Part of me worries that letting all these people in, I’ll lose this safe place in my mind. Then I consider last night and wonder if anywhere in my head is safe.
Mildred glances up from her search to offer me a weak smile, then says while she continues to dig through the trunk, “These are the recorded histories of the Volkov family. Journals, fabled tales, research, and grimoires of some of the most powerful witches in our family.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. When I got home, I was all ready for a hot shower, but now I just want a nap, no longer caring how sweaty and gross I am.With my luck, I’ll end up stuck in another nightmare.
“Ah ha!” She shouts, bringing me back to the present, and holds up a maroon, leather book that looks like it’s made it through a war or two. “This is also for you-- as a loan, mind you.”
“And that is?” I intone, feeling what little energy I have slowly start to drain away.
“This, my dear girl, is the journal of the last recorded spirit witch of the Volkov family,” she answers with flourish, bringing the book over and setting it in my lap.
The cover has small wave indentations in the leather and no title to indicate what’s inside. I flip it open to the first page, and in tight script at the top is the date 25, April 32 BCE-- and the entry is in English.
“This book is in great condition for being over 2,000 years old,” I comment wryly.
Mildred flashes me an irked expression that I’m starting to recognize as her ‘Save me from smartass teenagers’face. “Do you speak ancient East Slavic?”
“No,” I sigh.
“Then you get the translated version,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Now off with you. Learn about your ancestors, while I start work on that spell.”
I close the book and hold it against my chest as I head for the open door. In the midst of my numbness, there’s a small spark of light. Within these pages is a direct line that connects me to a history I can hopefully be proud of-- even if I’m terrified of the magic we wield. The necklace nestled between my breasts speaks to family that is full of good people-- that there’s more to me than my psycho father.
I run my thumb along the journal’s well-worn spine and remember it’s more than the Volkov’s that made me. The Bastard is insane, but that doesn’t have anything to do with the spirit witches that had the poor fortune of eventually spawning him.
“Aunt Mildred?” I call from the doorway.
“Hmm,” she replies, glancing up from the two huge books in her hands.
I fidget, threads of anxiety breaching the numbness as I worry she’ll be mad with what I’m about to ask her. “Have you put in the paperwork to have my name changed?”
Her shoulders droop. “I’m so sorry, darling. I haven’t yet, but I’ll get right on it. I’ve downloaded the paperwork; I simply need to fill it out and turn it in.”
“No, no it’s fine-- actually it’s good,” I stutter out. “I want-- I mean, can you change my name toCallie Lyncas Volkovinstead?”
That grabs her attention, and she practically jerks with the speed she looks up at me. Her brown eyes turn slightly saucer-like when she asks, “You want to include your father’s side of the family?”
I have to consciously keep myself from gripping the book tighter, and with a careful breath, I press the bits of emotions breaking through back down and wrap myself in the sweet disconnection of numbness.
In an even voice, I answer, “I’m a spirit witch that comes from two of the original bloodlines, and there’s power in a name like mine, right? If a member of the Volkov family is someone that people should take notice and tread carefully with, then how should a person act around someone that is both a Volkov and a Lyncas?”
She casts a searching look, trying to glean my motivations from my expression, but she won’t find anything, because I only vaguely understand why I’m asking. It’s more than connecting me to family, something that the broken girl inside me desperately wants. My name is a warning to anyone who meets me. Like my aunt said, I’m not a witch to be underestimated, and a whole lot of people might pay for one fool’s ignorance.
Slowly, Mildred nods her head. “Of course. I’ll make the changes.”
“Thank you,” I murmur back, then turn to make my way toward my room.
My feet drag against the floor, my tennis shoes creating pathetic slaps against the hardwood. When I make it inside my bedroom, I beeline for my bed and curl into a small ball on top of my comforter, the journal clutched against my chest.
I feel cold, but I don’t know if it’s from the temperature of the room or the numbing shock that’s taken hold of me. Pulling on one edge of the blue comforter, I try to roll into a burrito, finding solace in the tight encapsulation of the blanket.
I want to close my eyes. I want to sleep. But whispers of the Bastard’s torture play like a merry-go-round in my head. I’m relieved that Mildred is working on another route to remove the spell other than‘torture Callie until it explodes,’but it doesn’t stop the memories.
Pulling the journal out from deep within the blanket, I lie on my side, open the book to the first page again, and start reading what it means to be a spirit witch.
Chapter 4
Callie
