Magic Spark Page 10

  “Yeah. What are friends for?” Steven mumbled.

  “Well, I got to go scrub this gunk off my face. Good talk.” I walked a few feet, then turned back to the stunned looking Steven. “Oh and Steve?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you go to hit a parade this weekend, take an umbrella. It is going to storm.”

  “But you just said that it is going to be sunny skies.”

  “I know what I said, but trust me. Take an umbrella.” I turned to leave, aware that more eyes than Steven’s followed my hips as they twisted with each step closer to the door. People were definitely talking about me, and more than usual. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, and for the first time in my life, I was thankful for the caked on foundation. At least it would save a scrap of my dignity by hiding the crimson blush that I knew was spreading over my face.

  Why would Brett humiliate me like this?

  I kept my fake “camera” smile pulled into place until I was safely locked inside my white Audi, exiting the station’s parking garage. As I pulled into the traffic of the CBD, I beat the steering wheel with my fist. “Dammit!” Why would he do this to me at work? He didn’t even have the decency to try and protect my reputation? It was all that woman’s fault.

  Burgundy bitch won’t win.

  Instead of getting on the interstate to leave the city behind, I pulled onto Magazine and cruised through the quarter, until I reached uptown, and took a sharp left onto Foncee. I reached into my Louis Vuitton shoulder bag and pulled out my phone. As usual, I’d forgotten to turn on the Bluetooth and pair with my vehicle.

  “Call March,” I instructed, pressing the button. A moment later the receptionist at Mystic Ink answered.

  “Get Marchland on the phone. Now.”

  “She’s with somebody.” The shop boy’s bored voice made me want to rip his hair out.

  “It’s Cheyanne. Her sister.”

  “She’s still with someone.”

  “If my sister isn’t on the phone in five minutes, I am going to drive down to that little shit hole and shove the toe of my pump so far up your ass that you will taste the leather. Get her on—”

  “Okay okay. Damn. No need to get snippy.” Hold music—an old No Doubt song—filled my ear. Marchland tried to run her shop as professional as possible, and for some reason I couldn’t grasp, she’d thought that meant hold music and an answering service. She’d be better off upgrading her help and getting a better location, I thought, even as I hummed along with the song. I’m just a girl, some kind of freak…

  “Cheyanne? What’s the matter?” Marchland’s voice was urgent.

  “Come to the Foncee house as soon as you can. We have to cast tonight. It can’t wait.”

  Without waiting for my sister’s answer, I hung up.

  My tires screeched, jumping the curb onto the sidewalk as I skidded into my usual parking spot outside of Gramm’s house. Even though I wasn’t catholic, I crossed myself, thankful there hadn’t been a pedestrian. Because that was all I needed to deal with on top of everything else.

  I ran to the gate, and when it didn’t open, I banged my palm against its bars. “I don’t have time for this! Let me in or I will melt you down for scrap metal!”

  The gate clicked and opened a few inches, but when I reached to pull it open further, it shut tightly.

  “Come on! Please! Look, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it—but I really just need inside.” Across the street a young woman had stopped to let her dog use the bathroom in an empty lot. She was watching me like I’d lost my mind. Normally I would have waved and laughed, like it was all some joke, but there was no time for that. I turned back to the gate and continued to plead.

  “Look, is this about the time I broke your window? I am sorry! And I swear—I had no idea that Brett had put that sign in your yard. What do you want? You want me to get the sign and burn it? Because I will! I promise—just let me in.” I jerked on the bars of the gate. They remained shut.

  I turned my back to the gate, and briefly contemplated ramming my car through the fence, when with a loud click, the doors flew open. Before they could slam shut, I ran inside. “Thanks! I will burn that sign. Promise!”

  I ran down the walk and bounded up the steps. I pulled open the front door and was relieved to find that it led exactly where it was supposed to—into the foyer. “Bradley!” I yelled. “Bradley are you here?”

  I ran into the short hall way that went (usually) through the kitchen and to a doorway to the back yard. “Bradley! I know you are here! If you can hear me either answer me or come down. I know you didn’t go to class today!” I really didn’t know—but I figured if she was there then she would come and find me, and if she wasn’t, well, then she wasn’t there.

  I stomped into the kitchen. The pantry doors opened and closed and overhead the ceiling danced with thunderbolts, same as when I was a child.

  “Brad—” I began to yell again, when my sister padded softly into the room.

  “Geez, Cheyanne! Will you stop? You are freaking out and it is freaking the house out.” She patted the counter top. “Calm down before we have to chance using real magic to settle it down again.”

  “Will you quit worrying about the damn house for one minute? I have a real crisis here!”

  The house moaned—a hollow sound that came from the walls.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  My sister crossed her arms over her chest, and looked very much like she had as a child.

  “Stop sulking! This is important.”

  “I’m not sulking.”

  “Never mind that. It’s Brett. He is being sloppy with his philandering. So now it’s not only my heart, but my reputation I have to worry about. That rat bastard! We have to do the spell tonight. It can’t wait.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You only need to wait a tiny bit longer. It’s a dark moon right now… That’s too much power and too much risk for something not-so-nice to leak into the spell. If Granny were here, then maybe with her knowledge we could—”

  “But Granny isn’t here and I can’t wait, Bradley! You and March know that book better than me, but if you refuse to help, then I am going to take it, even if I have to pry it away from you, and do the spell all by myself.”

  “Cheyanne, you know there has to be three.”

  “No. I don’t know that. Granny always said that, but she could have been wrong.” I knew Granny hadn’t lied, but I was worried. Panicked. Angry. I believed in the curse. I understood the danger, but I needed to do the spell. I would do it.

  I grabbed Bradley’s shoulders had to stop myself from shaking her. I knew my panic was making me crazy—maniacal—but at that moment I didn’t care. “Please, Brad. I don’t know what else to do. I need you. I need March. Just… please help me. I love him.”

  Bradley stared into my eyes, and I tried hard to keep from blinking, to keep my lips from twitching. I was scared if I moved I would spook her, like a feral cat I was trying to coax onto my porch. Bradley tilted her head back, turning her eyes to the ceiling. She covered her face with her hands and exhaled loudly. “Yeah.” She spoke into her palms. “Call Marchland and tell her to get her butt here.”

  Relief flooded me and it was like being baptized in cool water. “Already done.”

  Chapter Five

  Marchland stood near the small hole, her fingers clasped around the wooden handle of the shovel, while I squatted on the damp grass and placed the jar into the Earth. The jar held precise amounts of be-spelled herbs burned with the flame of a passion candle. There was tree-sap mixed with red wax and smoke and even the heart of a frog.

  The frog heart had been a brief snag—but I’d worked up my nerve. I’d wielded the knife and carved out the organ from an already dead animal we’d bought off a Cajun man near the lake who sold them out the back of his truck to cooks and restaurant owners. As I drove the razor point of the sacrificial knife into the soft flesh of the amphibian’s underbelly, Granny’s words echoed through my min
d Balance must be kept above all things. Lives need lives. Blood needs blood. Love needs love. This is the one constant in magic.

  I had felt Marchland’s gaze on my back as I plucked the grape-sized organ and held it between my thumb and index finger, frog juice and blood leaking down my hand. She was a vegetarian and I knew the frog’s death had worn on her as badly as the idea of giving away an hour of life. I met her eye and twisted my mouth into an evil grin. “Easy peasy.” I dropped the tiny muscle into the jar. Marchland’s skin had turned faintly green.

  The yard was pitch black except for the white divined candle that Bradley held close to her chest and quiet but for the buzz of mosquitoes and the mating call of a bullfrog hidden somewhere in the nearby Sweet Olive bushes. That frog didn’t realize how lucky he was.

  I placed my hands on the jar lid and threw back my head.

  Bradley pensively held the candle out, letting its soft light wash over me. “I hope this works,” she mumbled.

  My sister kept glancing into the dark sky. I knew she was nervous. The spell was supposed to be performed under the cycle of the waxing crescent. For a seasoned witch, the engulfing power of the full moon would also suffice—though using it for a love spell would be like taking a Maserati through a school zone—its power wasted for such a menial task.

  “The dark moon is dangerous.” These words had become Bradley’s mantra. She repeated them every thirty minutes aloud to no one in particular. “Its cycle is not suited for love.” I ignored her even though I’d heard her whisper to March that she was afraid something dark and nasty would seep into our unsure magic.

  We’d cobbled together the idea of using divined candle light in place of the missing moonbeams—though we had no real reason to believe this would work. It was Bradley’s idea, and as long as she helped to seal the spell, I was willing to try any of her suggestions.

  Marchland pulled a folded paper from a pocket hidden among the pleats of her tie-dyed linen skirt and curled her bare toes into the soft grass. “Keep your hands on the jar lid, and repeat after me.”

  Marchland had been the one to find the spell on a yellowing page of the book, written in loopy, faded blue ink. It was eerie how well the incantation fit—how specifically it met my need. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was because of the curse. In fact, there was more than one spell to make a straying lover stay. I’d never thought about it, but Granny had never spoken of the father of her only child, and Mama bounced from one lousy guy to another—at the great cost of my childhood. Even my great aunts had died old maids.

  How many Murphey women have tried to break this portion of the curse to be with the one they loved? How many succeeded?

  My sister took a breath and squinted at the notebook paper where she’d carefully copied the words from the spell book. It wasn’t practical to try and carry the hulking tome outside or read its fading ink without light.

  Marchland stepped closer to the glow of the divined candlelight.

  Mother Mother hear my cry.

  Father Father hear my cry.

  My heart is broken

  My love is leaving

  Accept this token

  My soul is grieving…

  The words rolled poetically off of Marchland’s tongue. She paused and waited for me to repeat.

  I threw my head back, and carefully enunciated each word, raising my voice with each stanza.

  Mother Mother hear my cry.

  Father Father hear my cry.

  My heart is broken

  My love is leaving

  Accept this token

  My soul is grieving…

  I rocked back and forth as I chanted.

  Mother Mother make him stay

  Make him need me

  Make him pay…

  Marchland tripped over the last line, but pressed forward. I pretended not to notice. I repeated, putting my soul into the spell. Near the edge of the light Bradley watched, her mouth slightly open. The shadows that danced across her face made her hazel eyes appear to be two round, empty sockets.

  “What’s next, March?” I urged my sister on. We had to get through this before they lost their nerve.

  Mother Mother I implore

  Put down his roots

  Leave me no more…

  Give us love

  To last through time

  Through the ages

  Make him mine.

  I repeated the words, swaying my head from side to side. Moaning. Lowering my lids to half mast, turning my emerald eyes to thin slits as I rolled my neck in circles with each line of spell.

  When I finished, I opened my eyes and blinked up at my sister. “That’s it?”

  Marchland read over the page, tracing the words with the nail of her index finger. “Yes. We mixed the spell and put it in a purified vessel…”

  “AKA one of Granny’s sterilized canning jars,” Bradley said. “I don’t think that is what it meant. I think we should take more time, especially under a dark moon.”

  “We’ve come this far. We have to finish. There is no choice. Leaving it uncast—unsealed—is as dangerous as getting it wrong. Magic has to come full circle—never left open.”

  Marchland nodded in agreement. It was another lesson that had been drilled into us our entire lives—you can never stop midway, so be sure before you begin.

  Once Marchland had told me that was the reason she’d never risk leaving a tattoo unfinished, even if she had to stay at the shop hours later than she’d planned.

  Marchland squinted at the page. “We repeated the spell under the light of the moon that we wished to invoke.”

  “Check,” I said.

  “Now, close your eyes and in your mind recite your desire to the Mother as you push the soil over the jar filling in the hole. Focus your thoughts. A straying mind will disrupt the spell.”

  Unfocused spells were what Granny had referred to as “finicky magic.”

  My mind swam as I envisioned me and Brett the first day together in his truck. I thought of him proposing and the future I’d always pictured. I thought of us putting down roots in one of the nicer suburbs and raising a family. I thought of Ms. Burgundy Lips running her car off the bridge into Lake Ponchatrain. I thought of Brett only having eyes for me. Forever.

  Slowly a dry warmth built in the back of my throat and grew until I could hold it back no longer. A low, warbling moan escaped between my lips, surprising me. The warmth continued to build as the visions in my mind became clearer and more focused and soon another moan, and then another escaped. I gave myself over to the feeling, raising my arms over my head and swaying, as if the current of power that was rising from the ground in front of me like electricity were blowing me like a tree in a windstorm.

  “Mother, hear me!” I groaned, this time even louder.

  I stretched my arms high to overhead. To the sky. To the moon.

  As suddenly as I’d felt the power, it was gone. I collapsed onto the ground and took a heaving breath. I felt as if I’d fallen into an electric fence. Sore. Dazed.

  “Cheyanne?” Marchland’s deep voice was filled with concern.

  I opened one eye and then the other. Then sat up.

  “What was that?” Bradley said. “It said to recite it in your head.”

  I ignored Bradley. If she hadn’t felt what I’d just experienced, then there was no point in spooking her further.

  I blinked hard, then squeezed my eyes shut. When I’d gathered my nerves and was sure my tongue would work, I asked with a raw voice, “Okay. What is next?”

  “Well,” March began, “Next, we burn a fire over the spot, and then we get… we get naked.”

  Chapter Six

  I slide off my dark gray pencil skirt and fitted jacket. I pulled the cream, sleeveless shell over my head then unfastened my beige wonder bra. My hose were picked and ragged and stained at the knees from digging the hole and then sitting in the dirt while I implored the Mother, and when I pulled them off, I balled them up and tossed them into th
e burning fire. My beige thong came off last. I looked down the length of my body, and couldn’t help but think the four-times-a-week Pilates classes were paying off.

  Across the fire, Marchland had shed her long skirt and peasant top in two seconds flat. Her white socks were stuffed inside her Birkenstocks and set neatly to the side. She’d been wearing no bra or panties and now stood in the yard, hands balled at her waist and one ample hip cocked to the side, as if being naked outdoors on a residential street was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe for hippie-dippie Marchland, it was. That sure wouldn’t surprise me.

  “What?” she asked when she caught me watching her.

  “Nothing.” I’d forgotten how many tattoos March had. Roses and lilies and orchids twisted up her shins, blooming across her thighs, where koi swam, twisting their colorful bodies into ornate positions. Letters and shapes and runes circled her hips, no doubt in a very specific order meant to invoke a particular quality that she hoped to draw into her life through her ink magic. Even her stomach and chest were ornamented. Sea stars and mermaids swam over her torso and more flowers grew over her breasts, their faces stretching upward as if reaching for the sunshine. A small circle of cattails and thistle circled each of her wrists in turquoise and umber ink.

  People made appointments many months in advance with my sister. A tattoo from Marchland Murphey was rumored to have the power to change your life.

  I sighed and looked to the corner of the yard where Bradley had disappeared.

  While I didn’t mind being naked, in fact I thought it was kind of funny, and Marchland obviously felt completely comfortable, Bradley had trotted off to the shadow of one of the large live oaks that stretched its arms to the ground in Granny’s backyard. She’d been gone for ten minutes—way longer than it should have taken to shrug out of a pair of high-waisted jeans and a baggy crop top.