I can’t take the back-and-forth anymore. “Will someone please explain to me what’s going on?”
Mrs. Hernandez clears her throat. “Rune,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “thirty-one years ago, in a town not far from Sapphire Springs, two powerful witches who match the descriptions you’ve given us died when their house burned to the ground. Their names were David and Lorelai Duval. They had a young daughter, Iris, and everyone thought she perished in the fire, too. But if we’re right, Iris Duval didn’t die at all. If we’re right”—her voice catches—“she’s standing right in front of us.”
My vision goes fuzzy, and I have to steady myself on the curio cabinet. Inside, the Hummels rattle and shift. “Iris Duval…is my birth name? And my mother’s name was Lorelai?”
Next to me, Mrs. Grant is pacing. “This is a crime of unspeakable proportions. Two of our own murdered that way, with their precious daughter forced to watch—and then to steal the child…” She takes my chin in her hands, shifting my face left and right. “Your eyes are like Lorelai’s, now that I think about it. But I never suspected… Who would? To have you growing up right under our noses—one of our own?—”
She drops her hands, her eyes hardening with anger. “All those years, going from one foster home to the next. There are protocols for the orphaned children of witches. A system, so that when your powers begin to manifest, you’re not alone. What happened to you is a travesty, Rune. And I’m sorrier than I can say.”
Tears rise in my throat again, and I push them back. “But…why put me in the foster system, then? If the Blood Witches wanted me so much, why not raise me themselves?”
“It would have caused too much suspicion.” Mrs. Hernandez is on her feet, too, shaking her head. “They operate in secret.Their identities are a mystery—you saw those hoods. They walk among us. They look like us. But they’re not like us.” She spits the last few words. “If one of them suddenly acquired a small, traumatized child, questions would be asked. And that’s the very last thing they can afford.”
Mrs. Grant comes to a stop in front of me. “Whatareyour powers, Rune? You do have them, yes?”
“I—”
“You can tell us,” Mrs. Fontaine coaxes. “We’ll help you. Guide you. We should have been doing this all along, if only we’d known.”
I try again to describe my curse. To explain. But once again, the electricity crackles in the air. Once again, the word catches in my throat, and I can’t speak it.
Grimly, Mrs. Grant folds her arms across her chest. “We’ll get to the bottom of this later. For now, tell us what you can.” She points at my branded hand. “How did this happen? And what did Ella read in your cards?”
I can’t explain about my hand, since that’s connected to a premonition. But I tell them what Ella saw. “I see darkness surrounding someone you work withis what she said. And she drew this symbol.” I dig the napkin out of my purse again. “She said the person was connected to my parents’ deaths, which means they have to be a Blood Witch, or aligned with them, right?”
“Most likely.” Mrs. Fontaine’s expression is fierce.
I look from one of the Sinsters to the next. “I’m going to find out who they are,” I vow. “And when I do, I’m going to bring them to justice.”
The Sinsters link hands. And then they reach out and weave their fingers through mine.
“Damn right you are,” Mrs. Hernandez says. “And I’ll tell you one thing, Rune Whitlock. You won’t be doing it alone.”
Chapter
Thirty-Two
I spenda good chunk of Saturday night with the Sinsters, learning everything I possibly can about Blood Witches (spoiler alert: not much, given the whole secret identity situation). What I discover boils down to this: they’re power-hungry, greedy individuals who will stop at nothing to get what they want. And what they want, at least the way the Sinsters explained it to me, is control over the use and regulation of magic. Given that I didn’t know magic existed before yesterday, this doesn’t tell me a hell of a lot.
I’m desperate for more information, especially about my parents. But apparently, Cooper wasn’t bullshitting me when he said that the dispersal of information was regulated. Mrs. Fontaine sketches the hierarchy out for me on a napkin: There’s a coven that oversees the international use and regulation of magic, and then beneath that, there are national covens. In the United States, that’s further divided into regional covens, each of which has a High Priestess. Sapphire Springs is in the southern region, and since we’re not in a major metropolitan area, we don’t have what Mrs. Fontaine actually calls “a local coven rep.” So, the Sinsters report directly to our regional High Priestess,but only when summoned or at what Mrs. Fontaine termed “our annual convention.” It was all I could do to stop from asking her if the convention took place in Salem, during Halloween.
Honestly, I think I might be a little punch-drunk, or maybe even in shock. Because the last thing I should be doing—theverylast thing—is laughing about any of this. But gallows humor has always been my drug of choice, and as I stare down at Mrs. Fontaine’s napkin, covered with hasty scrawls about coven reps and arrows denoting magical hierarchies, a desperate giggle bubbles up.
Before it can escape, I tell the Sinsters I have to go. They wave me out the door, with admonitions to be careful and too-long hugs. When Mrs. Hernandez pulls away, she’s crying.
“I knew your mother, Rune,” she whispers, patting my hand. “You’re a credit to her. We’ll find out who did this to your parents. And whatever’s going on with your magic, we’ll make it right.”
As I shut Mrs. Fontaine’s door behind me and make my way down the porch steps, I half-expect to step into Narnia…or at least, into the room with the red-tinged light. It seems impossible to me that, after the revelations of the past few hours, the rest of Sapphire Springs remains unchanged. But no: here are the neatly swept sidewalks with their overhanging oaks, the cars pulled into their respective driveways, the old-fashioned streetlamps and the starlit sky with its pale quarter-moon. The power’s back on, so lights shine from kitchens and upstairs windows. It's all very cozy and domestic…except for me. I’m the one who’s changed.
I have so many pieces of the puzzle. My premonitions. My curse. Donovan. Cooper. The Sinsters. The scroll-and-dagger symbol. My recovered memory about my parents. Now I just need to find a way to put them together, before the BloodWitches have the chance to make good on their promise in my premonition:Our day will come.
I’m half-dreading, half-anticipating Monday morning. Part of me wants nothing more than to charge into Smashbox and interrogate every employee about their connection to the magical world. And part of me is terrified of seeing Donovan again, for fear of how awkward things will be.
But when I walk into the office we share, he doesn’t so much as lift his head. I settle down at my desk to discover that Ethan’s cc’ed us on an email about how the client loved our presentation. Despite that, he’s still got a bulleted list of questions and suggestions for both of us. Donovan and I work for hours across the room from each other, and…not a word. Until finally, I can’t take it anymore.
“There’s nothing between me and Cooper!” I blurt. It’s the first thing I’ve said to him all day, other than “Hi,” which he responded to with a grunt.
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t reply.
