Secret Worlds (34 page)

Taking three deep breaths, I pushed the hissing as far into the back of my skull as possible. I wasn’t about to go back to work. Someone was bound to interrupt my relaxation efforts with a request for a drink refill or a complaint that their jalapeno loaf was too spicy or their ginger-lime chicken wasn’t chickeny enough.

As I drove home, I concentrated on the road—on one mailbox after another, on the way tree branches laced overhead, even on the glare of traffic lights, counting the seconds until they turned green. Anything to distract me from the noise.

My Jeep shushed along the pavement, but the roll of the road didn’t do me any good. The quieter the world around me, the louder the buzzing in my brain. Coping was no longer a viable option.

At the last major cross street before my neighborhood, the noise in my head roared. I slammed my palm against the steering wheel, gritting my teeth.

Enough was enough. I flicked my turn signal in the other direction and veered onto the highway before my courage fled. It was time to turn away from caution and toward Sparrow’s Grotto. Toward something that might silence the hissing forever.

***

THE FORTY-MINUTE DRIVE to Cripple Creek, home of Sparrow’s Grotto, was worth spending the bit of cash I made at the diner. A Wiccan shop would not fare well in Belle Meadow, but thankfully the surrounding towns had pulled themselves into modern America.

I shrugged off my seatbelt and grabbed my list from the glove compartment before stepping out of my Jeep. A wad of fingerprinted gum blocked the parking meter slot. No way was I hunting down another space. I dug the gum out with the blade of my car key and forced a quarter past the sticky residue.

There. Twenty minutes for me.

I stared at the shop I’d first set foot in when I was sixteen—the place that always provided answers. Doctors hadn’t been able to help with the noise. Tinnitus, they’d said, as if this were only a ringing in my ears.

Tinnitus, my ass.

But I’d gone to them first because magic was something I turned to only when necessary. After today, I was convinced this was one of those times.

I shoved my thoughts aside and headed into Sparrow’s Grotto, where coyote figurines prowled the shelves, patchouli and sandalwood infused the air, and notes of Celtic music relaxed my nerves. The wall opposite the checkout counter was stacked with books, and the center aisles were filled with herbs, oils, candles, chalk and salts, small dishes, and other ritual implements. Athames, bolines, and other sharp objects were kept locked in the back.

Paloma, the shop owner and my long-time mentor, burst through a beaded curtain, her out-swung arms breaking the image of bamboo shoots. Her long hair, brown as coconut husks, tangled in her large, gold hoop earrings.

“Oi, Sophia!” she said. “It’s been far too long!”

“You’re telling me. How’ve you been?”

Following a quick bout of chitchat, she reviewed my list, her gaze only interrupted for a moment as she wiped a stray hair from the sun-weathered skin of her forehead. “What sort of ritual do you have in mind?”

“Something for positive energy.” Less demanding than a ritual for silence; I never felt right making demands while using magic.

“Ah,” she said, tapping a finger against her lips. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She disappeared behind her beaded curtain while I admired a few antiques on a shelf near the counter. A small violin charm made me smile. I set the charm beside the cash register. It would be a perfect addition to the bracelet Grandfather Dunne had given me shortly before he died. He’d even removed several links so it wouldn’t slip from my wrist.

Paloma returned with four plum-colored herbal pouches strung shut with thin black cords. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’re out of agrimony. I’ve substituted with eyebright.”

“I thought agrimony was best for banishing negative energy?”

“The eyebright will bring balance. My mother used this for a similar ritual in Belém when I was young. In Brazil, we grew agrimony in our garden. The sweet apricot scent is lovely.”

I bit my lip. Eyebright was not part of the plan, and I hadn’t come all this way for air freshener. Mental clarity might help, but it generally wasn’t suggested to rush into a ritual. That included changing details at the last minute. One herb could change everything, and I didn’t have time to redo all my research.

But I needed the noise gone—yesterday.

“Have I ever steered you wrong?” she pressed.

She had a point.

“One more thing,” she said, retrieving a large book from under her counter and handing it to me. “A gift. For you.”

The leather binding displayed a labyrinth of leafy spirals and branches of laurel. A handwritten cover page read
Maltorim Records, Volume XXVI, Salem Witches
.

“Are you sure?” I asked. Gifts always made me feel as though I needed to do something nice in return, and I could never figure out what. “It looks…valuable?”

“You mean it looks old? That’s why I’m giving it to you.”

“You’re giving it to me because it’s old?”

She waved me off. “You know what I mean. You study those ancient texts and all, don’t you?”

“Paleography,” I said, surprised she remembered the special interest I’d had in college. If the book was handwritten, I’d certainly enjoy analyzing the text.

“I’ve no use for it,” she continued. “In some people’s hands, that book would end up as a gag gift and eventually a door stop in some old man’s house with too many cats and too many back copies of newspapers, not to mention that one woman who used to come here to buy books just to burn them.”

“You mean Mrs. Franklin?” I asked, only half-joking.

“I’m rambling again, aren’t I?” She let out a brief sigh and gestured toward the book. “Consider it an early birthday present.”

Early was an understatement. The start of September was a far cry from December 21st.

“Thank you, really.” I pulled some crumpled bills and a few Tic-Tac-sized balls of lint from my pocket.

Paloma tapped several keys on her register. “A discount, since I didn’t have the agrimony,” she said. “Now how about a cup of tea before you get going?”

We chatted in the back room, the light aroma of green tea hidden beneath the scent of hot ceramic. I smiled at the mismatched crockery stacked high in Paloma’s pale blue, doorless cabinets and her eclectic selection of orphaned dining room furniture. For the first time all day, I could almost relax. Almost—if only the hissing in my head would stop blotting out my thoughts.

Paloma wanted to hear more about the ritual, but every time I opened my mouth, I told her about something else instead. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her about my curse—yes, a curse. The incessant hissing was too dreadful to think of as anything else.

After we caught up, she saw me to the door and made me promise to call if I needed anything.

“Anything at all,” she pressed, closing the door behind me.

I wasn’t halfway down the walk before I told myself I’d misread the concern in her voice.

INKY SHADOWS from the oak tree in my front yard cloaked the soothingly dark windows of my colonial-style house from the eyes of prying neighbors. I went inside. The bedroom at the end of the hall had been Grandfather Dunne’s before he passed away, willing my mom the house along with his scrolled walnut furniture. Now this family home was mine, without a family to share it with.

This place, however, was not a reflection of me. I certainly wouldn’t have put sea-foam green carpeting in all the bedrooms. Here, I was merely a placeholder, occupying free space, keeping the house in the same tidy condition my ancestors before me had left it in…except for the closets and drawers. Those were mine for the taking. I had a lovely habit of cramming my disorderliness out of sight.

My down comforter called me to sleep, and my small carriage shelf-clock urged the same, but there was something I needed to do first.

I set the supplies from Paloma’s shop on the dresser and tucked the book she’d given me in a drawer, unsure when I’d have time to tackle such an immense read. I retrieved my Book of Shadows and an altar candle from beneath some clutter in the next drawer down and unfastened the hatch on the casement windows to swing them out like shutters.

A stone-topped altar sat flush against my windowsill, and I kneeled down to place a white candle on the altar pentacle’s spirit point. This wasn’t what Mrs. Franklin and her cronies liked to think of my Wiccan practices. Judging by the way they acted, one would think I performed naked rituals in front of the local elementary school or spent my evenings sacrificing animals. Goats, perhaps.

But that wasn’t true. I practiced indoors, fully-clothed, using only an open window to connect with nature. Not a single animal sacrifice, either. I hadn’t even been able to evict the raccoon family that spent last winter in my attic.

After reading through the ritual, I adorned the remaining pentacle points with four wooden dishes filled with the herbs from Paloma’s shop, then chanted the Wiccan Rede:

“Be true in love, this you must do, unless your love is false to you. With these words, the Rede fulfill: An it harm none, do what ye will.”

Then I lit the altar candle. The flame cast a pale flickering glow over the pentacle. Outside, moonlight filtered through the trees, throwing patchwork shadows on the rain-soaked grass below.

I sprinkled chalk dust on the sea-foam green carpet to create my physical circle, then called forth the Guardians to watch over my rites and cast my circle in the spiritual realm as well.

Tonight would be the perfect night—a waxing moon, the fresh fall of rain.

Come what may
.

I lifted the sage from the pentacle and blew across the dish’s surface to conjure wisdom. The sage flittered like snowflakes to the ground outside. Tipping the next dish outside my first floor window, I listened as cloudy fluid dribbled into the bushes, sure to evaporate in the early autumn warmth, garnering truth.

Where was that balance Paloma had promised? So far, the white noise in my mind had only amplified. A cool breeze drifted in, and I lifted my hair away from my neck and shoulders to help me relax.

I crushed marigold petals between my fingertips until they stained my skin, releasing an almost chemical scent, and envisioned a fire burning away all negative energy. I leaned out my window and tossed the marigold to the sky. The petals swirled and rained from above, scattering into my hair, back onto the altar, and across my front lawn.

I inhaled deeply, listening to the breeze in the trees and the chirr of crickets below. It was as though I could hear the sound of night—the sound of the very moon looming above and the sound of the bruise-like shadows beneath the bushes.

The right edge of my vision darkened. A streetlamp on the other side of the street had winked out. A man stood beside the iron post, staring. The overlapping spread of light from the flanking streetlamps revealed the muted gloss of black shoes with red outsoles and the frayed hem of denim, but otherwise, the shadows obscured his features, leaving him silhouetted against the Jackson family’s prized hydrangeas.

My heart flip-flopped, and I narrowed my eyes, a silent dare for him to keep standing there. He stepped further into the shadows. When he didn’t reappear beneath the next streetlamp, I squinted into the darkness. He couldn’t have just disappeared.

Forget it
. I needed to center my thoughts on bringing in positive energy. Getting distracted during a ritual was dangerous.

I settled back into the room. Light spilled from my window to illuminate teardrops of water on the blades of grass below, and I sprinkled the myrrh resin, watching it plummet downward to carry the request for transformation.

As the first speck hit the ground, the offering bowls toppled, clattering against the altar. The remaining herbs stormed through my room. My altar candle extinguished.

I fumbled around, frantically grabbing at the dishes, unsure what was happening. The bottle of liquid eyebright tipped, its contents staining the altar to a darker shade of gray. Flecks of myrrh resin stung my eyes. I blinked, but the gritty substance blurred my vision.

What the—

Strong currents pressed through my window with unnatural intensity. The lights flickered. Through the chaos, I saw someone in the street again. A glimpse of a girl standing across the street. No. Four girls.

Just as quickly as they appeared, they were gone.

Maybe it’d just been a strange reflection in the dark windows of my neighbor’s house, but that thought didn’t stop the howling wind from swirling around me, assaulting my senses and stirring panic in my chest.

The bedroom stilled, but my heart did not. Leaning against my dresser, I took in the mess scattered across the bedroom.

A swarm of voices rushed into my mind. I spun around and glanced back out the window, but the streets were empty.

The whirring and rattling in my brain—that was gone. Instead, the haunting white noise passed in spurts, punctuated by voices, as though I was rapidly switching from one radio station to the next, never settling on one clear signal.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and focused instead on the rustling breeze of early autumn and the cool scent of earth and leaves. I would clean the mess in the morning.

After closing my circle, I climbed into bed, listening as the sounds of evening ticked on. Televisions blaring. Babies crying. I lay awake until all of that faded, until all that remained was the hush of curtains whispering against my bedroom walls.

That…and the sound of my curse, pecking away at my senses with static-like crackles. Just as I started to drift off, I heard someone talking. I jolted upright. Voices echoed through my window, but it felt as though they were echoing through my mind, saturating my brain with strange vibrations and overlapped whispers.

I pulled my curtain aside. Four figures in brown hooded cloaks strolled down the street. The limited outdoor light revealed little of their features, but their eyes glowed in smoky purples and eerie greens.

The face of one of the cloaked figures contorted into something wolfish before quickly transforming back. My heart thumped, and the air in the room thickened until it felt solid in my lungs.