Page 51 of That Ain’t Witchcraft

Going home shouldn’t be the sort of thing that makes a person look like that. I glanced at him, sobering, and followed him up the driveway to the house.

It was a larger, better-tended version of the house where I was staying. The windows were clean, the paint was fresh, and the shingles were in excellent repair. It could have been on the cover of a magazine about rural living in modern Maine.

James slowed as we neared the house, hopping off his bike and walking it alongside him. “I have to leave it in the back,” he said. “It’s unsightly.”

“It’s a bike.”

“Yeah, well.” His laugh was small and tight. “I don’t make the rules. I forgot to ask before: did you bring any shoes? Because you can’t wear those skates in the house. If my father came home and found you tracking up his hardwood floors, I’d be moving in with you over at my cousin’s place after he threw us both out on our asses.”

That might not have been such a bad thing. James needed something in his life to change. Being thrown out of his house wasn’t ideal, but it would be a start. “I always have shoes with me.”

“Good. I mean, you can’t wear those in the house either, since they’d still track up the floors, but at least this way, they’ll be next to the door and my father won’t think you’re some weirdo who runs around the woods barefoot.”

I couldn’t imagine anyone looking at their son’s new girlfriend and immediately starting to assess her footwear, at least not outside of some messed-up retelling of Cinderella. I didn’t say anything. James looked genuinely worried, and no matter how silly or overblown I thought that concern might be, he deserved better than to be teased about it.

“Got it,” I said. “Any other house rules I need to know?”

James stopped, looking me frankly up and down. I resisted the urge to squirm.

“That kind of sweater isn’t quite a coat, so you don’t need to take it off. Your hair should be fine. If he comes home, try not to squirm, don’t swear, and don’t say anything that might make him suspect something’s up.”

“What’s going to make him assume something’s up?”

“Everything,” said James grimly, and propped his bike against the back porch. He waited long enough for me to remove my skates and place them in my bag before unlocking the door. Silent, I followed him inside.

Some houses always feel like homes. Maybe they’re clean and maybe they’re not, but they’re lived-in in a way that makes it clear their residents enjoy living there, or at least don’t mind it overly. Other houses feel more like waystations, a place to stop for a little while before continuing on to whatever comes next.

This wasn’t either one of those. This was a house that felt like a museum if I was being charitable, and like a prison if I wasn’t. Oh, it was nice enough—nicer than the house where I’d grown up, which had always shown the signs of being home base for multiple cryptozoologists, their spouses and children, and whatever pets we’d all dragged home that week. The floors were polished mahogany, the walls were lined with beautiful, antique-looking shelves and small, decorative objects, and everything radiated class in that unique New England way. I could have filmed a period drama there and no one would have questioned my set design.

But the air was cold, and the smell of floor polish and mothballs dogged our footsteps, clinging to the inside of my nostrils. Sorcery is hereditary. I still couldn’t shake the thought that if I’d grown up here, I would have manifested ice over fire as well. This was a place for freezing by inches, where nothing burned bright.

There was only one picture on the hallway wall: a man who looked somewhat like an older, sterner James, albeit with broader shoulders and a handlebar mustache, standing next to a devastatingly lovely dark-haired woman in a white lace wedding gown. She was smiling for the camera, but I could see the etched-in lines of sadness around her eyes.

James put his shoes on the rack next to the door. I followed his lead, and he followed my eyes to the portrait. “She really did want to marry him,” he said, voice soft. “Everyone agrees about that. No one’s ever been able to tell me why, but it’s not like I could go around quizzing relatives at her funeral. She loved him. She loved me. She left us anyway.”

“Sometimes people don’t have a choice,” I said. The words were useless; I could tell that even as I spoke them.

“People should try harder,” said James, and resumed making his way down the hall.

It ended in a small foyer, light breaking into rainbows as it cascaded through the decorative stained glass around the front door, painting the stairs in patterns of prisms. He went up. I followed, silently charting escape routes and things that could be used as supplementary weapons if the knives hidden inside my clothing didn’t prove to be enough.

Sometimes I wish I were more comfortable with firearms. And then I remember that I spend most of my time either on roller skates or hanging from a trapeze, and consider how easy it would be to shoot myself, and that reconfirms my desire to be the girl with all the knives, rather than the girl with the sucking chest wound. Although as Leo was so happy to demonstrate, sometimes it’s possible to be both.

Asshole.

The stairs extended upward for three stories, marking each transition with another landing, another turn. James took them fast enough that I only got glimpses of each respective floor, until we finally reached what I assumed was the top, stepping onto a floor that was a little less polished than the others had been, where the wallpaper was a little more faded. There were signs of ongoing upkeep—no dust on the baseboards or cobwebs in the corners—but it seemed perfunctory, especially compared to the rest of the house.

I gave James a curious look. He shook his head.

“My room is up here,” he said. “My father thinks it will encourage me to get a better job if he doesn’t pay the maid to come to the third floor. I either do all the cleaning myself or find a way to stretch my paycheck enough to cover her expenses—which, mysteriously, he claims would cost what it currently costs him to pay her to clean the rest of the house. She’s a lovely woman, taught me how to wash windows without streaking when she realized what he intended to do, but I’m not willing to empty my savings for the sake of having a floor I can see myself in.”

“What kind of better job does he think you’re going to get without leaving your small town and without a college education?” I asked. “I mean, is he one of those people who thinks big paychecks with full medical and dental grow on trees, and we’re all just lazy?”

“Essentially, yes,” said James. “What do you do?”

“Play roller derby, mostly. Hunt. Try to negotiate peaceful coexistence between human and cryptid communities. It’s not what most people would consider ‘gainful employment,’ but it’s fulfilling, and I’m good at it.”

“And your parents approve?”