“What sort?”
“The sort that no one can get into the house but me, and I’m no witch.” I tell him a little more about what’s happened, for some reason leaving out the fact that I’ve been having long talks with Anna at night. On the other end I hear him cluck his tongue. I’m sure he’s rubbing his chin and cleaning his glasses too.
“You’ve been completely unable to subdue her?” he asks finally.
“Completely. She’s Bruce Lee, the Hulk, and Neo from
“Yes. Thank you for the entirely incomprehensible pop-culture references.”
I smile. He knows perfectly well who Bruce Lee is, at least.
“But the fact remains that you must do the spell. Something about the way this girl died is imbuing her with terrible power. It’s just a matter of finding secrets. I remember a ghost that gave your father some trouble in 1985. For some reason it was able to kill without ever being corporeal. It was only after three seances and a trip to a Satanic church in Italy that we discovered that the only thing allowing it to remain on the earthly plane was a spell placed on a rather ordinary stone chalice. Your father broke it and just like that, no more ghost. It will be the same for you.”
My father told me that story once, and I remember it being much more complicated than that. But I let it go. He’s right anyway. Every ghost has its own methods, its own bag of tricks. They have different drives and different wants. And when I kill them, they each go their own way.
“What will this spell do exactly?” I ask.
“The consecrated stones form a protective circle. After it is cast, she’ll have no power over those within it. The witch performing the ritual can take whatever energies possess the house and reflect them into a scrying bowl. The scrying bowl will show you whatever you seek. Of course it’s not as simple as all that; there’s some chicken feet and an herbal blend which your mother can help with, then some chanting. I’ll get the text to you via e- mail.”
He makes it sound so easy. Does he think I’m exaggerating? Doesn’t he get how hard it is for me to admit that Anna can take me anytime she wants? Toss me like a rag doll, give me noogies and atomic wedgies, and then point and laugh?
“It isn’t going to work. I can’t cast the circle. I’ve never had the knack for witchcraft. Mom must’ve told you. I messed up her Beltane cookies every year until I was seven.”
I know what he’s going to tell me. He’s going to sigh and advise that I get myself back to the library, start talking to people who might know what happened. Try to figure out a murder that’s been cold for over fifty years. And that’s what I’ll have to do. Because I’m not putting Thomas or Carmel in danger.
“Hm.”
“Hm, what?”
“Well, I’m just thinking over all the rituals I’ve done in my years of parapsychology and mysticism—”
I can actually hear his brain turning. He’s got something, and I start to get hopeful. I knew he was worth more than just bangers and mash.
“You say you have some adepts at your disposal?”
“Some what?”
“Some witches.”
“I’ve got one witch, actually. My friend Thomas.”
On Gideon’s end, there is an intake of breath followed by a pleased pause. I know what the old scone is thinking. He’s never heard me use the phrase “my friend” before. He’d better not be getting emotional.
“He’s not that advanced.”
“If you trust him, that’s all that matters. But you’ll need more than him. Yourself and two others. Each must represent a corner of the circle. You’ll cast the circle outside, you see, and move into the house ready to work.” He pauses to think some more. He’s very pleased with himself. “Trap your ghost in the center and you’ll be completely safe. Tapping her energy will also make the spell more potent and revealing. It might just weaken her enough for you to finish the job.”
I swallow hard and feel the weight of the knife in my back pocket. “Absolutely,” I say. I listen for another ten minutes as he goes over the particulars, thinking the whole time about Anna and what she’s going to show me. At the end of it I think I remember most of what I’m supposed to do, but still ask that he e-mail me a set of instructions.
“Now who will you get to complete the circle? Those with a connection to the ghost are best.”
“I’ll get this guy, Will, and my friend Carmel,” I say. “And don’t say anything. I know I’m having some trouble keeping people out of my business.”
Gideon sighs. “Ah, Theseus. This was never meant to keep you alone. Your father had many friends, and he had your mother, and you. As time goes by, your circle will get larger. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
The circle’s getting bigger. Why does everyone keep saying that? Big circles are more people to trip over. I have got to get out of Thunder Bay. Away from this mess and back to my routine of move, hunt, kill.
Move, hunt, kill. Like lather, rinse, and repeat. My life, stretched out in a simple routine. It feels empty and heavy at the same time. I think of what Anna said, about wanting what she can’t have. Maybe I understand what she meant.
Gideon is still talking.
“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” he says. “Even though I’m just dusty books and old stories from an ocean away. The real work is for you to do.”
“Yes. Me and my friends.”
“Yes. Smashing. You’ll be just like those four chaps in the movie. You know the one, with the oversized marshmallow.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
My mom and I sit in her car on the edge of the school parking lot, watching buses roll in and unload, spilling students onto the sidewalk to rush in through the doors. The whole process is like something in an industrial plant — a bottling factory in reverse.
I told her what Gideon said and asked for her help making the herbal blend, which she said she’d do. I notice that she’s looking a little frayed around the edges. There are dark, pinkish-purple circles under her eyes, and her hair is dull. Usually it shines like a copper pot.
“You okay, Mom?”
She smiles and looks over at me. “Sure, kiddo. Just worried about you, like always. And Tybalt. He woke me up last night, jumping at the attic trapdoor.”
“Damn it, I’m sorry,” I say. “I forgot to go up and set the traps.”
“It’s okay. I heard something move up there last week, and it sounded a lot bigger than a rat. Can raccoons get into attics?”
“Maybe it’s just a bunch of rats,” I suggest, and she shudders. “You’d better get somebody out there to check it out.”
She sighs and taps the steering wheel. “Maybe.” She shrugs.
She seems sad, and it occurs to me that I don’t know how she’s getting on here. I haven’t helped her with much on this move — not around the house, not with anything. I’ve barely even been there. Glancing into the backseat, I see a cardboard box filled with enchanted candles of various colors, ready to be sold in a local bookshop. Normally I would have loaded them for her and tied the proper labels on with lengths of colored cord.
“Gideon says you’ve made some friends,” she says, looking into the school crowd like she might be able to pick them out. I should’ve known Gideon would spill. He’s like a surrogate parent. Not like a stepfather, exactly — more like a godfather, or a sea horse who wants to stuff me into his pouch.
“Just Thomas and Carmel,” I say. “The ones you’ve met before.”
