The Source (Witching Savannah, Book 2) (18 page)

Strong arms held me, sheltered me. Shaking, horrified, I looked up into Emmet’s face.

TWENTY-FOUR

I didn’t know how I came to be home, or in my room. When I came to myself, a different pair of arms, just as strong, just as sheltering, held me, rocking me gently.

“Peter,” I breathed his name, and his arms tightened around me. He planted a kiss on the top of my head. Images of my mother’s torn body nearly sent me back into shock, and I struggled against his embrace. “My mother, my mother,” was all I could say.

“It’s all right, honey. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m here. Your family is here.” As he said the words, my family’s presence filtered into my awareness. Ellen stood over me, at the foot of the bed. Oliver had positioned himself near the window, facing me, with his back toward the light. Iris sat by Peter’s side of the bed.

“I am here as well,” said Emmet, a tall shadow in the far corner. Strangely, his presence reassured me the most.

“You should sleep now,” Ellen said as she came around to my side. Her voice sounded hoarse and lacked its usual warmth. Dark circles had formed under her eyes. I realized she had been crying. Of course, Tucker. She reached out.

“Please don’t touch me,” I said, and she pulled her hands away as if they’d been burned. Her eyes, already red, moistened. I had both shocked and hurt her. A part of me felt bad for causing pain to the woman I had thought I knew, but the image of my mother’s final moments had been burned into my mind. I couldn’t bear Ellen’s touch. “I’m sorry. I would just like everyone but Peter to leave. And Emmet,” I added.

“Of course, Gingersnap.” Oliver stood. His face showed concern for me combined with a touch of confusion and hurt.

“But sweetheart, you have had some kind of shock,” Ellen protested. “I should stay and keep an eye on you. Make sure you are all right.”

I found myself balling up, moving away from her touch, pushing myself more securely into Peter’s arms. “I’m fine. The baby’s fine. We’re both fine.”

Ellen stopped dead in her tracks and looked to her siblings for guidance.

“You need to take care of yourself. I’m sorry about Tucker.”

Her eyes flashed at me, showing an emotion that fell somewhere between ire and despair, but then her lids tightened and her expression hardened. “Thank you. I assure you I will find out who did this to him.”

“Come on, let’s leave the girl to rest a bit,” Oliver ordered, drawing Ellen away from me and heading to the door. “Iris?” She stood without saying a word, but reluctance was written all over her face.

She joined her siblings at the door, but turned back to me. “We love you,” she said and followed the others out. Emmet crossed and shut the door behind them.

I struggled in Peter’s grasp enough so that he loosened his hold and I could face him. “My mother,” I started, “I think they killed her.” No, I was suddenly certain they had killed her.

Peter’s face broke into a worried smile. “Mercy, you don’t know what you’re saying. They didn’t kill your mother; she wasn’t killed at all. She died.” He paused. “I know you’re worried about having the baby, that you will be like your mama and you won’t make it, but that isn’t going to happen to you. You are so strong—”

“No.” I looked over at Emmet, but his face remained a blank slate. “My mother didn’t die giving birth to me. She was murdered at the Tillandsia house. Today.”

“The Tillandsia house?” His forehead creased, and he shook his head to show he had no idea what I was talking about.

“The big old place, past Richmond Hill. With the black-and-red door. The one you have been working on for Tucker. The dome skylight in the entrance. It shattered and collapsed on her. They caused it to collapse.” I shuddered at the thought of my mother’s bloodied body.

He brushed the hair from my forehead. “That place is just a big old dilapidated Georgian. It only has regular old windows. No dome. No skylight. Not even any higher windows that could be mistaken for a skylight. Nothing modern like that at all. Nobody’s been hurt there. I was there myself until a half hour ago when Oliver called to tell me you weren’t well. You had a bad dream, that’s all.”

With wild force I twisted from his embrace and tried to sit up. The room spun around me, but I managed to lean up on my elbow and face Emmet. “Tell him,” I commanded. “Tell him what happened. You saw it. You saved me.”

“I’m sorry. I can tell him nothing. You had fallen over in the garden, and I found you there. I carried you up to your room, and then called your family. I am afraid whatever you experienced was a hallucination.”

“Why are you are lying?” I shouted at him.

He reacted as if he were dealing with a sick child. He shook his head silently at Peter, and then looked at me with soft and sympathetic eyes. “I don’t mean to cause you further upset. I would confirm what you are saying if I were able to do so.”

I knew I hadn’t dreamed or imagined it. Peter was wrong. My mother hadn’t died giving birth to me. It was a blatant falsehood. I had a sudden inspiration and felt around my neck. My fingers found the locket, proof that my mother was alive, or at least had been on the day she’d given it to me. In my vehemence to show it to Peter, I broke the chain that held it. My certainty of what I’d witnessed faded instantly. “Here. Take this. Open it.”

I dropped the locket into his palm and leaned against my pillows. His fingers were too large, too calloused to open the locket easily, but after a few tries he managed to work open the clasp. “What can I say?” he asked. “You sure were a beautiful baby. You and Maisie both.”

I reached out and swiped it from him. I looked down on the pictures, one an image of my infant self, the other of Maisie at the same age. The photos of my great-grandmother and Careu, the golden young man with the confident eyes, had disappeared. I snapped the locket shut and held on to it for dear life.

Another wave of vertigo washed over me, forcing me to close my eyes. “I must be sick,” I said, more to myself than to my companions.

“I’m afraid so,” Peter said. “And it’s been making you have some terrible dreams. Now would it be all right to call Ellen in? Let her do what she does to make you better?”

Even with my eyes closed, I could feel Emmet’s gaze boring into me. “Don’t you see how magic never daunts him as it would a normal man?” they demanded silently. “Don’t you see that he is no more
real
than I am?” The question quickly faded, only to be replaced by a sense of his concern for my well-being.

I didn’t say a word. I nodded my assent, but in truth I wasn’t sure if the question I’d answered was Peter’s or Emmet’s. Exhaustion overtook me, and I had fallen dead to the world by the time Ellen reentered the room.

TWENTY-FIVE

I climbed out of bed and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Someone had removed my clothes and slipped me into a seafoam-colored silk nightgown. The kind you get for a holiday present and never end up wearing. I sat down on the foot of the bed, trying to pull together the pieces of yesterday, the same as if I were trying to rebuild the shards of glass into the dome that had crushed my mother. Or had maybe crushed my mother. My own reflection faded as the image of her bloodied body rose to mind. I muffled the cry that tried to fight its way out of me. Even if the whole thing had been a hallucination, the fear and sense of loss were real enough to me.

I prayed that the others were right, and I had somehow dreamed up the whole day. That my mother was still alive and I could somehow find an explanation for all of this that would allow me to have her in my life without rejecting my aunts, without rejecting the line.

The robe that went with the gown had been laid out over the chair. In spite of everything, I realized that I was starving, so I pulled on the robe and headed downstairs to find some breakfast. As I came to the foot of the stairs, I heard my name being spoken, but the hushed sound of the words that came after told me that I was being discussed rather than addressed. I crept along the hall toward the voices and found myself by the swinging door that opened into the kitchen.

“I blame myself,” Oliver said. “It isn’t enough that she’s pregnant and has just gotten in touch with her magic, I had to encourage her to go and play librarian in the Akashic records.”

“I disagree,” Iris said. “It was much better that you stepped in and controlled the situation, rather than letting her and Jilo stumble into something neither of them could handle on their own.”

“But to hallucinate that Emily is still alive and we are trying to kill her . . . She’s under too much stress, and I’ve done my share of placing it there.”

“She was determined to find Maisie.” Ellen tried to ease his guilt. “And you had nothing to do with her pregnancy or the fact that the line chose her as anchor.”

“But you can’t possibly think she had anything to do with Tucker?”

Ellen’s silence lasted a moment too long. “No, not intentionally. Not even consciously. But she’s not truly in control of her powers. Maybe her guilt over hurting Peter’s great-uncle blended with her desire to push Tucker out of my life. Maybe she thought she was dreaming. You saw how she dreamed up this whole scene with Emily.” I crept nearer the door, trying to decide whether I should keep silent or burst in and let them have it.

“Oh, Ellen, not even then,” Oliver defended me.

“You saw how she pushed me away. She isn’t herself. Maybe this sudden influx of power has hurt her, changed her somehow. Maybe toying with the Akashic records did something. Maybe there’s a part of her that can no longer discern the difference between real and fantasy.”

“I think it might be for the best,” Iris said, “to support the families in their proposal to send her to visit Gudrun. Let Gudrun teach her how to handle her powers, and then share the secrets of the anchors with her. At least Mercy will be safe there.” Gudrun’s name caused me to flash back to the day when I’d first tasted magic, when a splinter of wood soaked with Oliver’s blood had been turned into a talisman that allowed me to borrow his power. The hardened face that had glared back at me through the mirror when I’d tried to reach out to Maisie.

“No,” Oliver said, and then, “I don’t know. Gudrun proved to be of little use in helping Maisie. There’s also the baby to consider.”

Talking about me behind my back was one thing, but no one would discuss my son without my input. I barreled through the door, leaving it flapping behind me. “Good morning, y’all. What have I missed?”

“Well, from your behavior and the tone you are taking, young lady,” Iris replied, “I don’t imagine you have missed much.” I stopped for a moment, taking in the room’s strange rosy glow that emanated from the pink crystal at the center of the table.

“Sit down, Mercy,” Ellen said. The hurt she had carried with her since yesterday blended with her doubts about me, darkening her eyes. I stayed still, ready to take on my three relatives, but I was a little disarmed by the pain I saw written on their faces.

I had so desperately wanted to believe that the woman who found me was my mother. I still did. However, I also wanted to believe that she was still alive. That we would get the chance to know each other. That my son would get to know her. All the same, I did not want to believe the stories she had shared with me. I didn’t want to believe that Iris and Ellen could have committed such crimes. Beyond that, I still struggled with what struck my heart as my mother’s heretical statements against the line. Could it possibly be true that the line imprisoned us rather than protected us? I was still trying to process the images she had drawn of the benevolent teachers who wanted nothing more than for mankind to return to their waiting arms. Something about all of this struck me as too neat. My mother’s return. Her version of what had led to my birth and her disappearance. Her sudden death in a room that, as far as I could tell, had never existed on this plane. I posed the question to myself. Could these three people before me, imperfect as they certainly were, commit such monstrous acts?

“Take a seat,” Iris commanded, a chair sliding out for me seemingly of its own accord. Magic had become much more evident in our house, much more openly practiced since my own power had been returned to me. I knew that Iris had been holding back on Connor’s account, but I had to wonder if they’d been holding back to spare my feelings as well. Somehow their desire to save my self-esteem didn’t mesh well with what my mother had told me about them. I took the proffered seat, but leaned back and folded my arms across my chest. I wasn’t quite ready to let go of my indignation over catching them gossiping about me.

Iris did not care. “You are feeling better, I trust?”

“Yes.” I offered nothing more.

“What, are you twelve?” Oliver burst out and walked over to the counter. Even though he’d protected me when I wasn’t there to speak up for myself, it was clear that he too still smarted from my rejection. He tossed a bag of chamomile tea into a mug and added hot water. My eyes fell to the table. I didn’t want to look at any of them. After a few moments, Oliver slid the tea in front of me. I grasped the mug in my hands, grateful for the comfort of its heat.

“You accused us of some pretty wicked crimes yesterday,” Iris said, her tone measured, even. She had obviously practiced saying these words many times during the night. “We know something happened, something that was upsetting. However, instead of coming to us, trusting us, you sent us away. You told Peter and the golem that we lied to you about your mother’s death. Then you went one step further and said we killed her?”

“And you are in here talking about how I killed Tucker and need to be shipped off before I start taking out the whole of Savannah one by one.”

Ellen threw her hands over face. Her shoulders hunched up and convulsed as she sobbed.

Iris reached over and put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “No one said that.”

Ellen lowered her hands. Her face was grief stricken, puffy, and red, and dark circles stood out beneath her eyes. “I loved him,” Ellen’s voice warbled. “I really did.” She looked at me through heartbroken eyes, mascara clumped and eyeliner dripping in watercolor rivulets down her cheeks.

My anger started melting. “I know that. I do,” I said. There was no way she had harmed Tucker. No way. “I swear I didn’t do anything to him. I would’ve never done a thing to Tucker, because I know you loved him.”

“And you don’t think we loved our sister?” Ellen asked. “Do you really think that Iris and I killed her in cold blood? Do you really think we could have? Do you really think I could have?”

Emotion overwhelmed me, and I too burst into tears. “I am so sorry about Tucker.” I reached out and took Ellen’s hands.

“I know, baby. I do believe you are.”

“You have to know I wouldn’t hurt him. Intentionally. Even if I thought I was dreaming. I just don’t have that kind of hate in me.”

Ellen looked at me, the storm clearing from her eyes. I knew she realized that this was true. “No. You don’t. I don’t know why I let my heart think that you might.”

Iris came around to me, pulling my head into her bosom. “There, there, there.” She stroked my hair and bent over to kiss the top of my head. When I managed to pull myself together, she tilted my face so that she could look me directly in the eye. “I don’t know who or why, but I believe someone is trying to sow the seeds of doubt and mistrust among us. Someone who wants the four of us to battle each other. Someone who wants it bad enough to kill to make it happen.”

“Okay,” Oliver said, his tone telling us that he planned to take control of the situation. “The Taylors have an enemy. That isn’t exactly a new item for the family history book. What do we know about this enemy? Only one thing, and that is that he or she knows they don’t stand a chance against us if we stay united.”

“That was your pep talk?” Iris asked as a palpable sense of relief settled over the four of us. Even Ellen smiled at her big sister’s sarcasm. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Iris turned to me. “So now you tell us what happened. What could have possibly made you think we killed your mama?”

I drew a breath. I couldn’t believe anyone would have been so cruel as to toy with me this way. To offer my mother to me and then snatch her away. “She found me,” I said. “Right after the accident with Peadar. She came and took me away.”

“Who did, darlin’? Who found you?” Oliver asked. Even through the maelstrom of emotions that whipped through me, it amused me to hear his accent coming through so heavily.

“My mama. Emily.”

“Now, Mercy, that isn’t possible,” Iris said. “You know she’s been gone for quite a long time now. Someone is playing some kind of cruel and horrible joke.”

“Perhaps she came to you in spirit? A ghost?” Ellen offered.

“No. She was real. She felt solid,” I said, even though my own experiences told me that didn’t really count for much. “She said she was alive. That she didn’t die having me.”

“Oh, Mercy,” Ellen breathed. “If only that were true, but I was there. Iris too. You know. We’ve told you what happened.”

“She said you lied. That you took Maisie and me from her, and then forced her to create a double that you could bury.” I lowered my eyes. “Besides, Wren told Jilo that he saw Mama here in the house on the day you all supposedly buried her.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Oliver held up his hands. “Let’s slow down a bit here and start over at the beginning. Someone—someone pretending to be Emily—came to you—”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure she was pretending.”

“You think it really could have—”

“A double, you say?” Iris interrupted him.

“Yes. She said that she can create doppelgängers.”

Iris and Ellen looked at each other. “Do you think it’s possible?” Iris finally asked. “We were so focused on the girls,” she said to her sister. “Could Emily have managed to give birth and then switch places with a double?”

Ellen paused before answering. “Yes. It’s possible,” she finally said. “By the time I knew that Mercy would live, and I could turn my attention back to Emily, she had passed. I’m not sure that I’d sense the difference between a dead body and a body that had never had any life.”

“But even if Emmy had the magic to do that, why would she?” Oliver asked.

“Tell us what she said. All of it,” Iris commanded, ignoring her brother. “Don’t skip anything, even if you are afraid it might hurt us.”

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Tell us exactly what’s been happening.”

Oliver nodded, telling me to go on.

I dug deep into my gut, asking it to tell me whether I should put my trust in these three. I wanted—no, needed—to believe in them. But I’d also needed to believe in Maisie, and I had learned the hard way that my desire to trust someone didn’t make them trustworthy. Someone was lying to me, be it my mother, someone pretending to be my mother, or one or more of the three sitting before me. In the end, I decided to offer my family the benefit of the doubt. I took a deep breath and told them everything. Almost.