Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel (6 page)

He snorts. “You don’t actually believe her, do you?”

Well, I had when she’d promised. Now I’m not so sure. “You don’t think she’s really going to sic a witch whisperer on me, do you?”

“Oh, I think she already has. Salima got here twenty minutes ago—long before the party is scheduled to start. And since Mom’s outside right now, tinkering with your car, I think it’s a pretty good bet that she hasn’t called anything off.”

“My car? What’s she doing to my car?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Actually, I do. I have to get back to Austin next week and I’m going to need my car to do it.”

He has the grace to look sheepish. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure she’ll fix it tomorrow—
after
the Solstice.”

I snort. “Well, that makes one of us.” My mother has
been known to hold a grudge—especially when things don’t go her way. And tonight is definitely not going to go the way she wants it to, not after she stood here and lied to my face.

“You worry too much.” He pulls his keys out of his pocket, shakes them at me. “You can take my car if you want. Go get some dinner in town. Catch a movie. They can’t stay here all night. I’ll even go with you, if you want company.”

Again, he’s the only one of us who believes that Mom won’t have Micah, Salima and a cast of thousands camping out in the family room waiting for me to return. But, poisoned at fifteen or not, he doesn’t know her like I do. I stare at those keys and think about how easy it would be to grab them and run. Maybe all the way back to Austin—I’m sure Donovan wouldn’t mind the three-hour drive tomorrow. Yes, I’d promised my mother I would stay, but that was before she broke all the rules and started taking my car apart.

I actually reach out for the keys before my pride—and my temper—kick in. “I’m not running away.”

Donovan’s face goes slack with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m not doing it. I’m twenty-seven years old. I have to stop running at some point.”

“This is true, but I’m not sure tonight is the night you should make your big stand.”

“I can handle Micah. And the witch whisperer.”

The more I think about it, the more pissed off I get. Not that that’s a surprise. Since I was sixteen, being at home has been an exercise in anger management. What does surprise me, though, is the layer of shame right under the fury.

Is having me for a daughter really that bad? Am I really such an embarrassment to her that she has to revert
to not only dragging old ex-boyfriends back into my life, but also to hiring any and all other nut-jobs who apply for the job of “curing” me? Part of me wonders if the witch whisperer, or whatever she is, is the one who suggested the belladonna that nearly killed me this morning.

Not that it matters. My mom’s the one who did it. The one who did
all
of this.

“Hey? You okay?” Donovan pulls me into a hug, but I can’t take the comfort he’s offering. I hate that he can see the hurt deep inside of me when I’ve worked so hard to keep it hidden—even from myself.

“Look, don’t let her get to you, Xan. She’s just being Mom. You know how she is when she sets her mind to something.”

I do. And that’s what I’m afraid of. This has been a problem since I was a teenager and it’s going to continue to be a problem—unless I end it, once and for all. Talking to her doesn’t work so it’s time for something more. Something drastic.

Donovan obviously doesn’t know where my thoughts are going, though, because he presses his keys into my hands. “Don’t let pride get in your way,” he tells me. “I’ll cover for you. I’ll even call you when the coast is clear.”

“Do you really think my not being there will change anything? What do you think she’ll do if I don’t show up at dinner—or the Solstice ceremony planned for afterward?”

“Make us suffer through Micah’s impersonation of a guy with a stick up his ass? Tell us to sit back and let the witch whisperer have a crack at the rest of the family?”

I laugh, as Donovan intended. It’s not as hard to do as I thought it would be—witch whisperer really is the worst description ever. “Well, yeah, but when that’s over, she’s just going to come up with a new plan to unleash
my magic. And then another one and another one and another one after that. I’ve had enough. This has to stop, and I’m going to stop it. Tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?” My brother eyes me curiously. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

I turn and stare at the black dress. I may not have magic but I have more than my fair share of ingenuity. “Watch and learn, Donovan Morgan. Watch and learn.”

W
hen I walk into my mother’s parlor—an old-fashioned word for an old-fashioned room—thirty minutes later, all eyes shift to me. And not because I’m fashionably late.

With the help of Willow, the sister who’s closest to me in age, I’ve made a few adjustments to the dress my mother left for me. I’ve also made a few adjustments to the rest of my appearance…and from the look on my mom’s face as she heads straight for me, they are adjustments she does not like. Which, of course, is exactly what I was going for.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses at me. Her left hand wraps around my upper arm and she tries to tug me from the room, but I’m not budging. She’s the one who led us to this showdown and I’m not going to be the one who flinches first.

“You wanted a witch, so I gave you one.” I smile at her out of a face turned lime green from the judicious use of my sister’s underbase.

With her free hand she reaches for the broomstick I’m carrying. I refuse to let go—this time I am not backing down. “Are you insane?” she demands. “Get that hat off of your head!”

“What’s the matter, Mom? Too pointy?”

“You look like a crazy person.”

“And you act like one, so I think we’re even.”

She glances around, realizes the eyes of her most important advisors are on us and fakes a laugh. “Silly, Xandra, this isn’t a costume party,” she trills in the voice she reserves for recalcitrant subjects. A few seconds later, she ruins the benevolent affect by getting right in my face and whisper-yelling, “Don’t push me on this, Xandra.”

A few years ago that tone would have been enough to have me falling into line. But I’m not a teenager anymore and tonight it feels like I’m fighting for both my freedom and my sanity. “Why not? You keep pushing me. You’re just upset because I finally decided to push back.”

“I’m trying to help you and this is the thanks I get? You dressing up like a caricature on the most important night of the year?” She keeps tugging at me until finally I give in and let her lead me into the foyer and away from the hundreds of prying eyes.

“I want you to accept me for what I am, to stop doing ridiculous things to try to force something that just isn’t there. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“No offense, Xandra, but I’m not the one being ridiculous right now. Not to mention completely demeaning our entire culture.”

Touché. And as tears of anger and humiliation tremble on her lashes, I could almost be sorry for dressing up like the Wicked Witch of the West. Almost. “A witch whisperer, Mom? Really?”

Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Who snitched?”

“So many people know that you can’t figure out who it was that told me? And you think I’m demeaning?”

“You need to trust me on this, Xandra. You’ll be so much happier once we find a way around your disability and your powers are unlocked.”

My disability? Is she kidding me with this? I stare at
her, openmouthed, and wait for her to take back what she’s said. But she just stares at me, mouth grim and eyes enraged. “There are no powers to unlock, Mom. When are you going to get that through your head?”

“Of course there are.” She waves a dismissive hand that does more to make my blood boil than anything else that has happened today.

I start to let her have it once and for all—so angry that I am not at all interested in pulling my punches—when a soft but clear voice comes from right behind me. “Pardon me, Your Majesty?”

We turn as one at the interruption, my mother’s eyes laser bright as she focuses on the woman who dared to interrupt our conversation. I don’t recognize her—and believe me, I’d remember her if I’d ever seen her before. She’s short and rotund, and her bright orange hair is swept into a beehive of epic proportions. Even worse, she’s dressed in a bloodred cocktail dress that clashes with her hair and does nothing to flatter her figure. But the pièce de résistance, the train wreck I just can’t take my eyes off, is the pair of bright yellow cowboy boots with turquoise piping that are peeking out from under the gown’s jagged hem.

Who in their right mind wears bright yellow boots? With a red dress? To the biggest social event of the year?

Tonight is the most important holiday celebrated by our coven and the house is filled with my parents’ friends and most trusted advisors, all of whom have come to make merry before the solemn ceremony begins at midnight. I can’t imagine this woman falling into either of those categories, especially considering the way my mother is looking at her at the moment—like she’s a particularly disgusting specimen of fungus.

“This is
not
a good time.” My mom is speaking between clenched teeth now, a surefire sign that she’s furious.
Which makes no impact on me, because I’m just as angry. Maybe more. How can she not see that she needs to get off the crazy-wheel?
My disability?
Really
?
It’s not like I’m not a successful, functioning member of society. So what if I can’t make fire out of thin air? We have matches and lighters for that.

Surprisingly, the scowl on my mom’s face makes no impact on the woman standing in front of us, either. “Forgive me for saying so, Your Highness, but I think this might be the perfect time.” She lays one hand on my mother’s back and another on mine and gently pushes—as if she expects us to actually allow her to lead us across the foyer to someplace more private.

Neither my mother nor I budge. We may be acting like a couple of recalcitrant toddlers, but there’s no way we’re going to let anyone treat us as such.

“Salima, not now.”

My eyes widen. Salima?
This
is the witch whisperer? This woman who is more clown than clairvoyant?
This
is who my mother expects to save me from myself?

Now I’m more insulted than angry.

“But, Your Majesty, if you look beyond the obvious, you will see that this”—she waves a hand up and down to encompass me—“costume is a step in the right direction. While it is a rather unschooled attempt, I admit, Xandra is obviously trying to engage in a dialogue with you about her feelings. I know she has not chosen to take a conventional route, but this might be even better than that. If she really feels that being a witch makes her into some kind of caricature, then that could be why she is latent. Her powers simply can’t function when her ideal of herself is so incredibly skewed. In fact—”

“Seriously?” I interrupt, unable to take the bullshit any longer. I turn to my mother. “This is who you hired to fix me?”

Her eyes narrow and in those moments she is every
inch the queen. “Which should tell you just how broken I think you are.”

It’s a direct hit but I’ll be damned if I let her see it. I turn to Salima, force a smile that I am far from feeling. Especially when it becomes obvious that my mother is actually considering her idiotic words. “Thank you so much for your remarkable insight into my neuroses, Salima. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But, if you’ll excuse me, I need to mingle.”

She nods, knowingly. “Bitterness is understandable. No one likes to be confronted by their own weaknesses—”

A strangled scream escapes from my throat—I can’t help it—and for a few precious seconds I imagine what it would feel like to wrap my hands around Salima’s throat. And squeeze.

The cold slap of my mother’s voice banishes the fantasy. “The only place you’re going is back to your room to change. I will not be made a fool of in front of my entire coven.”

“But you have no problem casting me as the fool, right?”

For a second her eyes soften and I think we’re making progress, but then Salima ruins it. “Am I to understand you think being a witch makes you a fool, Xandra?”

“It’s neither me nor your legacy that makes you foolish, daughter.” My mother’s gaze sweeps over me, all traces of compassion gone. “You do that all yourself.”

It’s another direct hit, but that makes me only more determined not to back down.

“In that case, let me get on with it.” I wrench my elbow from her grasp. “I’d hate to deprive anyone of their entertainment.”

“Xandra, I forbid you to go back in that room until you’ve changed.”

Amusement wells up—I can’t help it. “I hate to be the
one to break the news to you, Mom, but you aren’t in the position to forbid anything. I’m no longer a lost sixteen-year-old kid who will do anything for your approval.”

“Xandra!” She all but stomps her foot with impatience and at another time I might have been amused to see the queen engage in such a mundane display of emotion. But with her one step away from breathing fire and my father bearing down on us like a ship that has set an immovable course, I figure this might be a great time to dive into the center of the crowd. So I do, hightailing it across the lobby as fast as my old-fashioned lace-up boots can carry me.

After all, the wicked witch thing might be a tad bit of overkill, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have a point. And I’m determined to make it. I’ll be damned if I spend the next ten years of my life waiting for her to give up on the belladonna and go a more poisonous route. I’m latent and that’s never going to change. The sooner she and the rest of my family accept that, the better off we’ll all be.

Determined to make the best of the evening—despite its inauspicious beginning—I head to the bar. But I’ve barely got my first mojito in hand when darkness creeps over me, blinding me for a second to all but the agonized screams in my head. For long seconds I am bound and bleeding, my head bowed and long dark hair waving in the wind. And there is pain, terrible pain that rises up like a tsunami and all but engulfs me.