Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(28)
Yes, everyone knows that only the most powerful witches can perform magic without a cauldron, but it isn’t like there is anyone out there who still thinks social media is real. “Everyone knows socials are staged.”
“Juniper hasn’t fully translated it yet.” She glanced down at the book, gnawing on her bottom lip. “What if it’s a curse?”
That was the boogeyman myth parents told their little witches to make sure they didn’t practice magic before they were licensed, that this spell just might be the curse that hurts your family. It was as big a tall tale as the story that Santa is a gift-giving alien instead of a mushroom-smoking nudist with a serious addiction to Oreos.
“Curses, the serious scary kind, aren’t any more real than the Council,” I say. “Anyway, unless you’ve become Mom-level powerful overnight, it’s not like you have enough juice to cast a serious spell on your own, that’s why you guys work the circle for the big magic.”
Effie nods in agreement as I climb up on top of the table to start at an angle above my sister. The hesitant expression on her cherubic face disappears as my logic sinks in, and she gives me a jaunty wink before starting to read.
“Maxime qui diligitis,” Effie says as I shoot video. “Haud custodiant”—she exhales a breath, cocking her head to the side, obviously working out the archaic pronunciations—“ut ex illis nocere se defendat, et ad gelu et transit usque ad periculum.” She looks up at me and mugs for the camera, making a perfectly adorable can-you-believe-this face. “Tempus esse casum vocabis eos et glacies.” She starts twisting her curly hair around one finger, a sure sign that she’s gone into super concentration mode. “Tempus quis sustin—no. Tempus quis cusstane—no, that’s not it either.”
I squat down, putting my elbows on my knees to act as a witch tripod as I get Effie in profile. “What kind of Latin is that?”
“That stilted kind. There’s no romance, no lush texture, no sweep you up in the magic and whirl you around until you feel like you’re flying. There’s just . . .” She lets out a huff of breath that sends all of her curls swirling around her head.
Her hair comes to rest at weird angles that look a little like horns. Because I’ve learned my lesson from the face incident with Mom, I reach out to smooth an errant ringlet back into place.
My fingertips brush the shell of Effie’s ear as I tuck the curl behind it just as she says, “Tempus quis sustinebit.”
There’s an audible pop, like a champagne cork. Then, Effie’s eyes go wide as she looks at me in shock and confusion. The sharp, citrusy, fresh-lemon-zest smell of Effie’s magic mixed in with buttered popcorn fills the air.
“What did you do?” Effie asks.
I don’t have time to answer even if I knew what is happening, because a boom of thunder in the library shakes the books off the shelves and knocks the family portraits hanging above the stained glass windows askew.
“Tillie,” Effie says, pressing her fingers to her cheeks, “I feel so cold. I’m—”
She doesn’t finish the thought—she can’t. Ice crystals start to form on her eyelashes. Her lips turn blue. Her already pale skin goes even whiter.
She blinks once, twice, and then on the third time, a thin layer of ice appears over her skin.
Then another.
And another.
And more, one right after the other, faster than I can breathe, faster than my frightened heart can beat, faster than I can even react until finally Effie is frozen in place, encased in a sheet of ice that looks like it was poured over her, catching her mid-question.
Panic and horror grab me by the throat. “Effie!”
I grab the ice surrounding her, trying to break it apart with my bare hands. I scream for help as I attack the ice, beating it, pulling at the corners, tearing at the thin but unbreakable layer of ice covering her from the top of her curly hair to the tips of her hot pink painted toenails. My hands are frigid, my fingertips starting to turn blue and my nails broken, by the time the initial terror recedes enough for me to realize I can’t strong-arm my way in to save Effie.
“Mom!” I try to scream, but it comes out as a whimper. “Mom.”
I run through the house, doing my best to scream her name. Catching a glimpse of Mom’s signature blond topknot, I veer into the kitchen, trip over something in the doorway, and land with a hard thunk on the floor. When I look back to see what in the world knocked me off my feet, my stomach sinks to the earth’s core. Barkley is in the middle of the doorway, frozen just like Effie. Even though I know what I’m going to see, I force myself to stand up and look around the room. Mom and Dad are by the cauldron, peeking into its depths, little smiles frozen on both their faces. Bea, Juniper, and Leona are at the table, ice covering them from top to bottom, in the middle of a tarot reading.
“Mom,” I beg, still hoping against hope that she can hear me, that this isn’t real, that I haven’t just done this to my family.
She doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
No one can.
“What in the hell have I done?”
But there’s no one who can answer the question.
Usually we only do magic in the kitchen by the family cauldron as it bubbles and hisses. We each have designated spots, even me, who does nothing to help. I stay over in the corner with Barkley while the rest of my family forms a circle around the cauldron, standing in order of oldest to youngest and holding hands. The power of touch amplifies spells and eases the energy suck of performing magic by dividing it among each member of the circle.