Page 39 of Practically Witches

Mom looks at me. “I knew this time would come.”

“So, you have your lies ready then?” I’m past angry.

“Sit down, girls. We need to talk.”

Instead of telling her that she had the chance to tell us the truth every day, I sit and wait for Aimee to sit beside me, although the words are there, dying to be spoken.

She holds out her hand for the picture and I hand it over. She pinches it between her thumb and index finger and traces my dad’s face with the middle finger of her other hand. “He was so young here.”

He looks exactly the same in the picture as he does in the one over the television, which was taken while Mom was pregnant with Aimee.

She breathes out slow. “He was on the…on the board for the Institute. A founding family. One of the Firsts.” So that is him. I knew it. I fucking knew it. “Things were going so well. He was the headmaster. Everyone loved and respected Viktor. He was a master at magic.” She smiles. “Like you girls.”

But we all know she means like Aimee. I’m just moreangry so she’s trying hard to kiss my ass and keep me calm so I don’t explode all over her.

“He worked day and night to make sure the wards were in place and the dedication magic was ready.”

“You knew him then?” I nod to the picture. “You knew him when the Institute was being built?”

She nods. “Of course, I did. I helped decide the curriculum based on what I’d learned and what helped me when I was a student.”

Added to her list of sins was my Magic Theory class. Who the hell needed to know the theory of magic?

Mom glances at me as if she can read my mind. And maybe she can. I’ve never asked the specifics of her magic or what magical facet is her special skill.

“RJ, Aimee, there was a mistake when Viktor was born.” She shakes her head. “He has magic. So much beautiful and powerful magic. He has the art of illusion, restoration, the power of divinity, and all things psychic—all at his command.” She speaks of him with such reverence and her love for him is obvious.

“Then what was the mistake?” I need to know.

She sighs and wrings her hands and takes a sip of a drink I don’t remember seeing in front of her a moment ago. It’s a dark amber colored liquid that smells of alcohol. But that can’t be right because my mother doesn’t drink. She doesn’t even keep alcohol in the house.

She holds up the glass. “It’s whiskey. I’m a conjuration witch. That’s my facet.” She sighs, toasts the air, and drains the glass.

“What was the mistake?”

“He had all that magic but couldn’t use it. He needed the magic of another witch to use it.”

I stare at her. “He was a syphoner. So they were right.” All those accusations had been spot-on truth.

She nods. “He was part syphoner. And they threw him away because of it.” There’s a sadness in my mother that I hadn’t noticed before, although I doubt it’s ever been hidden.

“Is that why he left?” I’ve always wondered but have never asked because I didn’t want to be the one who made my mother sad. When she nods, my blood burns. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Your father shouldn’t have been a syphoner.” I don’t know if she has some metaphysical reason for saying so or if she’s lamenting that he is, or was, one.

“Why?” I need more than her opinion. I need a cold hard fact. Or I’ll just face that he’s the syphoner and I have to…end him.

“In each generation of the first families”—which I now realize we are—“there is only one born. Our generation had two.” She sighs and it comes from deep in her chest, makes her seem deflated by the time she’s finished. “It never happens. I looked in the annals of magic, searched all the information I could find, and never before had two syphoners been born into the same generation. Much less into the same family.”

“So, Dad is out there bleeding power from other witches?” I mean it to sound blunt because she lied to us. For the entirety of our lives. I want her to feel bad for it and, if I have to use Dad and her feelings for him to do it, then I will.

Mom shakes her head. “No. Your father would never.” She stands and walks to the photo of her and our father that hangs on the wall in our house. “There was a mistake when your father was born. He was given both sets ofpower. The divine power of a witch and the ability to drain such power as a syphoner.”

“Okay.”

“Your father isn’t one of the syphoners who steals from others because he has always had his own power inside of him. He’s rare and as far as I’ve ever been able to find out, the only one like him. It took him years to learn how to use his magic.” She glances at the grimoire that’s now open on the table. “That’s his. Has some of his power stored in it.”

“What?” Power stored in it?

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