boisdemoon

NORMA

I grip the popcorn tightly against my chest. “No,” I say. It sounds like the short bark of a terrified Chihuahua.

“Don’t worry about Clare, she’ll meet us home,” Peverell says, calm as ever. “We’ll have tea and make sense of everything together, how does that sound?”

“Cool,” I manage, all squeaky.

“Good, good.” Peverell claps his hands. “Now, are you okay to drive? If not, I’ll come get my car later, it’s no problem at all.”

“My father made a song out of traffic laws when I turned fifteen. I just wanted cake,” I say, blinking again and again at the spot where Clare stood just a moment ago.

Peverell stares at me intently, as though he’s trying to understand some secret meaning behind what I just said. But then he seems to decide otherwise. “Perfect. I’ll drive.”

I don’t reply. I hop on the passenger seat right on top of my jacket and start eating popcorn, mechanically engulfing handful after handful, half of the popcorn sifting through my fingers and pooling on my lap. The ride is quiet except for the sounds of my teeth crushing the popped grains. Peverell starts humming a lullaby, whispering some incomprehensible words between each verse, and I find myself calming down.

“Do you like ginger in your chamomile?” Peverell asks at a stop sign.

“Sure,” I say with a mouthful.

“Good, good.”

A few minutes later, we’re at the Wickens’ house and the popcorn bag is empty. Grains fall down my lap when I step out of the vehicle, but if Peverell notices, he pretends otherwise.

He grabs my jacket for me and slides it over my shoulders before unlocking the front door and letting me inside. Then takes his shoes off and heads to the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he says eagerly.

“Tea’s ready,” Clare’s voice calls from the kitchen.

I gape at Peverell, but he just smiles. “Lovely. Thank you, Clare.” He beckons for me to follow. “Come, sitting will do you good.”

Reluctantly, I walk into the kitchen to see four mismatched teacups already poured on the huge oak table, ginger roots cut in little cubes in a plate next to the sugar. Clare sighs, sitting on the chair at the end of the table.

“They weren’t together,” she tells Peverell. “I had to focus on one at a time and Harlowe kept running, but there was no one chasing her, so I went to Jaden instead.”

I want to ask if he’s okay, but that would be admitting I believe Clare just, what? Travelled through space to go check on him?

“Is he okay?” Peverell asks.

She nods. “He’s searching for a book in the attic.” She lowers her voice. “But it was close.” She lifts an arm to show us the bleeding gash near her elbow. “I got there just in time.” She glances at me. “Thank you.”

I can’t find my voice.

“Who?” Peverell asks.

“Saleali.” Clare gives a pointed look at her husband.

I sit next to her to observe the injury. It doesn’t look too deep, as though it was made by a small but rusty blade, or one of the fortune teller’s chipped nails, maybe.

“Saleali? Really?” Peverell looks pale. “But they’re so kind.”

“Yes, really.” Clare sighs. “Another one of your previous customers attacked our kids, Peverell. How many more will it take for you to retire?”

“I can’t retire. My work does so much good in Redmarsh, you know that.”

“I don’t care. Harlowe is running away, and I’m blaming you.”

“Just…” Peverell pinches his lips. “Let me,” he says, reaching one of the big shelves framing the tiny round window above the sink and grabbing a jar full of soft blue flower petals. “Here,” he says, carefully pressing a petal on Clare’s arm.

Clare glowers. “I can do it on my own. I still have hands.”

“As you wish.” He hands her the jar with a little sigh of defeat.

“You’re a wedding planner,” I tell Peverell. “Why would previous clients go after your kids?”

Peverell sits right in front of me, leaning against the table, his brown woolen sweater matching the wood of the table almost perfectly. “I don’t exactly plan weddings.”

“What do you do then?” I’m half terrified to learn the truth, but I’d rather know the facts. Even if they make as little sense as the rest of the night, I’ll get to decide what I believe or not. If I want to be part of it of not.

“It’s complicated.”

Clare sighs. “It’s ridiculous is what it is.”

He turns to her. “Why was Harlowe running?”

“I don’t know,” Clare says, her voice high and nervous. “She wouldn’t stop. And she was terrified, I could feel it. I just don’t know why.”

They both turn to look at me.

Awkwardly, I take a sip of tea. It’s nice, but honestly, I just want cold water to quench the terrible thirst I’ve had since the fire. “Sorry,” I mutter, heading to the cabinet to get a glass. I pour fresh water into the sink, washing my ash-stained hands before filling the glass. I gulp the whole thing down and serve myself another, watching with confusion as the jar of petals on the shelf turns into a jar of clear water before my eyes. Exhaling, I sit down next to Clare again.

Peverell asks, “Do you know why she was running, Norma?”

I shake my head. “I called her name,” I say, my voice scratchy, but already my throat feels a lot better. “She got mad. Said she wasn’t Harlowe.”

“She wasn’t Harlowe?” he repeats.

“I can’t explain it.” Tears prick my eyes. “Shock, maybe? It was horrible, all of it.”

“Oh, dear, please don’t cry.” Peverell reaches for my hand. The moment he touches my skin, my fingers go strangely warm, and Peverell has a little delighted laugh. “Oh, you’re in love with him. How lovely. Does Jaden know?”

“Does Jaden know what?” a voice says from the living room.

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

I widen my eyes at Peverell, my heart drumming so dangerously hard against my ribcage I’m afraid something is going to break. With sweaty hands gripping my cup of tea, I turn to the doorway, where Jaden now stands, looking up from the book he’s holding.

He’s staring at me, in a way that makes me wonder how much of the conversation he actually heard.

Oh, no no no no no no no no.

“Do I know what?” he repeats, frowning a little. He turns to Peverell, and my blood goes glacial when I see his father open his mouth to reply.

I’m about to grip his hand—hard—to stop him, but Clare does it first.

“Why Harlowe said she wasn’t Harlowe,” Clare says, completely saving me.

Yet I still feel like a burning pile of embarrassment. How in the hell did Peverell see through me like that? I would honestly consider running to the bathroom to get my shit together, because I feel like if my cheeks get any warmer, I may very well start peeling, but then Jaden walks toward the table to set the thick book between the four of us. It’s open at a page in the middle, but I don’t check what it’s about because the sight of the blood soaking Jaden’s grey shirt makes me entirely forget about my emotional crisis.

“That will make her run home instead,” he says. “It changes someone’s direction.”

“That’s the one I was talking about,” Clare says, setting her cup aside to touch the red ink of the words on the old, yellowed page.

Almost shyly, Jaden glances at me from the other side of the table. “You okay?”

I nod, my mouth hanging open. “Your shirt.”

He waves a hand, as though the blood is just mud. “I’ll get a new one,” he says.

“Is it deep?” Peverell says, eyes narrowing at his son. “Let me see.”

“Dad, it’s fine. Mom took care of it.”

“He’ll be as good as new in the morning,” Clare adds. “Let’s focus on this first.”

“Fine,” Peverell says. He grabs his small glasses in the fanny pack at his waist and puts them on, leaning closer to read the page.

Clare removes the petal on her arm and curses when she sees the completely healed wound. “Should’ve waited before I healed that.”

“I’ll do it,” Peverell offers.

He presses the temple tip of his glasses into the soft skin behind his ear and winces, then removes the glasses. One of the temple tips is actually a small blade, now glinting red. Peverell lets the blood drip on the open book.

“Here we go,” he says, cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief from his fanny pack. “Now the shoes.”

“On it.” Clare hurries out of the kitchen and appears again with an old pair of Harlowe’s shoes.

At this point, I’m really regretting not having just called my father. This is insane.

Clare and Peverell proceed to reading the rest of whatever this book is about, muttering some kind of incantation as they hold hands, their eyes closed.

Jaden watches me observe them with my mouth gaping and after a moment, he takes my hand. “They’ve got this,” he whispers to me, leading me toward the living room.

The previous rush of embarrassment hits me even harder, and I twist my hand out of his grasp, crossing my arms as I follow him. The confusion is obvious on his face, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, my Goddess,” Peverell says behind us, pleased. “We can even choose the speed. How lovely.”

“Let’s keep it as it is,” Clare replies.

“Right. We don’t want to exhaust her, our poor darling has been running all night already.”

In the living room, I sag on the sofa, my jacket sliding down my shoulders. Jaden sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of me. I grip a velvety cushion and put it on my lap, playing with the blue frills at its corners to occupy my trembling hands.

“Where were you?” I ask, my gaze fixated on his bloody shirt.

“We were deep in the forest when my mother found me. I’m fine, I swear.” From the corner of my eye, I can see him biting his lip, and even though that small gesture of his usually hypnotises me, this time I can’t look away from the bloody shirt.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, racing upstairs.

“Should we have her take the scenic route?” Peverell is asking in the next room.

“Goddess, focus. We just want to get her home.”

“I thought it would be nicer for her, get a glimpse of the ocean and all. It’s a beautiful night.”

Jaden comes down the stairs wearing a clean, blue shirt. He sits next to me on the couch.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his tone so vulnerable I feel the urge to hug him, but instead I press the cushion harder against me.

“Why?”

“It’s a lot.” He gestures at the kitchen. “It’s too much, isn’t it? You wish you’d never met us.”

“Oh.” I let go of the cushion and look away. “Well, no. I’m not sure. I’m glad you’re okay. I thought…” I don’t want to think about what I thought.

Jaden takes a deep breath. “We’ve been meaning to tell you for so long, Norma. But we weren’t sure you’d be cool with it. Plus, your father never liked us that much. With him being a cop, my parents just thought it was safer you didn’t know.”

I resume playing with the cushion. “Didn’t know whatexactly?” I hate how my eyes are tearing up again. I don’t want to start whimpering, to look like I can’t handle the situation, but damn.

What is the situation?

Jaden bites his lower lip again. Just a nab, then lets it go, his lip looking fuller and pinker. “We’re…” He hesitates. And then his parents interrupt us.

They set our teas on the coffee table and sit on the opposite sofa, as far from one another as they can. They are literally sitting on each of the couch’s arms, their feet on the outside so their backs are facing one another.

“She’ll be here in fourteen minutes,” Peverell says with a smile as he sips his tea.

“Until then, I need to know everything that you know, Norma,” Clare says. “Everything you know. Please.”

“She means it,” Peverell says between two sips. “Everyyything.” He drags on the word as he rolls his eyes.

“Peverell.”

He ignores her. “More ginger roots in your tea, dear?” he asks me.

“It’s fine,” I say, clearing my throat. I lean over the cushion, rubbing my temple.

“Jaden says you both went into the fortune teller’s tent when you heard Harlowe scream, yes?” Clare urges. “Then what happened?”

“We couldn’t get out. It was just a curtain, but we couldn’t—” My throat tightens as the memory of the panic attack hits me, and I ball my fists on my knees. “I freaked out.”

“We both did,” Jaden says. “It was a messed-up situation. Your reaction was totally normal.”

I glance at him, the kindness in his eyes untangling my throat. He’s so much calmer than me—he should be the one explaining the events.

“Why are you asking me?” I say, suddenly even more exhausted. I really don’t want to cry. But I feel like I’m going to have PTSD after tonight. Or maybe I already suffer from it. “I barely understand what happened, and Jaden was there too. He could explain it better.”

“I couldn’t,” he says. “The fog. Only you could see through it, remember?”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“She could see through the fog?” Peverell asks.

Jaden glances at his parents, then tilts his body slightly toward me, lowering his tone to a gentle timber. “That’s my ability,” he says slowly. “If I tell someone they can do something, they can do it. Just like that.”

“But that’s never worked against magic,” Clare says, a crease shaping between her eyebrows.

“Your Craft must be getting stronger,” Peverell says with a grin.

“Which isn’t necessarily a good thing,” Clare mutters.

“We don’t tell a lot of people about how special our boy is, you see,” Peverell tells me. “When ambitious individuals find out, they want him to use his Craft on them for personal gain.”

“And I try to use it as little as possible,” Jaden adds. “Not to draw attention or disturb the balance of things.”

Clare sighs, setting her tea on the coffee table, then she sits on the other side of our sofa in order to hug her son. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Mom, I’m fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And it’s not your fault.”

Clare looks at me over Jaden’s shoulder. “So he made you see, and you saw through the fog. What did you see?”

I take a deep breath, then decide that there’s no point trying to find the right words. I just have to tell them what I can and hope things will start making sense.

“Jaden made me … see,” I repeat slowly as they pull away from one another to focus on me. “And it was a typical fortune teller tent, with a couch, candles and stuff. But there was a girl unconscious on the ground, and it wasn’t Harlowe at first.”

“What do you mean, at first?” Peverell inquires.

“It was a redheaded girl,” I explain. “Then her features changed and changed again. And later it was someone else, and then there was the fire, and the fortune teller grabbed Jaden and left and just like that the body was Harlowe’s.”

“Wait, you’re going too fast. What was Saleali doing this whole time? Before they left with Jaden.”

“The fortune teller?”

“Yes,” Clare says, standing up with her arms crossed. “Their name is Saleali Mullins.”

“They were walking around. Talking and sort of touching my jaw.”

“They touched you?” Jaden says, almost jumping off the coffee table. “You should’ve told me they were that close to you.”

“A lot was happening, and they kept giving me messages to tell you.”

“What messages?” Clare asks, tensing up.

“Stuff like, um…” I try to remember the exact words. It suddenly feels like a week ago since I was in that tent. How can one single night be this long? “They said, ‘Tell them she tried to steal from me, that I couldn’t let it go without consequences.’ Something like that.”

“Something like that? I need to know exactly what they said, Norma. It’s important.”

“Mom, let her breathe,” Jaden says, glaring at her.

Peverell waves at my tea. “It will help calm you,” he says. “Take a sip. It’s excellent for the short-term memory, too.”

I stare at him, wondering where he read that silly fact about chamomile. But then Clare says, “He put Mandrake root in it. Not ginger. Plus it’s a Medina Brothers’ blend.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s safe,” Jaden assures me. “I drink their tea all the time, they’ve got blends for everything. But the memory one is my favorite for exams.” He looks away, blushing. Then he quickly adds, “It’s not cheating, it’s organic.”

Under their three intent looks, I take another sip of my tea, then another, the liquid tinged with a sweet taste. It’s good. I inhale deeply and try to recall the night as best as I can.

And suddenly, it’s all crystal clear. I can almost see it all happening in front of me again, which isn’t exactly fun. But it’s less scary this time, in the living room I’ve had a hundred movie nights in. I feel like I even remember things I hadn’t noticed in the midst of my fears.

“Their hair was long and blond, and they wore a ring on each finger, and many necklaces with little bones through the chains. It smelled like wax and rosemary. There was a chest full of creepy wooden dolls that Jaden was standing on, but it was like he was a ghost. Saleali said: ‘Tell them I cursed her. For her own good. Someone had to.’ And then I stumbled on a candle and they grabbed Jaden and bolted as the whole thing lit up.”

“Impressive memory, Norma,” Peverell says, clapping his hands encouragingly.

Clare shushes him. She stares at me. “They cursed her?”

“They didn’t say what curse?” Jaden asks, rubbing his collarbone.

I shake my head. “Was that fortune teller like a witch or something?” I whisper the word witch because I can’t believe I’m saying this, then I immediately giggle nervously.

“Oh, dear.” Peverell says with a little smile. “We all are.”

“Well, he means us. Not you, Norma,” Clare adds, rubbing her forehead as she starts pacing around the sofas. “No offense.”

“Do you think her curse was to run away?” Jaden asks, frowning. “Like, unable to come home?”

Clare stops pacing and turns to me. “You said she didn’t think she was Harlowe. Maybe Saleali made her forget who she is? That way she’d stop stealing.”

“Or maybe it was simply someone else on a morphing spell,” Peverell suggests.

Jaden frowns. “Are Sight witches strong enough for that?”

“No,” Clare says. “And it’s impossible because my mother’s finding Craft wouldn’t have worked on her unless it was her.” She resumes pacing around the sofa. “That’s not even a curse anyway, and they said curse. Which means a destructive spell that will never wear off unless it’s broken.”

“Then what curse could it be?”

“We’ll find out in a minute,” Peverell says, glancing at his watch. He downs the rest of his tea and heads to the front door, opening it wide.

We gather around him, looking out at the fresh summer night. It’s calm, almost soothing. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of an owl in the distance, the breeze whooshing against the grass on the wide front lawn of the house. And then we hear fast footsteps and panting.

“There she comes,” Peverell says.

We watch as Harlowe looms in the distance, jogging at a steady pace, wheezing and sweating in the same outfit she had earlier tonight—black leather jacket over a tie-dye top and ripped black shorts. The clothes are unaffected by the fire, contrary to mine.

Clare slaps Peverell’s shoulder. “You made her go too fast. She’s going to have blisters.”

“I didn’t pick her shoes,” he defends, waving at Harlowe. “You’re almost here, honey.”

Harlowe looks depleted, her arms limp and her neck hanging low. Eyes half-closed, she runs all the way to the porch, climbs up the five steps and aims directly for the doorway like a tether is pulling her there. But when she touches the threshold, the same thing that happened in the carnival tent occurs again. It’s as if she stepped on a launch platform. She’s thrown back into the night, arcing over Jaden’s car and landing in the grass with a muted thump.

“Holy cow,” I exclaim.

“That can’t be,” Jaden mutters.

“Darling?” Peverell says.

But Clare has a more aggressive reaction. She bursts out of the house, screaming: “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”

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Read chapter 9.

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