Foretold Page 34

  “I did,” I croak out.

  “Ah, but you didn’t just do that ritual, did you? That stunt with the Heart of the Coil. Your friend Noah didn’t know why you needed the Heart, or if you made it there. I do. You did something to save that boy out there in the hall.” She tips her head toward the parlor door, and her lip curls in disgust.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he was supposed to die!” She bites it out before taking in a breath and forcing herself to visibly relax.

  “Wh—what are you talking about?” I stammer. It feels as if everything is muted, like it’s coming at me from the bottom of a lake: sounds, thoughts. I can’t understand what she’s saying.

  “I laid out, very carefully, small changes that needed to happen in the world in order to accomplish certain objectives. Dominoes that needed to fall. That boy’s death was one. I needed to set his father on a certain path. The ritual that you performed to hurt the Bedlam witch was another. They both needed to happen in order to—”

  “You told me the Bedlam ritual wouldn’t hurt anyone!”

  “Oh, Cassandra, you can’t be that naïve. I blame your mother’s genetics for how stupid you are. Jeffrey was smart. Your mother's side… well, they’ve been Darwin’ed out of existence, haven't they? You’re the last of them. Thank God.”

  I launch off my seat and fling my cup of cold tea in her face, wishing it was piping hot. Wishing I could hurt her. She sits for a moment, shocked, before reaching up to wipe at the tea clinging to her lashes.

  “Cute. The fact remains that whatever you did to save your little boyfriend killed your father.” She holds a hand to her cheek and shakes her head in disbelief. “My brother is going to be put in the ground. Agatha even swapped your Somnum Sand as a precaution, to run out the clock, and I told her she was being overly cautious. If you had just done what you were supposed to—”

  “I guess I’m not a very good pawn, am I, Bree?” I drop the cup and saucer onto the rug and clench my fists. “Get out. Leave.”

  She stands, presses a hand to her tea-wet hair, and grabs for her handbag. “This isn’t over, Cassandra.”

  “Get out,” I scream again, louder.

  She walks to the door. “You know, when Jeffrey and I were little, he promised me he would always protect me. I promised him the same. If I’d foreseen today, I would have strangled you in your crib.”

  Chapter 37

  There was a funeral. There was a burial. People were there. Dad’s body is next to Mom’s now. They had to move her headstone to make room for him. I didn’t like that.

  I sit in Mrs. O’s little apartment, alone even with her in the room. I’d rather be here than Colin’s, though. I can’t look at him knowing I traded him for my father. I did this. For him.

  Mrs. O’s sofas are covered in plastic. She tried to give me her bed, or at least share it, but I refused, so this crinkling and uncomfortable sofa is my new home. I get dressed and brush my teeth. I wash my face. I wash my hands. And wash my hands. And wash my hands. And wash my hands. And wash my hands.

  “Little one, someone’s here to see you. Please come out,” Mrs. O says, opening the bathroom door and firmly turning off the faucet.

  I find Colin standing near my makeshift bed, staring at me soulfully. I sit on the sofa with a crunch of plastic, and he approaches, cautious, and sits next to me.

  “Hey, Cass… I wanted to stop by and see…” He runs a hand through his thick black hair. “I have something for you.” He pulls out a small colorful square, no more than three inches side to side. I accept it and stare down at the paper-covered square. “God. I’m an idiot and wrapped it. I shouldn’t have wrapped… Habit, I guess…”

  I pull at the paper and tug the square from it, wishing him away from me. Wishing myself away from here. It’s a tiny canvas. I turn it over and my heart stills.

  He’s painted my dad.

  I close my eyes, tears painting my cheeks.

  “You don’t have any pictures,” Colin says hurriedly, “and I thought… I mean, I didn’t have anything but memory to go from, but mine’s pretty photographic. I think it’s pretty close, right?”

  I shake, violently, as if the pain within is a sort of internal turbulence that might rip the shell of my being apart.

  Colin envelops me in his arms, squeezing tightly as I tremble, then tips my face to his, kissing away my tears. I wrench away and rush back to the bathroom, setting the canvas on top of Mrs. O’s vanity mirror. I turn on the faucet and wash my hands.

  Mrs. O knocks a short while later. I leave the bathroom to find Colin gone and Regan sitting on my sofa, with Griffin, both of his hands heavily bandaged, standing next to her. He looks pale, haunted, the shadows beneath his eyes dark as bruises. I haven’t seen him since the Coil. Since he tried to save me. I launch myself at him, squeezing tightly. Regan stands and hugs the both of us. We stay that way a long while.

  “You look awful,” I mumble into Griffin’s shoulder.

  “You don’t look so hot yourself,” he says, pulling away with a sad smile. “But we can trade beauty tips another time. We’re here about you now.”

  “You’re okay?” I ask.

  Griffin nods dismissively.

  “What about…?” I can’t bring myself to say Noah’s name. And yet… he tried to hurt me, but a part of me can’t quite hate him. He was trying to protect Regan. He was right to try and stop me. He was probably right about more than that. You bring everyone down with you.

  “Yeah, chucklefuck is fine,” Griffin says.

  Regan grimaces and gives him a quelling look. She sits next to me and covers my hands with one of her own. “Cassie, we’re so sorry,” she says. “Your dad was—”

  Was. Past tense. They aren’t the right words. The magic words that will make everything better.

  I jerk my hands away. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t kill him. I did.”

  “Cassie—”

  “No, it’s true. Saving Colin is what killed my dad. Aunt Bree said so.” I hang my head, fighting the urge to say more. But needing to, as if in confession. “I knew. I knew the locket wasn’t enough. But I wanted to believe it. Ford said the sacrifice gets picked for you if… but I didn’t want to press. I knew the locket couldn’t be enough. I—” Oh God. “Ford. He was kneeling in the red snow. ‘It’s a blessing, but not for me.’ The adderstone. ‘To use one is a blessing,’ that thing said. The red blessing… the whole time it was…”

  I cup my hands over my mouth. I can’t bring myself to say it. But that doesn’t matter; it echoes loudly enough in my head. My dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad.

  Regan and Griffin look at each other uncertainly, not understanding my words, unaware a new landslide of destructive anguish is rolling through me. Then Regan wraps her arms around me, and Griffin does the same. I don’t know where their tears begin and my own end.

  And for the first time in a long while, what-ifs don’t consume me. But only because what-was is clawing at my door.

  Epilogue

  It’s chilly for September. A miserably rainy and cold first day of school. I train my eyes on Mrs. O’s bodega awning to avoid looking at the place it happened.

  If only you could’ve scryed it. The errant thought rises, zombie-like, for the millionth time. You could’ve warned… could’ve stopped…

  Idiot, it was because of you.

  “Cassie!” Colin calls out.

  I don’t turn. Something within the salted earth that is my heart stirs, but I pull my hood more securely over my head and burrow into my jacket, pretending I didn’t hear. I rush across the street. The moment the bells to Mrs. O’s shop door jangle, I kick myself for not going straight to her apartment instead. Colin can follow me here.

  “I don’t know,” a familiar rasping female voice says from somewhere in the back of the shop. “It’s an old lady hobby.”

  “Newsflash: you’re an old lady,” an archly sarcastic voice says from somewhere near the candy aisle. It takes me a moment to place the
m, as out of place as they are; like the confusion of seeing someone from school during an out-of-state vacation.

  “Why do you never take my advice?” Mrs. O calls from the office. “Trust me.”

  “You never take mine either,” Emina says.

  “I have some plastic-covered sofas upstairs that would beg to differ,” Mrs. O says dryly.

  “Newsflash for you, Felda: you’re the eldest of us,” Gelisa says.

  “Yep, I’m ancient. And you’re dim as the day is long. Best part of getting old is saying what you want and not giving one red damn about what people think,” Felda says. “No internal censor hitting the buzzer every time you open your yap to say something unpopular.”

  Mrs. O laughs and approaches from her office, shaking her head. She stops and tips her head toward the door. “Cassandra?”

  I watch as Emina’s Pomeranian fluff of hair emerges first, followed by gaunt Gelisa and then stout Felda from their respective corners of the store. “What’s going on here?” I ask. I’m a mess, and today at school didn’t help, so my sluggish brain works overtime to try and make sense of this tableau.

  I accept hugs from Emina, Gelisa, and Felda, and nod curtly to accept their condolences. All the while, I keep my eyes trained on Mrs. O, who looks more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen her.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Emina puts her arm around Mrs. O’s shoulder and squeezes, as if in comfort. “It’s time, Claudia.”

  Mrs. O nods and gestures that we all should follow her to her office. She gets a stepladder, and Emina volunteers to fetch what she needs from the shelf above her desk as we crowd the entrance.

  “Box labeled ‘tampons,’ dear,” Mrs. O says. Emina finds it, a brown box about the size of my arm in length and half that in height, heavily taped.

  Felda hoots. “Lot of tampons.”

  Mrs. O smiles slightly. “It went unlabeled for years, but I had an insistent helper this summer who demanded he be allowed to dust and organize. Couldn’t have him poking around that particular box.”

  Mrs. O hands me the boxcutter and I look up at them all, uncertain. I slice through the tape, pull open the flaps, and reach in to pull out a large wooden box nearly as big as the cardboard one that housed it. I sit down in Mrs. O’s chair and set the box down on my lap, tracing a finger over the carving on the lid: a snake swallowing its own tail, its body forming a figure-eight.

  “Your mother gave that to me before she passed. It was in her family for generations. You’re the last of them.”

  I suck in a breath. I’m holding something from my mother? “Why didn’t she give it to my dad?”

  “But your home burned down, didn’t it?” Gelisa says, in a tone that makes it sound like my question is an absurd one. Emina frowns at her and waves her hand, discouraging further interruption.

  I wrinkle my brow, my nerve-endings sputtering and then firing fully, like an old car finally coming alive for the first time in a long while. I lift the lid and rear up, grabbing for the box before it can topple off my lap. This can’t be.

  “What’s going on in here?” Colin says from the doorway.

  My head snaps up, and I jerk the green and gold book out of the box and to my chest. The Galdr Leechbook. My mother’s copy.

  Also by Violet Lumani

  Book Two:

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgements

  I will undoubtedly forget to thank someone, and I’m sorry in advance. Please know I’ll be rewriting this page in my mind long after this book is published, and my anxiety over it will be punishment enough.

  First and foremost, thank you to my agent/soul friend Jon Michael Darga of Aevitas Creative Management. From the moment we met at Rebecca Heyman’s The Work Conference afterparty, I knew you were the creative partner of my dreams. I so appreciate your expert eye, your smooth brain, and your friendship.

  To Rick Lewis of Uproar Books, thank you for believing in this story and in me. I am so happy this book found a home at Uproar. You understood the story I was trying to tell on a level I scant could’ve imagined, and I am in awe of your editorial feedback. Thank you for making this book so much better and for putting it out into the world.

  Thank you to my husband Emirson for your support and boundless patience as I spouted off about the people in my head. I have interrupted countless Netflix shows with random plot point questions, and I couldn’t have done this without you cheering me on. You’re my champion, and I love you.

  Thank you to my sister Valerie Biberaj for pushing me to put pen to paper, for being the best sounding board on the planet, and for forcing me outside of my comfort zone when I needed it most. We can call it square for all those dodgeball rescues. Your talent is only rivaled by how kickass a sister you are.

  I wish I could say the same about my baby sister Ariana Durollari. Thanks for nothing.

  I’m kidding. Ari, I will always cherish the “book cover” you made me. There is no one else I’d rather roadtrip with.

  Thank you to my mom Rita and my dad Alan for your sacrifices, for your lessons, and for instilling in me a love of learning and reading and writing and just… creating. Because of you, I’ve never been bored a second of my life. I love you both. You always told us we could accomplish almost anything we set our minds to. I never became a Kim Zmeskal-esque gold medal Olympian (I never even learned to do a proper cartwheel), but I’m convinced it’s because I didn’t want it enough.

  Thank you to my grandmother Bedrije (“Betty”), for being the picture of perseverance and grace in the face of unimaginable strife and grief. If I become half the woman you are, I will still cast a long shadow.

  Thank you to the brilliant Rebecca Faith Heyman of Rebecca Faith Editorial. What would I have done without you? Wait, I know… probably nothing. You have been one part Sherpa, one part doula, and one part friend, and I will never write a book I don’t darken your door with before I even think of sending it to Jon and beyond.

  Thank you to the two best beta readers on the planet—Adriana Ward and Catherine Thorsen (Carta Editorial Services). I can’t even count how many rounds you guys went with me, sometimes reading the same bits over and over. If not for your enthusiasm, I fear mine might have been dulled. If not for your brilliant minds, I fear this story would not be what it is today.

  To Richard Franke, my high school honors and AP English teacher, thank you for scaring me into reading the stuff I ended up loving. Thank you for giving me A’s on my report cards and “not working to capacity” on my progress reports. And thank you for being the best teacher I ever had. I credit your influence as one of the most important in my academic life, and I wish I were smarter/more talented so that statement would carry more weight. Please never read a word I’ve written outside of this acknowledgement because otherwise I’ll never stop worrying about what you thought of it. I still owe you a cherry red Ferrari.

  To Mark Carnes, the most wonderful mentor and professor and boss. Thank you for helping me put myself into the skin of others. If not for you bringing history and literature to life for me, for helping me live it, for helping me see the world in a more creative way, I don’t think I would enjoy writing as much as I do.

  Thank you to my mother-in-law Nancy for always offering up help and childcare and love and excitement for everything I do.

  Thank you to my friends (“The Kalis”)—Nick, Matt, Jason, Michelle, Laurence, Mediha, Lenny, Hany, and the guest appearances by Orges and Frenchie and so on: I’m so lucky to have such a group of accomplished, smart, funny, amazing friends. Being around you makes me want to do/be better.

  Thank you to my friend Nell for always seeing my silly and raising me another. From darts to footed PJs to kicking trees over Euro currency design to ridic mom stories—you’re the best.

  And thank you to Aferdita and Dorisa Emini for being the very first readers of the very first draft. I’m proud to know you.

  This story started to slowly reveal itself to me in the aftermath of
a loss, like the remains of an ancient iceman being exposed inch by inch in melting snow. Thank you to Cassie for helping me through that time.

  If you are suffering from anxiety or OCD, you are not alone. Here are two wonderful resources with tons of great content for young and old alike: the International OCD Foundation (iocdf.org) and the Anxiety and Depression Association of America (adaa.org).

  About the Author

  Violet Lumani was raised in a family of superstitious omen-watchers, absorbing the stories and myths her family brought to America with them. She holds a BA from Barnard College of Columbia University, and an MBA from UCONN and lives in Connecticut with her husband, two kids, and forever-dieting chihuahua named Kiwi.

  * * *

  VioletLumani.com

  Also From Uproar Books

  Also from Uproar Books:

  ASPERFELL by Jamie Thomas (Gothic Fantasy)

  Named one of Booklist’s Top Ten Debut Speculative Fiction novels of 2020, Asperfell is a must-read for fans of Jane Austen who always wished she’d dabbled in blood magic.

  SAND DANCER by Trudie Skies (Young Adult Fantasy)

  In a desert kingdom where fire magic is a sin, a half-starved peasant girl must disguise herself as a nobleman’s son to learn the ways of the sword and find her father’s killer.

  ALWAYS GREENER by J.R.H. Lawless (Dark Comedy)

  In the corporate dystopian world of 2072, the world’s most popular reality show starts a competition for world’s worst life, and now everyone is out to prove just how bad they’ve got it.

  THE WAY OUT by Armond Boudreaux (Sci-Fi Thriller)

  When a virus necessitates the use artificial wombs for all pregnancies, two fearless women discover the terrifying truth behind this world-changing technology.