18. Scouring

eighteen

“Do you have to go?”

He dropped his chin, peering at Milla under heavy eyelids. “One of us has to be there.” A lazy smile toyed at his mouth, and he cupped her head in his hand. “We both know it cannae be you.”

Milla bit her lip. This was dangerous, she was too close to him, and the towel separating their skin would only last so long. But for now, she would enjoy it. The heat of his long body beneath her, the press of his fingers against her waist.

“I have to go home eventually,” she said. “You remember what happened the last time I left St. Augustine.”

“There are no Loa left to steal the demesne, Milla.”

“No, but there’s plenty of witches.”

“Nothing is gonnae happen to St. Augustine.” He grinned and wound a lock of her hair around one finger, tugging just this side of too hard. “Believe me.”

Another tug, this one from her center, hauled Milla upright, her stomach swooping and lurching like she was on a rollercoaster.

Faint voices carried into the room from elsewhere, an argument or at least an unfriendly conversation. A door slammed, and in the ensuing silence, Milla’s groggy brain finally comprehended that she was in a bed, in a room, in a house, and not her cell.

Bracing her hands against the sheets, she counted to three as she inhaled, exhaling with a hiss between her teeth. And again until the nausea settled and the tingling numbness receded from her fingers and toes. Only then did she raise her head and take in the room.

Black silk sheets under a gunmetal grey comforter, a mountain of pillows, and a deep maroon throw blanket covered the king-size bed. The bedside table, holding a lamp, charging cable, and a neatly folded pile of clothes, matched the mahogany bookshelf on the opposite wall. A mess of academic journals, trade paperbacks, and leatherbound classics crowded the shelves, and a large grimoire with a black leather binding so dark it seemed to suck the light out of the room was displayed on a stand. An unsettlingly familiar bean bag crowded the window, next to a small table hosting a charcoal grey Le Creuset Dutch Oven on a hotplate, a bone-handled obsidian athame, and a half-melted black candle with thick gobs of wax dripping down the side.

Milla frowned at the bean bag and the candle, an idea forming in the back of her mind that she had no desire to address.

From the running shoes and combat boots tossed haphazardly in a corner and the dark fabric of masculine-cut clothes visible through the open closet door, the room belonged to a man. Hints and suggestions of personality were tucked among the dark hues and decadent bedding: a turntable atop a narrow set of drawers and a vinyl collection in a plastic crate, boxing gloves discarded on a gym bag, and two lengths of black elastic stretched over the back of a plush maroon wingback in the corner. A worn, dog-eared copy of Don Quixote lay open and facedown on the armrest, and Milla barely suppressed an eye-roll.

On the dresser parallel to the bed was a framed photograph of a family in front of an RV: a father, mother, and two children, one a red-headed boy who looked to be nine or ten, the other a blonde teenage girl. Milla eased from the bed, reaching out to catch herself on the furniture when the floor tipped beneath her feet. Once the world stopped spinning, she grabbed the frame and studied the photo.

The boy was the spitting image of his father, the pair of them grinning broadly for the camera in matching soccer jerseys, while the girl stood a bit to the side, arms tightly crossed over her front. A sweet-faced woman, already dwarfed by her daughter’s height, stood between the girl and the father, her mousy-brown hair pulled into a high, teased ponytail that drew attention to the fine sweep of the cheekbones she shared with her children.

Milla’s eyes burned at the familial likenesses she found among the literally picture-perfect family. She sniffed and looked away, taking in the contents of the dresser instead.

A warped glass fish bowl filled with weathered stones and bones sat beside a tray holding hawthorn twigs bound in a pentagram; there was a black tin mug stuffed full of smudge sticks and a pile of green, yellow, and purple beads. None of it was troubling. These were the trappings of a witch. Wards and fetish, items intended for ritual use, but it was the odds and ends speckled among them that raised quiet alarm.

Hair ties and a pile of bobby pins. A slick, leather makeup bag, a tube of deep magenta lipstick, and a hairbrush tangled with long, dark hairs.

If Milla was where she thought she was, and if this room belonged to the witch she very much suspected it did, then all signs pointed toward Darkly sharing it with someone else.

A female someone else.

It was obvious, now that she knew to look. A pair of heels were placed neatly by the door, and a glossy, hard-sided suitcase was visible in the closet. Milla nudged the door open and scanned the clothing on the rail. Dark flannels, sweaters, and a leather jacket gave way to knit dresses, silk blouses, and a trio of identical blazers in rich jewel tones.

Something uncomfortable settled in her belly, though Milla couldn’t say whether it was the feminine presence in this room or the total and utter lack of pastels and polo shirts.

She whirled around, regretting the sudden movement as her brain flipped ass-over-tea kettle. Bile rose in her throat, and she lurched for a trashcan beside the dresser, spitting up a grey-green acidic mess.

Wiping tears away, Milla rose on shaking legs and took a deep, steady breath.

She wasn’t going to cry about this. He wasn’t worth crying over.

“He turned you in,” she told her reflection. “He lied to you for weeks, let you rot in that cell for weeks .”

Her reflection looked unconvinced. And haunted.

Gaunt and pale, the evidence of the cells and her fight with the Loa were impossible to ignore. Her cheeks had hollowed, and her skin was papery and thin. Scraggly bangs hung limp, dusting her cheekbones, and behind them, Milla’s dark brown eyes were heavily shadowed and speckled with flecks of tombstone grey.

She leaned closer, widening her eyes and then squinting, squeezing them shut and widening them again as if she could clear the flecks away. But they stayed, bright against the deep brown and impossible to ignore.

“Huh.” Leaning back, Milla chewed the inside of her cheek and tried to decide what to do. There were people outside of this room. Or, at least, there had been. It had been quiet since she woke up, but that didn’t mean she was here alone.

Wherever here was.

“Problem for later.” She grabbed the clothes from the bedside table, revealing a maroon booklet embossed with a gold harp. She read the name of the country on the passport, read it again, then tossed her clothes onto the bed and picked it up, opening the booklet to the identity page. A younger, just as bald Darkly stared back at her. His face was thinner, shoulders less muscled, and he glared at the camera in challenge. “How the fuck are you Irish. ” She flipped the passport front to back and returned to the photo. “At least the haircut isn’t new.”

The date placed the passport as having been issued two years prior. Milla flipped through the pages, all of them blank. Again, she scanned the identity page and shrugged, tossing the passport onto the bedside table.

“What’s one more lie?” She muttered as she stripped out of the trousers and blouse Lou had dressed her in. “I mean, seriously, this is absurd.”

No more absurd than talking to herself in Darkly’s weird-ass room, but everything about this was absurd. Elder Witches of Covens and Tribunal Heads pulling the wool over C.R.O.W’s eyes? Milla selling her Soul to Lou? Multiple witches knowing her Way and colluding to get her back to her demesne? None of this made any sense; might as well join the madness.

Dumping the borrowed clothes into the trash can, she eyed the pentagram-printed underwear she found folded inside black yoga pants and shrugged. Far stranger things were happening than finding a set of her workout clothes waiting on a bedside table.

Dressed and feeling somewhat less scraggly after borrowing the mystery hairbrush and a hair tie, Milla tiptoed out of the room onto a small landing that curved around the top of a narrow stairwell. She gripped the banister as a dizzying sense of deja vu rushed over her. There was a familiarity to the space. It was in the way golden light filtered through the stained glass window on the landing. In the creak of the floorboards underneath her feet. A prickling sense of knowing when Milla had no idea where she was.

Noise from the floor below dragged her down the stairs. She gave one fleeting look to the fogged glass panel in the front door before the front room snagged her attention. Moving boxes filled the space, some broken down and piled against the wall, others sealed with tape and labeled with their destinations: LAUNDRY, KITCHEN, and GARAGE.

The only furniture in the front room was a worn corduroy couch, half covered in blankets, pillows, and a Black Watch tartan flannel, facing a widescreen television mounted on the wall. A talk show played on mute. The slick host grinned and gesticulated wildly as a man in an expensive-looking grey suit smiled, showing off bright white veneers. Milla watched their exchange for a moment, listening for any sound. She had heard voices; she was sure of it: one deep and masculine voice, the other higher-pitched and feminine.

The quietest tink of glassware had Milla spinning around, and in the kitchen, on the other side of a rolling island, was a lithe, stunningly gorgeous woman.

Long dark hair parted down the middle framed a heart-shaped face. A dewy complexion and peach undertone to her skin gave the impression she wore a walking soft filter. The contrast was striking and glamorous, polished, where Milla’s dark hair and pro-SPF combo looked more at home in a Hot Topic.

Deep, dark eyes lined in a perfect cat-eye stared back at her, and the woman’s plump lips parted in surprise. One look at the magenta lipstick and emerald shift dress told Milla all she needed to know.

“It’s not what you think,” the woman blurted, throwing out a hand with her fingers splayed. Milla’s vision blurred, and for half a second, a faint green aura pulsed from the woman. She staggered in surprise, back hitting the column support of the entry to the living room.

“Oh, Goddess.” The woman rushed out of the kitchen with her hands out, rambling in a posh English accent. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to give you a fright. Honestly, we thought you’d sleep longer. Toby stepped out to grab some food. He’s not eating again, which always puts him in a foul temper, which means the rest of us are dragged right down with him.”

“What,” Milla croaked, pressing harder against the column.

“It’s the bottling,” the woman explained. “He knows something is wrong, but he cannot for the life of him figure out what it is. And then they went and disclosed your Way—Lou was livid . I haven’t seen her that angry since the Netherlands when he—”

“What bottling? And what are you doing here?”

She pressed her lips together, eyes dancing over Milla’s face before they widened slightly. She backed away, fingertips pressed to her mouth. “They didn’t tell you,” she murmured, then splayed her hand at Milla. “Why didn’t they tell you? There’s so much you’ve yet to learn, and they did not see fit to start with that? ”

“Must have slipped their mind.” Milla shoved off the wall and skirted around the woman, needing to put a broad distance between them. “What are you doing here?” she asked again.

“Making your tea.” The woman glanced warily over her shoulder at the window above the kitchen sink. “I’m the team vinefica,” she added in a low voice.

At that, Milla wide stepped further out of the woman’s reach. A vinefica was a potions witch. Or poison witch, depending on who you asked and how you’d interacted with one. Though not considered Forbidden and Foule, along with corpomantics and mind witches, they were certainly given the side-eye.

The most commonly given advice was to only accept something to eat or drink from a vinefica if you were willing to bet your life.

With little more than a touch and muttered intent, they could alter the makeup of a glass of water. And while most people would notice they were drinking hydrogen peroxide, a vinefica only needed to wait until the water had been absorbed into their bloodstream and brush against a bare arm on their way out the door to kick off the transformative intent.

And not that Milla had any experience, but she assumed adding a two to the O in H2O would be the opposite of fun.

The front door creaked open, keys jangling in the lock, and the worry straining the vinefica’s features vanished in a blink. Shoulders straight and face calm, she said in a loud voice, “You’ll have to drink it twice a day for the first week to help you acclimate to the Soul Binding.”

“Oh, fantastic.” Lou entered the room, dressed in the same pants-and-blouse combination from Milla’s not-trial. “You’re awake. Is it done then?”

Milla slid along the wall, shoving herself into a corner to keep an eye on both witches. “Is what done?”

“The un bottling ,” Lou stressed the word and leveled a droll look on the vinefica. “You didn’t tell her?”

“ I didn’t want to be involved.” She put up both hands and whirled away in a cloud of soft, floral perfumes.

Lou scoffed, facing Milla. “He’s been unbearable for weeks, but the last few days have been downright abysmal.”

“That’s not fair, Lou,” the vinefica called from the kitchen. “You know how keenly he feels.”

“As well as you do, Rai,” she shot back.

The vinefica froze, tea kettle in one hand, empty mug in the other. Her eyes narrowed further, and she set both down sharply against the counter. “Twice daily,” she told Milla. “For a week, and then we’ll discuss next steps.” To Lou, she offered the barest nod and slipped out the rear of the kitchen. Music flooded the house, a driving double-kick and power chords, and cut off as a door slammed.

“Well, I hope you’re ready to work.” Lou pressed her index finger against her temple, looking aggrieved. “She’s likely gone to tell him you’re awake, and if there’s one witch my brother never questions, it’s Rai.”

“I literally just woke up.” Milla put up both hands, shoulders hunched to her ears. “I have no idea what you want me to do.”

Lou sighed the sigh of the heavily put-upon, crossing her arms and waiting. When Milla didn’t magically understand what was happening, Lou sighed again. “Honestly, the two of you are the most egotistical pair of witches I’ve ever—”

“Hey, why don’t we pretend for a second that I’ve been in prison for Horned God knows how long and explain this to me like I have no idea what’s going on, which I don’t.”

“Seven weeks,” she said. Milla went still, not sure she’d heard Lou correctly. “And my brother has been walking around with holes in his memory for the last two, making the rest of our lives miserable, so if you would be so kind as to think outside yourself for a moment, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“Seven …” Milla sat on the arm of the couch, too startled to argue further. Seven weeks. How had it been seven weeks? Time had gone funny, but this felt aggressive. “I don’t …”

“Have you not thought at all about how he pulled off that little stunt during your trial?” Lou snapped.

“That wasn’t a trial, and I just woke up!”

“Use that brain Lightner supposedly trained, Ludmilla.” Lou dropped her arms with a slap against her thighs. “Nobody lies to C.R.O.W., so my damn fool of a brother had himself bottled to omit the damning memories.”

Milla gripped the back of the couch to keep from tipping over. A bottling required surgical precision and was horribly invasive. Like, a thousand nicks of a razor blade, followed by salt in the open wounds invasive.

To start, it involved a deep scouring to erase all echoes of the source of the memory. A hot lye bath and coarse exfoliation of the skin. Hair removal, gargling with bleach and Listerine, and internal fluids release—all to remove the physical memory before you could begin bottling the memories in the mind.

The ritual itself was straightforward and no less painful: identify the memories to be suppressed, or bottled, separate them from the Soul, and tuck them away where not even a Light Witch could reach them.

Ezra had served as the obnubilari for bottlings in the past, along with an obfuscari, a vinefica, and a hippocromantic, the standard assortment for the task when a Light Witch could not be had. He had come home in a foul temper after each one, his black mood lasting for days until he and his Way recovered from the casting.

But for all the work a bottling demanded, undoing one was absurdly simple: a single touch from the source of the memory.

Milla swallowed thickly, mentally charting the specific omissions in Darkly’s testimony. She didn’t know how much had been bottled, could not know for sure, but he had been singularly surprised to learn she was a Death Witch, which meant she was the one witch capable of unbottling him.

“Uhh…”

“Understood?” Lou asked.

“Hardly.” It made sense on the surface, but more than a bottling had occurred to get Milla out of the cells. Multiple layers of subterfuge from multiple witches. An amount of effort she didn’t think she deserved. “Why did you leave so much? Why not have him forget me altogether?”

“Keir does not tolerate bottling well,” Lou stated, resigned. “I can remove the memory of the thing and tuck it away where he cannot access it, but the emotion tied to the memory is a different story. With any other witch, it could be attributed to misplaced nostalgia or deja vu, but to a Dark Witch … if I removed you entirely, there would be a mass emotion caught in a void. Sense memory and heartache he cannot account for, and believe me when I say that is a nightmare to manage.”

That last bit hung in the air between them. Lou waited expectantly as Milla mulled what she’d been told against what she knew.

“Speaking from experience, I assume,” she said after a moment.

Lou remained unfathomably still, save for the slight narrowing of her eyes. “Yes. Of course.” The rear door slammed, and she whipped around, a bright smile on her face. “Ah, Keir. I was just looking for you.”