countered, voice like thunder.

“I know what it is like to be betrayed by your kin. What Morda chose last night was not betrayal. You should be proud that your niece was brave enough to try and save Ben.”

My aunt all but ignored Grant. “I want you to feel the weight of this, Morda.” Each word felt like a curse. Each word bound my guilt closer to my body.

“I want you to know that you’ve played a heavy hand in what’s happened to your mother. This is your fault.”

I blinked, and all of a sudden the pressure and guilt and anger and fire I had been carrying around with me imploded.

I was screaming on the inside as every wall I built up, every thought I pushed aside, every feeling I couldn’t control was demolished and then set ablaze. It was my fault.

I was pissed. I would never lead. I didn’t know who to love or how to love them. I was on fire.

Guilt. Anger. Shame. Insecurity. Burning.

“Robin!” Eve snapped. “It’s not her fault!”

“How ~dare~ you,” Grant seethed, standing now. “How ~dare~ you pin her mother’s death—”

“Morda couldn’t have known—”

“You’ll take that comment back now or else I’ll—”

“There was no way to predict—”

I looked up, my gaze cutting directly to my aunt who was ready and willing to receive my eyes. She stared at me intensely, every word spoken by Eve or Grant was too low to catch her.

She held my stare, communicating what I already knew, what I already felt. I was guilty. And I had to repent.

I stood up, prompting Eve and Grant to fall silent. “It is my fault.”

I was careful to keep my eyes firmly away from my mother. I couldn’t stand to look at her. Not until I had made amends. Not until I had fixed this.

“Morda—”

“I will fix this,” I proclaimed. “I know who’s done this.

“It was Kale, he’s the only one who hates witches. He’s the one who organized the rally, he’s the one who made the bellarmine, and he’s the one who took it too far by going after my mother.”

I felt fire in my veins, felt it emitting from my heart and pumping throughout my body. I felt it rush along my arms, into my hands and along my fingers. I felt the spark, felt the flame, felt the burn.

“No, Morda,” my aunt said, “it wasn’t the boy. This is something else entirely—”

“No,” I insisted, feeling flushed. “It was Kale. It had to be. He was just lucky enough to stumble upon something legit on the internet.”

Aunt Robin shook her head. “Trust me—”

I looked down at my mother and couldn’t hear the rest of my aunt’s words. I was alone in the room with my thoughts. I had failed my mother. Kale was responsible for my failure. He would burn for it.

I turned sharply on my heel and headed to the front hallway, ignoring the others as they called me back.

I felt Grant’s hand on my arm first, him being the quickest. He recoiled quickly, concern sketched all over his face.

“Morda—you’re burning up—you have a fever.”

“I’ll be back later,” I told him, my voice flat and low. “Stay here.”

“No, Morda. Wherever you go, I go,” Grant promised. “You ~need~ me with you tonight.”

I felt impatience brush along my spine. “No, I need to be alone.”

The fire was sinking into the bottom of my stomach now, heating the core of me. I felt the flames lick my lungs, graze my ribs, crawl along the column of my back. I needed to let them loose.

I felt a blast of heat brush my back as I passed through the doorway. I looked over my shoulder and saw a wall of flame behind me, preventing anyone from following.

The flames were smokeless and bright red, swirling and snapping.

My mind was elsewhere as I walked down the center of the road. The moon fell on my skin, and I took power from it. The fire in my blood made me feel like the night’s shadows were unable to touch me.

I felt powerful and wildly, terribly, out of control.

A few feet ahead was a tiny, dark shape, twitching in the middle of the street. I bent beside it and then recoiled, realizing what it was. A dying black bird.

My mind reeled, taking me back to that first night in the forest. The night I had tried to save the damned bird and was chased by wolves instead. I knew what this sign meant.

Leave it alone.

I left the bird behind me.

Kale had lived in the same house all his life. When his parents divorced, Kale chose to stay with his dad, and his mom left town.

There wasn’t a cruiser in the driveway, so I figured Kale’s dad was on call. I smiled and started up the pathway.

My knuckles protested as I rapped against the door, not letting up until I heard Kale’s heavy footsteps echo behind the door.

He yanked the door open angrily, groggy from sleep and confused by my disturbance. He cleared the sleep out of his eyes and smirked when he saw who I was.

I punched him in the face. Kale reeled backward, blood spraying from his nose and onto his bare chest. His hands flew to his face, surprise and rage making him inaudible.

“What the f—” he cursed as blood continued to flow over his mouth and down his chin, dripping down the column of his throat.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

Kale had regained some composure as his nosebleed started to lighten up. “What the hell are you doing here? You have no right—”

“I didn’t think you knew the meaning of private property anymore,” I said coldly, “not after you violated my family’s privacy. Not after you shamed and embarrassed and harassed them.”

Kale rolled his eyes.

“Lighten up, it was a few nonsensical, hopped-up Christians who hate wizards and witches and believe in the boogeyman. None of them were going to harm your family, Morda, it was harmless fun.”

“Uttering death threats isn’t fun,” I snapped.

“You think a few ~hopped-up Christians~ aren’t capable of serious harm? Thousands of women were persecuted and executed for witchcraft. Do you think that’s funny?”

Kale was starting to get it. “N-no,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry I—”

I felt nothing toward him except blind rage. I took no pity in his bloodstained shirt, the bruise that was slowly blooming beneath both eyes.

All I had to do was think of my mother and any mercy evaporated.

“What else is funny?” I asked. “Did you and your friends think it was funny to make a bellarmine? Were you all laughing, wondering just how sick my mother would get?

“I bet it was fucking hysterical to you when you pictured her dying as you buried it.”

Kale’s eyes were wide. “Wh—what? No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your mother? Is she—”

My throat was full of ashes. “You tried to kill her. You made and planted a bellarmine, a witch jar. Don’t deny it, Kale. Who else would have done it? Who else suddenly hates witches? Hmm?

“You broke your promise to me, you were supposed to drop this stunt after I gave you that stupid potion, and you went ahead and went too far.”

Kale held up his hands. Prey surrendering to a predator. “I didn’t—I don’t even know what a witches—witch j-jar is! I’m sorry about the signs and the crowd, it won’t happen again—I won’t—”

It was too late. I was a fire tearing through a forest, blazing stronger with each tree I devoured. I was unstoppable. In a moment, my left hand was engulfed in flame.

Kale screamed in terror. I felt a rush of adrenaline and heat rip through me.

“Congratulations,” I whispered, “you caught me. I’m a witch. Unfortunately, I’m a very pissed off witch with ten years of memories recalling you bullying me and a dying mother.”

Kale backed himself against a wall, eyes wide with panic and terror. He was crying too, terrible heaving sobs that racked up all sorts of mucus and saliva.

He closed his eyes as I took a step closer, lifting my hand to his face. I watched my flames draw sweat from his skin.

“Where is the bellarmine?” I asked.

Kale was quivering. His nose started to bleed again, and he did nothing to stop it as blood flowed freely into his mouth, coating his teeth red. “Please, please, please,” he begged, “please, God, no.”

Somehow, through my grief and through my rage, I was able to recognize how revolting Kale was. How pitiful and sorry and useless. I felt a pang of pity, an echo of mercy.

He was just a spineless bully. Just a stupid guy raised with an air of entitlement.

A wave of protectiveness swept through me as I thought of my mother. Thought of her yellow pallor, her sunken eyes, her graying hair. I heard my aunt’s words, heard her call me guilty.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

I looked back to Kale and felt my lip curl upward as hate nestled itself deep in my chest. Being a stupid boy was no longer an excuse. Not knowing better wasn’t a defense.

Having a tough time was no longer a valid reason for being a bully, for lashing out at others. He was guilty.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

I pressed my flaming hand against his arm, listened to his flesh burn, to him scream. “Where is the bellarmine?” I pressed, my voice tight.

He didn’t answer me. He just shook his head and cried. I touched the side of his neck. His scream was guttural and raw, his throat tearing itself apart.

“Where is it?” I yelled. I pressed my hand against his thigh, and he bucked underneath me, still screaming, begging. “Where the ~fuck~ is it?” I screamed, my voice breaking.

“I don’t know,” he wailed. “Please. Please! ~PLEASE!~”

I slammed my hand against the wall, and the entire room caught fire, all four walls blazing. “You. Are. ~Lying~,” I hissed.

The curtains caught fire, and then the couch. I was burning too, my head thumping and swirling.

I grabbed the front of his shirt, and with strength I didn’t possess, I dragged him to the center of the room and threw him to the ground.

I planted my foot firmly on his chest, and a ring of fire sprang up around us. Kale screamed and screamed, tears and snot and blood covering his face and neck.

His skin was raised in ugly bumps where I had burned him, deep red in some places and blackened completely in others.

I could see the outline of my slender fingers, could see clearly the lines of my hatred.

I crouched down slowly, my long hair grazing Kale’s bare chest. He was breathing hard, his nostrils flaring as he fought pain and sheer terror.

“You disgust me,” I whispered. “You bullied me even though I was your friend, you left me to be torn apart by wolves, you harassed me for what I am, and you tried to kill my mother.

“I should let you burn, but I am going to give you another chance to tell me where the bellarmine is planted.”

Kale swore and cried and swore again. “I don’t ~know~. I never tried to kill your—fuck. I’m sorry for everything, just please don’t—please no… No! No!”

I smothered his voice with my hand, burning his skin. He writhed underneath me, trying to buck me off him as his instincts kicked in. He couldn’t flee, so he had to fight.

He threw me with enough force to dislodge my hand from his mouth, and then he only screamed. Screamed and screamed as he reached up to touch the ruined skin.

I felt vomit rise hot and fast in my throat and couldn’t stop myself before I was sick all over the floor. Kale was screaming and sobbing and gurgling up blood.

The room was spinning around me, and I was suddenly ice cold. The air was hot, and the smoke was stinging my eyes and lungs, and I was going to be sick again.

“Morda!” Grant’s voice was bliss.

I retched again, dragging up whatever was in my stomach. Kale touched his face and shrieked as skin came off in his hand.

I fell backward, and the ring of fire around us winked out. I scrambled backward, away from my mess, away from Kale.

Grant was yelling my name. I turned and saw him through the smoke, one hand holding his shirt over his face and the other cupped to cover his eyes as he searched for me.

I wanted to yell out to him, but I had no voice, it had been burned away.

Everything was ablaze now. I listened as glass smashed, a picture frame falling apart as the outside was turned to ash.

The ceiling was popping as the structure of the house started to expand from the heat. Patches of drywall were falling, lighting rugs and furniture on fire.

I felt Grant’s hands on me and pushed him away, motioning toward Kale. He didn’t argue. He went right over to the ruined boy and picked him up before disappearing into the thick smoke.

I pushed myself to my feet and closed my eyes, drawing every ounce of fire I had in me to the tips of my fingers.

When I opened my eyes, I screamed and threw my arms out wide, tossing my head back as I let all the flame loose and then folded over quickly, consuming the fire inside me.

“Morda!” I jolted awake, realizing that I had passed out. I blinked and looked around me.

I was in Kale’s house. It was completely blackened by flame and smoke and soot. But it wasn’t burning anymore, and neither was I. I was cold and shaking, my body drawn up into a tight ball.

“Morda, Morda!” Grant breathed, his hands brushing my hair away from my face and turning me over. “Thank the fucking goddess, I thought—I thought—”

He swallowed roughly and placed his forehead against mine. He jumped back in a second. “You’re burning up.”

“I want to go home,” I mumbled, half delirious.

He swore. “Shit, I know. Your aunt and some of the clan are outside—they’re healing Kale.

“Don’t worry—they think they can help him, maybe make him forget. The house, though… it’ll be chalked up to an accident.”

I closed my eyes as my stomach rolled. I didn’t want to hear any of that. I didn’t want to think about what I had just done. What I had just become.

I was a monster, straight from Grimm’s tales. I wasn’t human.

“I want to go ~home~,” I cried, my voice low and heavy with tears. “~Take me home~.”

Grant was silent as he scooped me into his arms, one hand bracing my back while the other cradled my knees. He tucked my face into the crook of his neck. He smelled like ash. I wanted to throw up again.

“Shh,” he murmured as he kissed my forehead. “I’ll take you home.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to see her.” He nodded, understanding. He always understood.

I didn’t remember Grant fighting off the other witches, I didn’t remember him carrying me across town, I didn’t remember him placing me in his bed.

I didn’t remember waking up and screaming hours later, sheets drenched in sweat and tears.

I didn’t remember Grant stripping me down and placing me in a bathtub filled with ice. I didn’t remember him shoving a thermometer into my mouth every half an hour.

I didn’t remember crying or screaming or fighting him off. I didn’t remember Grant swearing and telling me how he hated me, how he was afraid of me, afraid for me.

All I remembered was Grant tucking me into bed, my body blissfully cool and my mind beautifully tired. I remembered curling my toes in the cold sheets and tucking my face into his chest.

I remembered our legs tangled together, his fingers running over my hair and down my shoulder. I remembered him telling me he loved me, remembered his gentle, fleeting kiss.

And I remembered nothing more.