Page 37 of A Winding Wave of Magic
Once my knees steadied, I removed my glove again, then reached down to touch her face.
At first, there was nothing. I wasn’t completely surprised. Energy seeps out of organic matter faster than almost anything else, considering how quickly it decomposes. Much of hers was already gone, along with the memories of what might have happened to her. I had a better chance of finding them lodged in the stone counters in the kitchen.
On top of that, Gran had always been able to mask her thoughts and feelings better than anyone. She was assiduous about saining and other ways of cleansing our home, usually before we left to go anywhere, and again when we returned.Our business is our business, she’d say. Anything left over was usually something she wanted me to see.
But even her best efforts to mask weren’t always effective against my strange, erratic abilities.
So I kept my hand in place, willing the tiny remnants left of her to tell me anything they could. “Come on, Gran. Show me who did this to you.”
Eventually, bits and pieces of her memory started to seep through the barriers that, even in death, still hung on.
In my mind’s eye, the house appeared, foggy and dim, like I was looking through a silk scarf. The vague, insidious mumbling began, the same as had echoed in the hallway when I’d arrived this morning. Here it was muted, but this time, I could hear the distinct back and forth of a conversation between Gran and an English stranger.
I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but the tone of voice I knew well. Eerily calm to the point of monotone, it was a warning to those who made the mistake of treating her like a doddering old woman when they saw the silver hair and wrinkles. Salesmen received it all the time. Tourists who tried to talk her into selling her sweaters for half their worth. One vendor at the farmer’s market who always tried to sell his eggs for twice what others paid. I received it regularly as a teenager, as did my mother the few times she visited.
The message was always the same.Don’t underestimate me. That tone was the calm before the storm.
They went back and forth, the voices fervent but still unintelligible as they sharpened into a quicker exchange. The man began to shout and assumed a more distinct rhythm, like the difference between a verse and regular conversation. My skin pricked with recognition. There was something about that cadence. There was only one type of person who would start shouting poetry in the middle of a fight.
Not poetry. A spell.
A sorcerer.
The thought occurred before I could stop it. Reina’s suspicions about the strange sorcerer who had rescued me notonce, but twice, echoed in the back of my mind as loudly as if she were actually there, holding my hand. But before I could contemplate it, I was pulled back into the memory.
Gran was chanting herself now over the sorcerer’s words. A struggle was emerging between them. She was fighting him, but fighting what?
Suddenly, the distinct outline of a black fedora rose into my vision before it was completely snuffed out, along with every other sense. It was like my eyes had been covered with a bandana, my ears covered with muffs. The voices ceased. Something wrapped around my throat so tightly I could barely breathe. My head felt like it was about to explode.
And then there was nothing more to See.
I took back my hand, shaking. “Holy shit,” I murmured. The murmuring, that insidious rhythm, crept back into the back of my mind. My eyes pricked. But still, no tears came. I was too terrified for anything else. “Oh, Gran. Gran. What did hedo?”
With dread lodged in my chest like an anvil, I lay my hand on her cheek. I didn’t want to know. But I owed it to her to learn the truth. Whatever the cause of her death, it was definitely not natural.
This time, though, nothing came to me; no voices, no blackness, just that light constriction around my throat. I stayed there for close to ten minutes, eyes closed, searching for any remnant of Gran’s final moments. But nothing came. Her energy was gone, and her memories were now only what mingled with mine.
“Ms. Whelan?”
I turned around to find Dr. Aaron watching me sympathetically, flexing his hands against one another. My face was stone, but the rest of me was shaking.
“Are you all right?” he asked cautiously.
I shook my head and looked back at Gran. Or sort-of Gran. Whatever this body was...she wasn’t my grandmother anymore.
“Did you find what you were…looking for?”
I sighed. “No. Is there any way to order an autopsy?”
He flipped through a few pages on his clipboard to what I presumed were the notes on her body. “Are you sure? It says here she was eighty-four. As I said before, it’s most likely just natural?—”
“I’m sure,” I interrupted. “We don’t have many family records, and my mother and I would both like to know for certain the cause of death.”
His nose twitched. He knew I was lying—did lies have a scent?—but was wise enough not to press the issue. I didn’t have to touch him to know the fear passing through him, strong as a riptide. Everyone was afraid of seers. They knew what we could do when pressed.
“Well, there is an additional fee for that in cases like these, you see…”
“That’s fine, I’ll pay whatever you need.” There were a few spots in the house where Gran kept mad money tucked away for emergencies. I’d say this qualified. “Just do it. What do you need from me now?”
