I darted up the stairs to my bedroom and grabbed the book of shadows from my altar, then the money from her tea canister—a wad of bills and some loose change.
When I got back downstairs, the front door was open, and Calla was speaking in hushed tones to a man I couldn’t see.
I crept closer to the door, straining to hear.
“—have 10 minutes," the man was saying. “Do what you can to protect her.”
Calla thanked him and closed the door, turning to look at me as if she’d known I was there the entire time. Eavesdropping was against the rules in our house, but she didn’t look angry.
Terror clouded her light brown eyes.
“Aren't you going to invite him in?" I asked, still hoping for a logical explanation. “It’s Thanksgiving. There’s still tons of food.”
A warm smile spread across her face, and for a minute, I thought everything would be okay. But then she pulled me to her chest, and my last hope shattered.
She hugged me like she knew it was going to be the last time.
“You are going to be okay." She smoothed a hand over my braid, an intricate style I’d mastered for the holidays with the help of a dozen YouTube tutorials. “You're strong, you’ve got a beautiful soul, and there are many things you’ll accomplish in your lifetime, magical and mundane.”
I opened my mouth to ask her why she was being so morbid, but a chunk of ice cracked off from the gutter out front and startled her into action. Without another word she ushered me down the stairs into the damp basement, straight to the root cellar—no more than a musty, glorified closet beneath the kitchen. The only light came through a half inch gap in the kitchen floor boards directly over my head.
Fear pooled in my gut, making my knees wobbly. I wanted her to hug me again. To bury my face in her wild, curly gray hair. I wanted to follow her back up to the table, serve up a piece of pecan pie with too much ice cream, and laugh about how sick we would feel tomorrow morning.
She handed me a bottle of water and a hastily assembled bag of leftovers. Then, she pressed her hand against the eye-and-moon amulet at her throat—a charm she’d worn for as long as I could remember—and whispered incantations I didn’t understand. My skin heated, a gentle pressure squeezing my chest. At first it felt like a hug, like strong but gentle arms encircling me and holding me close. But too quickly the arms tightened. It was hard to breathe. My heart hammered behind my ribs, but still Calla didn't stop.
Just when I thought I would suffocate, she released me. Gasping for air, I stumbled backward, landing on the floor with a soft thud. When I looked up at Calla, her eyes were filled with tears.
"I have loved you as my own. I hope one day you’ll forgive me for my secrets.”
She slammed the door shut and bolted it. I heard her run up the main stairwell to the bedrooms upstairs at the same time the front door crashed open. I was powerless on the floor, winded and paralyzed with fear. I closed my eyes and forced my heart rate to slow, taking deep breaths of dank air that smelled of rotten apples and wet earth. I willed myself to go to my source, knowing that magic was the only way I could help Calla face whatever had just crashed through that door.
But for the first time since I could remember, I couldn't get there.
Overhead, the house shook with the boots of at least half dozen men, each set louder and more powerful than the last. They crashed into our home, destroying everything in their path—framed photos, flowers, Calla’s goddess statues, all the things I’d grown up believing would always be there. Would always be part of my home.
It didn't take them long to find Calla. She'd been upstairs—I could picture her, kneeling before her altar, lighting white tea lights and praying to her goddesses to keep us safe. When they found her, they dragged her down the stairs and into the kitchen. Through the gap in the kitchen floor boards I watched her lips move silently, but whatever spell she was attempting to cast failed.
The men tormented her, kicking and prodding, beating her with homemade clubs and fists and elbows until she finally dropped to her knees.
“Beg, witch.” A short, broad man with a dirty blond beard fisted Calla’s hair, jerking her head back to expose her throat. “Beg for your life."
Calla didn't beg. She laughed.
“Filthy hunters,” she spat. “All this hatred, all this violence. Thousands of years spilling blood, and you're still as impotent as kittens.”
Dirty Beard pressed the blade of his knife to her throat.
In the movies, the bad guys always give long speeches, detailing their diabolical plans, giving the good guys plenty of time to plot their escape.
But real life didn't work that way. There were no long speeches, no last-minute chances. There was only the hunter and his cruel blade.
“You and your kind will burn, witch,” he said.
At that, I found my voice.
“Calla!” I screamed. “Mom!” I’d never called her that before, but I knew in my heart that shewasmy mother—biological or not. I called to her, over and over and over until my throat felt hot and raw, every breath like fire. The men didn't seem to hear me, but she did.
Calla met my gaze through the gap, her eyes unwavering as I watched in horror, unable to move or reach my magic. Unable to do anything but look on, utterly helpless.
