Bad Blood Page 15

  Gram is losing focus. “And who taught you?” I asked her.

  “It was my father who was the MacNair. My mother had no idea about all this.” She chortles. “You grandfather was a MacNair too, though very far removed. We used to joke before we were married how easy it would be for me…I didnae even have to change my last name.”

  “So it was your grandmother who practiced healing magic?” I prompt.

  “Aye. She got funny when she was older too. She was sent away, to a place like this one.” She sighs. “She was there until the day she died, though there wasnae much of her left. Not really. My grandmother, she wrestled with the same demons and chose the side of good, but I always wondered if I might go bad. I pretended I didnae have a talent for it, though I did. Couldnae fool the others, though; they saw right through me. I left the coven when I started to get fuzzy. Let the others get on without me. Their pasts were clear. They were no’ haunted by their ancestors.”

  “Sheena Brodie’s one, isn’t she?” I ask. “She’s a witch.” She’d already told me as much.

  She nods. “And there are a few others still around. When Abigail didnae have an ounce of magic in her, I was relieved. I thought it was all over.”

  “But you think I’m magical, that I have the ability to do what Sheena does? To make potions and salves and channel natural energy?” I hope it’s true. I hope I saved my aunt.

  “It’s possible. You’d be smart no’ to mess about with it, though, no’ if you’ve already started to cut yourself. No good will come of it.”

  I reach for the book. “You should burn that,” she tells me, handing it over.

  “I can’t.”

  “Then give it to someone with untainted blood.” She studies me. “There may be a way to break free, but it’s dangerous.”

  “What way?” I ask desperately.

  “Fire.” She closes her eyes. “The fire burned her beyond recognition. All she did, she did for love.” When she opens her eyes, they’re bright and fevered. “Dinnae let them talk you into doing it.”

  “Who, Gram? Doing what?”

  “My coven. You could die and no’ even break their spell. Those girls have their hooks in you and they’re no’ going to let go.”

  “Gram, please. I don’t understand. Do you know what they want?”

  “Aye.” She looks at me, closes her eyes. “They want you. They’re fighting over which one gets you.”

  THE WOODEN SLAB crushes the air from my chest. What breath I can recover comes in short, shallow gasps. If only all they wanted was for me to suffocate, it would already be over, this endless torture. No, what they want from me is far worse.

  The panel of wood covers me from neck to knees. Most of its force bears down on my breast. Each breath is excruciating, and the coarse wood rubs my skin. I feel as if I am a piece of wet cloth being scrubbed on a washing board. No, not merely scoured, but squeezed until all that I am is wrung from my body.

  “Confess!” the bishop screams as he places another stone on the panel. More weight to press my laboring lungs. I fight as much as I can, but my arms and legs are held by metal shackles. The rest of me is pinned under the burden of the heavy wood and stones.

  “Confess!” he yells again, inches from my face, his lips splattering spittle onto my cheek. A low moan escapes me. They have already found me guilty. What will a confession serve other than to validate their barbarity? I will not give them the pleasure.

  He places another rock on the slab and now my breath comes in wheezing fits barely able to sustain me. This is the death I should have had in the loch, and it is a better death than the one that awaits me if I confess. I would rather suffocate than be put to the flames.

  Lights flash in front of my eyes and I feel as if I am about to faint, but the bishop is a skilled torturer, and he removes one of the stones, relieves some of the pressure. Just enough air floods my lungs to keep me conscious.

  “You know…” He no longer hovers over my face but whispers in my ear, soft and seductively, as if he has not spent the last few days tormenting me. “Witches are said to run in families. Perhaps I should call on yours. I wonder if your sister has the same marks as you….”

  Even with my limbs numb, I can feel his caress on my arm. I close my eyes and try to shake the memory of his cruel hands on me when he checked me for signs of witchcraft. His glee as he recorded every mole. His delight to find I was no virgin. I vomited after he violated me, too broken even to cry.

  I cannae let that happen to her. I use what little breath I have left in my body to whisper through my cracked and bleeding lips.

  “I confess.”

  Once again the bishop is in my face. “You confess to practicing witchcraft?”

  “Yes.”

  “And to communing with Satan?”

  I can barely exhale, so I nod my answer.

  “And to fornicating with Satan’s minions?”

  I nod again.

  “And you will sign your name to a full confession?” he asks, almost gleefully.

  “Yes!” I rasp. “Yes to it all.” I want it done.

  The bishop looks over his shoulder. “Take her back to her cell. See that she gets water and food. I do not want to see her perish before we can arrange her punishment.”

  The weight is slowly lifted from my chest, offering blissful relief. Hands eventually grab me and drag me to my prison, where I collapse into a heap, resting my head against the hard stone ground. It smells of piss and death.

  It will be the pyre for me. What have I done?

  My fate was already determined. At least this way, I save her. That is all that matters now.

  MY AUNT IS still sick. I feel the crushing weight of dread, as bad as my dream of Primrose’s torture. Why are my scars gone, but my aunt’s cancer remains?

  I look at the grimoire on my nightstand. Its ancient pages mock me. I had such hope.

  “So Felipe thinks I should come visit him over Christmas break, but I’m not sure I want to make that kind of commitment…,” Fiona is saying. “Hello, Heather?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You weren’t even listening,” she accuses me.

  “Sure I was. Spanish boy with the dreamy eyes is madly in love with you now, and you just want to use him….”

  She laughs. “Come on, what’s up?”

  I sigh. “Do you think the love potion worked?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So if I were to tell you that the magic worked for me too, you’d believe me?”

  “What, you gave Robby a love potion?” She throws back her head, her curls shaking. “I hate to tell you, he’d already fallen for you.”

  “No, not a love potion.” I debate how much to tell her. “I had this scar on my arm and I made a healing salve that I read about in the book and now the scar is gone. Not faded. It’s like it never existed.”

  Fiona stares at me. “That’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried the same thing on my aunt to cure her cancer and she said she felt better, but she’s still sick.”

  Fiona thinks about it. “Well, cancer’s not some small scar. Cancer is huge.”

  “Yeah, and it took a lot out of me. After I did it, I was completely drained. I know my aunt said I had the flu, but really, I think it’s what happens when you try to cure something like that. It steals all your energy. And it didn’t even work.”

  “Maybe you don’t have enough healing power. What if two people did it? I could be with you next time.”

  “You think that would work?”

  “My blood worked in the love potion. Why do you think your blood is so bloody special? I bet my blood is just as powerful. I can help save Abbie’s life.”

  I sit up. “You’d do that for me?”

  “For you and your aunt? Don’t be stupid. Of course I would.”

  “But what if we both just pass out and it still doesn’t work?” I ask.

  “Fair point.” Her eyes brighten. “Let’s get Asha to co
me and monitor us.”

  “Asha will think we are absolutely bonkers.”

  “I dinnae know. You heard her and all that stuff about her grandparents. And even if she doesnae believe us, she will after your aunt gets cured.”

  “Okay, but I still need to recover a bit. What about this weekend?”

  “Works for me.”

  Robby comes over the next night to keep me company. We sit on the couch and watch TV while my aunt putters around the flat, keeping an eye on us. I didn’t tell her that Robby and I were dating, but she seems to sense the change in us. The electricity between us. Eventually her meds kick in and she gives up on chaperoning us and goes to bed.

  Robby leans in; his breath tickles my skin. He kisses my ear, my cheek, my lips. I’m no longer weak or drained from my “illness.” Instead, I feel powerful. My nerves are on fire. Before I know it, I’ve pulled off his shirt. My aunt is just in the other room; she could wake up and walk in at any time, but I don’t care.

  Robby hesitates, then lifts my shirt over my head. My necklace falls back down and rests on my chest. I’m acutely aware that I’m sitting here in my bra, suddenly chilled. His hand rubs my arm, and too late, I try to pull away.

  “Heather, what’s that?” he asks, his head jerking up. His fingers caress my fresh carving, the Trinity knot.

  “Oh, this,” I try to sound casual. “It’s just a tat I want. My mom wouldn’t let me, so I did it myself.”

  He lifts my arm to examine the wound. “It looks fresh….Did you cut this into your skin?”

  He’s got a solid grip on my arm, but I twist it out of his grasp. “What’s the big deal?” I ask, my voice filled with irritation that I hope covers my fear.

  “Heather, if you want a tattoo, get henna, or use a Sharpie, but why would you cut yourself?”

  I glare at him. “It’s my body. I can do whatever I want with it.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t, it’s just…”

  And there it is, what I’ve dreaded. That look. He thinks I’m a total freak.

  “This was a bad idea,” I say.

  “A bad idea for me to come over, or a bad idea that we’re…” He stops, looks at me.

  I can’t meet his eyes. “Both.”

  “Heather…I…” He reaches for me, but I scoot away, off the couch, grabbing my shirt. I pull it over my head.

  “You can leave now. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

  He stands. “You’re being…” He looks confused and more than a little angry.

  “What? What am I being?” I shout, no longer caring if my aunt hears. “Crazy? Unreasonable? A freak?”

  “You’re being a bloody bitch,” he snaps, then closes his mouth fast. Anger floods my body. I could slap him.

  “Nice. And you’re a complete twat.” What right does he have to call me a bitch? A sudden urge comes over me to claw out his eyes. He deserves it, the brute. You dinnae need him. I bite back the feelings.

  “Just go.”

  He puts on his shirt and leaves without another word. I go to my room and cry into the pillow. Why did I think I had a chance at being normal?

  I HEAR HER screams, but I do naught.

  I sit outside the church basement in the dark alley, alone in the shadows. The moon is only a sliver tonight, barely enough light by which to see the cobblestones. A shady-looking figure hurries past me. I do not fear him. I am one with the darkness, and tonight there is no creature that lurks there who is more fearsome than I.

  Another scream. I revel in them, and they repulse me.

  It is my fault.

  It is my triumph.

  “WOW, THAT SOUNDS like it escalated quickly,” Asha says.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Fiona adds. We’re all sitting on my bed, waiting for my aunt to go to sleep.

  “I just was so angry with him,” I say. I told them Robby and I had a fight, what we said, but not what it was about. “And then he called me a bitch…”

  “Yeah, that’s not cool,” Fiona tells me. “Even though it sounds like you were acting like one.” I give her a look. “But I’m still absolutely on your side.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  “So that’s it? You and Robby were together for a week and now you’re not even going to be friends?” Asha asks.

  I shrug.

  Fiona’s phone buzzes and she glances at it. “Felipe,” she tells us.

  Asha sighs. “Right, the boy who loves you because you gave him a magic sex potion. That’s logical.”

  “Yes, when I think love, I also think logic,” Fiona says.

  I glance at the clock. It’s almost ten. My aunt has been out for an hour. She should be dead to the world, especially since I convinced her to take an extra sedative to help her sleep.

  “Are you guys ready?” I ask. Earlier I gathered the herbs and dried and bundled them, readying them to be burned.

  My friends nod. “Let’s go, then,” I say. “And, Fiona, remember that a large part of this is intent. You have to will Aunt Abbie to be healed.”

  “And my job is just to make sure neither of you bleeds to death? I really don’t like this,” Asha says.

  “If it was someone you loved who was sick, we’d do the same for you,” Fiona tells her.

  “No, I would bring them to a doctor or the hospital.”

  “Abbie’s been to see doctors, and she practically lives in the hospital lately. They haven’t helped her.”

  “But this will?” Asha asks, motioning to the herbs. I know it looks crazy.

  “Well, it cannae hurt,” Fiona says.

  “Fine.” Asha relents. “But I have the paramedics on speed dial.”

  We sneak into my aunt’s room, but there’s really no need. She’s completely out. I light the herbs and place the bowl near her head. Fiona and I stand shoulder to shoulder.

  “Ready?” I ask. She nods, her red curls bouncing.

  I take the knife and slice her hand. She hisses and tries to pull away, but I firmly place her hand over the bowl. “That bloody hurt.”

  “Think healing thoughts,” I whisper.

  “Right.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “Healing thoughts.”

  I cut my own hand and hold it over the bowl. Please get better. Please get better. Please get better.

  I begin to get tired, and Fiona sways next to me.

  “Enough,” Asha says.

  “No, not yet.” I feel it more this time. My aunt’s body is repairing itself, but just the damage from the chemo, not the cancer itself. It’s like our health is going from me and Fiona into her. We’re connected by blood. “Are you okay, Fiona?” I ask.

  “Just a wee bit dizzy. Do you think it’s working?”

  “Yes. Can’t you feel it?” I ask. She’s really pale.

  “No, I just feel…like rubbish.”

  “That’s your energy going into her,” I tell her. If Fiona can’t feel it, I need to stay awake and in charge, to make sure Aunt Abbie is completely healed. That means I need to give less of myself, which will only work if Fiona gives more.

  “Can you…Are you up for a little more?”

  She closes her eyes and bites her lip. “Aye, what’s another pint?”

  I take the knife and in one smooth motion slash her wrist. She gasps, but doesn’t move to leave. I didn’t mean to cut so deeply, but I can feel it working. Still, it isn’t enough. Light-headed, I slice my own wrist. I can feel the blackness beckoning, but I fight it. My aunt is not healed yet.

  Asha is screaming now, but it sounds far away. I ignore her. Fiona and I are locked in the spell. I’m determined to heal my aunt, no matter the price.

  The last thing I remember is my aunt’s face before me, her look of pure horror as I stand over her with a knife, bleeding.

  She is frightened. Not for me.

  Of me.

  I WALK ALONG the cobbled street, pushing my way through the crowd. Ducking into an alley, I hurry around the back of a building and emerge again, past the bulk o
f the onlookers. I know this city better than I know myself; it sings to me. I love every nook and cranny, the good with the bad. Even the smell of the city is alive. Already, smoke hangs heavily in the air, as does a scent less recognizable: rage. They are angry at the witch and have come to see her burn.

  I reach the inner crowd and make my way through, closer to the blaze. A new smell envelops me, one of searing flesh. A man next to me turns to the side and retches. Some do not have the constitution for justice. I step past him and push my way to the front.

  There she is, bound to the stake, her legs already ablaze. Her screams could wake the dead, and the bishop is spouting some nonsense that she is trying to communicate with the devil himself. As if only a witch would scream whilst on fire. I am jostled, and the look I shoot the noblewoman who’s pushed me makes her wilt. I turn my attention back to the pyre. I will not be distracted.

  I watch every moment of her suffering. Drink it in. I cannot look away. So many emotions bubble under my skin: anger, vindication, jealousy, even a hint of regret.

  I stare at her and wonder if she will see me, but she looks to the sky, as if for comfort. Many of the crowd back away, their resolve weakening with the hard truth of a witch’s pyre. But I move forward. I need her to see me. I need her to know.

  Finally, her eyes find mine, and I hold my head high as our gazes lock.

  The pain on her face is momentarily erased by a look of stunned betrayal. Then the light goes out of her eyes altogether as the flames consume her soul.

  Once she is dead, the crowd completely loses interest. Justice has been served: Satan’s handmaiden has been slain.

  The bishop and I are the only ones who stay until the bitter end. Until the flames die and all that is left are the charred remains of a witch.

  BLACK SMOKE SCALDS my lungs.

  A crowd is gathered, their faces lit by the flames, but also ablaze with the joyous anticipation of my punishment. A few are pious men and women who have come to see God’s justice done. Most have come to witness the spectacle.