Fifteen
Brenda came over carrying a tray of lemonade and cookies. It was good to be together again at the Purple Raven. Everything seemed to be back to normal. Well, except that Bryce’s arm was in a sling, and Mr Barrow was in jail.
‘Yeah, apparently when the police found him in the wreckage he immediately confessed to having killed the woman of Queen’s Cross and Captain Sharpe,’ Dean said.
‘I think Vania’s spell was still working on him,’ said Amelia, taking a sip of her lemonade before turning to me. ‘And you brought the tree down, too?’
I nodded and took a big bite out of my cookie – business as usual . . . I could make trees crash down and killers confess, and eat cookies without a care in the world.
As my coven chatted among themselves I thought about my decision not to tell anyone what Barrow had said about me being the child of the woman of Queen’s Cross and a real witch, or the existence of the Anti-Witches League. I was still coming to terms with how bizarre it all was, and I didn’t want to freak out my coven. I needed more time to process everything on my own before sharing it.
I hadn’t said anything to my parents, either. When I’d been brought home by the police that night, my father had grounded me for the rest of my life. But when the officer had told him that Barrow had confessed to being the killer, my father actually said he was sorry he had doubted me.
He had put his arms around me and said, ‘That’s my girl.’
I had wanted to say, ‘But I’m not your girl, am I? Not really,’ but I kept my mouth closed. My mother had just stood there with a stricken look on her face.
Brenda’s voice drew me back from my thoughts.
‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Not a bad night’s work – sending a murderer to prison and no doubt getting an A+ for doing it!’ She raised her glass and we all chinked our drinks together. Our group would definitely ace the elective course; in fact, the principal had already honoured us at a special assembly, calling us up onto the podium while the entire school applauded us. We were officially cool for all the right reasons now.
‘Here’s to solving mysteries!’ Dean said.
‘I could get used to doing this,’ I said. ‘It would be good to keep using our magic to help people and bring justice to bad dudes!’
‘As long as I don’t get shot again – not fun,’ Bryce said wryly.
‘Thank you for taking a bullet for me, Bryce,’ I said. He probably had saved my life when he’d leapt in front of me as Mr Barrow fired the gun.
‘No sweat, you’re worth it.’ He grinned at me.
Brenda got up and started to clear the table.
‘Let me help you,’ I said. I collected some empty glasses and followed her out to the kitchen. Do you think the amulet is the reason Bryce was only shot in the arm? Did it protect him?’
‘I’d say so,’ she said. She took the glasses from my hands and stacked them in the dishwasher.
‘Do I leave it there or try to get it back?’
She pushed the dishwasher drawer closed. ‘If you can retrieve it I can place it back in the box to recharge it in case we need it again.’
I nodded and, picking up a serving tray, I returned to the dining area.
‘By the way, does this belong to anybody?’ Bryce was saying, holding up the amulet.
I gulped – what were the odds?
‘There’d been a weird smell in my room all week. I finally tracked it down to this thing under my mattress,’ he said.
‘Actually, Bryce, I put it there,’ I confessed. ‘Brenda had a vision and said that you needed protection. She told me to place it near where you sleep, but I couldn’t tell you or the magic wouldn’t work.’
‘Well, as much as it stinks, I’m glad you left it in my room. Who knows where that bullet would have gone if you hadn’t?’
I shuddered at the thought and took the amulet from him. ‘I’ll give it back to Brenda.’
With his good arm he pulled me to him and gave me a hug.
‘Thank you, Vania.’
My heart was pounding.
I stepped back and, clutching the amulet to my chest, I retreated to the kitchen.
I enjoyed the feeling of warm dirt crumbling between my fingers. Dean had given me some seeds to start a herb garden. I was planting lavender, mugwort, sage and yarrow in a corner of our backyard that got lots of sun. I also had a bag of clear quartz crystal pieces, which Dean had instructed me to stud around the perimeter of my garden. This would protect my magical herbs and increase their power when it came time to harvest them for my spell-casting.
I was methodically pressing tiny lemon-coloured nuggets of potential life into the earth when I heard footsteps approaching.
‘Vania, we need to talk.’
It was my mother.
‘Okay, about what?’ I said, trying to act casual even though the air between us rippled with tension.
‘The woman of Queen’s Cross,’ she said.
I looked at her and the setting sun made her skin glow like she was cut out of a different dimension – one that I was not a part of. I went back to methodically pressing the seeds into the rich, dark earth.
‘I was so shocked when you told us you were researching the death of that woman,’ my mother pressed on. ‘I wanted to tell you something right then, but your father said it would only open Pandora’s box. So I didn’t say anything.’
I continued to focus my attention on the seeds. My mother was about to confess that I was not really hers. In fact, I was not really anyone’s. My real mother was dead, murdered and burned in a fire. And I carried within me the magic that had led to her death.
And I had to pretend that I didn’t know.
‘Vania, when I was twenty-five years old I was very sick and the doctor told me I could never have children of my own.’ My mother paused, searching my face for a response. I made my eyes open wide like I was surprised to be hearing this. ‘My darling, you are adopted. Your father found you in the house that night of the fire. I begged him to adopt you.’
She took a step towards me, but I drew away.
‘Even though you were not born of my body, you are born of my heart. I have never wanted anything in my life more than I wanted you,’ she said.
I turned my back to this stranger-woman and ran more dirt through my fingers. I wished I could dig a hole to bury myself in and make all this go away.
But as many answers as I had now, I still had one more question.
‘Why did we move back here?’ I asked.
‘When your father’s friend died and they offered him the job back here, I encouraged him to take it. I thought it would be better for you to live in America, your birthplace. I thought enough time had passed. Never in a million years did I think that you would end up looking into the death of the woman . . . of your mother.’
‘The laws of quantum physics say that everything is interconnected, so I would say it was unavoidable,’ I said.
‘You are so smart, my darling. It’s good you aren’t my biological child. God forbid if you had my intellect. I’m such a simple woman.’
As much as I was feeling distanced from this woman, who had been my mother up until a few days ago, I couldn’t bear to hear her talking like this.
‘You are smart!’ I protested.
‘I can’t even operate a computer!’
‘Well, you can operate a sewing machine and that’s way more complicated, trust me!’
There was silence for a moment, and then we both laughed a little. The atmosphere softened around us. I remembered that no matter whether I was born from her body or not, she had raised me . . . and I loved her.
‘Vania, we adopted you – you are our child and we love you very much. Your father is a man of few words, but he does love you. But in our generation men weren’t always allowed to show their feelings – and being on the force all these years has made him tough, you know?’
She hesitated and, to make it easier for her, I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
‘He tries to make me happy, and he wants the best for you, he really does. That’s why he took the job in Australia. He thought it would be better for you to grow up somewhere far away, where you wouldn’t have the stigma of being her child.’
The child of a dead woman. I ran my hands through the dirt again. It crumbled between my fingers and tears tumbled down my cheeks as I allowed myself to really think about all the unsettling new information in my head now. I was crying hot tears of release, and it felt good. It was okay to be different – it was okay to be me. I knew who I was now, and I was free to continue on with my life. Practically and magically.
My mother squatted down next to me. ‘Come here, honey.’
She put her arms around me and I melted into her. It didn’t matter that I was the daughter of a dead witch – this woman was the only mother I needed right now.
It was late and the door to my bedroom was closed shut. My parents and I had talked about my need for privacy, and they had explained that their rule had been enforced not from a place of wanting to inhibit me but from a place of wanting to protect me. After my precarious beginnings in the world they’d never wanted me to be that vulnerable again.
The waning moon hung low in the sky. Through my bedroom window I gazed at the sliver of celestial beauty, so evocative and magical, and its dim light led my thoughts back again to the woman of Queen’s Cross – my mother. She was a witch, and she had been casting a spell when she was killed. It had been a love spell, surely – the rose quartz, chilli and honey, the seven candles, all added up to love. But love under what intention?
I lifted the corner of the rug and prised up the loose floorboard. Despite our improving openness and trust, I still wasn’t ready to tell my parents about my magic. I sensed that it was more important than ever to keep my craft secret. Now I knew there was an Anti-Witches League and I was the daughter born of the last true witch in the world, I needed to keep a low profile. Plus I was pretty sure my parents would freak out if they knew I was a witch.
From the very bottom of the pile I retrieved my most prized spell book. It had a yellowed leather cover and the title was stamped into the surface in brown dye: Ancient Charms. It was over a hundred years old. Dean had bartered for it on eBay for three weeks before winning the bid at a hundred and forty-three dollars. I had cashed in a childhood gold bangle and pair of gold earrings at the pawn shop to come up with ninety-nine dollars, and he had chipped in the rest on the promise that I would not do any spells from the book without his involvement. As my witchling, he was in this with me.
But as I lay sprawled out on my bedroom floor with my door luxuriously closed and the night being mine alone, I figured he wouldn’t mind if I did just one spell without him.
I flicked through the pages, scanning the text for any mention of chillies, honey, rose . . . and on page 66 I found the magic words.
TRUE LOVE COME TO ME
Hold sacred rose of crystal bone
And love shall find a constant home
Cut the heat of chilli sweet
Conjure up true love’s heartbeat
Christened tongue of honey bee
Say ‘Come to me’ thrice times three
Seven flames below and above
Will show the way of one’s true love
This had to be the spell my mother had been performing the night she was murdered. It made me think of my father. Who was he? In all the upheaval it hadn’t occurred to me until now. Why would my mother have been casting a love spell? Did my father not love her? Did she not know who he was?
I didn’t like thinking that I might be the product of some random forgotten night.
I was a real witch, maybe I could cast the spell . . . and find out who my true love was. At the very least it would put an end to the expectations my coven had about Bryce and me. I could rule that out once and for all and not have to suffer any more embarrassment.
And I would have a boyfriend! Something I had never had in my whole sixteen years.
I carefully cracked open the door of my bedroom. How ironic that it would have been easier if it had already been open.
I went to the kitchen and got honey and a knife. Chillies were a bit of an issue. We only had dried flakes in a jar. I grabbed them regardless – I was going to have to improvise a bit. I thought back to the newspaper article and how it had mentioned salt and a black pot being found at the scene. Even though this spell didn’t mention these items, I knew I could incorporate them. Salt was for purity; it would help my spell work smoothly. And I was now sure the pot my mother had been found with was actually a witch’s cauldron. But we didn’t have a cauldron in our kitchen cupboard – only a black saucepan. That was close enough, I decided.
I returned to my room. As I passed my parents’ door I noticed it was shut and it occurred to me that they were probably enjoying the privacy now, too.
Closing my door carefully I placed everything on the floor in the centre of my room. I retrieved a piece of rose quartz from my jewellery box and a bag of small tealight candles from under my bed.
I needed to place the flames ‘below and above’, which was a little confusing, but I settled on putting four tealights along my windowsill and three on the floor in front of me.
As I lit the candles in my window I noticed the waning moon about to slip over the edge of the earth, so low it hung on the horizon. It was not a full moon, and perhaps not the best night to do magic. But all the magic I needed, I knew now, was inside me, in my blood.
I sat in front of the candles and chopped the chilli flakes into smaller pieces. In the saucepan I mixed the chilli and salt together and then, letting my intuition guide me, I sprinkled the mixture in the shape of a heart in front of me. I took the lid off the honey jar and stuck my finger into it. I withdrew it, sticky and sweet, and placed it in my mouth. My tongue was now christened with honey.
Holding the rose quartz to my heart, I gazed at the flames, focusing on the intention of my spell – to know true love.
A sphere of blue light appeared around me, sparkling like a million diamonds were floating in it.
My honeyed lips silently mouthed the words: ‘Come to me. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.’
I awoke on the floor. The candles were still burning, but I had no idea how long I’d been lying there. I looked at the clock on my desk and its glowing digital display said three a.m.
I pushed myself up to a seated position. I felt stiff and my head hurt.
The chilli heart was intact, but a row of ants had found the honey and climbed up the side of the jar. My eyes followed them all the way to my window. The moon was gone and the sky was dark.
I went to the window to blow out the candles . . . and heard a loud rustle outside. I ducked down below the sill.
I heard more rustling, louder still, and then there was a sharp tap on the glass.
I froze. What had I conjured up at this time of night during a waning moon?
‘Vania . . .’
It was my name but whispered in an eerie, unfamiliar way.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck.
‘Vania, it’s me.’
This time the voice sounded a little more familiar.
I peered up over the edge of the sill and the fading candlelight illuminated the face of . . .
Bryce.
I clasped my hand to my mouth.
He smiled and lowered his eyes, his long eyelashes dusting his cheeks. ‘Can I come in?’ he whispered.
I looked at my door. It was closed firmly. I put my fingers to my lips before whispering, ‘Yes.’ I carefully slid the candles out of the way.
Even with his arm in a sling he climbed through the window effortlessly. He looked deep into my eyes before reaching forward and taking my hand. ‘I had to come to you.’
I nodded.
When his lips touched mine they were velvety soft and more delicious than I could have ever imagined.
He put his arm around my waist and drew me close, pressing his lips more firmly to mine. I offered no resistance as he kissed me deeper and deeper, his tongue parting my lips until we were completely merged in bliss.
‘Mmm.’ He took his lips from mine just for a moment. ‘You taste like honey.’
We lay down together carefully on my bed, his injured arm resting on my chest, and I felt the strength of his body as our legs entwined and his heart beat steadily. We fit each other perfectly, slotting together like pieces of a puzzle.
Now I could see that all along, ever since I’d met him, the energy and the chemistry between us had been real and made sense. I’d been holding back; I’d thought I wasn’t good enough to experience something this wonderful – and I’d pushed it away.
I wanted to say sorry for all the times that I’d been angry and confused, and lashed out at him, at the coven.
Bryce’s beautiful green eyes glowed with warmth as he smiled and ran his hand over my hair. ‘I can’t believe the time we’ve wasted. I thought you just wanted to be friends; that you kept brushing me off because you wanted to concentrate on learning magic. So I tried to just be your friend. It was never enough. But I’m guessing now, you don’t really want to stay just friends?’ I could feel his chest shake slightly under my ear as he gave a small chuckle. But when I moved my head to reply, he just pulled me closer and pressed his lips to mine again. This wasn’t a time for regret – it was time only for being in the moment – the most magical of my life.
We kissed for hours until the sun made its presence felt in the sky as pale-pink light. I had never, ever felt as happy.
‘Vania, I always knew . . .’
And now I knew, too.
My true love was Bryce.
He always was – and he always would be.
Acknowledgements
My first work of fiction could not have been completed without these people.
Thank you to everyone at Allen & Unwin, and especially to my publisher, Anna McFarlane. Wow, Anna, I am so blessed to have connected with you. Thank you for believing in me and for giving me this chance and being the most amazing publisher an author could ever dream for. To Rachael Donovan, thanks for your patience and support – especially through the intense last stages of this book! To my editors, Clare James, Jeanmarie Morosin and Elise Jones, thank you for your terrifyingly thorough critiques and suggestions!
And I’m blessed to have so many other supportive people in my life. To Sarah Lassez, thank you, my dear friend and ally. I truly could not have written this book without your wisdom, insight and encouragement. Julia Ball, Kearie Peak and Melissa Torre, thank you my gorgeous friends for your support and enthusiasm throughout this whole process! To my beloved niece Julia Battese, thank you for reading the early pages of this book with all the big words, and for telling me you liked the enchanted cookies! And to Maddy and Claire Whittaker – Black and Blue! My Bandana Crew! Thanks for keeping me writing with a smile on my face! And to Bill Beattie, you planted the seed with me years ago, I hope you like the fruit! I will always treasure our connection. Thank you Jeff Sears, for your patience during the times I doubted myself writing this. And for listening to all my reading performances of this baby as it grew along the way, and getting me out of creative ruts with your ideas and input. To Diane Lake, thank you for being a true angel on this earth. And to Dannii Minogue, you wave a mean virtual pompom, hon! Thank you, for cheering me down the home stretch and across the finish line! Thank you, Jane Palfreyman – way back in the day you gave me my first writing break, which I will forever be grateful for. I am so happy to be back in the fold with you.
About the author
Fiona Horne is an Australian rock musician, radio and television personality, actress and author. She is famous for her public promotion of witchcraft and as the singer in Australian band Def FX. She has also written several bestselling books on witchcraft and magic and is considered a worldwide authority on Modern Witchcraft, being invited to speak at Harvard University on the subject in 2006.