She nods. “Every witch bloodline has a sigil. It’s a magical symbol that tells the world we belong to the bloodline and also imbues us with certain powers. Each family has a specialty, a keyspell that is handed down and perfected generation after generation.”
“A keyspell?”
“Think of it like a keystone, a bedrock on which all the family’s magic is built. All magical families have a unique keyspell. Only two other bloodlines have an animator keyspell, but theirs are different than ours. Animators can command anything.” With a twist of her hand, one of the cocktail napkins folds itself into a bird and flaps its wings.
“Oh my God.” I had the gist of what an animator could do, but nothing prepares you for seeing a napkin try to fly.
“The Gowdie specialty is animating the dead. Give us a cemetery, and we are something to be feared. Other animator families specialize in mechanical animation or animating plants or animals. We specialize in bones. It’s how we were able to capture Damien. He’s a shade, but when he manifests in his human form, he has bones like we do. My family was able to lock into those bones.”
The implications send a shiver through me. “Can you control a living person, then?”
“It’s possible, but the magic would require a lot of power and wouldn’t last long. Living creatures with higher intelligence fight the magic. Vampires and shades though, are the exception. It works on a deeper level. They are supernatural creatures and our magic locks onto what animates them like… like… the teeth of a cog linking into another cog. It’s possible for us to take control.”
It sounds brutal. I redirect her back to our original conversation. “Maeve, what does any of this have to do with my mother?”
She wraps a hand around mine and squeezes. “Your mother and father both wore the tattoo that’s on your back over their hearts.”
“Yes. That’s why I chose it. I wanted to feel close to them.”
“Your mother was obsessed with fantasy creatures, so much so her work is dripping with them.”
“Yeah? So?” Goosebumps march up my arms at the look in her dark eyes.
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Maeve licks her lips. “I don’t know for sure, okay? It wasn’t like I knew your parents outside my friendship with you. But I believe the pattern on your back is a sigil. I believe your parents might come from a bloodline of witches, one that isn’t registered with the Council of Witches, and I think you have witch blood in you, even if you can’t do magic.”
A sharp inhale lodges in my throat. Then I just laugh. “I think I’d know if my parents were witches.”
“How?” she asks softly. “I didn’t come into my power until I turned seventeen, and my parents gave me this tattoo.” She taps the skull over her heart. “Only after did they start teaching me spells. Before that, my understanding of magic was academic. It’s possible your parents planned to teach you their magic eventually but never got a chance.”
I can’t breathe. My mind leaps between thinking this is a sick joke and thinking Maeve must be mistaken. But my mother painted those murals. She’d rubbed shoulders with the supernatural community. Then a question comes to me. “Didyourparents know about any of this?”
“They suspected.”
“Do they have any idea what the tattoo means? If my parents were witches, what’s the Harcourt keyspell?”
She shakes her head. “They don’t know. What I’ve told you about us, Eloise, is a tightly guarded secret. Other established families know, of course, but it’s not something we broadcast. We gather with other magical families four times a year. Your parents neverparticipated.”
“So, what you’re saying is, I have a magical symbol on my back that could mean I’m like you, or could mean nothing at all.”
Maeve adjusts her glasses. “I’m afraid that’s right.”
29
The Plan
ELOISE
Iflop onto my bed that night, my head pounding from too much wine and too much new information. Had my parents been witches? What did that mean anyway? Were the Harcourts witches, or did the magic come from my mother's side? Her maiden name was Townsend. Is it possible her family was magical?
Then again, does it really matter? I have no magical abilities and never will now that my parents are dead. I drift into a fitful sleep, mind reeling.
When I wake the next morning, I decide what I really need is some normalcy. I’ve been wanting to go grocery shopping for days, and there’s no better time to treat myself to a freshly stocked fridge than now. Performing a simple errand is sure to clear my head of everything I've learned about Tony, the magazine, and the supernatural.
I open the bottom drawer of my dresser and lift the false bottom, revealing my small hoard of hundreds, fifties, twenties, and tens. I siphoned over two thousand dollarsfrom Tony before I left him. It took time and patience, but I'm not sure how I would've survived without it. Sometimes I'd get extra cash back at the grocery store or tip a waitress or driver less than I told Tony I did. I'd take a few bills out of his wallet while he wasn't looking. I'd even lifted a couple hundred from his private safe one time when he'd left the room with it unlocked. For months, anytime I could secretly pocket cash, I did.
After he hit me the second time, I left, but I also understood there would be consequences. Almost immediately, he cut off my credit cards and filed for divorce, ensuring I had nothing and would get nothing. My parents didn't raise me to be a thief, but when I took this money, it was half mine. And I need it now, need it to see me through this divorce.
I slide two precious hundreds off the top of the pile and replace the false bottom of the drawer, moving my clothes back in place. Grabbing my purse, I dig out my wallet. It’s as I’m sliding the bills into the slot where I keep my cash that I notice the two hundreds in my hand are a different color than the twenty already in my wallet. They appear slightly more gray than green. It’s subtle. If I wasn’t an artist I might not have noticed.
