Magic Spark Page 7

  He had been mine ever since.

  What started out as my desperate quest for a secure future had ripened into real love and I’d be damned if I rolled over for the first bitch who looked at him and saw a paycheck. Brett loved me. He’d saved me time and again. He’d always supported me.

  Straightening my spine, I used a paper towel to dry my eyes.

  Maybe March has some advice. My hippie younger sister and I were opposite in most ways, but she understood the heart in a way that I never did. I grabbed my cell from where it was charging on the granite counter, but before I could press Marchland’s contact, it rang in my hand.

  The picture of me, March, and my youngest sister Bradley, from Granny’s birthday party last summer blinked onto the screen. I answered. “That’s weird. I was just about to call you.”

  Marchland took a deep breath, exhaling into the phone, and making me want to wipe dampness from my ear. “I’m at Granny’s. Something is going on with the house.” Worry was thick in March’s voice. “We need to find Granny’s book. If we don’t Bradley’s scared the house will rip itself apart. It can’t contain its own grief.”

  “I don’t know, March. I don’t know that I feel up to anything today. I’m kind of dealing with my own shit.”

  “Please, Cheyanne? We have to find that book. It could be anywhere and you know how this house is... And what if we have to work a spell? Me and Brad can’t do it alone—it takes all three of us.” Marchland’s voice ticked up several octaves on the last word as she repeated the rule Granny had drilled into us our entire lives. The idea of doing magic—real magic, not her skin and ink nonsense—scared her.

  My breath whistled from between my teeth. “Are you telling me that you’d really cast a spell? And what about Brad? Is she really going to cast, as scared as she is of the curse?”

  “I don’t know. But we can at least find the book and see what it says. Cheyanne, it’s an emergen—”

  The book! Of course! An idea formed in my mind, clearing away the cobwebs like a broom. I could forgive Brett if I still had a shot at the future I’d always planned, and the book could give me the guarantee I needed! It would have an answer on how to open Brett’s eyes and make him stay with me.

  “Nevermind,” I interrupted. “I will be there in thirty minutes.”

  I hung up before my little sister could finish her sentence and dropped my phone to the bar.

  If anything could save my relationship—if anything could offer answers—it was the Murphey Clan’s spell book. I’d make sure that Brett didn’t lose sight of what was important. That he remembered he loved me and we had a plan to put down roots together and build a life.

  Chapter Two

  Gray sunlight leaked through cracked clouds, casting warped shadows over the sidewalk and washing everything with its sickly pallor as I walked toward 1456 Foncee Street.

  The filmy gray light was fitting—it was the exact shade of my mood. I hadn’t bothered with a shower, just thrown on my jeans from the day before and the first clean shirt I found in my closet—an emerald tunic that matched my eyes. I’d shoved my feet into my favorite ballet flats and ran out the door.

  More than one traffic camera had blinked as I’d zoomed through yellow lights with a heavy foot toward the city, and Granny’s house.

  I’d wheeled my white Audi down the residential street of the old family home only to find my usual space filled.

  Foncee Street was one of the rare New Orleans streets that usually had open parking spots. Not located in the crowded French Quarter, it was nestled uptown. Though technically historic, it couldn’t rival the mansions of the Garden District with its walking tours of tourists harried by too much to see while snapping pictures and sipping hurricanes. Nor did Foncee have the shopping of nearby Magazine, the music clubs of the Marigny or the charm of Oak. It was a street untouched by tourists where people could still live quiet lives in their hundred year old houses.

  Most of the homes that dotted the quiet street were inhabited by old ladies like my Granny who’d owned their homes for over fifty years. The rest were occupied by an even mix of artists who were on their way up, transplants who liked the cheaper rent, and young families in the process of renovations.

  I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure we were the only witches—though no one had ever batted an eye when Granny’s home happened to change shape or color, or if they heard her and the Aunts chanting during the new moon.

  Today, however, I’d been forced to settle for a parking spot an entire two blocks away. It was as if the street could somehow sense my intention and was willing me to leave—like it new that I wanted more than to simply help my younger sisters fix Granny’s house. Even if it meant risking the curse.

  But the idea of the spell book and the power it held had returned my backbone.

  Me and Brett were in love—real love. I would find the book and figure out how to make him remember what we had, make him realize he didn’t want to throw it away—especially over some trashy woman who, as evidenced by her lipstick choice, had no style.

  Brett knew of my rocky childhood, of being yanked from one of Mama’s boyfriend’s trailers to the next. Growing up, the only constant in my life had been my Granny, and I’d only gotten to see her when Mama felt obliged. It was heaven when she’d dump us at our grandmother’s so she could go on a bender with the flavor of the moment, and torture when she’d arrive early to rip us away, her face red and ugly with a cocktail of angry tears and snot. Brett knew I’d saved March from one of Mama’s handsy lovers and that I was why Bradley probably didn’t wind up in state custody when Mama forgot to pick her up from school over and over again. He knew I was a fighter.

  A fighter who was tired of fighting. A fighter whose biggest dream was to put down some roots and grow something real. Something permanent. It was a dream of stability that he’d assured me he shared.

  It was a dream—our dream—that I was willing to go to war for. For Brett, I could fight one more time.

  I’d been stunned in the laundry room at home. Helplessness—the worst feeling in the world—had shrouded me as I saw everything I’d built go up in smoke. I’d melted into a sniveling mess, turning into the kind of woman I swore I’d never become. The kind of woman who let things happen to her.

  I would fix it.

  I twisted a menthol Marlboro between my fingers as I walked steadily to the old house. Taking care not to smear my coral gloss, I took another deep pull from the cigarette and savoured the smoke as it crawled through my system, making itself at home like a long lost friend. I smiled and blew the soul-soothing carcinogens from between my teeth. Even stale, the nicotine did its job, causing my heart to sprint and crawl simultaneously, and for a brief moment at least, calming my rattled nerves.

  I hadn’t really been a smoker since my senior year of college when I’d given the habit up to pursue a career on camera. The last thing I needed were lines webbing around my lips and eyes. The simple act of aging can be career-ending for a weather girl—and I didn’t want to hurry it along any faster. But when I found the forgotten pack in my glove box—probably left over from bar hopping at a girl’s night out—it was like a godsend. I’d half expected the clouds to part and the heavenly choir to rejoice—because yes, that morning, I needed a cigarette that bad.

  I took one last minty drag then tossed the butt to the side walk and smashed it with the toe of my black, Tory Burch flat. The shoes had been a Christmas gift from Brett. Brett—who would shit if he knew I was using two-hundred-fifty dollar flats to stub out cigarettes.

  Brett, who hated it when I smoked.

  Brett, who was probably off banging that whore in burgundy lipstick.

  I pursed my lips and reached for another Marlboro. I held it between my fingers, turning it over and over without lifting it to my lips or lighting it, before dropping it back into my bag.

  A moment later as I stood in front of the rusty gate of the eight-foot wrought iron fence that enclosed Granny’s home, u
nwelcome doubts crept into my mind, revealing the cracks in my plan and bringing sweat that beaded across my forehead and underarms.

  It was as if Granny were looking down at me from her perch near the attic window, worried and disapproving behind her blue leopard-print reading glasses. “Magic brings the curse, girls. Only use it if it is absolutely necessary. If you must cast or conjure remember it takes three. Always three. And most importantly, never lose control. Magic is finicky—it can get away from you and harm those you love most if you don’t respect it. It knows your intentions.” The words, spoken in my Granny’s whiskey-roughened voice, had been the background melody of my life.

  Murphey women are drawn to magic. It beckons to us through generations, begging to be stirred and folded into our lives, like butter into cake batter. It’s a current passed from grandmother to granddaughter, always skipping a generation, and as natural as a birthmark or cow lick.

  Nights at Granny’s were spent with us three sisters tucked into a single full-sized bed, our room lit with a globe of yellow light from a twenty five watt bulb that threw shadows along the wall that swirled and danced along with Granny’s tales like string-less marionettes. An expert story teller, she’d woven stories of the first set of Murphey sisters to come to America from Ireland and how they’d gone from closest friends to enemies. Their bond ripping in two, like bone from socket, when one sister cursed the other—our ancestor. With the utterance of her words, torn from her soul and powered by rage, our magic was twisted, turned from something natural and good to something dark.

  Granny’s eyes had flickered over each of our faces as she’d told us how, because of the curse, our ability to cast had grown weak, and even the simplest of spells now required three sisters to work.

  The lines in Granny’s face had seemed deeper as she leaned in close over our bed and whispered about how our ancestor, Imogene, pregnant and alone, had fled from her sister. How she’d found a place where voo-doo ran through the streets like a river and umber-skinned priestesses withered men’s hearts with only a look. Where bearded men read the bones of fowl and gypsy women with coal-rimmed eyes and purple scarves practiced openly in the streets.

  A place where no one would think twice of a pale, quiet woman who danced skyclad in the full moon light and sold love talismans. A place where Imogene could practice her art without the fear of the label of “witch” condemning her. It was why, Granny had told us, Murphey women had remained in New Orleans ever since.

  But the curse had meant more than bad decisions and weak magic. So much more.

  When those rage-filled words slid from her sister’s lips and covered Imogene like tar, it had held something sinister. Something deadly.

  Granny died in her seventies and in perfect health. She executed a spell, then the next day was lifeless in her bed. It served as the ultimate warning. Learning not to use magic—to resist its siren song—had been the lesson of my girlhood. The Murphey curse was always fresh in our minds.

  An hour of life to cast a spell. Always from the life’s end. A lifetime seems a long time when you are a girl—but as you grow you realize your days are numbered and you never how long you have. Magic is an addictive currency and those hours can easily turn to days and weeks and years, until you finally trade your last hour of life and close your eyes forever.

  Was Brett worth the risk?

  I chewed my lip and turned the question over and over in my mind as I stared at the gate.

  Yes, I decided, my stomach churning. Yes. One hour for a lifetime with the person I loved most.

  Would Bradley and Marchland think so? Well, I’d just have to think of a way to convince them.

  It takes three.

  I can do this. I threw my shoulders back, straightened my spine, and forced my lips into my camera-ready smile.

  Looking up at the house, I gasped. Marchland was right to call this meeting. This isn’t good at all.

  With its three stories of sugary pink clapboard and white scrolling accents, the house had always reminded me of a birthday cake—happy and joyful and a million other wonderful things that my childhood wasn’t.

  When we Murphey girls walked through the front door, the walls would glow bright turquoise, with shapes dancing along the ceilings of different rooms. Clovers for Marchland, hearts for Bradley, and lightning bolts for me. “It’s putting on a show. It’s so happy you girls are back,” Granny would say, smiling and running her hand along the ancient door jamb as if caressing a beloved pet.

  We would run through the hallways, meddling in closets and drawers and exploring the changes that’d transpired since our last visit, crying out at the strange patterns that covered the walls and at the often rearranged spaces.

  The house liked to play games, especially with Bradley. My youngest sister would open door after door only to see that it lead to the same room. She’d squeal, turning one knob after the other trying to catch the house before it could make the change. At the time, I’d burned with jealousy.

  Four weeks ago, when I’d visited my Granny for the last time, the pink paint may have been a little duller, and the inside walls shown gray-blue instead of cheery turquoise, but it had still been the same familiar house.

  The home standing in front of me now was barely recognizable. It still resembled a cake—only now, instead of fluffy and sweet, it was hard and stale, like it had been left on the counter untouched until it was no longer fit to be consumed.

  There was no way the house should have fallen so far in such a short amount of time. The paint had darkened to the crusty color of dried blood and was peeling away in sheets. The beloved scroll work was splintered, and in places swinging from nails. The ivy that had always climbed cheerfully along the iron fence now crept along the yard like a poisonous snake and slithered up the house, growing into the eaves and dislodging boards. The roof was mottled with missing shingles and even the camellias that had bloomed in the flower beds for generations were nothing more than dried husks—the bare, grinning skeletons of something once beautiful.

  At this rate, it would be less than a month before nothing was left but a heap of boards. Marchland was right, we’d have to find the book and take action. And fast.

  Granny’s book was more than magic and spells. Like the house, it had been handed down through the generations and held information that had been lost to the rest of the world since Imogene Murphey had abandoned Ireland for America, and then New York for New Orleans. The book would definitely know how to appease the house. And remind Brett that he wanted to stay with me.

  “Shit.” I sighed and shook my head, hoping we weren’t too late. Suddenly, I wanted another cigarette, and considered fishing what would have been my third for the day, from the pack, but decided against it. I clasped my hands in front of me, wringing my fingers.

  I took a step toward the gate, annoyed when it didn’t throw itself open, as it had faithfully my entire life. I gave it a tiny push but it remained shut tight. “Come on,” I whispered the words soothingly. “Don’t be like that. What would Granny think, hmm?” I pushed again but the gate refused to move. I ran my palm along the rusty bars and over the giant “M” that was tangled into the scrollwork. I tapped my foot loudly against the concrete, and still the gate didn’t budge.

  When we were children, we would walk up the sidewalk, lugging pillowcases stuffed with whatever clothes we scavenged from the hamper or dryer, while Mama watched from the passenger seat of a current boyfriend’s running car.

  The house had always, without fail, opened wide its gate to welcome us inside, a safe haven from an otherwise rocky life. Its hinges would squeak with glee as we ran past and bounded up the steps and through a front door that seemed to yawn with dreamy excitement at our return.

  This time, however, the gate was being obstinate. I shook its bars, and groaned. The old house always had liked my sisters more. “Fine. I’m calling Marchland to let me in. She and Bradley are going to be upset with you.”

  The house seemed to hold i
ts breath, considering my words until I pulled my phone from my bag and then it opened with a begrudging click. I patted the bars, the annoyance I’d felt was gone. The poor thing was worried. “It’s going to all work out fine. You’ll see.”

  I wasn’t sure which one of us I was reassuring.

  The walkway was filled with chipped and missing bricks, the steps were slick, and when I stepped onto the front porch, a low groan vibrated the air.

  I guess we should have known the house would be as upset as we were over Granny’s death. We shouldn’t have left it neglected for so long. I swallowed my guilt.

  “Hush now,” I mumbled kindly, taking lighter steps. “I know. I know you miss her. And I know you’ve been alone, but we are going to do better. I promise. That is why we are here—to help you.” I hoped the house couldn’t hear the half-lie in my words. I spoke mostly truth, after all I did want to help the house. I’d have come even if Brett wasn’t being an idiot. Probably.

  I took another step, and this time when the home didn’t cry out, I sighed and continued to the front door. I was almost to the threshold when, with a loud crack, my foot went through a rotten plank. The splintered wood scratched across my ankle, pushing up my pants’ leg, and the tiniest trickle of warm, slick blood bubbled free and slide across the top of my foot. It felt sticky as it dribbled between two of my toes.

  Great. Just great.I turned my foot one way and then the other to try and pull it free. No luck.

  My Tori Burch flat slid loose and landed in the darkness under the porch. “That isn’t funny. Cut it out.” I struggled to keep my voice low and even, as if I were speaking with a child who was acting out. I’d had a rough day, to say the least, and didn’t feel like dealing with a temper tantrum. Especially from a house.