Cleo tucked the small book into her purse’s interior side pocket and zipped it closed. She grabbed two other books at random from the bookshelf and shoved them in her bag, too.
It was times like this that Cleo missed Nan the most. Nan wasn’t a calming presence, not at all. Her pessimism was legendary, second only to her sense of entitlement. Nan was constantly offended by the world at large. Cleo knew Nan liked Cleo’s admiration of her, and that fueled her interest in her granddaughter. Siobhan had never acknowledged her affinity, so Nan ignored her completely.
But Nan was a barrier between Orlaith and her daughters, and Nan shielded them from some of Orlaith’s worst impulses and insults. She taught Cleo witchery in this dusty, seemingly ordinary room.
Cleo had almost made it to the car when Orlaith’s car came up the drive. Her car changed all the time, but Orlaith always drove the same: carelessly and too fast. When Cleo was little, Orlaith got out of parking tickets all the time by a simpering giggle at the highway troopers. Cleo bet Orlaith’s method still worked.
“Cliodhna,” her mother greeted her. Cleo had spent her entire damn life explaining it was pronounced Clee-na. Clee-na. Like this, Cleeeee-na. Not Gina. Calling herself Cleo was the best decision she’d ever made.
Nan had been Irish, a direct import from a little farm outside of Lahinch, near the “Great Cliffs of Moher,” as Nan said when she felt nostalgic. Usually, though, she called it “the shithole where I’m from.” Their names, Aisling’s red hair, and Nan’s accent were just about the only things their family brought over from the old country. Their affinities, too, arguably, but Cleo didn’t have Nan to argue about that anymore. Cleo maintained that since every culture had their own mythology, every culture likely had their own witches and wyrd practitioners. Nan argued it was a purely Celtic Irish invention.
“Cliodhna” Orlaith said sharply. Cleo’s mind wandered when her mother spoke. She wasn’t sure if it was a defense mechanism or a really stellar way to piss off her mother. Likely a bit of both.
Then Orlaith smiled. Oh. Orlaith’s smile always threw Cleo off a bit. It was reserved for cops and boyfriends. One would almost think Orlaith’s flexing and stretching her lip muscles was a sincere show of affection. A stupid, weak part of Cleo wanted that smile.
“Give it baaaack,” Orlaith sang. “Whatever you took, I need that back now.”
Whatever softness Cleo had around her stupid brain hardened. “I didn’t take anything of yours.”
“Darling girl,” Orlaith cocked her head. “C’mon now. Please.”
“Really,” Cleo protested, “nothing of yours. I don’t want any of your shit.”
Orlaith’s eyes flicked over to the passenger side seat. A man unfolded from it, spindly and plain-looking. He must’ve had money for Orlaith to pick that one up, Cleo thought uncharitably. He was close enough for Cleo to smell: sour, weird herbs. Terrible taste in cologne. Cleo took a step away.
“Language,” the man warned. He shook his finger at Cleo. He shook his damn finger as he scolded her.
Cleo wanted to blow up. The anger was right there, behind her teeth, poised to lay waste to her mother and her condescending flavor of the week. Instead, she looked up at the window and saw Siobhan there watching the scene below. For her sister’s sake, Cleo blew out an explosive breath instead.
“I have nothing of yours,” Cleo insisted, her voice slightly strangled as she tempered her anger. “I have some of Nan’s books, which she left to me. I’m going to start moving them over to my house, but today I just picked up these.”
“Douglas, would you?” Orlaith’s voice was sad. That faker.
Douglas’ arm, though, moved faster than Cleo had thought possible. His fingers were cold against her shoulder as he ripped her purse over her head. Kind of feat to take off a cross-body bag smoothly, but Cleo was too pissed to be impressed.
“Hey!” she shouted. He swatted her away as she lunged for her bag. He pulled out the two books in the main compartment.
“Got them!” Douglas said, and tossed one to Orlaith. The other he examined. Cleo tried to take it back from him, but he shoved her now, hard. Cleo staggered back.
“Do not approach me again,” Douglas said icily. Something in his voice gave Cleo pause. This is why she loaded the two dummy books in her bag to begin with, right? Give Orlaith a victory, get out with the real book unnoticed.
Douglas examined the cover of the large book. “Natural Remedies for Holistic Healing,” he snorted. “Disgusting.” He looked over to Orlaith and snapped his fingers.
Cleo expected a temper tantrum, but wasn’t surprised when Orlaith slid next to Douglas and handed him the other book. Some of her mother’s boyfriends were like that. Orlaith carefully picked her battles, and yet seemed to lose every one she tried to fight.
“A White Witches’ Guide to Following the Wiccan Path,” he read aloud. That one Cleo had bought for her Nan, thinking it would be helpful in Nan’s witchy stuff. Nan had sniffed and told her to save her money next time.
Douglas tossed both books on the ground, smirking at Cleo as he did so. He turned towards the house, and when Orlaith didn’t follow him immediately, he jerked his head.
“Don’t come back here,” Orlaith hissed and followed Douglas into the house.
Cleo looked back up at the window. Siobhan had left the window, but the light in the attic was on.
Chapter Four
Opal’s cursed mirror seemed simple. In a way, it was a relief to have something simply cursed. It wasn’t dramatic black magic ripping through generations. It was quieter, but the intent too well-enmeshed for Cleo to lift it herself. She sighed. She needed her coven, even if she didn’t necessarily want them.
Cleo sat in her own witchy room, the mirror safely tucked in a wooden box lined with white
