The Companion Witch, page 20
His words slammed into her stomach. “I did it for her.” She flew through the front door, but he was right behind her as she climbed the stairs to her room.
“For who?” His desperate question struck her heart in two. Fuck. She couldn’t control her rage. The shadows had stirred the darker parts inside her. Everything she’d forced down in the past six years came careening to the surface. How she longed for her costumes and the stage. She could no longer keep up her performance. And his question came again, “For who, Lulu?”
“My mother,” she said. Her vision blurred. From the after-effects of brushing past the Underworld or tears of grief, she wasn’t sure. She could make out the edges of her bed, the small unused desk, the mirror on the wall. Her stupid comatose mother and her stupid illness and this stupid fight. “She was sick. Celestine said that we couldn’t go outside for help.” She grinded her teeth, remembering how Celestine, who had grown up with Lulu’s mother, turned up her nose at any suggestions of outside help. How Lulu had begged, how she had pleaded. Her mother’s breathing had grown weaker and weaker before Lulu did the unthinkable. “She wanted me to watch her die. It wasn’t a human illness. You can’t heal a magic sickness like that with herbs.”
“Lulu, what did you do?”
“I did what I had to do,” she replied hoarsely. “I found an old book that Celestine kept locked up. I drew the symbol. I took a lock of my mother’s hair. I—” Her voice choked as she remembered the black dagger in her hand. Those young hands. “Cut the skin. I offered up my blood.”
His eyes widened.
“I called upon the power of Hell. I called for the power of the shadows to save her. They asked me—” She could remember the voice clearly. It haunted her dreams.
What do you wish for, witch child?
What do you wish for, witch child?
What do you wish for, witch child?
She sent a fist into the mirror to watch it break beneath her force.
“What could I wish for except that she would live?” she croaked.
“What did they make you promise, Lulu?” he asked.
“The universe follows the law of equivalent exchange,” she whispered. “Hell is no different. A soul for a soul. A witch for a witch.”
“You could’ve told me,” he whispered.
“You wouldn’t understand!” She hurled the accusation at him with all the force her heart would allow. Her ribs felt like they might shatter if she moved the wrong way. “And now these Roots know. How do they know?” She pressed a hand against her burning face and repeated, “You wouldn’t understand.”
It was the same thing she’d told Celestine. That vile face of judgment from her coven leader with that snarled expression. Fire shot through her veins. She’d never forget it.
His face wasn’t like that at all. Her breath caught. It was an expression so unlike him that it drove a knife through her chest. Gone was the half-jester, half-relic hunter wit about him. His angelic face cracked right open. She fell back against the wall. His eyes were red. She could smell the salt before she knew that there were tears.
“No, you don’t understand,” he said in a dark tone, wounded. A hard lump came into her throat. “My obsession? It’s a necessity. There are things you don’t know about either, Lulu.”
“What do you mean?” She heard the broken voice coming out of her mouth but couldn’t make sense of it. His eyes held hers. Painfully. A look shared between two people, marching on in life, utterly doomed by their circumstances.
“What are you talking about, Magnus?” She forced her voice to be stronger. She’d always forced herself to be stronger.
“I wasn’t turned by Alphonse.”
The confession clattered to the ground. The fire in her veins froze. “What are you talking about?” She could feel the throbbing pain of her fist, cut by the mirror’s broken glass.
“He found me after.”
“After what?”
“After a Root got to me.”
Her hands shook. “You’re not making sense.”
“It wasn’t Alphonse that turned me. It was a Root. Alphonse took pity on me. He thought a sadistic vampire had turned me and abandoned me. He brought me into his home. How could he know what had happened?”
“You’re lying,” she said. “You’re lying. How could that be true? How could you even know that it was a Root?”
“The boy,” he said. “One of the Roots is a boy. A small boy, who often appears sickly to others.”
“Like the Professor’s story?”
“It’s not a story,” he said in a haunted, faraway voice. “That boy told me in no uncertain terms what would happen to me, Lulu. People turned by Roots descend into madness. Not sometimes. Always.”
“You’re lying.” Hot tears slid down her cheeks. “Why are you saying this?”
“Because we’re the same,” he said. “I’ve known it from the beginning, but your cause was more noble. You tried to save your mother and made a pact with a demon. I’m trying to save myself.”
“You’ll go mad.”
“I sometimes wonder if I haven’t already,” he said. “I’ve spent most of my undead life desperately searching for answers. Searching for a way to stop that Root’s curse inside me.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Roots turn humans into vampires for more than survival,” he explained. “The boy told me things. He probably thought I wouldn’t remember. He probably thought I wasn’t listening, but I was stronger than he suspected. Or stubborn, I don’t know. When it went dark, I remember a terrible voice telling me my fate. I would go mad. When? Some beings are stronger than others. A century, a millennium. It’s hard to tell. That boy is very old and very wicked. When I would finally succumb to madness, I would go to him. As an eternal servant. Not like the assistants that vampires keep, but worse. A true puppet. A blood-thirsty one.”
“That can’t be true,” she said through angry tears. “You’re fine. You’re standing right in front of me.”
“Now. Now, I’m fine,” he agreed with a slow nod. “But it could be tomorrow. It could be in ten years. If I don’t find a way to stop it, it will happen.”
“That’s why they’re trying to stop you,” she said.
“When I started finding their graves,” he explained. “That must’ve been what set them off.”
“Then you’re right. It’s something in their tombs,” she said. “They’re leaving something that they’re taking back.”
“Lulu,” his dark voice broke through. “We shouldn’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?” she asked, wiping the stinging tears from her face. His grim face struck her far harder than a punch could. “Keep up our search?”
“My search.”
“Your search?” she asked, her voice rising. “After begging me to get involved, now it’s your fucking search? I’ve never abandoned anyone as a companion and I’m not about to start. I’m bound to you.”
“I’m not your mother. You don’t have to protect me.”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” she cried. “You don’t have a monopoly on angsty backstories, vamp. In case you’ve forgotten, I sold my soul to a demon to keep my mother alive. And for what? She lives like a fucking houseplant. Arabella might as well be watching over a fern.”
“Don’t say that,” he begged.
“Because it’s true?” she asked with a wild wave of her arms. “I wanted to save her. My coven cast me out because they couldn’t stand to look at a witch that had gone into black magic. The cardinal sin of a witch is to go against the natural world. I sold my soul. You lost yours. We’re both doomed.”
“No,” he said. “No. You have your life, Lulu.”
“My life?” she repeated. “For all I know, my soul gets to be consumed by Satan himself when I breathe my last breath. I’ve locked myself out of any peaceful afterlife for my actions. You? You’ve been able to live for over three hundred years. You have a family that wants you. Seymour and Rima love you, whether your selfish ass want to admit that or not.”
His face clouded. “I was too right about us.”
“What do you mean?” she accused.
His saddened eyes found her. Grieving, but firm. “We’re both too stubborn for our own good.” She opened her mouth to reply before she saw the orange light forming around him.
“No!” she screamed. He was falling into the light, his voice a haunting reach beyond a slip of another dimension.
“This is better for us. Like this. Forget about me, Lulu. This is my problem.”
He was gone before she could reach him. She tumbled onto the ground, the wooden planks creaking beneath her. Sobs racked her body.
“Forget about you?” she asked the room and slammed a fist into the floor.
Alone. Alone had protected her for so long. And what did she get for straying from her own common sense? Another person, gone. She wept until her throat offered no more sounds to make. When she stumbled upwards, she caught her reflection in the fractured mirror. A hundred splintering reminders of her red cheeks and tear-stained face.
Of her failure.
“No,” she told herself. “Not again.”
She refused to run away. Not this time. She sprinted downstairs. In the living room, the communication mirror sat like a promise on the other end of the room. She touched it and spoke loudly, even though her voice was shaking, “Call Seymour.”
The mirror shimmered but refused to ripple. She slammed a fist down on the table beneath the mirror. The wood splintered beneath her. Splinters kissed her skin. She couldn’t even feel it.
“I said to call Seymour,” she told it. “Or I will break you into a million pieces like I did the other one.” The mirror sputtered with a half-hearted spark and she screamed again. Her throat was raw, torn to pieces. She collapsed against the table, her injured hand and heart throbbing. There had to be something she could do.
A sudden breeze of warmth came from behind her. She turned, gasping, as a red light began to form in the center of the room.
“Seymour!” she called, recalling his signature color. And for a brief moment, she hoped desperately that his handsome face would appear out of the portal. A pair of feet clad in shiny shoes landed on the carpet.
They didn’t belong to Seymour.
Her heart stopped.
Brad’s eyes were as large as ever behind his enormous glasses. His hands fidgeted as the portal disappeared. His gaze darted from left to right.
“Seymour sent me,” he said in a creaky voice. “He wants me to check on you.” His stare came full circle around the room. “Where is Magnus?”
A cold feeling wrapped around her neck and sat above her necklace, the warm pendant still a gorgeous blue.
“We will make no movements to travel to this safe house unless this stone turns red.”
Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
A hand slammed down on her shoulder. “Now, now, Brad.” Her blood turned to ice. She knew that voice. “Greetings first and then the interrogation.”
Her neck turned to see that lanky face. The terrible black eyes. His smile cut through her spirit itself.
“You remember old Dante, don’t you, Lulu?”
Magnus
Magnus fell back. He fell and hoped he would land in the ocean and sink like a stone. An ungrateful, blithering stone that deserved all the madness that his curse could get him. Instead of the cold embrace of water, he fell against something solid. He landed with a thud against a clump of soft, wet grass. His fingers spread through the dewy grass. Where was he? The Netherlands? Japan? The Imperium Estate’s poolside? He pulled himself to a sitting position, turned, and his head slammed into a thick bit of wood. His neck reeled back, and he steadied his head with his hand, vision blurring. Hand-painted white letters came into view. Faded old letters that he’d seen before and not so long ago.
Salem, Massachusetts.
“Of all the places,” he muttered as the pain left his head. His magic had brought him here? He scowled at the sign, glared at it. “You have a sick sense of humor.” Leave a witch to find a witch. Why were witches haunting him? He remembered a flash of Lulu’s face and felt his undead heart throb worse than his head. No, no, no. This was better. She’ll be safe. Without me, he reminded himself, she’ll be safe without my doomed weight to carry around.
The Roots knew about her contract with demons.
He could lure them away. He’d fine a grave to open somewhere far away from this country and draw them away. His mind rushed forward with desperate, hopeless plans.
A soft voice, nearly the volume of a small mouse, perked up behind him. “Mr. Magnus?”
He turned to see a familiar hooded figure, the young woman’s cloak pulled back enough to show her signature red hair and freckles. “Copper,” he said and then let out a laugh. “What are you doing here?”
She furrowed her brow. “I…I live here?”
“Right, right,” he said, nodding.
“Why are you here?” she asked and then with a step of excitement, “Is Ms. Lulu here?” It was the voice of a fangirl, sweet and twittering, if Magnus had ever heard one. Then, suddenly, she asked, “Have you been crying?”
“No, no, no, everything is fine,” he replied with a sigh. “No, and we’re having…creative differences right now.” He wasn’t about to say that he’d abandoned the witch and left her. Run away, again. As his family accused him of doing, as Lulu had rightfully pointed out. Always running away from the people that loved him. Copper tugged back her hood with a little frown, her hair spilling out like liquid fire beneath the light of a dim streetlamp.
“Oh,” she said in a dejected tone. “I thought maybe you two were coming back to visit because of tonight.”
He stood, brushing himself off, and then looked at her. “What’s tonight?”
“The Night of Mourning for the Lost,” she said as if it was a national holiday. Her fingers laced together. “It’s when we hold a vigil for some of the missing witches of the Salem Trials. Do you want to walk with me? I’m running late. My coven won’t see you if you linger back.”
He stared. “The missing witches. What are you talking about?”
She danced from foot to foot, excited by his interest. “Well, you know, besides Margaret Jones, some of the other gravestones are for show. Their bodies aren’t actually in the ground. They’re gone. It’s a bit of a mystery really.”
“They weren’t burnt after being hanged?”
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “Legends persist about burning, but it was easier to hang and bury them, according to the records. Their burials were overseen by the town officials. They had graves…but their bodies aren’t there.”
“So, you mourn their missing bodies?” he asked. His head was reeling. That voice, that same utterly maddening voice was screeching something from the confines of his brain. What was it saying? “I thought most of the accused weren’t even witches.”
“No, sadly. They weren’t, but the ones whose bodies are gone were witches. We had a powerful psychic in our coven once, gone from this living world now. She told us that they were stolen after their burial. I think they were three in all,” she said. “We honor their memory. It’s a sad thing to know that a witch’s energy can’t go back into the Earth as nature intended.”
“Back into the Earth,” he muttered. “Margaret’s grave is covered with plants.”
“Yes,” she said with a shrug. “Because she was left buried. Her magic decomposed like her body. It fed into the Earth.” Her brows furrowed as she leaned forward with her candle. “Mr. Magnus, are you okay?”
“The old psychic from your coven, what exactly did she see?”
She blinked. “Not much. She saw a man instructing some laborers to exhume the bodies under the cover of night. He put them in stone coffins and took them away. She didn’t see anything more.”
Stone coffins preserved magic. Held it, coaxed it to stay, protected it from leaving. The scream, the cry that Magnus had begun to hear many weeks ago, suddenly came closer and closer to the front of his mind. Nothing but witches around him. A holy witch in that tomb, a sad rosary still charged around her neck. A cog clicked into place. His thoughts began to roll onto one another. He turned to the young witch, nearly reached out a hand to grab her, to know this was all real.
“Can you use a witch’s energy even after she dies?”
She smiled, unaware of the stormy thoughts brewing inside of his skull. “Of course, Mr. Magnus. That’s why the plants kept growing on Jones’ grave. Certain witches can give off energy for a very long time. A witch feeds off the life force of nature and she gives it back when she passes.”
“Copper,” he said and grabbed her by the shoulder, gently. “You’re an absolute genius.”
And at that moment, the robin blue pendant around his necklace began to flicker.
Lulu.
How foolish he’d been to think that he was the sole target of the Roots.
Chapter 30
Lulu
“Lulu,” Dante’s cold voice whispered into her ear, “I like you. You’re tough. I’ve been watching you for some time. I know how you take your coffee. I know about your chats with Arabella. I know about the way you look at Magnus.” He chuckled darkly after the last remark.
He turned around with a jerking movement. She didn’t fight it and felt his claws digging into her shoulder. Her mind was running through the floor plan of the house. Let him talk, her terrified heart said. Her mind was working. She glared at him, unwilling to look away from those terrible voids sitting in his sunken face. And it was more sunken. Before, Dante had looked like a friendly Grim Reaper. His cheeks had grown more sunken. His face, more terrifying. He was losing his human mask.
“Did you like that trick with the sigil?” he asked with a sick grin. “I had to pay a high price for that information. There are warlocks with plenty of greed that have no mercy for a witch who sold herself to the demonic forces. How easy it is to dive into your mother’s mind while she wastes away in that bed.”
