Massaging my throbbing temples, I say to Sam now, “Can’t you tell him to deliver them to your shop, like the last two days?”
“Iris, the shop is so full right now you can’t even drop a pin on the floor. There are too many flowers to sell before they die. My magic keeps them alive, but not forever. I thought maybe we could find a women’s shelter and drop them there. Hecate knows their abusive, dickbag husbands never gifted them anything nice.”
“That’s a good idea,” I mumble through another bite of ashy French toast.
Thirty minutes later, I’m staring at the wrought-iron gate of the cemetery, my mother’s journal in a tight grip. Even though I’ve repeated every encouraging mantra I could think of…my legs seem to have grown roots thicker than a mangrove’s, planting me in place. The guilt of surviving when she hadn’t is still too heavy. Not only that, but it’s entwined with the feeling of shame that I had years to find the demon who killed her. And failed. But most of all is not knowing how my mother would feel about everything. If she would be disappointed.
I’ve only been past this wrought-iron gate once—at the funeral. That day is forever seared into my memory, even though I was high as a kite on pain meds. Grayson pulled some strings and got me out of the hospital for a few hours. There is no honor for a hellseeker who leaves the Order, so it was only me, my aunt, and him watching the casket being lowered into the ground. Ofcourse, it was out of the question for my mother to be buried in the Order’s cemetery at the edge of the compound’s property. My aunt chose the one closest to her house since I was going to move there in a month or two anyway. But then I swallowed a bottle full of pills.
I remember how out of touch I felt, not only with the world, but with my body, too. As if I was missing important parts of myself. As if someone had taken all the shattered pieces and glued me back together all wrong. I didn’t even cry. I stared at the scene unfolding in front of my eyes as if watching a movie. I kept thinking to myself,This is your mother. Aren’t you going to at least shed one tear? Just one. They’re going to think you’re a fucking robot.Even the sun radiating warm rays from the cloudless azure sky mocked me. Because if I didn’t care that my mother was dead, why should the weather?
The fury came one week later. At the world. At the injustice of it all. At my stupid body for healing faster than humanly possible, but not being able to mend my broken brain so I could get my memories back. All that apathy was the ocean drying one drop at a time to expose the bare bones before the wall came. You know that wall of water right before the tsunami hits? It reached a hundred feet before it smashed into me with a deadly force. I couldn’t escape it. It flooded my airways until it reached every single cell in my body to the nucleus. So, I did the only thing I could: I trashed my hospital room.
The bill was astronomical. My aunt was beyond livid, but she understood I was only a teenager. I think she was relieved that I wasn’t a zombie anymore. Luckily, the inheritance my mother left covered the cost because Aunt Josephine couldn’t afford it. The aftermath of that tsunami wasn’t pretty; the flooding waves continued to slam into me for weeks on end. However, the rage turned inward until I was choking on guilt. I just wanted to disappear. To fade away into nothingness…So, judge me all youwant for trying to kill myself, but at the time, it was my only way out.
When two hours pass—and I haven’t moved an inch—I let out a sigh of defeat before trudging back toward Sam’s house.
Maybe next time…
10
Iris
“This is it,” Sam says, glancing at the wooden Apothecary sign perched above the door.
The bell chimes when we enter the shop. Vintage dusty blue cabinets and shelves filled with ornate jars line the walls. It’s quaint and cozy—like one would expect when entering an apothecary on the main street in Salem. We’re the only ones here since it opened ten minutes ago. The earthy smell of dried plants and spices tingles my nose as we weave through the shelves. The scent reminds me of Sam’s kitchen when she prepares a new potion.
Sam picks up one of the brass-lidded jars to inspect its contents. “I’ve been looking for this brahmi root for a few weeksnow.”
“What can I help you—You! OUT!”
I whirl around to look at the white man behind the counter. His shiny bald head is beet red, and bulbous veins pulse along it as if they’re going to explode any second now. He has one angry finger pointed at Sam, practically foaming at the mouth.
I throw her a confused look. “What’s happening?”
“Eh, you remember that warlock that made Grammie mad, and she practically spurted a tree out of his ass? This is the guy,” she whispers before turning to the old man. “C’mon, Mr. Havirsham, Grammie did apologize.”
“Then why did you poison me?” he bellows. “Out. Of. My. Shop. NOW!” His hands glow as his power electrifies the air.
Sam huffs. “Stop acting like a baby. It was just a little hemlock sprinkled into your food. I only let you suffer for half an hour before giving you the antidote anyway. You know you deserved it since you called Grammie a bitch. We all heard you.”
He lifts his right hand as if he’s going to blast Sam. Before he gets the chance, I swipe the dagger at my belt and send it flying. It pierces the old man’s shirt sleeve, pinning it to the wall above his head.
“If you value any of your body parts, I suggest you retract your power,” I clip out.
As if seeing me for the first time, his ruddy complexion loses all color, turning ghastly white. Confusion shines in his eyes as they flick between my onyx choker and hair. Back to my choker. “Y-you—you’re a-a h-hellseeker.”
“Yup, and she’s my best friend,” Sam chimes in, throwing him a saccharine smile. “We don’t want any trouble, okay? We came here to see your wife, that’s it.”
His demeanor does a one-eighty for the second time. “I’m not letting a hellseeker see my wife. She’s innocent. She didn’t do—”
“What’s all this ruckus?” A gorgeous woman with warm copperskin and Middle Eastern features spills into the shop from a back door, wiping her hands on the apron tied to her plump middle.
“Iman, she’s a hellseeker. Run!” the man shouts in abject fear.
“It’s okay, Harold.” Her gaze cuts to Sam and I. “I’m under the protection of the Obsidian Conclave.” She turns her forearm so we can see the Baphomet sign—the head of a goat inside a pentagram—inked on the inside of her wrist.
I lift my hands in a show of surrender. “We don’t want to cause you any trouble, Mrs. Havirsham. We’re here because I need your help. It’s not related in any way to the Order. It just happens that I’m also a hellseeker.”
