The Line (Witching Savannah #1)

The Line (Witching Savannah #1) Page 15

“What did you see?” I asked.

She began to stroke Wren’s blond curls, the muscles in her forehead relaxing at the contact. She took a lot of comfort from him. “One of the neighbors spotted a young man in Ginny’s yard, the morning she was killed. African American, I gather. I couldn’t pick out the actual description, just Adam’s impression of that description. It looked like no one I knew.”

“My ball,” Wren was growing impatient.

Ellen patted his head and stood. “All right, little man,” she said, taking hold of his hand. “Let’s go find it. Where do you remember playing with it last?”

“Outside,” he replied.

“Then let’s start there,” Ellen said and led Wren from the room.

Seconds later, Teague Ryan, one of the cousins, popped his head into the room. “You done in here?” he commanded more than asked. Teague’s square jaw and high forehead landed him somewhere on the looks spectrum between high school prom king and newscaster. His sense of entitlement positioned him somewhere between a spoiled six-year-old and Louis XIV, the Sun King of France.

“Yeah,” I replied. “All yours.” He stood stock still in the doorway, preventing my exit.

“Excuse me,” I said, but he didn’t budge. I managed to duck around him into the hall, but he reached out and grasped my arm before I could walk away. The pressure of his grip made me wince at first, but I managed to shake myself free.

“You Savannah Taylors think you got this all wrapped up,” he said, his harsh northern accent making the words all the more abrasive. “But I don’t think you should be so sure of the outcome this time.” He circled in front of me, blocking my way again. “You Taylors are weak and spoiled, while others, myself for example, have been working on our discipline, building our strength. I think the line is going to pass your family over this time. The rest of us have been dancing to the Taylors’ tune for generations now, but Ginny was the last one of you to lord it over us. It’s our turn for the power now.”

“As far as I am concerned, y’all are welcome to it,” I said, pushing past him and doing my best to avoid the psychic feelers that I could feel directed at me from every corner of the house. I was an easy target for the cousins to read, and they all knew it. I concentrated on the mantra, “Mind your own damned business!” hoping it would blare out the rest of my thoughts.

I climbed the stairs and headed down the long hall toward the linen closet where I knew Maisie was waiting for me. We had been using the space as our clandestine rendezvous point since we were old enough to walk. The closet had a window and was actually large enough to serve as a small bedroom. It might have housed a servant at some point, back when it was still socially acceptable to have live-ins. Over the years it had become more to us than a place to whisper secrets. It had become a sanctuary, a holy of holies. And now, with the house crawling with the cousins, it was also the only place left to share even a nominally private conversation.

It was silly, I knew, but for tradition’s sake, I softly tapped our secret knock. The door opened silently for me, revealing Maisie, whose face was softly lit by the glow of candles on the cake she was holding.

“Happy birthday to us,” she said, smiling. I stepped into the room, and the door automatically swung closed behind me. Maisie was so powerful that she probably hadn’t even needed to consciously direct it.

“But our birthday isn’t for days yet,” I said.

“Yeah, but if I get selected to replace Ginny, I won’t be able to spend it with you. I’ll be off training under another anchor. And I don’t want to miss celebrating our twenty-first together,” she said. “Now come here and help me blow out these candles. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

I laughed. “I’m already surprised.”

“This,” she said, “is better.”

I walked over to her, feeling the warmth that emanated from the candles.

“On the count of three,” she said and counted, “one, two, three!” We drew in air together and blew on the candles. To my delight, the flames leaped right off the candles and danced into the air instead of flickering out. While most of them maintained their color, one was the bright blue of a gas flame. “These are twenty-one memories for you to relive,” Maisie said. “Well, to be precise, they’re twenty memories and one wish—my wish for the two of us.”

I stood there in silent amazement, watching the flames bob up and down in the air.

“Go ahead!” Maisie encouraged me. “Touch one!” Her eyes shining blue flames of excitement.

I lifted my hand and gingerly poked at the nearest flame. A rush of warmth immediately enveloped me, and suddenly I was in Forsyth Park with Maisie, sharing an ice cream cone. Behind us, a group of boys were playing half rubber, Savannah’s own brand of stickball. I knew instantly where—and when—we were. It was the Fourth of July, and Maisie and I were ten. Uncle Oliver was visiting, and that morning he had given us new bicycles, which we had taken to the park. I knew exactly what would happen next; we were about to meet Peter for the first time. He was one of the boys playing half rubber, and against the other boys’ wishes, he would invite us to join in. We would, and we’d kick ass.

It had been the most perfect Fourth of July of my life, and I got to experience it all over again. After we won the game, the vision faded, and I was once again standing across from an adult Maisie in our little room. I felt tears form in my eyes. “That was incredible,” I said. “How did you do it?”

“Just a little trick Ginny taught me,” she responded. “Somehow it seemed appropriate to include a bit of her in your gift as well,” Maisie said and smiled, though her eyes betrayed the loss she felt. The cake in her hands disappeared and was replaced by an old Ball jar. She ran her finger around its lip, and the remaining flames started to descend and fill the jar. All except the odd blue one. “You’ve got nineteen more to enjoy whenever you like. But I’d like it if you looked at my wish now.” She tightened the lid on the jar and handed it to me. I gazed for a moment at the flames, which were bouncing around like so many trapped lightning bugs. I wasn’t going to waste them; I would parcel them out and save them for the days when I really needed a happy memory. Still feeling giddy with wonder, I set the jar down on an old table that had been relegated to the closet.

I looked up and reached out for the hovering blue flame, this time feeling an intense spark, like a jolt of static electricity. Once again we were in Forsyth, and once again it was summer. But Maisie looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Children were playing nearby—two perfect little blondes and a couple of rough and tumble redheads. My heart swelled at the site of the redheaded little ones. They looked so much like me, but each of them had mismatched eyes—one blue, one green. Maisie poured me a glass of cold wine, and I turned when I heard a voice. Jackson and Peter were standing by a smoking grill, beers sweating in their hands. Settling herself down next to me on the ground, Maisie called out something to our children and then kissed my cheek.

When the vision faded, Maisie was standing across the room from me, and the smile had left her lovely face. “It’s very difficult for me,” she said, “not to read your thoughts. We are so connected. I try to stay out of your head, but when you have an intense feeling, it just comes to me. I can’t help it.”