8. The Corey Council Convenes

"Should I walk you in?" Declan asked.

"Why in the world would you do that?" I grabbed my backpack and stared at him.

He ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know, do I? It's your mother and grandmother. I'm just trying to be polite here."

I looked up at Mother's pale yellow Queen Anne house. It was three stories with a turret. Growing up, the turret room was mine. Hardwood floors and floral rugs throughout, each room filled with perfectly maintained antiques, it had a distinctly feminine feel. The idea of this big lumberjack standing in the foyer cracked me up.

"Hmm, as someone who cares for you, I'd advise you to save yourself and never look back. As someone who also loves to watch my mother squirm in discomfort, I say come have lunch with us."

He looked up at the big house. "How about if I split the difference and walk you to the door, say hello, and then burn rubber out of here?"

Grinning, I said, "Okay, but if you could stamp your boots a little and leave dirt or sawdust on her perfectly polished floors, I'll make you cinnamon rolls."

"Deal." He got out and came to my side, closing the door after I slid out.

As we walked up the steps between the flowering hedgerow, the front door opened. My mother, in a trim navy blue dress, stepped out onto the porch.

"Ooh," I whispered, "blocked at the door."

"I still want cinnamon rolls," he whispered back.

"Darling, you're late. Lunch is going cold." My mother was a beautiful, if stony, woman. She wore her shoulder-length black hair in a perpetual chignon. I happened to know that when she smiled, it felt like everything in the world would be okay. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember her wholeheartedly smiling since I was little.

She carried the weight of the Corey coven on her shoulders, and it showed in her stiff posture. Green eyes, heart-shaped face, bow lips, it didn't matter. She and Aunt Sylvia could have been twins, but Syl didn't carry the responsibility. She was lighter and freer and cover-model beautiful. The pressure and duty had hardened my mother's features; her immense magical power made her a formidable opponent who most in their right minds avoided.

I loved that Declan pretended like he didn't see the disapproval and didn't feel the hostility. He was just her daughter's—what?—suitor, I supposed, and he was treating Mom like any potential mate's mother. I could tell it drove her nuts, which tickled me no end.

"Sorry, Mom. I was working and then"—I pulled at one of my curls—"you know how long it takes to deal with this."

"Go in. Your grandmother is waiting for you." She finally turned her attention to Declan. "And Mr. Quinn, it was good of you to chauffeur Arwyn to us."

"That was no problem, ma'am. This is a beautiful house you have." He stomped a boot on her porch. "Nice and solid."

"Is that Arwyn's young man I hear?" Gran's voice floated out the door. Dressed in a trim black dress, her silver hair knotted in a bun at the base of her skull, she came to the door and tapped her daughter's shoulder. They looked like an age progression image of the same person. "My goodness, where are your manners, Sybil? Declan, would you like to join us for lunch?"

Mom was used to being the biggest and the baddest, and then Gran came along to put her in her place.

"No, thank you, ma'am. I appreciate the offer, but I have to get back to work. I have some men waiting for me."

"Gran, did we tell you Declan bought the property across the road from The Sea Wicche?" I asked. "He's a very talented woodworker and he's opening his own workshop with a retail area."

"Is that so?" she asked with a gleam in her eye. "Did you hear that, Sybil? This nice young man is staying. Now that we're neighbors, perhaps you could walk me back to my chair. The years are starting to take a toll."

"Of course." He stepped around Mom and took Gran's arm, walking her back in.

Mom rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "As if she couldn't run a 5K if she wanted," she said under her breath.

Hiding a grin, I sidestepped my mother as well and followed Gran and Declan through the house. He was just pushing in her chair at the dining table when I entered. Gran gave me a wink and Declan was clearly trying not to laugh.

Rubbing my shoulder, he said, "Call me if you need a pickup." Seeing my mother in the doorway, he added, "It's always nice to see you, Ms. Corey. I hope you ladies have a nice lunch." His footsteps sounded heavier as he left, and I knew he was angling for banana bread to go along with the cinnamon rolls.

"Such a nice young man," Gran said, causing Mom to shake her head as she went to the kitchen.

I spied Declan through the large front window, opening his truck door. He stopped and gave me a big grin before sliding in and driving off. Yep. He'd heard Gran.

"Let me help you, Mom." I went into the kitchen as she was coming out with a tray of English tea sandwiches. Really, Mom? Lunch is going cold. Yeah, that happens when you're serving cold sandwiches.

"I'll get the iced tea." I picked up the tray with a pitcher of tea and three cut crystal glasses.

Gran had already taken two of the smoked salmon sandwiches.

There was a bakery across the street from Mom's tea shop. When she had people over, she usually stopped in there to pick up an assortment of these tiny, delicious sandwiches. I chose the chicken and cranberry. Mom preferred the cucumber-dill and the shrimp salad.

I poured everyone iced tea and then sat to eat.

"How's the gallery coming?" Gran asked. "It won't be long now."

I swallowed and then took a sip. "I'm almost done with the mural. Maybe another day or so. At that point, I begin painting the interior."

"Why not have Phil's men do the painting?" Mom asked.

"Because I'm not just painting the walls white. I want it to look like we're under water."

"How can you possibly have time for all that before your opening?" Mom asked, taking a bite and touching the napkin to her lips.

"Yes. That is the issue and why I get cranky when asked to do other things."

"You agreed to join this Council and—"

I cut her off before she really got started. "I know, Mom. You might notice I'm sitting here. It doesn't mean I'm not stressed about getting everything done in time."

Gran reached over and patted my arm. "I know you're busy, but what we do provides protection, direction, even hope for our people." Gran, like Mom, had no patience for gripes about Council responsibilities. I got it. They'd been shouldering it without a third for far too long, but there was little to no care for how hard this was, mentally and physically, on me. Whatever. The sandwiches were good.

When we finished, we moved out to Mom's backyard. It was a showplace. Aunt Hester, Pearl's mom, might not have had a lot of magical ability, but she had ten green thumbs, which is its own magic. There was a screen of tall trees around the perimeter of the garden, with flowering bushes, decorative grasses, beds of blossoms, and vines dripping from the pergola.

My old bedroom had a window to the garden. I'd spent much of my growing up years—if I wasn't across the street in the ocean—sitting in my window seat with a sketchbook in my hand.

The yard had also been spelled. Neighbors could neither see nor hear us. The last time we'd joined hands in a ritual like this, I'd had a vision of issues to be aware of and try to prevent. Mom and Gran had experienced my vision too but from a different angle. We didn't see exactly the same things, which was incredibly odd.

The three of us met in the middle of the garden. I took off my gloves, lifted my arms to the heavens, allowing all my mental blocks to slip away. Voices, emotions, visions swirled around me, but I cloaked myself in the white light of the Goddess. I wasn't sure how I knew what to say, but when Mom and Gran began to speak, my voice twined with theirs.

"We, the Corey three, maiden, mother, and crone, call upon the Goddess for her wisdom and protection. We entreat thee to look favorably upon us and share your insight. We seek only to care for our people. There is darkness in this family. We ask, our most beloved Goddess, that you share with us how we might pluck the evil from the heart of our family. For your guidance, we thank you. Blessed be."

We joined hands and I was slammed with more visions than I could process all at once. My knees buckled.

A darkness hovers over Gran's house, pacing back and forth across her patio, leering in her windows. It tries to seep under Mom's doors. It scratches at the gallery walls. It looms over us every day, waiting for a weakening of our defenses. And under it all is the chanting of Calliope and her demon. It's an auditory arrhythmia. If we listen too long, let it bleed into our souls, our hearts will mimic the rhythm and we, as a family, will seize.

Tourists bump into each other as they ignore the sidewalk, their attention fixed on the contents of shop windows. A man in a dark coat arrows through the throng, fingers gripped around something in his pocket. He pushes open a door and a bell tinkles. Serena stands behind the counter. She nods to the man, asking if he needs help. Ignoring her, he moves to the back of the shop, knocking over a display of packaged loose-leaf tea.

Annoyed, she goes around the counter to pick up the bags. The man unstoppers the vial in his pocket, quietly takes the lid off one of the glass jars Serena keeps behind the counter, and sprinkles the contents of the vial all over the tea leaves. He's out the door before Serena is done cleaning up his mess. Three customers later, she pulls doctored leaves from the jar, brews them, and hands her customer death in a go-cup.

Uncle John in sitting in his den, a laptop open. Hand over his mouth, he stares in disbelief. Head shaking, he closes his eyes, moving his hand from his mouth to his forehead. "Why? Why would she do this?"

A man stands at the top of a staircase in the foyer of some grand old mansion, dark wood, darker rugs, antiques, low lights. His head is turned, arguing with someone, their voices kept low. Shaking his head, he starts down the stairs and then he's flying. His body crumples at the bottom, his neck at an unnatural angle.

Aunt Hester sits in the dark, staring into the middle distance, unable to move on, unable to live without her Pearl. The phone rings, but she ignores it. The doorbell chimes, but she's beyond noticing. A light layer of dust has settled on her as she waits for death to return. This time for herself.

A great fire consumes a building. The inferno is more flame than structure. A moment later, the edifice gives up the struggle and collapses, shooting sparks swirling into the sky. Under the roar of the fire is a growl and tires kicking up rocks.

An older man approaches a cliff, unsure of why he's there. He feels an obligation but fears he's misjudged the situation, the person. Uneasy, wishing he was home with his feet up watching the game, he greets the one waiting for him. The other points toward the cliff. The man turns his head and then it all goes black as a heavy object connects with the back of his head. He's dragged through brush and then rolled off the edge, falling to the jagged rocks and ocean waves far below.

The glass of a greenhouse glows in the twilight, reflecting the pinks and purples of the sky. A dark figure moves like a ghost across the yard. The door isn't locked. Why should it be? It resides in a spelled garden. The figure goes in, pulls a spray can of industrial lubricant from their pocket, and sprays. They crank the huge silent wheel, opening the windows on the far side of the greenhouse, the ones impossible to see from the house. The figure goes to the heater controls and pushes the power button, turning it off. The figure slips away, content in the knowledge that hundreds of delicate, precious plants will soon die.

A man rides his bike along a narrow road. He knows it like the back of his hand. He's been riding this route for probably forty years. Most of his early morning ride is along empty roads with dense trees canopying the path. Halfway through, he hits the coastline and watches the waves capsize over huge rocks. Sea spray hits his face and for one brief moment, he closes his eyes, relishing the feel. He doesn't see the car, doesn't even hear it because of the podcast in his ears. A silver truck races up behind him and slams into him, sending him sailing onto the bone-crushing roc—

I opened my eyes, head pounding, body feeling too battered to move. I wasn't sure what happened. My fingers tingled. Did Mom and Gran rip their hands away mid-vision?

Mother ran to the house, a barely audible No, no, no, no on her lips.

I stayed where I was, wishing for a morphine drip. "What happened?"

Gran stood quietly, hands clasped, lips moving.

"He's alive!" Mom called from the back door.

Gran lost all tension in her body and hit the ground beside me. I forced myself into a sitting position to check on her and then saw she had tears running down her face.

"What?" I asked again.

Mom walked down the steps and helped Gran up. "That was your Uncle Andrew on the bike. When I told him what we saw, he agreed to change his route and to keep changing it until Calliope is caught."

Gran kept murmuring thank you over and over as Mom helped her up the stairs and back into the house. I followed, but more slowly.