“What was that?” Cleo demanded, her voice thick.
And Nan told her with relentless honesty. Close friendships were done. Boyfriends were done. Relationships would be broken, again and again, by Cleo’s own actions. That Cleo would do horrible things to the people she loved, whether by obsession, rage, or hate. That’s how Nan referred to it, and Cleo adopted the phrase herself. Obsession, rage, or hate. That’s all that love brought.
Cleo stood there, dripping, stunned. She still had enough of teenage invincibility to think that she’d be able to control herself. That it couldn’t possibly be as bad as Nan said.
It had been worse.
She and boring, self-absorbed Nathan had started so sweetly. Even though she knew he wasn’t right for her, after the curse appeared, Cleo couldn’t stop watching him. Her eyes couldn’t see anything else. If she wasn’t looking at him, something in her ached and that same empty space felt intolerable. She could feel herself… wanting more of him. Wanting all of him, wanting him to want her the same uncontrollable way. After he’d broken up with her for being “too intense,” she’d found herself outside of his house, weeping, holding a knife… Cleo shoved that thought away. That time was over. She’d learned her lesson. Nan had been right. Boyfriends were done. Friends were done.
The curse had begun.
Chapter Five
The first new moon after her awkward encounters with Ian came too fast. Cleo spent the day as she always did now, caring for the crops she raised for local restaurants, occasionally remembering to eat, and pouring over Nan’s pulp fiction novels she had nearly memorized. She needed to get more out of Nan’s house, but wasn’t relishing another run-in with Orlaith or Douglas. He had the look of one who would hang around longer than he should.
It was time to ready her property for The Meeting. Cleo sometimes cringed at the term ‘coven,’ it implied a certain cheesiness, like they were the goth kids Ian had casually accused them of being. ‘Practitioner’ was a better term for who she was and what she did. Or tried to do, at any rate. But ‘witchery’ and ‘coven’ and ‘wyrd’ were the terms Nan used, and what had stuck.
Grant was first as always. He was lean to the point of sharpness, all gangly limbs, long aristocratic nose and platinum blonde hair tied back in a neat bun. The basket to Grant’s bike was full of a towel-wrapped lump that could only be fresh bread. Good. Cleo made honey butter earlier in the day in anticipation. It was a stupid thing, to feed them like this. It invited a certain closeness that Cleo wasn’t able to provide. But she could lay out honey butter and fresh fruit, and a medium-nice bottle of wine. It’s just being hospitable, she reminded herself, to do this. It’s not that friendly. This is what normal people do.
But she wasn’t normal, she knew. Cleo tried to pretend, just enough to get by. Past that, however, danger lurked.
Grant knocked before letting himself into the small kitchen. The room was still full of light, and smelled of the large basil plant that sat in the corner of the room. She’d bought this house with the little money her grandmother had left her and what she’d saved up with working odd jobs. It wasn’t perfect, the leaks in the roof attested to that, but it was right for Cleo. It was a rambling two-story in the country, and all the houses on her side of the block butted against a large nature preserve and woods.
The woods were gorgeous. It brought deer and raccoons to her backyard, true, but it was wild and largely forgotten by the state. The trees were old and the canopy intense enough to keep it cool during the summers. Kids played near its edge in the daytime, but none of them went too deep. There were bears and the occasional pumas, and no one wanted to tangle with either.
Cleo loved being so close to all the growing things. She’d gone deep into the woods, connecting with the mosses and brush. She’d felt the pull of the woods leading her deeper, but she knew better to listen. She had other things to pay attention to. She still found herself on daily walks in the morning, however, wandering, helping the trees to grow, encouraging what she could.
Grant knocked on the counter to get her attention.
“Woolgathering,” Cleo said, and turned away from the window. She’d be in the woods soon enough.
Grant smiled shyly and held out the loaf. It was still warm and smelled like heaven.
“What kind is this?” Cleo asked. The braided loaf was surprisingly heavy.
“Just a basic challah,” he said. Grant never thought his baking was anything special. It frustrated Cleo. It was always ‘basic,’ or ‘simple,’ or ‘no big deal.’ She held her tongue, though, and instead turned to the scarred wooden cutting board. She cut generous slices and stole a little sliver for herself. Better than cake.
The others wandered into the kitchen, some sitting in the creaky chairs or sliding into the bench Cleo had picked up at a second-hand store. Sophie was the last one, as usual. Cleo tried to keep her irritation under wraps. The longer they had to wait for Sophie, the more Cleo was forced to chat. Cleo busied herself by triple-checking supplies, setting out unneeded wine glasses, and trying to keep her hands busy. They’d once tried to begin the meeting without everyone there before, and nothing had worked as well. So Cleo waited and tried to dodge the friendly questions and little smiles thrown her way. Smiling in return was nearly reflexive, but Cleo mastered her face into
