Page 43 of Witches of Dubious Origin
I did this three times and opened my eyes. “It’s as clear as it’s going to get in here.” I tapped my temple with a finger.
“Excellent,” Jasper said. “As you know, our objective with energy manipulation is to build up your magical sensitivity and help you draw the power into yourself so you can harness it for your desired outcome.”
“Because magic is based on energy,” I said, repeating what he had told me the day before. “And energy is in everything. I get it in theory. I just don’t know how to tap into it.”
“I’ll show you.” Jasper approached a large potted orange tree. It was loaded with fruit that was still green. Jasper cupped one of the oranges and narrowed his gaze as hefocused on it. While I watched, the fruit swelled, filling his hand, and turned a vibrant shade of orange. He plucked it and handed it to me.
“How?” I raised it to my nose and inhaled its sweet citrus scent.
“It’s simple but does require a clear mind and lots of practice,” he said. “Care to give it a go?”
I tucked the orange into my pants pocket and stepped toward the tree. I chose one of the larger oranges, thinking it wouldn’t take as much concentration to ripen it. As Jasper had done, I stared at the fruit while trying to find that well of magic inside myself. It felt like an empty closet. After a few moments, I dropped the fruit and tipped my head back.
“I’ve got nothing,” I said.
“You have something,” Jasper corrected me. “I can feel it.” He held out his hand as if feeling the air around me and I flinched. Why? What did I think he was going to do? He dropped his hand.
“Sorry,” we said at the same time. There was an awkward beat of silence and I knew the weirdness was all mine. I turned back to the tree and cupped the same orange. This time, I closed my eyes, determined to make this stupid fruit ripen if it was the last thing I did.
I felt it then. Not the warmth I usually felt when I reached for my own magic. No, this was different. This was coming from the orange, its leaves, the branch, the entire tree itself. It rolled through me in a gentle wave of power. It called to my own magic, which rose inside me to meet it.
I kept my eyes closed. I felt a smile curve my lips as I embraced the energy from the tree and then returned it to thefruit. I felt it swell in my hand as I pictured it ripening to a luscious orange hue in my mind.
“That’s it, love, you’re doing it!” Jasper sounded thrilled, and I felt a rush of pride swoop through me. “Uh, Zoe, you should probably—”
Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the wet, meaty sound of an orange exploding right before I was sprayed with juice, pulp, and rind. I blinked my eyes open and turned to see Jasper also covered in bits and blobs of orange. And he was still ludicrously good-looking. How was that even possible?
“On the upside, you did manage to ripen it.” His eyes glinted and his mouth curved up.
I licked a bit of orange off my lips and debated chucking myself into the koi pond at the end of the greenhouse. There was no need. With a sweep of his hands, Jasper wiped us both clean of the orange detritus, and then in a tone as bossy as Olive’s, he said, “Again.”
• • •
There were no more magical breakthroughs for me in any of my other lessons and I felt as if I was losing time on decoding the grimoire. To make it up, I spent the evening in my pajamas, eating chips and dip while sitting on the floor beside the fire studying my notes on the symbols in the book. The grimoire was open on the floor beside me. I felt as if it was patiently waiting for me to unlock its secrets and I muttered, “Me, too, book. Me, too.”
I turned to a random page at the back of the grimoire and traced the symbols with my fingers. It occurred to me that itlooked like a ledger, the neat symbols flowing down the page in two columns.
What would a grimoire belonging to a family of witches known for necromancy need a ledger for? Was it the names of the dead people who had been raised? Why would they need a list unless it was to keep track of them? Would I find Eloise’s name on this list?
My fingers stilled. I studied the most recent entries. The ink was black and the handwriting tight and precise. It reminded me of Mamie’s. I was certain she had made these notations. I checked the last page, hoping to see my mother’s loopy handwriting, but it wasn’t there. Mamie had been the last witch to write in the book.
I leaned back. A sharp pang of disappointment stabbed my chest. I had been hoping to find some sort of connection to my mother. It was ridiculous given that she had dropped me off and moved on, but the girl inside me who’d been left behind still longed for her mom. I glanced at the mug of tea on the hearth and desperately wished it were whiskey.
I picked up the grimoire and flipped to the very first page. I placed my palm on the parchment and closed my eyes. Given that the grimoire was a magical artifact and that magic was made up of energy, I wondered if there was a way I could call the grimoire’s magic into myself so that I could understand the book in a sort of magical osmosis. It was a long shot, but what did I have to lose?
I sat there for a long time, feeling the heat of the fire at my back and the fragile paper beneath my fingers. I was about to quit when I felt something, a low hum like an electrical current coursing through the book and into me. Or was it fromme into the book? I couldn’t tell. Then the whispers started. Just like the first few nights when the book had talked to me in my sleep, I could hear the voices murmuring. I felt my heart pound in my chest as I strained to make out the words.
I swallowed past my unease and willed myself to concentrate on the book. The hum of energies and the whispers were reaching an apex when I heard a ruckus on my front porch. If it was that damn raven again, I was going to get a cat—a very large cat. I ignored the scuffling noise outside. Surely, the bird would realize I was not letting it into the house or offering it any food and go away.
I had just found the hum of energy between me and the grimoire again when the scuffle outside became a thunderous pounding on my door. It was the distinct sound of a fist repeatedly hammering the thick wood.
That was no bird. Wessex was a small village and if it was anyone I knew, they would have called out a greeting. The angry banging stopped and I snatched up my phone as I rose to my feet. A boom sounded against the door as if the person on the other side was trying to kick it open. I grabbed the poker from the fireplace while unlocking my phone. Another boom sounded and the door bent inward. I scuttled into the corner.
I managed to press a nine and a one just as my front door exploded.
14
The wood cracked in half from top to bottom, shaking the entire wall. One half of the door fell inside the house with a crash while the other dangled from its damaged hinges like a drunk clinging to the doorframe. A man shouldered his way inside and I felt my heart stop. Clutched in one meaty fist was the raven. The man had it around the neck and the poor bird hung limply from his grasp.
