It felt like high school all over again, with nasty rumors and even nastier looks.
“Why do you think she was dark? She raised me when my shitty mother wouldn’t,” Cleo avoided Ian’s face when she said that and spoke directly to Curtis. If he was the coven Head, then he was the one he needed to convince.
“What do you know about your grandmother?” Curtis asked.
“She was my grandmother and a wonderful person,” Cleo knew she was stretching it a bit, “and she did her level best.” That was true, at least.
“There aren’t any magical governing bodies or justice or police,” Curtis said. The non-sequitur threw Cleo, focused her a bit. “But if there were, Imogen most certainly would’ve been tried and convicted.”
Calliope hissed, “And she should’ve been.” She stomped off, Song following her into the woods.
Curtis gestured towards Calliope’s retreating form. “Imogen hurt her sister, nearly killed her. She hurt Calliope, too. Took years to recover.”
“Recover from what?” Cleo bit out.
Curtis’ face filled with pity, but his words were hard.
“Your grandmother scammed people, Cleo. She’d promise fertility, healthy babies, easy births. She didn’t have the magic for that, though. Most don’t, and most shouldn’t. That’s the realm of the Mother. She’d take their money, and then either disappear or blame the people she was scamming.” His lip curled. “Calliope’s sister was told to stop having babies by her doctor. Recommended a hysterectomy. Imogen convinced her to try again. To pay Imogen heaps of money, and try again. I’m not sure what workings your grandmother used, but they weakened Calliope’s sister. She got pregnant. The baby died, and Calliope’s sister almost died too. That’s a hurt you can’t forget.” Curtis looked down at the ground, and then met Cleo’s eyes again. “I can’t help you.”
One by one, the coven left. Jenny left last, Ha-joon pulling her along in a gentle grasp. She looked over her shoulder with an apology in her eyes. “Ian, you’ll help her home, right?” she asked.
Cleo held her stomach. She’d known, hadn’t she? Somehow she knew that Nan wasn’t kind. She was mercenary and selfish. The shards of what Cleo knew and what Cleo hadn’t known lined up and formed a terrible picture.
She squeezed her eyes shut, tight, scrunching up her face before releasing as much tension as she could.
“C’mon,” she said to Ian woodenly. “They want me to leave.”
Ian didn’t say anything to Cleo’s relief on their way back to the car. She couldn’t have handled kindness or curiosity, support or derision. The silence between them was heavy with questions, but Cleo was used to burdens. They’d go home and become the type of neighbors who nodded at each other occasionally.
Ian drove, and Cleo kept her eyes straight forward. Ian occasionally opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but stayed quiet.
When Ian pulled into his driveway, Cleo expected she’d just walk the remainder of the way home next door. She was taken aback, however, when Ian said, “Come in here. I think you need to see something.”
Chapter Nine
Ian’s house was spare but lovely. Wooden furniture with large stuffed cushions everywhere, simple lines, a few struggling plants, and that particular feeling of having recently moved in filled the space. There weren’t any pictures, Cleo realized. Art, yes, but no pictures. Cleo herself just had one photo in her bedroom of her sisters when she was very young, before Aiofe left. She thought other people had pictures, but maybe not. They seemed to on television. She sank unto the couch, unsure of what she was doing there.
Ian disappeared through a door, and brought back a glass of water for her. “I’m making a sandwich,” he announced. “Follow me.”
HIs kitchen was messier than hers, a contrast to the organized precision of his workshop. He pulled out sandwich fixings, and Cleo found herself with an enormous peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich. The bread was from the local baker, soft and fragrant, and Cleo realized she was ravenous.
They ate in silence, with both of them trying to look at the other without being caught. Finally Cleo laughed. “We’re ridiculous. Thank you for the sandwich.”
“It help?” Ian asked.
It had, Cleo realized. She needed to get out of there, though, from Ian’s steady presence and easy silence. She needed to remember what happened when she got to close. She tried to recall her last job at the coffee store, how her favorite customer quickly became the one she loathed the most. Cleo closed her eyes and tried to put herself back to that place, snapping and snarling and freaking out. Following poor Mr. Guzman back to his car, ranting and angry. Throwing the mocha chiller on his shocked and confused face. The curse felt more like possession, sometimes. She didn’t want Ian to see that. She didn’t want to feel that, not ever again.
“Hey,” Ian said. “Today was a shit show.”
It really had been. Cleo stood up, “Thank you again for the sandwich. And the ride to your aunt’s house.”
Ian shook his head. “Not so fast,” he said. “We have some things to work out first.”
Cleo sighed and sat back down. The push-pull was exhausting. Ian was just so damn steady, unruffled. It was hard not to want to lean into that easy strength.
“My family is pretty messed up,” he said abruptly. “My… ex was pretty messed up too. So I think I’m getting pretty good at seeing that in people.”
“Messed up how?” Cleo asked.
“My family? Or my ex?” Ian shrugged. “I… it’s not something I talk about a real lot.”
“I just discovered my grandmother is the real-life magical equivalent of a Disney villain,” Cleo said drily, “I’m not going to judge.”
“I don’t think you will either,” Ian said, surprising her. “You don’t seem the type.”
Cleo liked that. A little smile twisted its way out, stayed for a moment.
“I really should go,” she insisted.
“What’s that about?” Ian asked. “You’re always bolting off. Am I… do I… I won’t want to intimidate you or anything.” He hunched his
