The Line (Witching Savannah #1)

The Line (Witching Savannah #1) Page 43

“Yes,” Ellen said. “Jilo’s signature is all over it, powerful yet amateur. Foolishly constructed and open to a whole bunch of negative side effects. Who asked her to place this on you?”

I didn’t respond, but Ellen seemed to guess the truth. “I see,” she said. Questions flitted across her face, but she chose not to pose any of them.

“Can I break this spell?” I asked.

“Yes, the spell can be broken,” she said after some consideration. “But it is a blood spell. In order to break it, you need to have the blood of the one who cast it.”

“How much of her blood?” I asked, a cold shudder shaking through me. I remembered the sackcloth bag that Jilo had been carrying when I went to see her at the crossroads; the poor hen inside had been destined for something much darker than Sunday dinner.

Ellen removed her hand and the pendant slid back into place. I felt myself grow stronger and more confident when it touched my chest.

“Not much,” she said. “Only as much as she used in her original casting.”

“So all I need to do is hunt down Jilo and ask her for a donation,” I said. I was strangely certain I could find her, but I wondered if even Oliver’s power for compelling would help me extract blood from the old stone.

“It would be best if she revoked the spell on her own, making it like she never cast it,” Ellen responded. “But if she’s unwilling, you could break it yourself with a bit of her blood mixed with a bit of the blood of the person who requested the spell.”

“But how?” I asked.

“Trust your instincts,” she said. “You don’t need my help for this one. If you can reach across worlds to find your sister, you can handle Jilo.”

I was still staring at my newly enhanced reflection when she left the room, but she was right. I was not going to waste another moment of my day. I placed my hand over the pendant and felt the fire circulate in my veins once more. When I slipped it beneath my shirt, I experienced a feeling barely short of vertigo. The world rushed up around me, and I was completely enveloped in the power. Finally the energy settled inside me, and I could think clearly again. Time to deal with Jilo.

I walked down the hall to the linen closet, halfway expecting it to creak open and radiate shimmering haint blue light, just like it had yesterday. The door remained shut. I stood before it for a few moments and then took the knob in hand. When I opened it, a completely normal room lay in front of me—no aquamarine, no amputee cat, and certainly no Jilo. I stepped in and closed the door behind me. I went to the center of the room, trying to sense Jilo’s magic, but the room felt blank. The only magic I sensed within its walls was what I had brought in with me. This was why my family had never sensed that Jilo had created a portal in our home. It was hidden from those who were filled with magic.

I left the room and followed my instincts downstairs and out of the house. Jilo was hiding from the police, who were a mere inconvenience to her, and from my family, who could pose a more serious threat. As guilty as Iris may have been for carelessly letting Grace slip into our world, I was guilty too. I had given Jilo a purchase from which to take aim at my family. I needed to convince her to break the spell that she had cast and then break off relations with her entirely. It was wrong for me to put my desire for knowledge and power before my family’s well-being.

I briefly considered taking my bike, but I needed to feel Savannah beneath my feet. After a few steps, I kicked off my shoes. I needed the stones and the sandy soil, the sun-baked concrete, and the tabby sidewalks to guide me. The surfaces tugged at my feet, their energy merging with my own, their molecules communicating directly with mine in a way that couldn’t be explained by the rational world. The sun was nearly overhead, and I knew the ground beneath me must be infernally hot, but I felt no pain. I felt only the pull of Savannah as she guided my feet toward my destination.

Through the lens of the power, I felt as if I were seeing the city for the first time in many ways. Periods of the past interlaced with future possibilities in a way that was confusing at first. Houses rose and fell, the street was paved and then it wasn’t. Towers I had never imagined seeing in Savannah sprouted and then faded. Everything was jumbled up before me, but with each step my focus was narrowing in on the now.

I let my feet carry me forward without questioning their steps. I realized that I was moving away from my home in an ever-expanding spiral. I felt as if I were once again a little girl, playing blind man’s bluff. Savannah called “warmer” or “cooler” to me as I continued along. I approached Whitfield Square, and its gazebo was like an arrow pointing me farther south. My pace quickened as I continued down Habersham past the small liquor store. Instinctually I drew closer and closer to the broadcasting tower on Huntington. And then I knew. I turned onto Huntington, moving as if the air itself were carrying me back toward Drayton, toward Forsyth Park.

I felt her nearby—her vibrations and the scent of her magic, ripe with earth and ash. It pulled me closer and closer to old Candler Hospital. Georgia’s oldest hospital, it had opened decades before the Civil War began. The misery of the past roiled from the building like heat off a blacktop. Victims of the yellow fever epidemic had passed through its doors on their way to their final reward—or were sometimes hurried toward it by the doctors who coveted their bodies for dissection. The indigent and the mad had also been hastened inside, few of them ever to leave. During the Civil War, piles of amputated limbs had practically reached the second floor. Even today, thirty-something years after it had been closed as a hospital, Candler seemed glutted, choked on the wretchedness it had absorbed for centuries. Toxins both real and spectral emanated from the building, and the rusted and peeling ironwork seemed to threaten tetanus if you so much as glanced at it.

As I circled to the front of the hospital, I sensed a barrier that separated the building from the world around it. The faculty with which I sensed this barrier was almost sight, almost touch, but independent from both. As I focused on the barrier, I caught a fleeting glimpse of it, a wall of cold blue flame that encapsulated the building.

A spirit on the other side of the barrier flung itself against it again and again, reaching out to me in supplication. He crouched there, naked and unwashed, and my sympathy for his plight drowned out my own fear and disgust. One instant he was there, on his knees, his bloodied hands beating against the wall that held him. The next he and the barrier had vanished from my sight, and the building was bathed in normal late morning light. He must be the soul of one of the madmen who had lost their lives there, I realized. I continued to circle the building until I reached the Drayton Street side. I had seen the defunct hospital so many times while walking in Forsyth Park, but I had never really taken it in before. Well, maybe I had, but only with ordinary human eyes.

The large Candler Oak stood sentinel before it, its Spanish moss–covered limbs nearly three hundred years old. It was an old friend of mine, having served me in many games of hide-and-go-seek over the years. I felt compelled to touch it, to run my hand against its bark and experience it as a witch. I tentatively traced its side with my index finger, and the tree shimmered its welcome, seeming to recognize my touch and invite it. I splayed my whole hand against it, letting my palm scrape against the immense trunk. Suddenly dozens of vivid impressions crossed my mind. I closed my eyes. The ancient oak was trying to communicate with me by sharing the feeling of its deep roots in the cool soil, the sensation of hot sun on its leaves, and the deep sense of place it knew, which could never be understood by those who moved across the face of the earth.