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Marta looks between Esme and myself one more time. “Let’s go somewhere else and talk.” She points to the spell book still in my hands. “And please return your great-grandmother’s grimoire? It’s not right to steal from the dead.”
We do as we’re told and exit the crypt together. Nobody speaks on the way to wherever Marta is leading us, though Esme is a bundle of jittery energy. I run my hand down her back to smooth her nerves, and she looks up to me with a grateful smile.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re in a small flat overlooking the sea. A single room, with one wall lined with sliding glass doors that lead onto a tiny terrace. A bamboo table with four chairs, a light grey sectional couch, and a small entertainment center are the only furniture in the entire place, on top of a minuscule kitchenette. The rest is filled with plants, and art, and colorful rugs.
Marta unfurls the vivid knitted scarf from her neck and hangs it beside the door. I help Esme out of her coat and do the same with it.
“Sit,” Marta says, pointing to the table. She’s still on edge, shifting from foot to foot as she waits for us to follow her command. Her attitude is grating on my nerves, but for Esme’s sake, I vow to play nicely.
Once Esme and I are seated next to each other, Marta takes her place opposite of us. “How did you find the mausoleum?”
“I knew my family was from Cadaques. We walked around the cemetery looking for my — well, our,” Esme corrects, motioning in the air between herself and Marta, “last name.”
Marta sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “Is anyone else from your family here? Or do they know you’re here, at least?”
Esme shakes her head. “My family is dead.”
Marta does her best to hide a gasp, but I don’t miss it. “All of them?”
Esme laces her hands together on the table. “My grandfather died when my mom was young, and my mom died when I was young. It’s been just me and my grandma for years, but she passed a few months’ back, too.”
Marta leans forward. “And your father?”
“Never met him,” Esme says with a shrug. “I don’t know who he is.”
“So if your mother and grandfather are dead, and your grandmother wasn’t a witch, who trained you?”
Esme looks down at her hands. “Well, that’s why we’re here.” Then her head whips up. “How do you know my grandma wasn’t a witch?”
Marta scoffs, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. “Everyone knows your grandmother wasn’t a witch. Why do you think Borja left the country? He was the first-born son from the first-born mother. His one job was to marry a powerful witch, so he could make the family stronger.”
I can’t help but sneer at that. Witches, still as power-hungry as I’ve ever known them to be.
Marta’s sharp gaze turns to me for one second, but she quickly turns back to Esme. “But Borja fell in love with a human, and the family wouldn’t approve, so they fled to America.” She shakes her head. “All that power, wasted.”
“I’d hardly say that,” I interject. “In fact, I’d argue your cousin is doing a fine job harboring your family’s power.”
Marta’s expression is poison and vitriol as she squares me, but when she moves her attention to Esme, she softens. Her hand reaches for her cousin’s on the table, and she breathes in deeply. “Yes, you are quite strong. Could it be that your father was of witch blood, too?”
Esme shrugs. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about him.”
“So why are you back now? What do you want from us?”
Esme’s scent brines, and the edges of my vision turn dark. I struggle to keep a hold on my glamour as my little witch shrinks under her cousin’s words; all Esme’s ever wanted was belonging, and now it’s within her reach, and this wretched creature is keeping it from her.
“We were just looking for the family grimoire. My mother didn’t have one; she wrote some spells on her own, but they were very rudimental. I was hoping to find something a little more… elaborate.”
“Why though?” Marta presses. When Esme doesn’t answer, she leans forward. “You can tell me, and I can try to help you, or you can not, and I will just kick you out of my house.”
“We’re trying to break a curse,” Esme blurts. I swear under my breath, groaning her name, but she doesn’t seem to care. “We’re trying to break a curse, and we think there’s a spell that could help us do it.”
Marta’s lips part in surprise. “Who would dare curse a Parella?”
I shake my head. “Esme isn’t cursed. Not exactly, at least. I am the one carrying the curse.” That’s as far as I’m going to be able to reveal.
Marta points at me, but looks at Esme. “And you got yourself roped into it?”
Esme nods.
