Page 56 of Dead Rockstar

“We're not yours,” Phillip growled. “And I’m sure as hell not a fucking fairy.”

“Oh, down boy.” She chuckled. “He really can be like a dog with a bone,” she said to me, her eyes sparkling. “I don't know how you contain him.”

I ignored this, though inside, I wanted to chuckle. She wasn’t wrong. “From everything I've read, necromancy is black magic,” I changed the subject, uneasy.

“Sidhe and Fee, so worried.” That smile again. “So it is. Black magic. What of it? So many misconceptions about good and evil.” She sighed. “Nobody has any real understanding of the practice, of what white and black magic entail. They work in conjunction with each other, you see. Two halves of one coin, two very necessary halves. You must find the balance.”

“She's not going to tell us anything real,” Phillip muttered to me.

“Oh, I suppose now you've been earth-side for a whole four days you suddenly know everything,” she said. “Not real? Look at your flesh, restored. Feel the breath in your lungs. Mere days ago, you were rotting in the ground. And you want to talk about what's real?”

“I didn't ask for this,” he said, angry. “Neither did she.”

“Yes, you did. Yes, you both did.” She puffed her cigarette. “Now shall we put away our egos and talk plainly?”

“I didn't intend to be a witch,” I said. “I know that much.”

“Well, don't worry sweetie, because you aren't one.” She laughed, smug. “Not yet. Nor will you be with that attitude. Any fool can do a bit of magic if they say the right words and have the right talismans. But to be a true witch, you have to believe – in your power and in yourself. You don't believe much in either.” Her words stung. “Intention, as I said. If you don't value what it is to be a witch, you'll never be one.” I reared back, feeling as if she’d just slapped me. How many times had I said the very same thing to Sloan, half joking, half resentful of the way she always dismissed me? Now that the word was on Lydia’s lips, it felt aggressive and mocking.

I looked down at my feet, angry. Even though I'd just told her I wasn't interested, who was she to suggest otherwise?

“We'll be going now.” Phillip stood up again. “Thanks for nothing.”

“You're being very unfair,” she said calmly. “I've answered everything you've asked.”

She flicked ashes into the ashtray and stood on shaking legs. “I can tell you one more thing. You asked how the spell can be reversed. There's one way, but you should know – it's immediate.”

“What is it?” Phillip asked warily. We were both meandering slowly toward the door, eager to get away from her. Something was off; among the dusty, stale, oppressed air of the house there was a new electricity, something humming, something chaotic and anxious. I knew Phillip felt it too, because the hairs on his arm, where I was clutching him with white fingers, were raised.

“You've heard of Samson and Delilah?”

“Of course,” Phillip said. “I was raised Catholic. Samson's strength was in his hair, and when Delilah cut it in his sleep, he lost it.”

“Guthrie used to call that spell the 'Samson spell’.” She grimaced. “It always irritated me. Christians take everything from pagans. Everything. Your hair, Sidhe. If you get tired and want to shuffle off, cut it. That's it.”

“Just cut my hair? And the spell reverses? I die?”

“You cease to be in this realm,” she answered. “Put it that way.” Then she laughed.

Phillip looked a bit green. “We're going now.”

“Goodbye, then, Sidhe and Fee. See yourself out. Lock the door behind you.” And she was gone to the back of the house, seemingly without giving us a second thought, confident that we’d let ourselves out. We heard a door shut and Phillip turned to me.

“What a waste of fucking time.”

“She did tell us a few things,” I said.

“All she did was talk in riddles and throw us a whole hell of a lot of attitude.” He put his hand on my back. “Let's get out of here before the cigarette stench absorbs into our clothes.”

We were at the truck when the screen door opened, and Lydia stuck her frizzy head out. “Sidhe…look after her.” She gestured at me with a gnarled hand. “She’s in far more danger than you are.”

Phillip’s face twisted in disgust, and he opened his mouth to reply, but I stopped him with a hand. Something about the expression on her face told me not to tangle with this woman, and anyway, she was right. Phillip had been saying all along that the ragtag group of guys following us were after him, but it was just as I’d suspected -they were really after me.

“Let’s just go,” I said in a low voice. Lydia had already retreated inside in a cloud of smoke, the screen door slamming behind her. I could hear the deadbolts locking on the other side of the heavy door.

Phillip trudged over to the driver’s side of the truck and opened the door. He climbed in and put the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. “Storm,” he called to me. “The truck won’t fucking start.” I was still standing outside the truck, unlocking my cell phone to check for messages from Sloan, who still had not responded to my earlier text. I peered through the truck window.

“What do you think it-” I began, then something at my feet caught my eye. I crouched down to pick it up, hearing the blood rushing in my ears, knowing without really looking what it would be. Of course, it was another tarot card. What else would it be? The Death card, no doubt. Well, I wasn’t going to touch the damned thing. Not here in this creepy ass yard, after talking to that creepy ass woman.

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