Blood Magic (The Blood Journals) Page 26

  Power cracked somewhere deep inside me, like lightning. And then a long summer roll of thunder rumbled from my center out toward our joined hands. All my blood was alive. I met Nick’s eyes and they were wide. I could almost see sparks of reddish lightning reflecting in his pupils.

  “This is what we are, Silla,” he said. Then he paused, shook his head. “This is who I am. I know it now.” Snatching his hand from mine, he clenched it until blood dripped onto Reese’s grave. “Tell me when you decide who you want to be.”

  With that, Nick strode away from me, into the shadowy cemetery.

  My palm burned, and I turned it over to watch the blood pool. All around me, the crows screamed.

  NICHOLAS

  The October air cut against my hot cheeks as I plowed through the field on my way home. I kept not breathing and then having to suck in a huge, choking breath to catch up with myself.

  Everything was so, so clear. My hand freaking hurt, but the fingers moved, thank God. I cradled it against my stomach as I hurried home to stanch the bleeding. But it almost didn’t matter. I’d get up to the attic, pull out the box, and use the holy water and willow leaf to heal it up. Mom had done it when I skinned my knees.

  The woods enveloped me, and I dove in. The path wasn’t here, but I could just barely make out the glow of my house, so I’d be fine. Trees scratched at me, and I batted them away. I thought of when Silla had said she didn’t want the magic, and of how it had made me want to shake her. And I thought of kissing her, of how I’d wanted so much more than only kisses. Of the burn of magic between us.

  A root snaked out and grabbed my ankle. I landed with a grunt on my palms, wrists jarred and knees popping with instant bruises. Furious pain coursed up from my cut hand. I just lay there, aching, my cheek against the cold ground. Damp leaves plastered themselves to my skin, and I breathed in cool, moldy air. Wind shivered through the trees, dropping more leaves down around me, soft and quiet as snow. I smelled mud and wet wood and—blood. Old, rotten blood.

  My eyes snapped open and I pushed up, hissing at the pain. As I clutched at my hand, I peered into the darkness, at the bulbous shadows near the base of the tree trunk beside me. Something huddled there. The carcass of a raccoon, guts spilled out everywhere. My eyes picked out the details, and I realized, swallowing back a sour taste, that there wasn’t any blood. I smelled it but didn’t see it. The raccoon was totally eviscerated, but the intestines glowed pink and white and pale blue in the bare moonlight. Every drop of blood was gone. I faltered back onto my ass, shoving away.

  Branches creaked overhead, and I jumped to my feet, then spun around.

  The whole woods groaned.

  Skidding and sliding, I ran for the lights of my house.

  Drusilla. Your mother almost didn’t agree to the name. We’ve told you this story before, that I said it was the name of a Roman empress and Emily found out she was the sister of the crazy, possibly incestuous Caligula. I could not tell her, nor you until now, that Drusilla was the name of my mother, who died a hundred and fifty years ago, alone and unknown, and is buried in a simple grave with only her given name upon it.

  When you were born, I wept. And I remember thinking, for the first time in fifteen years, how glad I was of what I had done. I would not have changed anything that had led to the moment I held you in my arms. I was not—am not—sorry.

  Emily insisted we call you Silla. My sweet, gentle Silla, all these things I write down will capture your imagination, and you would follow them into the face of God if you could. Or the Devil. As I begged your brother, so I beg you: only be yourself. Forget these bloody things when Josephine is gone, and if you can, forgive me.

  SILLA

  The crows followed me into my dreams, and I woke up over and over again, batting away black wings that turned out to be my sheets. I sweated and panted and pulled Reese’s crumpled T-shirt against my face, breathing in that hay-and-oil smell.

  It was sick and weird, I knew, but in the middle of the night I didn’t care. I pretended the smell would never fade, that he was right in the other room. That I wasn’t totally crazy.

  I got my cell phone. It glowed an eerie blue against the dark of my bedroom. The light reflected along the ceramic and glass planes of all my masks, their empty black eyes reminding me of Nick, of how he’d disliked them—of how he’d yelled at me, pushed me back. Tell me when you decide who you want to be.

  Scrolling through my address book, I passed his name and came to Wendy’s. I’d never apologized for the things I’d said at rehearsal the day Reese died. I typed: SRY SO CRZY. MISS U. THX 4 BNG HR. SEND MESSAGE? My phone blinked. I tapped the green button. Message sent. At two-thirty in the morning.

  Then I lay back and stared at the ceiling. You know what this all means, Silla? Gram Judy had said. It means you’re strong.

  I didn’t feel strong. I felt alone and terrified. Helpless. Dad had kept this secret, and he’d left me. Taken Mom with him. Reese hadn’t been able to stop it, hadn’t been able to fight it. And if he couldn’t, how could I possibly? I didn’t want this, not any of it. I wanted my life back, the one where the worst thing I had to worry about was that my best friend was dating my ex-boyfriend and I hadn’t been cast as the lead in the play. But of course, if I had my old life, I would’ve been Lady Macbeth.

  Art thou afeard / To be the same in thine own act and valor / As thou art in desire?

  Was I afraid of making a new life? Afraid of what it might entail? How did one choose such bloody deeds as ours?

  Nick had. My father had. He’d studied it for his entire life, and lived in peace until he died, so far as I knew. And the Deacon. The Deacon who had sent me the spell book—he had chosen this life, too.

  Who was he? Where was he? Could he help with Josephine? He’d said in his letter that he communicated with Dad—that Dad told him he was proud of me. Of my strength.

  I owed it to my parents and to Reese to stay alive. To fight. I owed Nick and Judy. And Josephine had a lot coming to her.

  But what did I owe myself?

  Tell me when you decide who you want to be.

  I had a choice to make.

  With the first light of dawn, I was up and moving. I scoured the bathroom until my shoulders ached and I was light-headed from bleach smell. Despite a bandage and heavy-duty cleaning gloves, the cut on my palm ached. When the bathroom sparkled, I put together a casserole with all the vegetables left over from the memorial service. I scrubbed the microwave and emptied out the fridge, things that Gram Judy had thought too minor to matter in our day of cleaning. But in my mood, nothing was too slight.

  Judy left around ten to meet Mrs. Margaret for yoga, and donuts afterward. She tried for a few minutes to get me to go, but not terribly hard. I did stop her, though, with a hug when she was pinning her salmon and turquoise Sunday hat over her braids. She patted my back, rather delicately. “Don’t crush my hat, love.”

  Releasing her, I said, “Sorry.”

  Judy patted my cheek. “I won’t be late. Be careful. We’ll be okay.”

  As she climbed into her beat-up little Rabbit and zipped away, I wished I took as much of life on faith.

  A few minutes later, I’d pulled on one of Reese’s sweatshirts for strength, slid the chain with my rings around my neck, and was gripping the study door frame, trying to decide where to begin my search for the Deacon.

  I only stared at the hardwood floor, unable to take the first step.

  My breathing sped up. I needed music to distract me.

  In ten minutes, Reese’s old CD player was plugged in. It squatted on the floor beside the door, music whirring softly. Gentle guitar chords strummed, reminding me of the steady revolution of car tires.

  We’d had a professional cleaner come down from Cape Girardeau to get rid of the stains in July. Gram Judy had arranged it when Reese had refused to let her help with the funeral costs. For a couple of weeks, the house had smelled like chemicals. I hadn’t minded, but Reese had bitched about his food tast
ing like peroxide. He’d threatened to buy sticks of incense or pour whiskey all over everything. I remember imagining the whole house going up like a bonfire. Judy had bought a bunch of flowers and lined the hallway with them. Roses and peonies and carnations: things with vibrant or cloying scents to counter the chemical stench.

  Now it smelled like kicked-up dust and old books.

  It was a dead room, guts torn out by the same thing that had killed my whole family.

  Standing in the center of it, I felt all the empty weight crush down onto my shoulders. The music crooned, but beyond that, the house was silent.

  I was alone.

  “Stop,” I told myself. My voice rang against the music. I held out my wounded hand and gently touched the gash across my palm. It was red and throbbing. Who am I? Silla Kennicot, lost and washed-out cutter? Afraid of her own blood, always crying, always alone? Or Silla Kennicot, magician? Strong friend, in control of her own power? It was an easy choice to want to make, but taking the first step felt like leaping over a chasm of fire.

  Do you remember the day you did magic, Silla? Reese scraped his knee bloody, and you were so upset that you were the one crying. You were five years old. You put your hands on his knee and cried and cried. Reese pushed you away after a minute, saying “Stop, Silly, stop.” The wound was healed. You so naturally tapped into the power, your immense need to make your brother’s pain go away was enough to call the magic and heal. I was never so proud of you.

  And I know that now you will be able to do what is necessary if I fail today.

  NICHOLAS

  My cell rang at eleven-thirty. I’d only been awake for an hour. “Yeah?” I hadn’t checked the incoming number and was pretty freaking surprised when Silla said, “Nick.”

  I didn’t think she’d want to talk to me for a while, after last night. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to her for a while, either. But her voice had me sitting up straight at my computer and glancing out the window toward the cemetery and her house. I had to tell her about the raccoon.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” I cleared my throat.

  “I’m in my dad’s study, looking for a way to contact the Deacon.”

  “The … oh, the guy who sent the book.”

  “Yes. I figure since the book is buried, and Josephine isn’t, he might be the only person who can help us. He knew Dad. He probably knew Josephine.” She sounded certain, and calm. Like she was talking about her plan for studying for final exams.

  “Good idea.” I leaned back into my chair. The joint creaked. I should’ve told her about the raccoon right then. But if she wasn’t over her whole suicidal-didn’t-want-the-magic thing, I’d just have to deal with it myself.

  After a pause, she said, “I was hoping you might come help me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A second pair of eyes. I might not see something that stands out because I’ve been looking at my dad’s office for my whole life.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And”—she took a deep breath—“I’d like to apologize to your face.”

  I huffed out air like a popped air mattress. “Okay.”

  “Good.” Her smile was audible. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “Nick, be careful. There are crows all over my front yard.”

  We hung up.

  Dad and Lilith had left for a matinee performance of some “cutting-edge” play that they were driving the two-plus hours to St. Louis for, so I didn’t have to make any excuses. I headed straight over.

  Reese’s truck was in the drive, and I parked next to it. Three crows were chilling on the hood, arguing over a bit of purple ribbon. They squawked at each other but ignored me. I headed straight through the unlocked front door, calling “Silla? You here?” Music filtered out from the rear of the house. I followed the singing.

  The door to her dad’s study hung open, and I walked right in. “Silla?”

  A portable CD player blared some girly country-pop-rock, and I leaned down to unplug it. There was no sign of her, other than the chaotic jumble on the desktop. “Silla?” I called again as I moved around the huge desk. A brass lamp glowed faintly yellow, casting light onto the top of her head. She was crouched behind the desk with her legs crossed and a random collection of objects in her lap.

  “Oh, Nick.” She gently moved the knickknacks to the floor and stood up. She was wearing a sweatshirt about five sizes too big for her. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I can’t believe you left your door unlocked.”

  Silla shrugged. “Did the crows bother you?”

  “Nope.”

  Her eyes slowly rose to my face. Her expression was guarded, but not masked. “I didn’t mean it last night. About your mom.”

  “Good. Because it was stupid.”

  One corner of her mouth twitched up. “I didn’t sleep much, worrying about it. And you.”

  “Me?”

  She shrugged. “And myself. And every possible thing I could worry about. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life afraid like that. Grieving. I want to act. Even if it means murdering a king.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, um”—Silla offered me a cheesy smile—“I was using Lady Macbeth for pep talks.”

  “Sounds like the opposite of healthy.” I reached out and brushed my thumb against her cheek.

  She caught my hand. Pulling it down, she studied it, rubbed her own thumbs over my palm. The deep gouge from last night was only a raw pink line. Like the scar on her collarbone.

  “Magic,” I said lightly, noticing that she had her own hand wrapped in medical tape. “You should let me fix yours.”

  “I think …” She raised her face. “I think I need the wound right now. As a reminder of last night. Of what you said.” She pressed her lips together and nodded once, fiercely. “Of who I want to be.”

  I lifted her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. The air between us was warm again. “So. We’re looking for the Deacon.”

  With a heavy sigh, Silla dropped back to the floor and skimmed her hand over the assorted items: a pair of old glasses, a glass paperweight, some quill pens with ratty plumage.

  Hunkering beside her, I pointed at the pens. “Your dad used those?”

  “He had ink pots and everything. They’re in the top drawer there.” She glanced up at the desk; then her eyes flickered at me. She lifted the glasses. “I don’t know what he used these for. See? The lenses are pink.”

  “Rose-colored glasses? I could use a bit of that.” The rims were silver and twisted in an odd S curve, and the earpieces were shaped like candy canes. “Oh, I remember him wearing these.”

  “You … remember?”

  Robert Kennicot glares down at me, through the weird glasses. “Robbie would not have approved, Donna Harleigh. You have gone too far.” I closed my eyes, pressed my fingers against them.

  “Nick?”

  “Mom used to look for your dad through a mirror, the far-sight spell. And … I think I remember him looking at me through them, but talking to me like I was Mom … and Sil”—I met her worried eyes—“he said ‘Robbie would not’ like he wasn’t Robbie. But it was definitely your dad.”

  “You mean someone possessed Dad’s body,” she whispered.

  “Something like that … maybe.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure.” Picking the glasses back up, I asked, “You mind?”

  “Go ahead. Tell me what you see.”

  I settled the strange glasses onto my nose, and pushed the wire over my ears. Then I looked at Silla.

  And fell backward onto my ass. “Shit!”

  Her hand glowed with this reedy red aura. It bled out from her, stretching in tendrils. Toward me.

  “Nick?” She leaned up onto her knees. The red wavered around her, less like liquid—more like a heat mirage. I glanced down at myself. The tendrils grasped at me, weaving around my hand.

  “Uh, Silla. Um.” My eyes must’ve been huge. I couldn’t stop staring. “The g
lasses are magic.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  Reluctantly, I pulled them off. It took a second for my eyes to refocus. I handed the glasses to Silla.

  With a massive frown, she put them on. “Everything’s a little pink.”

  “Look at yourself.”

  Her mouth fell open when she raised her hand. “Oh, God.” She climbed to her feet, still staring down at herself. “This is amazing. And weird.”

  I smiled. She looked funny with the delicate round glasses perched on her nose.

  “We’re connected, Nicholas.” Her eyes followed the long tendrils. “Probably because of whatever you did last night.”

  “Or just how I feel about you.”

  She froze, lips parting slightly. “Oh, Nick.”

  I just looked at her. Thinking about the poem I’d written for her on Monday. Before all this had gone down.

  Swallowing, she distracted herself from what I’d said by turning slowly in a circle, scanning the room. “I wonder if we can see any kind of blood magic?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh!” She froze, staring at one of the squares of bookshelf.

  “Sil?”

  She walked toward the shelf, hands out, and removed the stack of hardbacks leaning there. They dropped to the floor with a sharp thud. “This is glowing—sort of a red-gold, not exactly like what’s connecting us.” She shuddered and pressed a hand to the back of the shelf. “It’s a false back, I think.” Knocking on it, she peered in closer. The knock echoed hollowly.

  I joined her at the shelf. “Maybe there’s a trigger or opening mechanism or something.”

  Chewing on the inside of her lip, Silla ran her fingers along the edges. “Here!” She pushed on the bottom corner, and the panel popped out. She handed it off to me and reached inside.