Page 21 of Practically Witches

“Mom, we can’t tell anyone. They’ll kick me out of the Institute if I don’t have magic. I can fake it. RJ can help until I get my magic back. Right, RJ?” Her voice is frantic, desperate, as if she thinks I won’t help her, as if she believes I wouldn’t do whatever it takes to get her power back.

I would walk through fire for her, as cliched as it sounds.

I nod because she’s my sister and she needs me, but we both know that my magic is nothing compared to hers. “Of course.”

She goes back to crying against Mom’s shoulder, but quieter now, as if she’s losing steam. And then she lifts her head and looks at me instead of Mom. “I feel empty. The space inside of me where the magic lived is gone.”

She swipes at her cheeks before she hugs Mom again and cries harder. It’s painful to watch and I walk out my room. They can have it. I’ll make tea because right now, I don’t know how else to help. It’s going to take a minute to come up with a plan and I can’t do it while Aimee is breaking down.

When I walk out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, I have to pass by the living room where the grimoire is lyingopen on the table. It draws me. Or maybe the temptation pushes me. I can’t be sure, I only know that tea is the farthest thing from my mind by the time I get to the book.

Most of the grimoire is written in another language. I can read some of it because I’ve been taught Latin, Romani, and the mother language, although most spells are written in English. Certainly, the modern spells are. But this grimoire is a mixture.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the book, will it to show me its power. There is no mention of syphoners, no pages that flip open, and when I try to flip through, the book leads me back to the same page—once when I try to turn to a new one, once when I close the book and then let it fall open, and once when I close my eyes again and ask the book to fan.

I can see enough, decipher enough to know that this is a seeing spell. The book wants me to see something. We’ve already used the book, so if the syphoner is connected to the book and somehow to us, it’s already started.

After I’ve weighed the danger and decided I have no other choice, I read the spell, then because a spell has to be spoken, I say it aloud. Power shoots into my body, connecting me and the book.

“Show me,” I tell the book because nowhere is it written—even witches recognize that power like this is dangerous—a seeing spell must finish with a command to act. But to make a seeing spell function, it has to be said.

My eyelids flutter shut. My head lolls and I need to look to the side so my neck twists. Immediately, I know where I am. I’m in the Institute in the corridor outside the open door to the Hall of Greats.

This is the worst game of show-and-tell I’ve ever played. It has shown me the same things I see every day.But a force pushes me forward, and I’m led inside to stand among the statues and the photos.

I don’t see faces. I see names. Foster. Faulkner. Hadley. Chadwick. Dupree.

Rowen Foster. Margery Faulkner. I don’t know a Chadwick. But I know Circe Dupree. That means Aimee doesn’t fit.

I don’t understand, but I refocus on the spell. “Show me.”

This time when my eyes open, I’m on the sidewalk. Onasidewalk in front of a club.Club Mera, according to the sign. A smaller sign on a door says,Open 1 p.m. for deliveries. Hours: F, S 10 p.m.-3 a.m.

As if it’s finished and no longer interested in our little game of show-and-tell, the book slams closed and I sit up. I should call to check on Circe, but I don’t know her number and my phone is upstairs in my room. I also don’t know if there’s a connection or if I’m living some weird side-effect from the syphoner.

Instead, I run to my room and look at my mother. She’s still soothing Aimee. “Mom.” I’m about to tell her, but she had the book for hours and it had shown her nothing. Maybe she isn’t meant to know. I keep it to myself and stare at the two of them.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask because I have to say something.

“No.”

Aimee is calmer now, and I wonder if it’s because she’s gone to sleep. As soon as I have the thought, Mom lays Aimee on one of my pillows.

“Why don’t you go into Aimee’s room and rest. I’m going to call Dean Ryman and speak to him about tomorrow.”She nods at me as she goes to the door. “Or stay with Aimee in here. She might need you.”

My mom has always lobbied for Aimee and I to stick together, to strengthen our relationship by leaning on each other. It’s why she worked so hard for me to get into the Institute with Aimee instead of waiting two years and following her.

I nod and crawl onto the bed beside my sister.

Chapter

Eleven

Near the middle of the night, when the darkness is so deep in my room I can’t see a hand in front of my face, Aimee sits up on the bed, shaking, and cries out, “RJ! RJ, run!”

She’s mid-nightmare, and she wakes as soon as I lay my hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Aimee. We’re safe.”

She falls back against the pillow. “It seems so real.”

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