Sam was shaking his head, not wanting to believe.
“I told you,” Marie said to Erielle. “I don’t have the natural ability on my own, but Leslie does. I told you about the crackling around us. It came up from the ground, it surrounded us, buzzing beneath us, and sparks arced between her fingers.” Marie dragged both hands down her face. “It’s hard to say what happened next, but Helen…Helen died.”
Twenty-Seven
The restof the table went still, the weight of Marie’s words pressing down on them. Erielle blinked against the sudden burn in her eyes, her throat tight.
“My mother killed her?” Sam’s voice was barely audible, raw.
“I don’t know,” Marie said softly, steady but unflinching. “Maybe Helen was scared to death. They never did an autopsy, so there’s no proof. But the town whispered. And then Angeline found us—took us under her wing, taught us how to focus, how to control what we could do. That structure…it calmed Leslie. But on her own?” Marie’s mouth tightened. “She can be dangerous.”
Sam released his hold on Erielle, his hand curling into a fist on the tabletop. “Why now? Why would she want to start again? She didn’t practice when we were kids. Did she?”
Marie held his gaze. “When she met your father, she eased back. Once they moved home, though…” She exhaled, shaking her head. “The swamp, the history here—she couldn’t resist. He forced her to stop. And because she loved him, she did.”
Sam dragged a hand through his hair, restless energy rolling off him. “That doesn’t explain why she’d pick it up again now. Or why she’d steal the journal.”
The silence that followed was like a held breath. Hattie slapped her hands on the table, jerking everyone to alertness.
“Enough guessing. It’s time we go find out.” Her eyes flicked to the abandoned plates. “Leave the dishes. I’ll get them later.”
Sam shivered as he pulled up in front of his house, despite the heat already creeping into the day. His truck was stuffed with witches and they were about to confront his mother, who was apparently a powerful witch herself. Oh, and he might be related to the lover of the ghost haunting Erielle’s house.
He slid out of the truck and led the way to the kitchen door, opening it with more trepidation than he’d ever felt in his life. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he stepped into the cool house, and a weird earthy scent filled his nostrils. His first instinct was to block the others from entering, to protect them—or maybe to protect himself—but they pushed in behind him.
“Mom? Dad?” he called, and took an uncertain step toward the living room. Then, deciding he needed to know the truth once and for all, he walked into the living room.
His dad slumped in his chair. Sam’s heart seized, Marie’s story flashing through his head. But Hattie darted past him, picked up the mug on the side table, sniffed, and grimaced.
“Sleeping draught.”
But Sam needed to be sure, and pressed his fingers to the pulse in his father’s throat. Strong, and warm. Alive. Sam’s knees weakened at the realization.
Marie and Allison were already heading for the stairs, but before he could follow, Hattie said, “She’s not here. Where else could she be?”
“The swamp?” Allison ventured.
“My house,” Erielle said. “The workroom?”
Hattie lifted her chin, acknowledging the possibility.
“The church,” Sam murmured. “No one would bother her in the church. Stay with my dad,” he told Erielle. He pivoted to head out the front door, not even aware of anyone following him.
The closer he got to the church door, the more certain he was that his mother was inside. He could literally feel the energy pulsing from inside. He closed his hand on the iron door handle, drew in a breath, and opened the door.
He hadn’t thought about how he’d find his mother, but it wasn’t this. His mother stood at the altar with open mason jars around her, a mortar and pestle in front of her and the stolen journal propped in front of her. Even more frightening was the charge of electricity he felt in the air, that raised every hair on his body, danced over his skin.
The charge Marie described from the night Helen died..
He swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, fear of his mother, of all things, and forced his footsteps forward.
She hadn’t noticed him, hadn’t raised her gaze from the journal. Her touch moved with certainty from one jar to another, not measuring, just taking a bit from this, a bit from that. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she said. A slight haze appeared over the top of the bowl, and he told himself it was just the light from the stained glass window illuminating the dust.
But he couldn’t be sure.
“Mom,” he ventured. Then, clearing his throat, louder. “Mom.”
The blackness of her eyes when she looked up at him seared through to his soul. When Marie had said her eyes were black, he hadn’t been able to imagine the depth of the blackness. Limitless emptiness. His mother was not there.
