An answering high-pitched scream makes me jump and whirl around in alarm. A man decked out in running gear clutches his heart in fear, his eyes wide and focused on me as though I could attack any moment.
“Omg, I’m sorry,” I rush to offer. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I add, waving at him limply as though that’s all the reassurance he should need that I’m not crazy or a threat. He watches me for a moment and then hesitantly starts to lope away on the wide cement path. I observe that he’s not running for his life though, so he probably didn’t see me just apparate out of nowhere.
Thank the ancestors for small miracles.
I brush mulch off my stolen scrubs and turn to the parking lot. I pump my fist with excitement, as I find my old Pathfinder still parked where I left it, but I keep my happywhoopto myself, not wanting to traumatize any other early morning park goers. Quickly, I jog over to the car and kiss the hood before walking to the gas tank. Popping open the little door there, I pluck my emergency spare key from the magnetic holder attached inside.
I was faintly worried my car might have been towed, figuring some watchful park-going parent would have reported it by now, but I’m in luck. I climb into the driver’s seat and pet the steering wheel a couple times as I shove the key into the ignition and hope with everything I have that the old boat starts. I almost cry when the engine turns over and the Pathfinder rumbles to life. I didn’t even need to sweet talk it.
My eyes land on a copse of old, time-tested maple trees, and I suddenly recall something I haven’t given any thought to since it happened. Someone was watching Rogan and me that night. I could only make out an unfamiliar dark silhouette, but as I stare at the trees that cloaked the watcher in their inky embrace that night, I’m all at once certain it was Jamie.
I grit my teeth against the rush of memories and sensations that overwhelm me just at the thought of her name. The smell of ash and fear hits me first. My very cells seem to vibrate with the memory of what it felt like to be shocked by the magical barrier over and over again. My grip on the steering wheel tightens painfully as I white-knuckle my way through the onslaught.
She’s gone,I reassure myself, but that fact doesn’t bring the relief I need. The damage she did is irreparable, and there’s still a demon that needs to be brought to justice for their part in it all. Uneasiness skitters over me like insects across my skin. The feeling quickly passes, and I do everything I can to pack all the worry and trauma away to be dealt with later.
I’m in gear, pulling out, and then shooting down the road in less time than it takes Hoot to rip a fat one.Gah, I can’t wait to see that stinky little fucker. I wind my way through the familiar streets of Marblehead, Massachusetts, and a list of all the things I need to do before Hoot and I can be reunited races through my mind.
Before I know it, I’m turning down the street that leads to Hillen and Tad’s house. I disconnect the autopilot I clearly activated without realizing it, and swiftly turn down a different road from where I actually want to go. I don’t want to risk being spotted just in case their house is somehow being watched. I feel like some two-bit burglar casing the streets, as I casually make my way down a few back roads, looking for an inconspicuous place to park.
I pull over in front of a house that already has a crap ton of cars parked in front of it, my eyes peeled for anything that looks out of the ordinary. My key feels warm in my palm as I pull it from the ignition and grip it tightly in my hand. I jump out, shutting the door as quietly as I can, before crossing the street.
Out of habit, I lace my key between my fingers as I move. I scoff with amusement when I realize what I’ve done.Really, Lennox? Keys as a weapon? My whole existence is a weapon now. I chuckle to myself as I look around at the alleys, blind corners, and obstructed throughways between houses with a new light.Letsome mugger think I’m prey; my magic has been primed for a fight since I first woke up.
I go from slinking through the familiar neighborhood like I’m up to no good, to strutting like a tomcat on the prowl. Maybe it’s arrogant to think I could take on anything right now. Maybe I’m riding some post-resurrection high. I’ll have to ask Rogan if he felt like this after he woke up. Either way, I’m feeling confident as fuck right now. You’d think I was some high-paid model walking down a runway in designer duds instead of sporting stolen scrubs and a case of bed head that has to be alarmingly intense at this point.
I wonder if Cardi B would do an anthem for me. She’d be perfect, she’s the level of Bad Bitch I’m feeling right now.
I don’t spot anything or anyone that would make me think Hillen’s house is on any other witch’s radar. Still, I cover my tracks as much as possible by opening Mrs. Falcone’s gate and making my way through her backyard to the four loose fence planks that separate her green space from my Aunt Hillen’s.
The loose boards move aside as though they’re helpful bellmen and not the barrier they’re supposed to be. I immediately feel less tense as I step onto Hillen’s lawn. Shockingly, her garden looks as though it could use a good weeding. I tsk quietly. Grammy Ruby would be appalled. I test the handle of Hillen’s large slider, eyeing the kitchen window just in case this doesn’t open, but to my relief the glass pane slides smoothly over, and I’m bombarded by the smell of fresh-baked bread, incense, and irises.
Melancholy and loss reach out and slap me hard across the face. The scents wrap around me, immediately reminding me of my dad and his funeral along with the few other times this collection of specific and meaningful smells filled the walls of this house. Sure enough, the counter has warm loaves still in their pans cooling down on racks. I can picture the tears dripping down my aunt’s face as she kneaded her sorrow into those loaves, the urge riding her todosomething, tocontrolsomething in an otherwise completely helpless time.
My throat tightens at the thought that these loaves are for me. I shouldn’t be here to smell the sorrow wafting around this kitchen right now, but I am. In a normal world, there’s no stealing someone’s loss and grief. No matter how much you may want to shoulder that burden for someone else, it’s impossible, and yet here I stand in Hillen’s kitchen ready to do just that.
“Hillen?” I call out, the shout shattering the sad stillness all around me. “Tad?” I try again, moving further into the house when no one answers.
Uninvited nerves begin to churn in my stomach when the house stays silent.
“Tad? Hillen?” I shout even louder as I turn a corner to the base of the stairs that lead up to the second floor.
Shocked, I stop dead in my tracks when I find Tad is standing in the middle of the stairs in a very wrinkled T-shirt and sweats that look as though he’s been living in them for a while. He stares at me, bruising dark circles cradling flat, listless eyes. His light brown hair looks worse than I think even mine does right now. He’s pale, haggard as hell, and not in a state I’ve ever witnessed before.
“Leni?” he rasps in awe, and then it’s as though his legs give out, and he sits hard on the stairs, clutching the railing for dear life as agony tears through him.
I rush to him, two stairs at a time, as the sobs take over his body, and he buries his face in the crook of his elbow and cries. I did this to him, and I hate it. The magnitude of his loss is all-consuming, and my own eyes fill with tears as I pull him from the railing to me. He doesn’t fight my embrace, and all I can get out between my own wracking wails is thatI’m sorry.I repeat the two-worded lament over and over again as we drown the stairs in our tears and cling to each other with everything we have.
We stay like that for what feels like an hour. Me apologizing for the pain he’s clearly drowning in, and him just clinging to me and purging every ounce of devastation. It’s brutal and strangely validating. To know that you’re loved that much, to get what he’s going through because it would be me in the wrinkled sweats and choking sobs if the roles were reversed.
Hillen doesn’t join us, leading me to conclude that she must be out somewhere. I have an itch crawling just under my skin to find her, to make sure she doesn’t take another step or live another second with the heartache I know she’s feeling. I get why Rogan wouldn’t have done anything to possibly give them false hope, but I hate that they’ve been going through so much for nothing.
“I’m here. I’m back,” I reassure Tad, hoping it will help him surface from the grief. Both of our tears have dried up, but there’s an echo of a sob still shaking through his chest, and I know he’s not all the way free of the toll agony and loss has taken on him.
“Did you bring them? Is that how this works?” he asks, his tone subdued and sadly resolute.
“Bring what?” I ask, confused, leaning down so I can look him in the eye and try to discern what he’s saying.
“Ma said there was a reason we hadn’t found them yet, that you would get them to one of us when the time was right. Is this some top secret Osteomancer ritual that you only find out about when you’re the chosen one?” he asks, his mahogany eyes searching mine. “Is Grammy here?” he presses, suddenly looking around, a spark of hope momentarily chasing away the forlorn look in his gaze.
