Toil & Trouble Page 6

  Because now Auggie knows for sure that she’s not second best. She’s first and only and the best damn thing that’s ever happened to Bette.

  “I will always love you,” Bette goes on, and it’s more than a promise in that moment as she looks at Auggie, all the love, all the fight, all the power sparking between them like a cut wire.

  It’s a spell, the purest kind of magic. Born from love and truth and unshakable belief.

  Thunder rumbles around them, clouds forming in the sky that was clear seconds ago. All the hairs on Bette’s arms rise, and her stomach tilts like she’s slipped on a ledge with no foothold.

  Neither of them is causing this.

  “She knows,” Auggie says quietly, staring up at the sky.

  Lightning crackles across the darkening clouds, and the chains wrapped around Bette’s wrists begin to heat. She starts to say Auggie’s name, but it dissolves into a gritted yell because the chains are melting into her skin, burning her flesh away, trickles of gold and blood dripping down her hand. She falls to her knees, and she’s screaming as Auggie rushes to her.

  But it’s too late. The magic of the mountain, the ancient energy from the stones that Castella once spit out in volcanic fury, that Bette harnessed in the gold centuries later, flies free. Castella’s magic, once safely contained in the chains, courses through Bette’s body, tearing it up in places she didn’t even know she had. She can feel her organs shudder against the rush of it, and her ears ring, a shriek of laughter echoing in them as her teeth clatter and her eyes roll back in her head.

  This is the thing about Lady Fate: She takes with a vengeance when crossed.

  * * *

  When Bette wakes, she’s alone, in her bed at home. Her wrists ache, despite the strips of muslin soaked in an herbal balm wrapped around them, and her head feels swollen as she struggles to sit up.

  There’s a voice outside her door. She closes her eyes, focusing.

  Elder Lee.

  She gets up. It takes two tries, but she manages to get to the door. When she jerks it open, the air shimmers. Her eyes dart down to see a solid line of herbs and crystals across the doorway.

  Wards. To keep her in here and away from Auggie.

  A slow slug of fear moves through her, the dread strong enough to distract her from the pain burning her entire body. Her eyes narrow as they meet Elder Lee’s calm, righteous gaze.

  “Bettina,” she says, her silver braid slipping over one velvet-clad shoulder as she steps forward, her hands steepled in front of her like a warning.

  “Where’s my mother?”

  “The Elders believe it’s better that I handle this.”

  So her mother had run away rather than face the terrible disappointment Bette had become.

  She can’t even bring herself to be surprised. She’d feel sad, but she has more important things to worry about.

  “Let me out,” she tells Elder Lee. Sweat’s popping across her forehead; she can feel it dripping down the bridge of her nose. She forces herself to stay upright. She has to stand tall. She has to show the Elders they still can’t win when it comes to her.

  “I can’t let you out,” Elder Lee replies quietly. “I don’t yet know what punishment the Lady has wrought on you, what magic was unleashed when She...” She trails off, looking down at Bette’s wrists in distaste. “You were a child, crafting a spell you had no business casting. You never learned to be humble. You never learned to sacrifice. Your Hands should’ve been tied to your mother for years yet. This will be the end of you, Bettina.”

  Bette slams her palms against the wards, her hands bouncing off the invisible wall of energy. Elder Lee’s eyes widen, and she shifts from foot to foot.

  Lady Fate is powerful, but Castella is something more. Castella’s magic had always been contained in the chains, working in harmony with her, rather than within her.

  Lady Fate tore that protection away, thinking it would weaken her.

  But Bette can feel the mountain in her veins now...a terrifying rush of power that sings through her like water crashing from the falls at its peak. In the thrill of it, she can barely remember what weak ever felt like.

  “Where’s Auggie?” she asks.

  Elder Lee’s lips press together tight. “She isn’t here. You won’t be seeing each other for a long time.”

  “You’re really wrong about that.” A voice rings out behind them.

  Elder Lee whirls, and it’s Auggie, stepping to the top of the stairs, like a warrior queen with a skillet instead of a spear. She walks forward, swinging the pan back and forth, her agile fingers so clever, so skilled, twisting and turning against the gleaming black metal.

  “Are you okay?” she asks Bette, and Bette licks her dry lips and nods.

  “You are not needed here, Augusta,” Elder Lee says, her thin mouth flattening as Auggie comes to a stop just three feet away from her. The upstairs hallway is narrow, and Elder Lee plants herself in the middle so Auggie will have to shove past her. “Go home. Your mother will be worried.”

  “My mother knows I’m here,” Auggie says. “And Brenna is the one who told me what you were up to.”

  Bette’s stomach clenches. “Really?”

  Auggie beams. “Really,” she says. “I have their blessing,” she adds, looking at Elder Lee pointedly as she twirls the pan in her hand. Elder Lee can’t keep her eyes off it.

  Some witches use wands to focus their power. Crystals. Jewelry. Herbs.

  Auggie has a one-hundred-year-old cast-iron skillet that’s been seasoned to perfection.

  Only a fool underestimates a kitchen witch—and Elder Lee is no fool.

  “Augusta, it’s time to go,” she says firmly.

  “It’s time for you to go,” Auggie answers.

  A shiver floats through the hallway, and Elder Lee’s hands twitch.

  But Auggie’s too fast. She snaps her fingers. Blue fire sprouts at her call, a greedy line leaping across the floor to Elder Lee’s feet. She scrambles back and Auggie snaps again, more fire blossoming like a flower along the worn oak floorboards, boxing Elder Lee in, keeping her from reaching Bette. She’s trapped...for now.

  Elder Lee’s eyes widen with rage, and she begins to mutter, her fingers sketching sigils in the air, but Auggie’s fire holds.

  She darts over to Bette, staring at the line of herbs dividing them. She holds her hand inches away from it. It sparks when Auggie pushes at it with her power, the air rippling and singeing, and the smell of burnt flesh—like before, when her chains melted—makes Bette’s stomach turn. Auggie straightens up. “Stand back,” she says, and Bette scrambles to obey, her heart in her throat.

  “This is not the way, Augusta!” Elder Lee shouts.

  “Your way sucks, Katherine.” Auggie shoots her a disgusted look, deliberately ignoring her title—a precise verbal blow before the real strike.

  Auggie swings her arm—and the skillet—back, and the air tastes different as Bette breathes it in—like rising bread and caramelized onions and bacon as it hits a hot pan. The skillet strikes the wards and they flicker, but they don’t fall.

  Elder Lee’s feeding power into them...that’s what the muttering’s about. Auggie’s eyes narrow and she snaps her fingers again, the flames leaping higher, the temperature in the room rising.

  Auggie swings her arm in three full circles, like a pitcher winding up to throw, and the skillet leaves her hand in a graceful arc, spinning in the air before its wide, flat bottom crashes against Elder Lee’s wards.

  They shatter, sparks of light dancing across the floor, and Elder Lee sags to the ground unconscious as Auggie’s fire dies out.

  “Come on,” Auggie says, picking up the skillet with one hand and reaching out to Bette with the other.

  Bette doesn’t take it. Who knows what will happen if she does? Who knows what magic is loose in her...what pun
ishment Lady Fate has wrought?

  “I’m scared,” she whispers.

  “Sweets, we can be scared together,” Auggie says. “But we can’t be scared here. Not anymore.”

  She’s right. They need to go. Elder Lee will come to before long. Then she’ll call the rest of them. She’ll call Bette’s mother. And the Elders will come for them.

  Bette still doesn’t take her hand, but she follows Auggie down the stairs and through the halls of her childhood home, knowing she likely won’t be back.

  Auggie’s Westfalia is sitting in the driveway, and she tucks the skillet away in the little kitchen in the back of the camper before getting into the driver’s seat.

  “Where to?” she asks Bette.

  “The mountain,” Bette says.

  Castella helped her once. She prays the mountain will answer her call again.

  * * *

  She has never returned to the circle of stones, not once since that night she burnt herself free. She’s never given out the location; never drawn so much as a crude map or scribbled down hasty directions.

  The Elders had demanded she do so. By then, she had learned she could say no. They had searched without Bette’s help, but Castella only reveals Her secrets to the worthy.

  Bette can feel the power rising as she steps inside the ring, Auggie at her side. Standing with her in the center of the circle feels both secret and sacred. Bette’s fingers itch to reach out and stroke the end of the gingham scarf knotted over Auggie’s hair, but she resists the urge.

  “Wow,” Auggie says, her voice hushed. The air around the volcanic stones ripples at the sound of her voice, like the fire in them recognizes the burning in Auggie. “You told me, but...” She holds her palms out, her eyes closed. “These stones have stories,” she whispers, sending chills down Bette’s back.

  Bette looks down, terrified that her own story is about to end. She’d ignored her fear on the drive and the hike through the forest. But now she’s here, in this special place, in Castella’s shadow, and she must face what Fate has done.

  With a shaking hand, Bette presses her fingers against the burnt skin on her wrists, searching within herself.

  Before, her magic had been bright, rushing through her like dawn racing across a field at daybreak. It had been tough and always trying to climb free, like wild grapevines twining up trees in the deep, cool parts of the forest.

  But now, her power is not bright. There’s a slick bubble of heat rising in her where light and forest should be. It is gummy and too hot, sticking to her bones like scorched jam, and her skin burns as blisters spread up her arm, swelling by the second.

  She’s making it worse.

  She snatches her hand away with a soft cry, and Auggie moves toward her.

  “No!” Bette stumbles back. “Don’t touch me. We can’t. We—” She looks down at her hands, and deep down, she knows. She has heard stories. Stories of what Lady Fate does to the disciples who reject Her gifts. Yet she’s still defiant as she reaches out and grasps a single stalk of the lupine that grows in clusters at the foot of the stones.

  She doesn’t even need to reach for her power. It’s there in her grasp, like it’s an old friend instead of a terrible punishment. The moment her skin makes contact with the flower, it wilts, the vivid purple fading to gray, and then there’s nothing but ash so fine it floats off in a breath.

  “I don’t understand,” Auggie whispers.

  “If you take from Fate, She takes from you.” Bette recites one of the edicts of their childhood, meant to keep naughty little witches in line, just like the leather cuffs and the Elders’ pursed lips and her mother’s disapproving stare.

  She looks down at her fingers, bitten nails and spidery knuckle hair. There’s a smudge of flower ash on her pinky.

  Before, her hands gave life.

  Now, they take it.

  * * *

  This is the thing about Augusta Bell: She never gives up.

  Bette’s numb as they sit in the circle of stones. Trying to settle into this fuzzy new reality of don’t touch anything or anyone ever and what am I going to do; who am I going to be?

  She has never been the kind of healer her mother was, never the kind of healer the Elders wanted to mold, but she had been a healer all the same. To have it taken from her, to have it replaced with this...

  Everyone knew of witches who were either born or cursed with the touch of death, but they were always spoken of in hushed, nervous tones. They are the very opposite of us, her mother once said, shaking her head as if the mere thought troubled her.

  Is Bette the opposite of herself now? Or is she who she’s always been: someone who chose the right path, not the easy one?

  Maybe those choices made her grow to a woman in a breath. They surely made her heart battle-worn and ready. But they made her her.

  They also made her Auggie’s.

  “We just need to think about this from another angle,” Auggie says, sitting down on one of the stones just feet away from her.

  Bette stares at her and then looks back at her hands. It’s like she’s naked without the weight of the chains. The metal fused to her skin feels strange. The gold doesn’t hurt, though the blistering around the metal does, and what’s left of her braids is cooler than the rest of her skin. She supposes she’ll get used to it.

  She’ll have to.

  “What angle?” she asks dully. “My hands kill things. What other angle can there be?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m trying to think about!” Auggie says, her eyebrows snapping together as the air flares with irritated heat. She has that look on her face. That I’m going to solve this with food or fury face, and any other time, it’d make Bette’s stomach flip and her cheeks flush, because she loves that look.

  Her cheeks do flush a little, but it’s not from the heat Auggie’s giving off. She wants to touch her so badly it hurts, and for the first time since...everything, Bette’s eyes well with tears.

  “Oh, sweets,” Auggie says. “We can figure this out.”

  “How?” Bette asks, because she wants to believe it, but she can’t see it. “What good is there in killing?”

  “I don’t know,” Auggie replies after a moment.

  “There isn’t any,” Bette says softly. “That’s why Lady Fate did this. It’s a curse. My punishment.”

  “No!” Auggie cries out, rising, forever restless. She’s always moving, kneading bread dough and Bette’s sore muscles, her fingers stronger than anyone’s. Will she ever get to entwine those fingers with Bette’s again?

  “This is not going to be a punishment!” Auggie declares, like just saying it will make it so.

  She tilts her face up to the sky, and Bette is so familiar with the curve of her neck, she could write an essay on the baby-fine curls at the nape that always escape her bandannas. But she has never seen her like this. Auggie raises her hands to the north, toward Castella’s peak.

  The air in the circle of stones ripples, the smell of rising bread and fury ripening around Bette as the stone she’s sitting on heats to the point that she scrambles off it.

  “Auggie,” she says, stepping back to the center of the circle. She hears it then—the laughter from before, when she cursed Lady Fate—and Auggie’s fingers clench, because Lady Fate’s mocking echoes in her ears, too. But instead of backing off, Auggie’s mulish expression grows even more determined.

  Bette’s eyes widen as the stones around them begin to glow red and the laughter in the air catches, just for a moment, as if in surprise.

  Lady Fate did not come expecting a fight. Not with something bigger and older than Her.

  Castella may have chosen to help Bette once, but Auggie is fire and warmth; she is hearth and home; provider and protector. And like recognizes like.

  Auggie is Castella’s true child. She has walked Her forest paths and
bathed in Her waters. She has never, ever forsaken Her or used Her ill.

  When Auggie lowers her gaze from the sky, in her eyes are the reflections of the fires of old: the eruptions that carved this valley and these mountains and their home millennia ago. The laughter fades, leaving a hovering sort of silence in the air, as if Lady Fate is waiting, holding back to see if they’ll swing first.

  “Come here,” Auggie says, and, as she did before when she broke Bette free, she holds out her hand.

  “I can’t,” Bette says.

  Auggie’s mouth twists. “Trust me.”

  Trust me. Love me. Choose me.

  She puts her heart and her self and her hands in Auggie’s.

  Auggie bends her head, and Bette’s stomach swoops as she feels Auggie’s lips against the gold chains fused to her skin, a sweet kiss dropped on each wrist. A sudden fizziness spreads from the touch, and something twirls awake inside her, something bright and holy. That dark bubble of heat in her chest does not roar to life, but instead, stirs, like a cat mildly interested in being petted. Bette looks down at her wrists, shocked to see that the blisters are fading, and the gold—rough and puckered before—has shifted, the edges now sloping and sharp, like a mountain range.

  Bette’s power has been contained. She can feel it. She knows it, because Auggie’s not turning to ash in front of her.

  Once again, Castella has freed her.

  It is a curse only if you let it be one.

  The voice is like the roaring echo of the water from Castella’s falls, like the dull breaking of a branch in the darkest, wettest part of Her forests. It sets Bette’s teeth on edge and soothes her like a hug.

  You broke free of their petty ideas before, my child. Are you strong enough to do it again?

  Bette takes Auggie’s hand, pressing their entwined fingers to her hip, where the soulmark is etched. “I love you,” she says solemnly. “More than anything.”