Blood Spells

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CHAPTER ONE

I’d heard of people cutting their wrists, but I’d never seen it. Not until five minutes ago.

Now, I stood outside the master bedroom of my home, cell phone clutched in hand, my mouth pasty-dry from losing my breakfast in the bathroom sink. On the other side of this door, my stepmother Cora lay in a bathtub. A thick layer of blood filled the bottom of the basin.

My fingers fumbled as I dialed 9-1-1.

No ringing. The call didn’t connect.

Stupid magical house.

I went to try again, but the screen had gone black and lifeless.

Phone held high, I ran into the family room, then the kitchen, searching for a spot with weaker magic. Magic trumped technology, and that rarely went well for phone calls in this house. The display flickered on and off. Near the back door, it lit up.

The call took an eternity to connect. During the wait, I tried not to think of Cora, her wrists slit halfway to the elbows, her body empty of blood, her knife discarded beside her.

What’s your emergency? came a polite voice from the other end of the line.

Cora . . . My voice broke to pieces, and each shard stung my throat. My stepmother is dead. I think she committed suicide.

Are you sure she’s dead?

I’m sure. There’s . . . a lot of blood.

What’s your address?

6 Howell Lane.

Your name?

Madison Cooper.

Is the victim a blood-magic user?

Yes.

A summoner?

Yes . . . I mean she used to be. What did that matter? She was dead.

I’ll send the Practitioners Bureau.

She quit summoning.

That’s fine. When did you . . . The woman said something else in her too-polite voice, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t bring Cora back.

My phone beeped a warning that its power was almost depleted. I’d plugged it in last night, but it hadn’t charged, thanks to the magic around here.

I disconnected the call and dialed Aunt Sara. I hadn’t talked to her for more than five minutes at a time since my father’s death almost two years ago—she reminded me too much of him. And just like him, she’d know what to do in a crisis.

The phone flickered again. I raised it above my head, and the flickering stopped.

Maddy? she said when she picked up, her voice thick and low with half sleep. It’s early.

Cora’s dead, I whispered.

What, honey?

I reached my other hand above my head and hit the button to switch the phone’s mode to speaker.

She killed herself, I shouted upward toward the phone. Cora’s dead.

Aunt Sara’s next words sounded more alert. I’ll be there in ten minutes—fifteen tops if I have trouble getting past the water line. Did you call the police?

I nodded.

Maddy?

Yes, I said. They’re on the way.

Good. Stay on the phone with me. I’m getting in the car now.

I nodded again and dropped my arm before I realized what I was doing. The phone made a crackling sound, and the connection fizzled out. I considered calling her again, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t bring Cora back.

I trudged to my room and slumped down on the bed. My hand went limp, and the phone dropped to my lap, screen bright, ringing. The caller ID announced my aunt calling back. I let it ring. I couldn’t convince my numb fingers to reach for the phone. It stopped a second later, and the screen went black.

I was still sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, when my aunt arrived. My phone lay on the floor by my feet. And in the next room, Cora was still dead.

Still in her pajamas, Aunt Sara breezed into the room with her dark, kinky hair in a messy bun and her face fixed in determination. She crooked one hand under my back and laid me out on the bed.

Sweet girl. I’m here. You can sleep if you want.

I rolled to my side, facing the wall, and curled into a fetal position.

Can I get you anything? she asked, her voice soft and smooth and sad.

I want to be alone.

The click of the door told me when she’d left.

But I didn’t want to be alone.

I rolled back over and reached for the pocketknife on my nightstand. My gaze slid from the small knife—with a blade carved from bone—to the closed door of my bedroom, to the analog clock beside the door.

I needed my mother. But as usual, time was an enemy. It had run out too quickly with my mom, then with my dad, and now with Cora. And with the Bureau on the way, I didn’t even have time for a summoning. The dead would have to stay put for now.

More compact than the bone knife in the next room, which was covered in my stepmother’s blood, this one was better suited for hiding. And that was what I needed to do with it, unless I wanted the Bureau to throw me in jail for illegal practice by a minor.

As I scanned the room for a safe place, I spotted a powder-blue envelope on the nightstand. On it, Cora’s loopy script spelled my name. I held my breath as I lifted the blue envelope and flipped it over and over in my hand.

Her last words.

After I read this, I might never be able to reach Cora again. I could try to summon her, but it might not work. It never had with my dad. Maybe this was all I had left of her. I raised the envelope to my face and inhaled. Lavender. It smelled like her.

Maddy? My bedroom door opened, and Aunt Sara came in. Her head tilted to one side in that way people do when they pity you. I’d seen that motion a lot, starting the day my mother died. You don’t want to rest until the Bureau gets here?

Three quick bangs on the front door cut off my answer. I tucked the knife into the back of my waistband, covered it with my shirt, and went out to meet the people who would take my stepmother away.

CHAPTER TWO

Aunt Sara tried to keep me in my room, but I refused. I would not hide like a coward while these people poked and prodded my stepmother. So my aunt ushered me into the family room and pushed me down on the couch before answering the door.

The knife rubbed against my spine, and I squirmed to shift it to one side.

Muffled voices came from the foyer, and soon my aunt returned with four other people, three men and a woman. She pointed to a thin man with his hair slicked back and a shorter man who lagged behind him. This is the coroner and his assistant. Aunt Sara’s voice was velvet-soft but not at all soothing.

I didn’t meet the coroner’s eyes. They gave solemn nods and, without a word, disappeared into the depths of Cora’s bedroom.

And these two are from the Practitioners Aid. Aunt Sara gestured toward the remaining man and woman.

The woman, a tall blonde, cleared her throat and stared me straight in the eyes. I’m Agent Tanner. She tilted her head toward the tall, broad man with her. This is my partner, Agent Reyes.

Reyes dipped his head solemnly.

I stood, as if on command. They wore casual slacks and short-sleeved dress shirts—a blouse for her and a light sweater for him. The short sleeves were probably a job requirement. As far as the non-magic were concerned, long sleeves said you had something to hide—like cuts on your arms to draw blood for spells. Bare arms meant safe.

Despite the casual clothing, though, something in their demeanors felt formal. Maybe it was the erect postures, or the thin smiles that held no warmth.

I’d never seen a Bureau agent in person before, only fictional ones on television. Agent Reyes looked a lot like those: dark shirt and pants, shiny shoes, and a face devoid of feeling. He wore his hair a little longer than they did on television though—less military looking. It made him look more approachable, but not by much.

Agent Tanner kept her blond hair in a ponytail so tight I feared for her scalp. She quirked her lips in a way that might have been meant to pass for a smile—it didn’t.

Neither of them carried weapons that I could see.

And it’s the Practitioners Bureau now, Agent Tanner added to my aunt. Not the Practitioners Aid.

Yes, of course. My mistake.

When Agent Reyes moved toward me, I fought the instinct to shuffle away. Instead, I tilted my head back to look him in the eye.

Did you touch the body? He had a soft, round voice that resonated with empathy. His tone might have eased the tension in the room if it weren’t for the knife that kept inching lower in my waistband, threatening to slip down my pant leg.

No. It took every bit of my willpower not to adjust the knife.

Take a seat. Tanner gestured toward the couch. We’ll be with you when we’re done. She and her partner strode away to join the coroner, out of my view.

I dropped back onto the couch and adjusted the knife while pretending to scratch my back.

Aunt Sara sat beside me. Do you need anything?

I needed my stepmother back, but I couldn’t have that so I shook my head.

Muffled voices reached us from inside Cora’s room. I couldn’t make out most of what they said, just snatches here and there. Words like wasted blood and summoner. Once, I caught a full sentence: It’s been years since she summoned.

When my father died, Cora had refused to summon him. I asked her once or twice, after failing on my own, but she insisted we should let him rest. His time here had ended, and we had to respect that. And if she wouldn’t summon him, she wouldn’t summon anyone. So she stopped. She kept using blood magic, but never for calling the dead. Not anymore.

So why kill herself? And why now, almost two years later?

Summoners committed suicide all the time—but after they quit?

Although I’d been too caught up in finding my stepmother dead to think about it before, now it struck me how strange a choice wrist-slitting was for a practitioner’s suicide. We honored our blood, preserved it. Not only did it keep us alive from one second to the next, but it fed our magic. Summoners took sleeping pills or hung themselves.

They did not spill their blood all over the bathtub.

Aunt Sara smoothed my hair. I hadn’t yet combed it this morning, and it was still in its wild, natural state of a mass of dark coils. Worry etched a line in her forehead. My dad had a line in that same spot, and more around his mouth when he smiled—a mouth shaped a lot like my aunt’s.

My gut twisted. I’d avoided her for the past couple years because it tore my soul to be so close to my father’s double when he remained so far away.

I turned my face so I wouldn’t have to look at her. I’m going to grab some air. I jumped to my feet and hurried to the front door.

The suffocating summer air engulfed me. But I still closed the door behind me to hint to Aunt Sara that I needed time alone. The alternative was to return inside, where I’d be surrounded by all those people who were here because of Cora.

Because Cora had died.

Because Cora had left me.

Because Cora had spilled all her blood in the bathtub, not thirty feet from where I slept.

Or maybe she hadn’t.

Bad day? A male voice called my attention, and I focused on its owner. He was about my age—sixteen or so. Dark-blond hair. He used a hand to shade his face from the sun and stared at me with sympathetic brown eyes.

Who are you?

Oh, sorry. I’m Marshall. My mom’s a Bureau agent. He batted at the space in front of his face, scratched his nose, and then pointed at my front door. We were in the car when she got the call. She told me to wait out here.

His voice was soft, lower than those of most boys my age and with a touch of hoarseness that I found soothing. It was the imperfection in his tone that made it comforting. In a screwed-up world, why should anything be perfect?

When several seconds passed, he added, Is there anything I can do? He swiped in front of his face again.

If the day didn’t suck so much, I might have laughed. Instead, I slid down into a sitting position, back pressed against the front door. You don’t live in the community? I toned it like a question, but the answer was clear.

Wordless, he sat cross-legged facing me. How’d you guess? He laughed and swiped at the air again.

Leave them alone. I promise you’ll stop noticing in a few minutes.

It’s like they’re attacking me.

I focused on the energy around us, which I mostly didn’t notice after living most of my life inside the water line.

White-blue particles drifted upward, sparkling in the sunlight like miniature, weightless diamonds. They smelled simultaneously acrid and sweet—like burning rose petals. Swaying back and forth, sometimes circling one another, sometimes slowing, sometimes speeding up, but always moving upward.

They went out of their way to touch Marshall. They paused their dancing long enough to kiss his face on their way to the sky.

You have magic blood. I said it as a statement rather than a question. I’d just met him, but the particles always knew the magic people from the nons. I attracted them too, but I didn’t mind. I was used to their attention.

He nodded and swiped again. The bright lights swirled in a miniature tornado, kissed his hand, and continued upward.

Relax. I stopped focusing on the magical energy and closed my eyes briefly to relax them from the strain. I promise you’ll start to like how it feels.

He fisted his hands at his sides and looked directly at me. He didn’t say anything for a while—probably concentrating on not scratching—and I appreciated the quiet as much as I appreciated his voice. I liked his eyes too. Chocolate brown and deep, like I could get lost in them.

That would be nice—getting lost.

Your mother and her partner are checking out my stepmother’s body, I said after a while.

I’m sorry. The fists at his sides loosened.

Me too.

Marshall stared down at his forearm, scratched it, and then scratched his nose again.

Is this your first time inside a water line?

I was inside the one in my hometown a couple times. But it’s worse here.

It’s the ley line intersection. I leaned off my front door just enough to point behind me, in the direction of my house. That way. Most magic communities are at the intersection of two ley lines. We’ve got three here.

My house faced away from the middle of the community, where the three ley lines—sources of magic embedded in the earth—met. In the distance, the particles floated out of the crack in the ground at the intersection and dispersed. There, they were dense. Since my house sat near the edge of the community, they were thinner here.

You don’t itch?

You get used to it. Plus, we’re toward the edge of the water line, and it’s weaker here. The folks who live in the center can’t get electricity at all. We can get at least a little. The word we tasted wrong on my tongue. It was really just me now. I stared down at my hands and blinked a lot, holding the flood back.

There must have been a full minute of silence before Marshall spoke again. It’s okay to be sad.

I nodded, but I wasn’t so sure. In my sixteen years of life, sad hadn’t gotten me anything.

Is there something I can do?

I just want to be alone.

He pushed himself to a standing position and, without looking back, walked to one of the cars in the driveway, a gray luxury sedan. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, leaving the door open behind him.

My chest felt tired and empty—and tired of being empty. I slumped against the front door, closed my eyes, and concentrated on not feeling. That was easier.

You’re going to be alone a lot, I’m guessing, Marshall said in a voice that was surprisingly familiar despite my first hearing it just minutes ago.

I opened my eyes to find him dropping down in front me again, a piece of paper and two pencils clutched in one hand. He set the page between us and drew two parallel vertical lines, with two horizontal ones crossing them. A tic-tac-toe board.

We can be not-alone together. He gestured at the board. We don’t even have to talk.

He held out a pencil toward me. I stared at it for a couple seconds and then decided I had nothing to lose. I grabbed the pencil and marked an X in the middle of the lines.

He wrote an O right above.

I drew my next X in the upper left, next to his O. Sometimes, I feel like I’m cursed.

I thought he hadn’t heard me as he drew an O under my first move, instead of blocking me. Why?

I could win now, by placing my X in the bottom right and creating a diagonal line of Xs. Instead, I drew an X in the upper right. I’m three parents down—Cora was my stepmother, and both my birth parents are dead.

And that’s somehow your fault?

I’m the connecting thread. You think that’s coincidence?

I think it’s really awful luck. Marshall drew an O in the bottom left, leaving my obvious winning move available. My sister died. A couple years ago.

I’m sorry.

I think about it a lot. I wonder what I could have done differently—if I could have saved her.

I nodded as I placed my last X on our board, in the bottom right, finally winning the game. I knew that feeling of helplessness. That feeling of grasping at a life that could have been different and finding your hand full of air and nothing else.

Marshall drew another tic-tac-toe board below the first one and pushed the page toward me.

I pushed it back at him. You go first.

He scratched his nose and then drew an X in the top-center section.

Are you going to keep letting me win?

He widened his eyes in mock offense. Would I do a thing like that?

Oh, certainly not, I said, my expression solemn.

He laughed, and I cracked a grin. I liked being not-alone with him. It beat sitting here by myself, thinking of Cora’s corpse being poked and prodded and packed into a body bag. My smile trembled and collapsed under its own weight.

The front door opened behind me, and I almost fell into the foyer. But strong hands caught my shoulder and righted me. Aunt Sara stared down at me, overflowing with pity. I thought you might want company. She glanced at Marshall and then back at me. But I see you found some.

Marshall hopped to his feet and grabbed my hand. His fingers were cool and soft despite the hot sun. He pulled me up and then held out his hand for my aunt to shake. Marshall Tanner. My mom’s one of the agents on this case.

I see. She turned back to me and pointed to a line of sweat creeping down my temple. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your bedroom? Or you can wait in the car, if you like. I’ll give you my keys to run the air conditioner.

No.

But since I couldn’t escape my aunt either way, outside seemed no less awful than inside.

I grabbed Marshall’s hand and led him past Aunt Sara into the house. If I had to endure her and the Bureau and the coroner, he had to go with me. I liked how he looked at me—like it wasn’t the end of the world, like he didn’t think I would break.

Aunt Sara followed us to the family room. I released Marshall and settled into a corner of the couch, legs tucked in front of me. Marshall hesitated for only a second and then sat beside me. Aunt Sara took the armchair on the other side of the coffee table.

How are you feeling? she asked me.

Is that a serious question?

She licked her lips, and her gaze wandered to Marshall’s face before landing back on mine. I could make you some tea.

Sure. At least this way, she’d stop hovering.

Would you like some? she asked Marshall.

No, I’m good. Thanks. He scrunched up his nose like he was trying not to scratch it. He hadn’t scratched in a while, so that was an improvement.

Aunt Sara rose from the couch and hurried into the kitchen. When she hit the light switch, there was a soft click, and two gas lamps retrofitted to the walls flared to life. The electric bulbs overhead stayed dark, but the gas lamps were enough. Aunt Sara busied herself in the kitchen.

Maddy? she called no more than a minute later. She held up two mugs, one in each hand, and stood in the middle of the kitchen.

Mm-hmm?

You don’t have a microwave?

We used to have one, but it never worked anyway. I think Dad donated it.

I don’t know how you do it, she muttered, almost too low for me to hear.

Tea kettle’s in the cabinet above the sink, I think. I half stood so I could twist and point to the right cabinet.

Got it. She grabbed the kettle and set it on the gas stove top.

When I sat again, Marshall was squinting down at the space between my back and the couch cushions.

What? I asked him.

There’s something . . . He reached behind me and yanked the knife from my waistband.

I grabbed at it, but Marshall pulled it from my reach. He shot a glance at the door to Cora’s bedroom—where the Bureau agents were—and then slipped it in his pocket.

Give it back, I whispered.

What are you doing with it? They’ll arrest you.

I reached for his pocket. Then let me hide it.

No.

The firmness in his tone stopped me dead. It’s got nothing to do with you.

Summoning kills people. He pointed to Cora’s bedroom. Every day. Something about his face went desperate. Tell me you don’t summon. You do other stuff. Other magic, right?

I stopped reaching for the knife.

You’re not the only one who’s lost someone to this.

Who? I asked, my voice softer. Your sister?

She was four years older than me—just got her license. She got lost.

My chest ached for him. I’d performed summonings, so I knew how seductive death could be. The way it called to you and promised you peace and comfort, no more pain. Just quiet and warmth and bliss. Sometimes, people summoned and never ended the spells. They refused to break contact with that sensation, and they died in the middle of their summonings.

We called it getting lost.

I’m sorry, I told him, but that’s not going to happen to me.

Because you’re careful? You haven’t even trained.

If I stopped, I’d never see my mother again. And with Cora gone . . . I had more reason than ever for blood magic.

The tea kettle’s shriek interrupted us before I could respond.

Marshall and I sat in complete silence, me glaring at him, and him pretending not to notice, until Aunt Sara joined us with two mugs of tea. She handed one to me and sipped from the other.

A thump from the depths of Cora’s room startled me, and I lost my grip on the mug. It clattered to the hardwood floor but remained in one piece. A pool of light-brown liquid spread outward. I reached for the now-empty mug and set it upright on the table.

I should clean that. I tried to push myself up to grab a towel, but Aunt Sara’s gentle hand on my shoulder kept me in place.

I’ll get it. She grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen. When she returned, she stooped and soaked up the tea, waving my apologies aside.

The coroner and his assistant emerged from the bedroom. They carried between them a full body bag on a stretcher. Cora lay inside it, all zipped up in darkness. I couldn’t look away as they made their way to the front door and exited. A voice inside my head screamed at me to follow them, to curl up next to Cora, to clutch her close to me, to keep the life I knew.

Instead, I fisted my hands in my lap and stayed put.

Agents Reyes and Tanner emerged from the bedroom and planted themselves on the other side of the coffee table.

Agent Tanner—Marshall’s mother—quirked one blond eyebrow at him. "You’re supposed to be in the car." She emphasized the last three words in a way that made it clear she meant for him to go back there.

It got hot.

It is not appropriate for you to be here.

It’s fine, I said. I invited him.

She pressed her lips together but didn’t argue.

Do you want to tell us what happened? Reyes said.

Aunt Sara moved to stand beside me and rested a hand on my shoulder. The weight of it kept me grounded. Otherwise, I might have floated away. Far away from here.

My tongue took up too much space in my mouth, but somehow I made it work. When I woke up, her bedroom door was open. It’s usually closed when she’s away, and she was supposed to be gone another night. But she was . . . I gestured behind him, to the master bedroom—from which they’d removed my stepmother’s bloodless corpse.

She committed suicide? Agent Tanner asked.

Looked that way. My voice sounded more bitter than I expected.

Is that a suicide note? She pointed at the sealed blue envelope on the coffee table, where I’d placed it when they arrived.

I think so.

Agent Tanner grabbed it and tore the envelope open. I cringed. Cora’s last words deserved more respect. She scanned the letter and then passed it to Reyes, who read it himself before folding it and sliding it back into the envelope.

I stretched my fingers toward the blue paper.

It’s evidence, Tanner said.

It’s addressed to me, I said.

"It’s evidence