Conjure (7 page)

Chapter Nine

I tap on Jack’s bedroom door for the hundredth time today. “Jack?” I wait for him to respond, determined not to leave until I at least know he’s okay.

He’s been holed up in there ever since we got back from Miss Delia’s yesterday. No matter what Cooper and I have tried, including begging and threatening to break the door down, all we’ve gotten is silence. At least my twin sense is telling me that he is alive.

After another long minute of silence, I knock again on the hollow maple door.

“Yeah.” His voice is so flat and deep, I almost don’t recognize it.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” He sounds cold and colorless.

I turn the brass handle, and the door squeaks open. Jack’s lying on his bed in the same clothes from yesterday, staring at the ceiling. His arms are propped behind his head on his pillow, and his hand is tucked under his jet-black hair.

I slink toward his bed. “You okay?”

He doesn’t bother to look at me. “I’m dying.” His voice quivers.

My stomach wrenches. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes. I am.” He says it with surety and conviction, like he’s lost all hope.

I sit on the side of his bed. “I’m not going to let that happen. I promise. Miss Delia’s teaching me how to reverse this curse, and we’re going to fix you.”

His eyes are like two pools of ice—frozen dead zones of doom. “You can’t fix me. And neither can she. This thing is going to spread until it kills me.”

“Don’t say that, Jack. I won’t let it take you.” I bite my tongue to keep from crying.

He shrugs. “Whatever. I know what’s going to happen.” He pulls his unwrapped hand from behind his head.

It’s different than yesterday. Now the flesh at the edge of his bones is exposed and frayed, though somehow not bleeding, and his palm is swollen and red, even though his thumb still is normal.

Oh, my God. It
is
spreading.

He wiggles his bony fingers in front of his face. “Soon the blisters will come, and they’ll get bigger until they finally burst, and my whole hand will be like this. And then little by little, it’ll spread until I’m a walking, talking skeleton.” A long, rolling laugh escapes his lips. But it’s not his normal laugh. It’s hollow and empty and sends a chill up my spine.

“What’s so funny?”

He quiets. “It doesn’t even hurt. You’d think dying would be painful, but I can’t feel a thing.” He thrusts his hand into my face. “Here, touch it. I won’t feel it.”

I get a whiff of something chalky and gag, realizing it’s his bones. “No, I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” He pushes his hand closer, and his eyes glisten with maniacal insanity.

Recoiling, I cry, “Stop, Jack!”

His face falls. “You want to save me, but you can’t even touch it.”

Ugh, he’s right. I draw a deep breath and inch my finger toward his, bracing myself for what has to be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever imagined. Or anyone’s ever imagined. My fingertip grazes the smooth bone before my reflex kicks in and I jerk my hand away.

His face is grim. “Dang, Em. Touch it for real. It’s not going to kill
you
.”

I stare into his steely blue eyes and realize I have to do this for him, to build his trust, and convince him I’m serious about breaking the curse. With a gulp, I reach out and grasp what used to be his index finger. It’s cold and moist, like a piece of sidewalk chalk that’s been left out in the rain. The three joints hang together by only a thin piece of stretchy tissue, which is probably a tendon. I run my finger over the top bone that’s curved in the middle and rounded at the tip. It’s like a chess piece, a tiny ivory pawn at the end of his finger.

He hikes up his eyebrow. “You know what it’s called?”

“What?”

“That bone. It’s the distal phalange. I looked it up in one of the old encyclopedias in the middle of the night. And this one’s the intermediate.” He points to the middle section with his good finger. “The bottom is the proximal.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, lowering my gaze to my nearly normal foot. It’s surreal that I could heal so quickly, but he’s only getting worse.

He swallows back the welling tears, but one escapes and trickles down his cheek. “Nah, don’t worry about it.” He brushes it away with the back of his good hand and sniffs. “At least I’ll be the coolest living anatomy lesson ever, right?” He forces a smile, but I’ll take it, because it means he hasn’t totally given up. At least not yet.

I reach over and grasp his knee. “We’re not going to let it get that far.”

“I want to believe you. I just don’t know if I can.” His eyes get glossy again, and he rubs them with his healthy hand. When his tears are under control, he tucks this arms behind his head and changes the subject. “So what’s your plan to save me?”

I bite my bottom lip. “Um, Miss Delia needed some time to think on it. But she’s got some ideas.” I decide not to mention how difficult, if not impossible, she said the curse was to break. He needs all the hope he can get.

“That’s good. I guess Maggie was right about her.”

“Yeah, that’s weird, right? I mean, how did she know we’d need a root doctor? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she took us to Miss Delia, but it just seems really coincidental.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “God, Em, when are you going to get off her case?”

Heat flushes my cheeks. “I’m not on her case. I’m just saying it’s strange she got us to the exact right person to deal with this. I mean, seriously, what would have happened if we went to the hospital? They’d have you locked up in intensive care or zipped behind one of those plastic biohazard barriers.”

“It’s not weird at all. She’s my girlfriend, and she cares about me. And she’s a local. I bet all the
binyahs
know Miss Delia and her freaky hoodoo magic.”

Since when did she become his girlfriend?

“But that’s not what I mean—”

“Stop trying to make this into something it’s not.”

It’s clear I’ve gone as far as I can with this.

I sigh and give up my need to be right, especially if it keeps him from going all reclusive hermit again. Plus it doesn’t matter what he says or thinks. I have my own opinion, and he can’t change it.

His face softens. “Have you seen her?”

“Who? Maggie?”

“Yeah.” He picks at the thin patchwork bedspread with his distal phalange. “I was just wondering if you or Cooper ran into her. Or maybe if she stopped by to check how I am.”

“We haven’t exactly been hanging out at the beach the last couple days, you know. Plus she doesn’t know where we live.”

He stares at the ceiling. “I know, I was just wondering.” He tries to act tough, but his voice is tinged with sadness.

Ugh, he’s such a
guy
—thinking about his “girlfriend” when his hand’s rotting away. But then again, maybe he just needs something positive to distract himself from The Creep.

I peer out the small window into the tall pines that surround the house. “I was thinking I’d head down to the ruins today. Maybe I’ll run into her.”

He lurches up onto his elbows. “Are you crazy? You can’t go down there.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where it all started.”

“Uh-huh, exactly. I need to get the treasure box for Miss Delia.”

He grabs my arms. His cold bony fingers wrap around my bicep and dig into my flesh. “Emma, promise me you’ll stay away from that box.”

His forcefulness takes me by surprise, as does his total change in attitude, but I remain calm so maybe it’ll rub off on him. “Relax, Jack. I’ll be fine. I won’t open it.”

He grips even tighter, and his eyes bore into mine. “No, you won’t be fine. I don’t want this to happen to you, too. You can’t touch it. Ever. I don’t care what’s inside, even if it’s an antidote. It’s not worth it.” He shakes his head, and his chest shudders with another sob. “I should have listened to you in the first place.”

I appreciate his sort-of apology, but that’s not what’s important—fixing him is. “But Jack, the curse is in that box. How else are we supposed to find a way to stop this?” I peek at his skeletal hand and gulp.

Suddenly aware of his actions, he releases his bony grip and slides away from me. “You’ll have to find another way.”

I understand his fear, but he’s totally tying my hands here. Staring off into his room, I try to figure out what else I can possibly do to help Miss Delia besides waiting around for her to have a giant brainstorm. And then it hits me, because it’s literally staring me in the face. There, on the desk next to his laptop, is the squat brown spirits bottle we dug up last week with Bloody Bill’s letter rolled inside. It’s what got us into this mess in the first place. It’s not as good as the treasure box, but it’s the next best thing.

I hop off the bed and grab it. “Okay, we’ll do it your way for now. But I’m taking this.”

Chapter Ten

“Emmaline, do you really think this is going to work?” The uncertainty in Cooper’s voice echoes the silent fears that have rumbled through my brain all morning. He tightens his grip on the station wagon’s steering wheel as we drive to Miss Delia’s, his brow creased with worry.

Normally I’d be ecstatic to be alone with him, but things are different now. Jack’s cursed and probably dying. Fear and worry trump everything else, even the giddy shivers.

“I hope so. It has to.” I’m not entirely sure I believe it myself, but I don’t have a choice. It has to work. My fist tightens around the neck of the thick brown bottle, as if I can will it into revealing a cure. I’m not even sure what I want it or the letter Cooper took from his geometry book to do, but they have to help us save Jack.

We park the car off the main road and walk the rest of the way to Miss Delia’s, rounding the bottle tree and making our way through her front herb garden. Miss Delia is seated in a rocking chair on the porch. “I’ve been wondering when y’all would get here,” she says as we climb the front steps. She must have gotten some rest because she seems a lot better this morning. The color’s back in her cheeks, and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. Even her good eye seems clearer.

Cooper waves. “Morning, ma’am. I’m sorry again about yesterday.” He thumbs his hand toward the now-clean salvia bush he hosed down before we left.

She smiles, then cranes her neck around us to squint into the clearing. “Where’s your brother?”

“Home in bed.” I press the bottle against my side. “He’s not dealing with this whole situation very well, especially since the rest of his hand is swollen now.”

She shakes her head. “It’s going to make working the charm much harder.”

Cooper and I exchange troubled looks. Jack won’t even get out of bed. How were we supposed to drag him all the way here? Cooper rakes his fingers through his hair. “Uh, I could drive us all back to High Point Bluff. We’ve got a huge kitchen. Can you work the charm there?”

Her shoulders stiffen, and her mouth hardens into a straight line. “I’m not setting foot on that plantation. Never have. Never will. Not even if the Lord himself is waiting on me.”

Wow. That’s a pretty strong stance. “Why?”

She eyes Cooper before answering me. “I got my reasons.”

“But—”

She cuts me off with a raised hand. “I’m not going. Besides, I’m too old to go traipsing up there, anyhow.”

Panic swells in my gut. Why does she have to make this so difficult? Doesn’t she realize how important this is? We’re talking about my brother’s life. Does it really matter where she works the spell? My fists tighten, and I suddenly remember the bottle in my hand. “You said his not being here makes it harder to break the curse, but not impossible, right? Maybe this will help.” I extend the bottle toward her.

She squints with her good eye. “What is it?” She reaches for the bottle, and it nearly drops to the floor. Cooper springs forward and catches it before it crashes.

“Lord, that’s heavy.”

Cooper gently rests it in her lap. “We think it’s from the 1700s.”

I nod. “Remember the letter we told you about? The one that warned us about The Creep in the first place?” I flip up the cover of my messenger bag and fish out the piece of parchment. “This is it. We found it rolled up in that bottle and buried in the sand at the beach. I thought maybe it could give us a clue or something.”

“Well, let’s see it.” Miss Delia fiddles with the reading glasses hanging around her neck, hooks them around her ears, then takes the letter from me.

I stifle a giggle. The lenses are so thick they make her look like a google-eyed fish. And now that it’s magnified, I can’t help but notice the cloudy splotch on her bad eye is shaped like Australia. If she needs this much help to see, she’s got to be almost blind.

Unrolling the letter, she holds it out the full length of her arm, sucks her teeth, and mumbles, “This is good.”

Cooper exhales. “Really?” Smiling for the first time in days, he squeezes my hand. His relief flows into me.

“Hold on now. I didn’t say I found the exact cure.” Miss Delia removes her glasses, returning her eyes to their normal size. “It’s still going to take some doing.”

My joy deflates like a balloon pricked with a pin. I slump against the porch railing, feeling the weight of Cooper’s warm, muscular hand in mine. Oh. We’re still holding hands. Normally that would probably make my heart explode, but Jack’s life is still at risk. I can’t pretend it doesn’t feel good, though. Actually, way better than good—more like awesome. But now’s not the time. I need to focus. I let go and act casual as I pull my hand back to my side. “But you said the letter was good.”

“Yes, because it says she used the wind and water. That proves this is old elemental magic, and it gives me a better idea of where to start.” She rubs her chin as if calculating something in her head. “Can you get me a piece of his clothing? Something that’s got his sweat on it?”

I snort. That’s about the easiest thing she could ask for. “That won’t be a problem. Pretty much everything he owns reeks.”

“Actually, I think he left his cap in the car yesterday.” Cooper juts out his thumb toward the path. “That ought to have plenty of sweat in it.”

Miss Delia flicks her wrist to shoo him off the porch. “Then go get it, boy. I don’t want to wait any longer to work this spell.”

Cooper springs off the porch and bounds into the front yard, jogging down the path through the herb garden.

Miss Delia leans toward me, her good eye glistening. “Help me to the kitchen. There’s something we need to do before he gets back. And leave the letter and bottle out here. I don’t want you dragging their bad mojo into my house.”

I set the bottle on the wide plank floor, roll up the letter, and shove it back in the neck. Then I gently grasp her forearm to lift her out of the chair. “Okay, but Cooper’s a good guy. You can trust him.” I hand her the cane and support her other arm as we head into the house.

Leaning hard against the cane, she steps inside and hobbles along, shuffling her orthopedic shoes across the nubby green carpet. Despite how refreshed she appeared sitting in the chair, she’s definitely not as strong as she was the other day. I clutch her elbow as gently as possible and guide her across the living room.

She shakes her head. “Maybe now, while he still has his childhood. But soon he’ll come into his manhood.”

That’s the same phrase Maggie used when she met Cooper for the first time. Even though Miss Delia said it, I’m still confused. “What does that mean, come into his manhood?”

“Why, becoming a man, of course.” She looks surprised I don’t get it.

“But he won’t be eighteen for two whole years.”

She chuckles. “Child, being a man doesn’t have anything do to with when the law says it’s so. Take a look at that boy of yours. He looks nearly like a man, don’t he? You know, in years past,when a young man turned sixteen, he could marry and start a family of his own. You watch—soon after that birthday of his, he’ll start acting as corrupt as his father.”

Her words sting like a slap across the face. His father is revolting—ogling young women and constantly recycling wives, eating like a hog, and tearing down every forest he can find to build crap nobody needs. Not to mention that disgusting rotten bologna smell of his. Cooper couldn’t be more different from his dad. “You’re wrong, Miss Delia. I’ve known him almost all my life. Cooper’s the kindest, sweetest guy I’ve ever met. He’s nothing like his father and never will be.” My cheeks flush, giving away a lot more than my defense of him, but I don’t care.

She stops, lifts her arm out of my hold, and pats me on the back of the hand. “Child, every Beaumont starts and ends the same way. It’s an unbroken cycle that will never change.”

I shake my head. “No. Not Cooper. He’s different.”

She chuckles and grips my forearm again. “Okay, Emma. Enjoy him while you can. Just don’t plan on spending your life with him.” She wags a gnarled finger at me. “And don’t say I didn’t warn you.” My scalp tingles, and I reach up to scratch at the strange sensation.

We make our way to the kitchen, and I stop short when I see the island counter. It’s covered with glass vials, beads, an ancient-looking book, and a box of white candles. She’s been busy. I help her to a stool and plop down on the one next to her. “Where do we start?”

“First I need to initiate you as my apprentice. Normally I’d have you take a bath first, but we don’t have much time before he gets back.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m clean. I showered this morning.” I resist the urge to lift my arm and sniff my pits. I used deodorant this morning, but it’s summer in South Carolina, after all, not exactly a cool, sweat-free place.

She smiles. “I’m talking about a different kind of clean. Before you work a strong spell in hoodoo, you should always cleanse your body with minerals and herbs to purify your soul, protect it from evil spirits, and fortify you against the effects of working magic.”

Even though it makes sense, those last two parts surprise me. I’ve been so wrapped up in saving Jack, I hadn’t considered that I might need protecting. And what does she mean about the side effects of casting magic? This is more complicated than I thought. “But I didn’t do that purification thing. Will that ruin the spell?”

“No, I’m working the charm. You’re just assisting. Besides, I’ve got a little something to help cheat when time’s short. Give me your hands.”

I extend my fingers toward her on the countertop. She flips them over so my palms face up and reaches for a small green bottle then works to unscrew the top, but it doesn’t budge. Without a word, I gently take it from her hands and push down hard, twisting to the left, and open it. With a grateful smile, she lifts it from my hand and drips oil on my wrists. She rubs it in, releasing its citrus scent, and dabs a bit of the residue behind my ears and down my neck.

“Hmm, what is this?” I can almost taste the lemon, butter, and grassy notes that swirl around my head. I know I’ve smelled it before, I just can’t remember where.

“It’s citronella, one of the basic cleansing essential oils. We use it to repel evil.”

That’s it. The patio candles at Cooper’s house. So now not only will I be free of evil spirits, but I shouldn’t have to worry about mosquitoes, either. Bonus!

She reaches for a small white ceramic pot with a top that’s sort of like a sugar bowl. “This is a
pot de tête
,” she says in a French accent. If my ninth grade translation skills are correct, it means “head pot.” Thankfully it’s not big enough to literally hold my head. Not that I think Miss Delia’s into that sort of magic. “Every apprentice gets one when they’re initiated. I’ll keep it here for as long as I need your assistance. When our work is finished, you’ll get it back.” She grabs a pair of scissors by the sharp end and points the handle toward me. “Snip off some of your hair and put it in.”

Ah, so that’s why it’s called a head pot. I stare at the scissors, unsure of what to do. It’s not that I’m vain, but my hair is probably the nicest thing about me. “Um, how much do you want?” I twist a long strawberry-blonde strand around my finger.

“Not much, but enough to know it’s yours.” She must sense my hesitation because she arches her brow. “Child, you’ve got plenty enough that no one’s going to notice. Cut it.”

I reach back to the nape of my neck and separate a small section. Draping it over my shoulder, I snip off a piece about ten inches long and drop it into the pot.

Miss Delia nods. “Now clip your fingernails and add them. too.”

That’s easier to do. My nails are usually on the short side, anyway, since they get pretty filthy from my charcoals and pastels. I snip the few nails long enough to peek over my fingertips right into the ceramic pot.

Miss Delia places the lid on top then removes a long, multicolored beaded necklace from around her neck and wraps it around the jar, several times, crisscrossing the strand. “Now you’re under my protection.” She grasps another, much shorter beaded strand from the counter and holds it out to me. “And this here’s your necklace. It’s a
collier
, and shows you’ve been initiated into my house.”

The tiny beads are grouped together in blocks without an obvious pattern. Although the colors might ordinarily clash, there’s something powerful in its simplicity. I slip it over my head. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. Are these your colors?”

“The order is mine. But the colors, and even the number of beads, represent the powers we need to work hoodoo. You see these red and white beads? They’ll give you the power of spoken word and prayer. And these clear and white beads? They’re for seeing spirits.”

Seriously? What kind of a charm are we working here? Do we have to see spirits to break this curse? Anxious to push the possibility out of my mind, I spin the necklace around to the block of purple, white, and black beads. “And what about these?”

“They’re for communicating with the dead.”

I gulp. That’s so much worse. “Let’s hope we don’t have to do much of that.”

She cackles, and her good eye twinkles. “You never know when it comes to hoodoo. Best to be prepared.”

The last section is the widest, a group of light blue and pink beads. “What are these for? And why are there so many of them?”

“Ah, those are the most important. They’ll help you listen to your spirit guide.” She places her hand on top of mine to emphasize her point. “Never ignore the voice of spirit. She’ll always help you make the right decision.”

I roll the smooth glass beads between my fingers and consider what she said. I’m not sure if these tiny, round pieces of glass will do everything she says they will, but she obviously believes in them. And since she’s my only hope to save Jack, I’ve got to believe in her.

The front door slams, alerting us that Cooper’s back with Jack’s hat. Miss Delia starts and pushes the head pot toward me. “Put this in the back of the cabinet over there. And remember, it’s our secret.” She lifts her crooked finger to her lips to seal the deal.

“You got it.” I stow it just as Cooper steps in the kitchen.

“We’re in luck. This thing’s covered with dried sweat.” He tips the Washington Nationals hat toward us, revealing the previously navy-blue brim that’s faded to a dull gray from all Jack’s stinky perspiration. He smiles at me. “Nice necklace, Emma. It looks good on you.”