Blood Magic (The Blood Journals) Read online

  “I couldn’t see my reflection in them. Sure sign of enchantment.”

  I sighed. “Why do you love her?”

  “I don’t.” Philip swallowed the last of his brandy, too. “I don’t love her.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, but she is lovely and is so many other things that I am not.”

  “You’re a gentleman, Philip. You could marry her if you liked.”

  “And what? Teach her to measure blood as you do? Besides, I am no gentleman. I was born lower than you, Josie.”

  “You’ve risen above it, then, and no one would know.”

  “The Deacon found me in a cemetery,” he said, his head falling back onto the sofa. “I was running with a gang of resurrectionists, stealing corpses to sell to medical colleges. He recognized my strong blood, as I did yours, and took me away to teach me all these things. God Almighty, that was a long time ago.”

  I joined him on the sofa, placing my hand on his knee. “It only seems so, Philip. You aren’t so much older than I.”

  His lips turned up. “I am a hundred years old, Josephine.”

  I had not thought I could still be startled by him. “How?” I whispered.

  “A charm, of course. Or a potion, truthfully. And it will not work on those without our magical blood. The Deacon has tried it on others, and always it fails.”

  “What spell?” I sat up straight.

  “Carmot. He called it carmot.”

  I grabbed his hands. “Show me, Philip. Show me.”

  Weaving his fingers with mine, he still hesitated.

  “I swear I shall not touch her again, or anyone. I will be good, Philip. You can help me, and together we will Please.”

  “We do deserve each other, do we not?” he said.

  I smiled. “I promise we do.” I took his face in my hands. “You do not need her, or anyone, Philip.” I kissed him, and he kissed me back. I want always to remember the desperate way his fingers clung to my hips.

  NICHOLAS

  I slept like ass, exhausted and sweating, as if I could squeeze all my frustration out through my pores. Every time I actually fell asleep, I jerked awake again like there was this fail-safe refusing to let me dream.

  What I wanted was to see Silla. To confess everything to her. I wanted to tell her that I’d known about the magic, I’d known it was possible, but that all I’d remembered before yesterday was that it hurt, that it broke my mom into a billion bloody pieces.

  But I decided I needed to wait until at least lunch. Didn’t want to come on too strong and then tell her I knew about the magic and I was sorry for lying. She’d think I was psycho. If I was lucky.

  So I snuck downstairs to grab a box of cereal. Back in my room, I flicked on my computer. In order to try and make sense of the jumble of memories swimming around in my skull, I laid out all the ingredients from Mom’s lacquered box and began making a list of the spells in Mr. Kennicot’s book, and a list of ingredients. I cross-referenced them with the ingredients Mom had. The spells seemed to fit into three categories: healing, transformation, protection. Except the possession spell. I ended up putting it into the transformation category, but really, it was more offensive, wasn’t it? Closing my eyes, I tried to remember what other things Mom had done. But it had been so long ago, and the specific memories were almost impossible to access consciously. It had felt like she was mostly entertaining me, and teaching me the rules … not how to do particular things. When I’d been so young, I hadn’t thought seriously about learning it all, and by the time I was old enough, Mom had gone off the deep end and I hated the stuff.

  Most of the ingredients I didn’t recognize I found in quick Internet searches. They were mostly obscure names for common plants, a couple of which were poisonous. Or had a history of being used in medieval magic for potions called things like “flying ointment” or “all-remedy.” Except for carmot. The jar in the box was nearly empty. Just a quarter inch of rusty red powder was left. The word itself didn’t explain what it was. Carmot, according to the Net, was the secret ingredient in the philosopher’s stone, that great alchemical grail that would let the alchemist live forever.

  But nobody knew what it was.

  Except, apparently, my mom. And she definitely hadn’t wanted to live forever.

  I glanced at the computer clock. Only ten. Probably it was too early to head to Silla’s. So I reluctantly checked my email for the first time in a week. Not much there besides a few alerts from the Chicago music scene, letting me know about the bands headlining the Anthem Dog downtown and discount tickets to Red Velvet for Dinner. There were three from Mikey, though, and one from Kate, both wanting to know what the hell I was up to and why I hadn’t called or emailed.

  I fell in with some blood witches, I thought. Then I didn’t even think about you for a week.

  I couldn’t possibly explain Silla to them, or what it was like here in Yaleylah. But I wasted some time skimming through a handful of social networking sites I used to hang out on. I didn’t update my status or respond to notifications. It felt so distant from where I was, but when I logged in to Facebook, I had a swarm of friend requests from Yaleylah High, and I didn’t respond to those, either.

  By the time my stomach let me know I’d dicked around long enough, it was almost noon.

  Dropping the spell book into my messenger bag, I headed downstairs. Lilith was working on her laptop in the dining room, with a bunch of papers strewn around and marked up with purple. She glanced up, but seemed so in the zone she didn’t even recognize me. I decided to take small miracles, and built myself a sandwich in the kitchen. I had no idea where Dad was.

  After stuffing the sandwich down my throat, I called, “Going out, back later!” and took off.

  Reese’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, but the little VW Rabbit was, along with a shiny silver Toyota Avalon crusted with fresh gravel dust. I frowned, but continued up the creaky porch steps to knock on the door. In the shade, it was about ten degrees cooler and I didn’t have to squint through the sunlight. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  “Coming!” Judy’s voice rang through the open windows. Maybe the guest was just one of her friends. As Judy opened the door, I straightened and put on a smile. “Hi, Nick!” She grinned. Gold bangles swayed from her ears, and her white hair was tucked up under a blue and purple scarf. “Come on in. Silla’s upstairs napping. She and Reese were awake pretty late last night. I can run up to see if she’s still asleep.” Judy trotted back down the hall, her heels clicking on the wood floor like the patter of raindrops. I followed more slowly back toward the stairs and noticed two mugs sitting on the kitchen table as I passed.

  One of the hallway doors opened, and a woman popped out. Behind her head I saw packed bookshelves. A library or study, I guessed. “Hello,” she said, smiling smoothly.

  I jerked my chin in greeting.

  “You must be Nick Pardee.”

  God, I hated small towns. The woman looked like she’d come from church: knee-length skirt, pearl-edged sweater, thick hair up in one of those twists that’s supposed to make you look elegant or something. She was probably only thirty or so. Maybe younger. Hard to tell. Would probably get along with Lilith.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Nick. I’m Ms. Tripp. I work at the school.”

  “Friend of Judy’s?” I glanced toward the stairs Judy’d scuttled up.

  “Of Silla’s, really. I was stopping by to see how she’s doing.”

  “She’s fine.” It was a struggle not to cross my arms over my chest.

  Ms. Tripp smiled again. “I’m sure she is, Nick.”

  “I didn’t know teachers made house calls.”

  “I’m a counselor, and I’ve been helping Silla these past few months. She needs it.” Ms. Tripp’s eyes went back toward the library.

  I gripped the strap of my bag. “She’s doing fine.”

  “Nick, you must know what a horrible shock she’s had, and I’m sure you can imagine she needs all the support sh
e can get.” Her lips curved into a pout. It wasn’t the kind of expression I was used to from a teacher, but I guess she was trying to appear empathetic.

  “What were you doing in there?” I nodded at the study. I didn’t want to talk about Silla anymore. Was this another messed-up small-town thing? School counselors making house calls?

  “Oh, getting a feel for what happened. That’s where she found them.” Ms. Tripp twisted around to glance through the study door. “So, in a way, that’s the center of all her pain.”

  Despite myself, I stepped forward to get a better look. But I didn’t go in. The wide desk sat almost in the center, on a braided rug. All the walls were lined with books, antiques and paperbacks piled together as if the owner didn’t differentiate much. A family portrait hung opposite the desk. Silla must’ve been about eight when it was taken, and she looked pink and healthy in a fluffy white dress—like she’d been plucked out of some camera commercial. Reese seemed to smile against his will, like he resented having to stand still for so long. I guessed I would have, too, at that age. You know, if we’d had a family to take pictures of. Their dad had his hands on his wife’s and daughter’s shoulders. Nothing about him suggested he regularly delved into anything remotely esoteric. He looked exactly like a Latin teacher. And just as dorky as he had when I was a kid.

  “Have you known Silla long enough to see any changes in her lately?” Ms. Tripp was right behind me.

  I grabbed the doorknob and pulled the study door shut. Then I put my back to it, facing the counselor. “She’s fine.”

  “She doesn’t have to be sick or in trouble to need help, to need someone to talk to. There are a lot of things she might need.”

  “Are you even supposed to talk to me about this?” I couldn’t help it: I crossed my arms.

  Her thin brows drew down. “In some circumstances, Nick, it’s necessary to reach out. Especially if I’m worried about one of my kids hurting herself.”

  I was saved from a defensive answer by Judy coming down the stairs. “So sorry, both of you. She’s just zonked out completely.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fosgate,” Ms. Tripp said. “I’m sure I’ll have a chance to talk to her at school tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I cut in. “I’ll just head out. Have her call me, will you, Judy, if she wakes up soon?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want some tea?”

  “Totally.” I smiled at her, hiding my unease as best I could.

  “It was good to meet you, Nick,” said Ms. Tripp. “If you need anything, feel free to stop by my office. Or if you ever get worried. About anything.”

  “Sure …” I dragged the word out to let her know how unlikely it was that that would ever happen. “Later, Judy.”

  I showed myself out.

  November 2, 1906

  We use the bodies of the dead to live forever. This, as Philip says, is irony.

  It is filthy business, and although we could pay someone money to dig up or steal a body for us, Philip believes, as with all things, that it is best to do our own dirty work. Like my cats—one must learn to sacrifice for the magic. So I went out with him to a cemetery and learned to exhume a coffin. We take bones and strip the flesh, then grind them up. We make a powder with cemetery mushrooms and ginger, of all things, and add pieces of our own hair and fingernails. Then three drops of blood for each potion.

  I drank, my hands tight around the cup so that they did not shake and reveal to Philip how excited I was. It did not thrill him. As he drank, he scowled. I touched his face and said I was glad we could be together forever. That none of the dead missed their bones.

  “It is wrong,” he whispered. “Unnatural. But I have lived so long I am afraid to die now.”

  “I will not let you die, my Prospero.”

  He kissed me then, and told me in my ear that I make him feel everything is worth it. That I have brought the magic to life in him again.

  In the morning, with my head against his shoulder, I asked how often we needed the bones.

  “It will sustain us for three years, if we’re lucky,” he said. And he told me that once the Deacon used the bones of a fellow witch. That potion lasted three decades, and after taking it the Deacon had been able to will his flesh to split to reveal blood, and then will it whole again. His very touch became holy.

  “When you die,” I said to Philip, kissing his skin, “I will grind your bones and live forever.”

  SILLA

  Monday morning brought the first real hint of cold autumn along with the sun. I waited at the front doors of school for Nick as long as I could. The first bell rang, echoing dully across the parking lot. I was feeling grumpy because Judy had told me that Ms. Tripp had come to the house while I was asleep, and Judy hadn’t wanted to wake me up because she didn’t think I should be forced to talk to the woman outside of school if I didn’t want to. But Nick had stopped by at the same time, so I hadn’t gotten to see him, either. Plus Reese had driven without me down to an antique and curio shop about two hours away to grab as many herbs and bunches of beeswax and ribbons and other odds and ends to use in the magic as he could find. I couldn’t help being a little glad he hadn’t found some stuff, since he hadn’t taken me with him. We’d have to order it on the Internet.

  Students streamed past me from the parking lot. I hadn’t seen Wendy or Melissa, but they were both chronically late, especially when they drove in together. Eric, though, waved a little at me for the first time in months. I was too surprised to respond, so he probably wouldn’t ever try it again. Had Wendy gotten around to asking him out? Or possibly they’d just hooked up at his party. God, how had I not thought to call and find out?

  The sun climbed high enough to glare over the tops of the oaks surrounding the school. The second bell was going to ring at any second when finally Nick’s convertible screamed into the lot. Even from fifty yards, I could see him slamming the gears into place and grabbing his bag with jerky motions. I nearly fled into the school, not sure I wanted to deal with him pissy. What was wrong? My own grumpiness melted away.

  His elbows were like hammers as he jogged toward the building. He scraped a hand through his hair, fixing it back into place after what had obviously been a windy drive. He was grinding his jaw. “Nick?” I said tentatively.

  “What?” he snapped, and then his whole face was flooded with regret. “Silla, I’m sorry.”

  “What’s wrong?” I touched his hand.

  He turned it over, weaving his fingers with mine. “My freaking stepmom is going to be here all damn day.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s talking to, like, all the English classes or something about what it’s like to be a real live author.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “It’ll be like—” He sighed. “You probably will like it. God damn it.”

  I giggled and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Nobody will think she’s cooler than you.”

  “That’s not—it’s just—I know what she’s really like. Cold and bitchy. I don’t need people talking to me about her after she puts on her sophisticated, successful, NYC badass self. You know, the one who snagged my dad and all.”

  “Here, let me help.” I tilted my face up and Nick pushed his lips against mine.

  “That does help,” he said against my mouth. He kissed harder and bent me back, arms around behind me for support. “Sorry I missed you yesterday,” he said as we straightened again.

  Tugging my sweater down over my hips where it had ridden up, I nodded. “Yeah, I wanted to chew Judy out for not waking me up.”

  “You were up late, she said?”

  “Yeah, Reese and I tried to heal each other’s hands. With moderate success.” I held out my left palm. Next to the thin pink scar was Saturday’s cut, scabbed over and looking more like it was a week old. “We were just too tired.”

  Nick skimmed his thumb over the cut. “I have some ideas about that.”

  Before I could ask about them, he patted his messen
ger bag. “I have the book. And some things to tell you.”

  The final bell rang.

  “After school?” I backed toward the doors. “At rehearsal?”

  “Lunch?”

  “I promised Wendy I’d help her with her audition pieces.”

  “Okay, three-thirty it is, then. I might find you between classes for some more pick-me-ups.” He swept in for a quick kiss.

  “I hope so,” I murmured just before we hurried down the hall in opposite directions.

  NICHOLAS

  It was worse than I expected.

  Lilith swept in wearing a knee-length silk jacket with some sort of bright embroidery on the bell sleeves. Dramatic makeup, bloodred fingernails, and her eat-your-soul smile grabbed the attention of every single student in my class, and Mr. Alford was probably going to take the memory home with him for some alone time. I slumped down in my desk and stared up at the ceiling tiles.

  SILLA

  In second period, Nick’s stepmother dropped a box onto Mrs. Sackville’s desk and began pulling out novels. She looked like a movie star, with her wide sunglasses tucked into her hair and the long necklace hanging down to her waist. Her heels were at least four inches, and matched her fingernails. Sackville clasped her hands together and introduced Mary Pardee to the class, totally throwing me. Mary?

  “Mrs. Pardee writes fiction under the name Tonia Eastlake, and three of her books have been optioned for movies. Just last year, Murder in Silver went into production. She’s been writing since she was in high school, just like you! So let’s give her our best attention, all right?”

  Hands shot up immediately. Mrs. Pardee laughed, showing us perfect white teeth, and when she said, “Everyone will have a chance. I’m here all day,” her voice was so rich and smooth I knew immediately why Nick hated her.

  Wendy hissed for my attention and showed me the note scrawled in the margins of her textbook. Nick’s stepmom? Srsly?