Bad Blood Read online

  So instead, after church, I speak with the bishop. He is very interested to learn what I know. Very interested indeed.

  Primrose will soon be gone, but no’ in the way that she thinks.

  ASHA SHOWS UP the next morning, bright and early. She lets herself into my room and opens the blinds. I groan and put the covers over my head.

  “Hey, on my way to have a jog with the running club, but I wanted to stop by and drop something off first.”

  I grudgingly sit up. Sure enough, she’s in running shorts and a tank top. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Tell me you brought coffee.”

  “Actually, I brought you a book,” she tells me, handing it over. It’s thick and smells like mothballs.

  “Great. Thanks.” I toss it at the foot of the bed. “You do know it’s summer, right?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I was speaking to my dad about the book you found….Where is it, by the way?”

  “In my side-table drawer.”

  “Heather, it should probably be looked at by someone at the university. Maybe it could be put on display.”

  “Okay. And how does that relate to this book?” I ask. Flopping toward the foot of the bed, I grab the musty thing and hold it up.

  “Well, me talking to my dad about your book led to a conversation about Blood Witches,” she says.

  “As all things seem to do these days.”

  “And,” she continues, “he promised to find more about them for me, so he pulled strings with his librarian friends in the history department, and ta-da!”

  “Wait.” I sit up. “This whole book is about Blood Witches?”

  “No, unfortunately…but there are a few paragraphs on them.” She opens the book to a bookmarked page and hands it to me.

  I sleepily scan the words. “Um, Asha,” I say, suddenly wide-awake. “This mentions my family!”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re welcome.” She heads out the door and calls over her shoulder, “Text me later if you want to hang out.”

  And I read.

  The witch trials were a dark time for Scotland, an era that stretched centuries. Finger-pointing was easy, and the burden of proof was trivial at best. Signs of witchcraft included the presence of a mole or scar, talking to oneself, or having too many cats.

  One family was especially plagued by accusations of witchcraft. The MacNair family had a record twenty-three women punished for practicing dark arts over a two-and-a-half-century period. Starting with Primrose MacNair, who was burned at the stake, and ending with Hester MacNair, who was accused of being a Blood Witch and hanged, then burned, her body thrown in the loch.

  Although the history of Blood Magic is sketchy, it was believed to be a more insidious form of witchcraft, one that bled the soul of the practitioner.

  I take a shaky breath and close the book. It’s real. It’s all real. I knew when I found the grimoire that my dreams were more than dreams, but this…

  Primrose was a real person. And so was Prudence.

  I close the book and throw it on my bed. The day is bright, and I open the window and stare out at the Meadows. People are laughing, kids are playing. How could such a beautiful world hide such darkness?

  I PLUNGE INTO the loch, the cold making me release the breath I had hoped to hold. I struggle against my bonds, but to no avail. My hands are tied behind me, my feet bound painfully to my wrists. This is it. I am going to die.

  No, the water willnae kill me. But when they see that I havenae drowned, when they find me unharmed, I am doomed.

  I have never been so alone.

  I hold out as long as I dare, but my body forces me to inhale the icy water. If I were a normal girl, this would be the end. I would be dead. Drowned. Proven righteous. But I am no’ normal, and I draw breath from the water…no’ as easily as if it were air, but it will sustain me as long as I am submerged.

  If I sink to the bottom, will they leave me down here, trapped forever in the cold darkness—unable to escape my binds—until I starve or freeze to death? I wish they could understand: I have no evil powers, nothing that would harm them. I only wish to help, to heal. I am no’ the devil’s handmaiden, and I am no’ immortal; far from it. I just cannae meet my death at water’s hands. No’ when there is so much life in it from which to draw.

  My body refuses to sink, and I bob to the surface, my head breaking the water, the air slapping my face. My salvation is also my doom. I feel the bite of metal on my skin as I am hooked by the binds at my arms and pulled from the loch. I cough water onto the earth and greedily suck air into my lungs, which are much relieved to breathe lightly again.

  My shoulders throb from my extraction from the water. But that is the least of my concerns. I hear the murmurs of the spectators. “She didnae drown. She is a witch.”

  I can no longer feel my limbs, but still the cold pierces my core like a sword through my heart. All I crave is warmth. Men surround me, floating in and out of my vision. Dressed in kilts, they are members of the brute squad employed by the Church to test witches.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Please help me.”

  “Even now, she calls out to the devil!” someone yells.

  “You willnae find Satan here, evil wench.”

  Someone kicks my back, and a newfound pain shoots down my spine. Another swift kick lands on my head, and I welcome the blackness that follows. Even if it be death.

  I JOLT FORWARD, hitting my head on the window. I’m breathing hard, and I count backward from ten, forcing myself to open my eyes when I reach one. My breath has left a mist on the glass, and I back away, focusing on the opaque circle.

  Dreams are one thing…but this was a vision. Dr. Casella would call it a hallucination. Not that I would tell her. They’d lock me up and throw away the key.

  I stand and go to the mirror, lifting my arm and pulling up my sleeve, exposing the spiral I have etched into my skin.

  There’s no one I can tell. My aunt has enough to deal with. So do my parents. I need to calm down.

  I am completely on my own.

  “So we’re making a potion, right?” Fiona asks, dumping all the ingredients onto the kitchen table. “Shouldnae we have a boiling cauldron or something?”

  “I don’t think that’s how it actually works,” I say. “We need to mix the herbs up and put them in some cloth, then pour boiling water over it. Then you give it to the boy to drink. And voilà!”

  She wrinkles her nose. “So basically, I make him a cup of tea?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who wanted a love potion.”

  “I brought this, too.” She hands over a bowl and pestle. “It’s my mum’s.”

  We gather the love herbs: lavender, yarrow, fennel, and basil, and a few more things I had to look up on the Internet to identify. We chop them up in the food processor, and then I smush them all together and put them in a tea bag that I emptied of tea.

  “That should do it,” I tell Fiona doubtfully.

  “Wait!” She takes one of the steak knives from the counter and gives her finger a poke. A drop of blood falls to the table. She lets the next drop hit the tea bag, then wraps her finger in a paper towel.

  “What. The. Hell?” I ask.

  “It needs blood to work,” she tells me with a wicked grin.

  “You’re going to let this boy drink your blood?” I ask. “That is beyond gross.”

  “It’s just a drop. It’s what my mum did. He won’t even know it.”

  “And you don’t see a problem with that?”

  “I dinnae have to stand here and have you judge me,” she says in an exaggerated huff. She grabs the tea bag and puts it in her purse. “I’ll do what I bloody well please with my bodily fluids.”

  “All right, calm down.” I look at the clock. “You have to get to the café, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’ll let you know how this works,” she tells me with a wink.

  After she leaves, I try the healing herbs. I put them on my own scars and wait twenty minutes to wash them off. All th
at happens is I smell like an herb garden.

  When my aunt gets home she raises an eyebrow at the mess in the kitchen.

  “Dinner gone wrong?” she asks.

  “Slightly.”

  “I’ll order a pizza, then, shall I?”

  I clean while we wait for the pizza, and we spend the rest of the night watching TV. I’m about to go to bed when I get a call from Fiona.

  “Let me guess,” I answer. “The love potion worked and now you’re engaged?”

  “Not quite, but I do have a beautiful Spanish boy in my bed,” she whispers excitedly.

  “Fiona! What happened?”

  “After work I made him the tea and he asked if I wanted to get a drink and I told him that I had a bottle in my room and we started snogging and the rest is X-rated. It was the love potion.”

  “Sure, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re tall and gorgeous and outgoing.” I’m surprised it took her this long to snag the waiter.

  “No, he didn’t look at me twice till I gave him that tea. Look, I gotta go. He’s waking up.”

  I shake my head. All Fiona needed was a reason to talk to him; the potion was her excuse. Still…

  I go to the kitchen and remake the healing mixture. My aunt’s asleep, so I chop everything by hand and smush it with the pestle. At the last moment I take the knife and slice open my finger, squeezing several drops of blood, mixing it in. I don’t know what I believe, but between my dreams and Fiona’s faith, it’s worth a try. I smear the concoction on the scars on my arms, then on my hip and thigh. I’m covered in the stuff and it’s all on my pajamas. I laugh at myself, get a fresh pair of pajamas, and hop into the shower.

  I take my time washing all the gunk off, and the room is steamy and pleasant when I’m done. I feel really tired all of a sudden, so I hurriedly dry off and wrap the towel around me, wiping the condensation from the mirror with my hand so I can brush my hair. My hand stops midway. I stare at myself in the mirror, at the flesh on the underside of my arm. I can’t believe my eyes.

  No marks, no scars.

  I check my hip and my thigh. All of it is gone. The spiral, the Trinity knot. I feel sick now, and I vomit into the sink. I grab a pair of nail scissors out of the medicine cabinet and I stab my arm, retracing the pattern of the three-pronged Trinity knot. It’s crude, and I don’t take my regular care, but when I’m finished I feel better. I collapse against the wall and slowly slide to the bathroom floor. The tile is cool on my bare legs.

  There’s no denying it now, as if I still could. It’s real. The magic is real. And if I can heal myself, that means I can heal other people.

  I can save my aunt.

  THEY TAKE HER away, like I knew they would.

  We gather around the loch to witness her trial.

  My father’s eyes are glassy, his gaze blank. I told him what Primrose was. That she was wicked. That she needed seeing to. But he would hear none of it. He’s gone soft in his old age. He did not even punish her when I told him about the boy. Well, I have made it right. The bishop has taken Primrose. I had no choice but to go to him, after Father would do nothing.

  She will not drown; her magic is too strong. For a moment, I am doubtful, though. She goes under and does not resurface for a long moment. But then she bobs to the surface and is pulled from the water, alive and well. It is done. She is a witch; there is no doubt now. My father collapses and I pull him to his feet, haul him home.

  He and I are the same. We have both done such terrible things, and the doing has destroyed him. He is but a shadow of the imposing man he used to be, the one full of fire and brimstone and righteous fury. But still, he is my father.

  Soon he will be the only family I have left.

  I WAIT UNTIL she’s asleep. Along with all the other drugs she’s taking, Aunt Abbie has a sedative that knocks her out.

  I went to Robby’s mom’s shop and bought an incense burner and used my aunt’s food dehydrator to dry the herbs. Now the bundle is ready. I light it and place it on her night table. I cut my hand and my blood sizzles as it drops onto the fire. I’m supposed to do this until the flame burns out, but after a few minutes my eyes get heavy. I can’t keep them open.

  I pass out.

  For the next three days I can’t move. I stay in bed and sleep. Robby visits and tries to get me to laugh, tells me jokes. But even his presence doesn’t make me feel any better.

  My aunt said she found me on the floor. She didn’t mention the incense or the cut on my hand. She thinks I have the flu, but I know what it really is. I healed her and it took almost all I have.

  When I finally get out of bed, I go into the kitchen and she’s buzzing around, making lunch.

  “Oh, Heather, I was just about to check on you. You look a lot better.”

  “So do you,” I tell her.

  “I feel fantastic. I have a date with the oncologist this afternoon, so we’ll see what he says.”

  “I’m sure it will be good news.” I sit at the table, still weak, and within moments Aunt Abbie has placed a cup of tea in front of me.

  “Can you drop me off at Gram’s?” I ask. I have an overwhelming urge to visit her.

  “I dinnae know, love.” She feels my head. “You seem better, but you were really down for the count.”

  “I miss her.” I sip my tea. “And I am feeling much better.”

  “I know. And you didn’t have a fever or anything. I guess as long as you don’t hug or kiss her. I don’t want her getting sick. She’s not exactly a spring chicken.”

  “So I can go?”

  “Aye. Get ready. We’re leaving in ten.”

  I don’t want my aunt to see how weak I actually am, so I straighten up, sling my backpack, the grimoire safely inside, over my shoulder, and follow her down the stairs.

  When Abbie drops me off, I head inside and rest on a chair for ten minutes before walking to Gram’s room. She’s mostly lucid, though she can’t remember my name.

  “Gram, I want to ask you about something….” Where do I start? We’ve talked about witches before, but will she remember those conversations?

  She looks me up and down, her eyes bright and aware. She seems to know what I need because she sighs and says, “You’re having the dreams, aren’t you?”

  I nod. “Yes. At first it was just the one….”

  “The pyre. Watching a crowd as you”—she lowers her voice—“as you burn alive.”

  “So you have them too?”

  “I used to. They nearly drove me mad. I thought I was done with that. For almost fifty years I’ve no’ had a one. But now…Sometimes I think I’m young again, and I remember each and every agonizing moment of each and every dream.”

  “I’m sorry, Gram. That’s horrible.”

  She sighs. “It cannae be helped. My mind is going, more each day. Have you heard the voices, too?”

  I shake my head slowly. “I haven’t, but sometimes…sometimes there are strange thoughts in my head. I don’t know where they come from.”

  “It’s them. The girls. They’re trying to speak to you.”

  “But why?” I ask desperately.

  “They’ve been at odds with each other for hundreds of years. Each feels wronged by the other. That kind of hatred doesn’t just stop, not even if you die.”

  “But you got better. The dreams went away.”

  “Aye. Shortly after I turned seventeen. But before that, it was horrible. They were both in my head, telling me what to do. I couldnae think straight. And the nightmares—they just got worse and worse. Sometimes I couldnae tell what was real and what was just in my mind. It’s like now, except no one expects a young girl to suffer from dementia. An old lady…well, they put me in here. Not that I blame them.”

  “Did you have the dreams about the cottage?” I ask.

  She nods. “We’d go up there, on holiday.”

  “But you never removed the hearthstone? You never looked for proof you weren’t crazy?”

  “I was frightened. I’
d go there sometimes and think about looking, but the dreams had ended. There was no point.”

  “Why do you think it all stopped?”

  Gram shrugs. “I wish I knew for sure. Maybe because I reached the age that they died, so they didnae have the connection with me anymore.”

  “I thought Primrose was burned at the stake and Prudence lived on,” I say.

  Gram studies me. “Primrose…I havenae said that name in nearly fifty years. Yes, Primrose burned. That was the first dream, but it wasnae the nastiest. More will come, worse and worse. Prudence…well, her end is no’ pleasant either. That’s why there’s so much hate between them. They each caused the other’s death.”

  “So you believe it’s all real?” I needed someone to say it aloud.

  “I always have. There is magic in this world. Good and bad.”

  “I went up to the cottage last weekend,” I tell her. “I had to look, had to know. I found the grimoire, exactly where it was in the dream.”

  Gram’s face is pulled tight, a mixture of fear and hope. “May I see it? Did you bring it here?”

  I open my backpack and hand her the cloth-wrapped book. She unwraps it, touching it reverently. “I think…I wasnae afraid to look because I was worried it wouldnae be there. I feared more that it would be. What would I do with this book? What would I be tempted to do?” She fingers the cover.

  “Is this blood?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

  She grabs my arm. “Let me see the marks. Let me see what you have carved into your flesh.”

  “Gram, no.” I pull away, nearly falling out of my chair.

  “She got ahold of you right away. Didnae she? I always ignored the urge, the need. It feeds itself, you know. The more you do it, the more you want to.”

  “Did you ever try the healing magic?”

  “Aye. I found a few others. They were my coven. Then more came, younger. That’s how it is. The old give way to the young.”