“Understood, Wyrdmother.”
Olive took her place on my left, then silently handed me a small silk pouch, weighted at the bottom by something dense and slightly moist. “What we have of her hair, Wyrdmother,” she murmured, eyes on her folded hands.
“Put it in the bowl,” I said. Her fingers trembled just slightly as she worked the drawstring and dropped the hair into the oil. It hissed, then vanished.
Maggie and Teela crowded together. Maggie reeked of burned sage and cheap gin, but her instincts were good and her sense of loyalty, though mercenary, was at least predictable. Teela trailed behind, her bare feet leaving little ghostly prints on the flagstones. She was the least skilled of the three, but the most sensitive, and therefore the most useful for scrying.
They stood around the bowl with me, hands linked, heads bowed in anticipation.
“Let’s see our little wayward child,” I said, and dipped my own hand into the oil, just to the wrist. The surface clouded and then cleared. In the shimmering dark, Aspen Waters appeared, framed by the bright yellow and white awning around the window of a bakery. She wore her hair loose, like her mother always had, and the sight of her hands—capable, steady, dusted with flour—almost made me nostalgic.
Almost.
Teela exhaled, her voice dreamy. “She’s with them now. The wolves, seems to be attached to one of them in particular. The scarred one.”
Now, this piece of information changed things and gave me something I could work with.
“Describe the perimeter,” I ordered.
Teela’s brow furrowed. “No wards on the outermost fence. Protected by brute force. She comes and goes freely.”
“Of course she does,” I said. “She never learned to build a proper shield. Assemble an extraction team. I have a plan.” I traced the edge of the scrying bowl with a single nail, leaving a thin red track in the oil. The best way to draw your prey was to use the proper bait.
Chapter 14
Aspen
Isat at the dining table in Papa’s house, well…my house now, which I still could not believe. My hands were settled on either side of the ancient book, not quite ready to touch its cover. The grimoire still thrummed with its own little heartbeat, and the echo of this morning’s attack in the bakery made me flinch at every vibration. The dining room was all polished wood and sunlight, a world apart from the wreckage inside my chest. But the scent of bacon, coffee, and sweet cream made me feel somehow safe.
“Don’t be afraid of it, Miss,” Oscar said, perched on a folded tea towel on the table. “It cannot harm you unless you wish it.Or unless you drop it on your foot. Which, given the size, would be most unpleasant.” He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his vest and adjusted his little wire-framed glasses, because apparently this was his serious familiar outfit.
I tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in my throat. “What if it doesn’t open for me? What if I’m a big ol’ failure just like all the other times?”
Oscar leveled his shiny black eyes at me. “Miss, if you can bake a perfect lemon scone while fending off the harpies of your past, you can open a family grimoire. It is far less hazardous to your self-esteem, I assure you.” He flicked his tail with a flourish. “Now. Focus.”
I pressed both palms to the book, letting its low thrum center me. The grimoire was heavy and old—bound in leather; the edges sealed with wax and some kind of silvery twine that reminded me of spiderwebs in moonlight. Whenever I tried to open it before, the clasp refused to budge, as if it had to be convinced of my worthiness. I’d pulled it from the safe when we’d gotten home from the bakery after the “grabby, creepy hag of rudeness” incident this morning. I thought it so thoughtful of Papa to insist on having the book stowed in the safe anytime we were out of the house. The grimoire was too large and heavy to haul around with us; that was for sure. Papa was a man who knew how to prepare for the worst.
The man himself bustled behind me in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes with the care of a bomb technician. He’d laid out everything for BLTs—bacon crisp and stacked, tomatoes salted and drained, lettuce so cold it snapped when you tore it. He was humming a country song, one I knew from childhood, and his voice was so low and even it vibrated through the chair into my bones. I found myself matching my breaths to his rhythm, like if I kept the same beat, I’d be invincible too.
He slid a mug of coffee toward me and topped it off, the dark liquid steaming, then added just enough cream to turn it the color of river mud. “You need to eat something,” he said, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Can’t open ancient tomes on an empty stomach.”
His hand lingered a second longer than necessary. I looked up at him, saw the worry in his eyes, the same look he’d worn all morning. I wondered if he’d ever not be worried about me, if he’d ever be able to relax knowing I was safe. That a look of love mingled in that look gave my tummy a little tumble.
He set down the sandwiches—mine cut into neat triangles, his in two enormous halves—and set down a small bowl of fresh spinach and some small chopped carrots for Oscar even though as a familiar he didn’t actually need to eat unless he just wanted to. Turned out, he did. He took his place at the head of the table, but didn’t touch his food. Instead, he propped his elbows and watched, as if I was about to perform a magic trick that might blow up the house.
“I can leave if you want,” he said softly. “If you need it to be just you and Oscar.”
I shook my head. “No. I want you here.” Then, because I felt like I owed him something after the morning he’d had, I added, “If you see sparks, please don’t put me out with the fire extinguisher.”
He smiled, that slow, crooked grin that always made my pulse skip. “Only if you turn green. I like you the way you are.”
We ate in companionable silence, Oscar crunching away at his carrots and spinach deep in thought. Every few bites, I caught Papa staring at the book, like it might leap off the table and bite him. I almost told him he was being silly, but considering everything that’d happened lately, I kept my mouth shut.
Halfway through his second sandwich, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, frowned, then pushed away from the table. “It’s Menace,” he said, nodding toward the porch. “I need to take this.”
I watched him retreat to the porch; the door closing behind him with a solid, comforting thunk. The windows let in strips of sun, making the dust motes sparkle. For a minute, I just listened to the quiet: the tick of the fridge, Oscar’s little sighs, the far-off rumble of Papa’s voice through the porch wall.
Oscar waited until he was sure Papa was out of earshot, then turned back to me, all business. “Right, Miss. We must be quick. That phone call won’t last forever, and time is of the essence.”
