Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
About the Author
Wild Magic
Clearwater Witches, Book Two
Madeline Freeman
Copyright © 2014 Madeline Freeman
Cover Art © 2014 Cormar Covers
All rights reserved.
First eBook Edition: August 2014
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For information:
http://www.madelinefreeman.net
Dedication
To Red:
My confidant, my partner in crime,
thank you for answering my random texts
and creeping Brian out by talking in unison.
I’ve known you longer than I’ve known these characters—and that’s saying something.
And for the One who’s not finished with me yet:
Keep making me.
Acknowledgments
As always, thank you, Rachel Schurig for talking me off the ledge. I’m so thankful we can be that for each other.
Thanks to Janet at Dragonfly Editing for your editing services.
Thank you to Yoly at Cormar Covers for the beautiful artwork.
Chapter One
I’m still convinced it’s a dream. Every time I look up and see her, I think I’m asleep, hallucinating. I’ve gone so far as to pinch myself in the twenty-four hours since I woke up to this new reality.
In my old reality, she was gone just a month. It’s strange how many little things have already started to slip away. Like the way she sweeps her fingers over her brow as if to brush her bangs out of her vision, even though they aren’t long enough to be in her eyes. Or how she almost never pushes the kitchen drawers closed with her hands, instead insisting on bumping them with her hip. Or the way she leaves the cupboard with the glasses in it ajar, like she’s thinking about going back for another cup.
People used to tell me we looked alike, but I never saw it. Though we both have pin-straight hair, hers is chestnut brown where mine is pale blonde. We both have brown eyes, but hers are brighter, more luminous. But now, when I study her face, I see the similarities others always insisted on: the shape of our chins, the way our eyes squint when we laugh, the arch of our eyebrows, the shape of our mouths.
I do look like my mother. I don’t know why it took her return from the dead for me to notice it.
From my spot against the door jamb between the kitchen and dining room, I shake my head. Saying she’s back from the dead makes it sound like she’s a zombie, but she’s not. She’s not so much back as she never left.
In this reality, she never died.
I’ve been watching her all day, so much that I know she noticed it. But I can’t help it.
She hums as she makes dinner. I’d forgotten she did that, too. She catches my eye and I drop my gaze, crossing to the island where she set out several bowls full of different items: diced tomatoes, chopped lettuce, salsa, sour cream. The tune she hums is familiar as I collect the bowls, but by the time I exit the room, she’s switched to something different, like the station in her head changed channels. I smile as I set the bowls on the dining room table. My aunt Jodi sits adjacent to me, sipping at her mug of tea almost absently as her keen blue eyes skim the newspaper.
It’s the little things that stick out to me most. How I never saw Jodi read the newspaper before. During meals, Jodi would sip her tea and if she wasn’t talking to me, she’d be doing something on her phone. But there are no phones at the table now. The addition of the newspaper makes Jodi look—well, not older, but more mature, maybe. Her wavy brown hair isn’t loose around her shoulders like it usually is; instead, it’s pulled back into a messy chignon. The effect is a gentle sharpening of her features, making the set of her jaw more pronounced. She still looks like the Jodi I grew to know—mostly. But I wonder if, under my mother’s influence, she’s sobered a bit. Like the cell phone thing: It never bothered her before if the two of us sat in silence at the table, eating and flicking through screens on our separate devices. But when I pulled my phone out yesterday to make sure the world at large was as I remember it, she stared at me like I’d lost my mind, like I should know better than to bring technology to the table.
It’s not surprising, really. My mom always had that rule at our house.
But this is our house. And it has been for four years. Except it hasn’t. I’ve only been here a month, and my mother wasn’t with me.
I set down my glass, covering my eyes with my free hand as the conflicting realities battle themselves in my head. Two days ago, my mother was dead. Now she’s making tacos. I don’t remember the details of the life my mom and aunt are living, and they don’t remember the details of mine. It’s strange to hear my mother knocking around in the kitchen of a house that, to my knowledge, she’d never stepped foot in.
That doesn’t stop her from bringing a plate of taco shells and a bowl of meat into the room and setting them on the table. “Eat up,” she says, a smile stretched across her face.
Tears prickle in the corners of my eyes and I blink rapidly to clear them. Mom’s eyebrows crease at the center and I come to my senses: I have to pretend. This isn’t my reality, but I have to pretend it is.
Crystal Jamison told me I had to.
At the time, I agreed with her. Of course it was better to pretend things were normal. How would the people in our lives react if we announced that this entire existence is a lie and not meant to be? How can I tell my mother she’s supposed to be dead?
A fist tightens around my lungs and I struggle to breathe. How can I even think that? Maybe Crystal is right—I should just be happy about what’s happened. I didn’t intend to do it, but I got my mother back. I never thought I’d see her again, and now here she is. It’s a miracle.
Except it doesn’t feel like one. Every time I allow the elation in, it’s followed immediately by a sweeping guilt. I’ve cheated somehow. I messed with time and the consequences aren’t entirely clear yet. Yes, my mother is back, and Jodi isn’t sick—even Crystal’s aunt, who died nearly twenty years ago, is actually alive. And these are all good things. But what are the negative things we set in motion by going back? I keep waiti
ng for the other shoe to drop. And I have a feeling that when it does, it’s going to destroy everything.
My fingers go to my neck, reaching for the ring I wear there. Or wore. I sigh, as I’ve done a dozen times already: In this timeline, I don’t wear my father’s ring. I don’t even know if I ever found it. For some reason, having it would make me feel better. Perhaps it’s because the one constant in all this change is his absence. He’s gone, like he was in my real life. I need that ring to remind me of where I belong.
My mom’s eyebrows scrunch as she chews her bite of taco. “Kristyl, what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.” The truth is too complex even to begin to explain. But one look at her face tells me that she is going to require an answer, a real one. My mind flicks through the thoughts swirling around until it lands on the only one I can share: “I just... I’m thinking about Dad today.”
Jodi looks up from her newspaper and exchanges a glance with my mom. I don’t like it. Did I do something wrong? If events in this timeline are different, it stands to reason that I’m different, too. I’ve had different experiences. Do I not talk about my father?
“What is it?” I ask, unable to keep the question to myself. “Why are you guys looking at each other like that?”
My mom’s mouth twitches before the corner pulls up in a half smile. “Nothing. It’s just... It’s been a long time since you’ve mentioned him.”
sh*t. I’ve already done something wrong. I need to control the damage. “I... I had a dream about him. Like, he just showed up, and suddenly... I was a little girl again and...” I grope for things to say that aren’t too specific. I don’t want to mention any memories just in case they didn’t happen here.
But the bit of detail I’ve provided seems sufficient. Mom and Jodi exchange another glance, this one softer. Jodi folds her paper and sets it on the table in front of her. “I’m glad to see you can talk about him without... well, the usual drama.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. How different am I here? Typically, I avoid drama like the plague. However, if what Crystal told me yesterday is true, she and I are besties here. And Crystal is something of a drama magnet. I force a smile. “Maybe I’m maturing.”
Jodi grins. “We were hoping that’d happen one day.”
My fingertips stroke my neck again and I decide to go for it: I need to know about the ring. “In the dream... Dad had this... ring. It was kind of heavy with a smoky stone.”
My mom nods and a wave of relief comes over me. She knows what I’m talking about. “What about it?”
I take a breath. “Do... Do you know where it is?”
Mom squints and I know I’m missing something. “Of course. It’s the same place it’s been for the last—what?” She looks at Jodi as if expecting to read the answer in the lines of her face. “Two years? Three, maybe?”
I shift in my seat. “Oh?” My heart hammers in my chest. What does that mean? Is it with my father? Did he take it with him when he left? Or does she mean it’s somewhere I should know, somewhere alternate-me put it? If that’s the case, what if I can’t find it?
“It’s upstairs in my jewelry box. I put it there after you said you didn’t want it.”
Jodi laughs. “I’m pretty sure her exact words were closer to ‘I never want to see that ugly piece of crap ever again.’”
I force a smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe I... blocked it out or something. But... I think I’ve changed my mind.”
Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you saying you want it?”
I open my mouth to respond but stop short, realizing at the last second that my response will be a yell—yes! But that reaction doesn’t seem very alternate-me, so I take a breath and relax my shoulders. “I at least want to look at it. To see if it’s as ugly as I remember. It’s just weird it showed up in my dreams after all this time, right? So... maybe I should give it another try.”
Mom dabs the corners of her mouth with the cream-colored cloth napkin by her side before standing. “You finish eating; I’ll go grab it.”
Her footsteps creak against the wood floor and stairs. It seems a geologic age before I hear her returning. I try to eat in her absence, but I find it hard to focus. The ring. It’s such a small thing, but it doesn’t feel that way. In the past few weeks, I’ve felt like that ring was somehow a talisman of protection—a connection to my father. I need something of that last timeline, something from my reality, to make me feel better about this one.
I’ve only finished half of the taco in front of me by the time Mom returns, but it’s all I’m going to eat. She holds the ring out and I snatch it before I can catch myself. I know she and Jodi are watching me as I study it, but I don’t care. I can’t care. It looks the same as I remember it—the same but for one detail: it seems smaller. Not the weighty setting or the stone, but the circumference of the ring itself. It looks like it might actually fit my finger. I poke my right ring finger through the center, but the ring doesn’t make it past my first knuckle before I hesitate, pulling it off. The first time I put this ring on in my reality, I had a vision and made everything in my room levitate. On the chance something like that happens again, I should wait until I’m alone before trying.
“Can I have it?” I ask, curling my fingers into a fist around the ring.
“Of course,” Mom says, her tone dubious. “Your dad left it for you. You know that. He even had it sized so you could wear it.”
I stand, picking up my plate and heading to the kitchen. “I think I’m finally ready for it.”
Jodi nods appreciatively when I reenter the dining room. “I knew you’d come back to us eventually.”
The skin at the back of my neck prickles. What could she mean by that? Does she know—does she remember my reality? Has this all been some sort of test? No, it’s not possible that she knows the truth: Jodi’s a witch, so she can do magic, but she doesn’t have any special connection with time—that’s a psychic’s domain. I force a short laugh. “What, did I go somewhere?”
She shrugs. “Come on. I know Crystal and the girls are your friends, but let’s not pretend their friendship didn’t come at a price.”
“Jodi.” My mom’s tone is light, but there’s a hint of warning around the edges. The echoey sensation that accompanies the thoughts and feelings of other people fills my mind. It takes me a moment to interpret the impressions: They’ve had this conversation before and Mom is of the opinion I’m old enough to make my own choices about my friends; besides, telling me not to hang out with someone will only make that person more appealing.
Jodi crosses her arms over her chest and turns to my mom. “You know as well as I do they’re the reason she stopped wearing Ben’s ring to begin with.”
My mom opens her mouth to respond, but I clear my throat. “Well, they won’t make me stop wearing it again.”
Jodi raises her mug. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter Two
My father’s ring is warm and heavy in my hand and it tugs on my consciousness while I wait for Mom and Jodi to finish dinner. From where I set it in the living room, my phone trills. I tense but don’t make a move for it. Jodi catches my eye, smiling, and I force a smile in return. Maybe she’s more like the Jodi I know than I thought—maybe she’s not as pro this no-electronic-devices mandate of my mom’s as I originally believed.
When Mom finally takes her last bite, I clear the table quickly and load the dishwasher. My phone trills again before I get to it. Crystal Jamison has sent two messages:
The circle’s meeting at Fox’s house. I’ll be by to pick you up in 20.
Are you ignoring me? I’ll be there in 15 to get you.
I sigh. Even though it’s evening, I’m still in my pajamas. This morning, before she left my house, Crystal alluded to the fact that the witches would be meeting today, but I held out hope it wouldn’t be the case. With a quick glance toward the dining room, where Mom and Jodi are chatting about something, I steal away upstairs. I hope alternate-me
didn’t have any plans with either of them this evening: I don’t think Crystal will take no for an answer.
At the top of the stairs that open up to my third story loft, I pause, uncurling my fingers and staring down at my father’s ring. My ring. After a moment’s hesitation, I slip it onto my right ring finger.
The flash overtakes me immediately, as if it has been waiting patiently in the wings for the go-ahead from me. My vision is flooded by pure white light, followed by blackness that begins at my periphery and sweeps forward, plunging me into darkness. I don’t fight it. I let the blackness wash over me and wait for it to abate and show me the scene.
When my vision clears and focuses, I’m not expecting what greets my eyes. The first time I slipped this ring on, I was still in my room, just a past version of it, when my dad was just a few years older than I am. But the room before me now is completely foreign. The walls and ceiling are constructed of heavy hewn timbers. Light spills in through small open windows on either side of the room, but the space still feels dim, like the sunlight isn’t strong enough to dispel all the shadows. A man in his sixties sits in a rocking chair in front of a hearth smudged black with soot. His hands are folded atop the rough tan fabric of the shirt stretched across his ample belly and he stares toward the embers glowing in the hearth. Another man stands before the man in the chair, this one younger. Upon closer inspection, the second man doesn’t look much older than me—perhaps in his early twenties. He wears a loose-fitting off-white shirt belted at the hips and simple brown pants tucked into a pair of high boots that tie at the calf.
“Grandfather, are you sure?” The younger man shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he examines the palm of his right hand.
The grandfather rocks gently in his chair, his eyes still on the hearth. “Am I not a trustworthy man, Eli? What in my character prompts you to believe a double-dealing on my part?”
