The Price Guide to the Occult(48)

Nor had heard stories of how the pairing of a Blackburn daughter and her Burden might be made. Seeing Reuben with the little fox made Nor wonder if her Burden — her first Burden, that is — had come from her grandfather’s natural gift with animals. Perhaps she was more connected to her grandfather than she had previously thought.

“He has a good point, you know,” Gage said from the doorway. He’d wiped the blood from the side of his face. “I don’t remember you being able to do a few things I saw today.”

Shit, Nor thought. She stared down at her hands, the blisters glistening underneath the greasy balm. “I can explain —” she started.

Gage cut her off. “Since when did you start using black magic?”

“It’s not black magic!” Nor insisted. “There are things I can do, and I can’t explain why I can do them. I’ve tried to ignore them, but sometimes things just happen.” Nor bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “But it’s not black magic. I’m not my mother.”

“I never said that you were.”

Nor looked up, startled. “You believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You said sometimes it just happens. Like when?”

Nor thought back to when she’d fought off her mother’s fern. She’d been scared then, just as much as she’d been when she saw Madge’s hands wrapped around Gage’s throat. And she was scared whenever she saw a lie. “I guess it mostly happens when I’m scared,” she said.

“Have you ever healed anyone before?”

“A few times,” she admitted. “I’ve never been able to do it on purpose before, though.”

“And the scream?”

“I have no idea what that was.”

“Sounded like the scream of a banshee.” Gage nodded knowingly. “The last Blackburn able to harness that kind of power was Rona.” He leaned against the doorframe. “So what else can you do?”

“Obviously nothing!” Nor blurted. “I couldn’t save Madge. We barely got out of there alive. And as for that scream, I have no fucking clue where that came from and even less of a clue on how I could manage to do it again! What else can I do? I can’t do anything!”

Gage stared at her. “And to think, I was almost impressed by you,” he finally said humorlessly. “Word of advice? I wouldn’t go showing just anyone what you can do. Not everyone is as open-minded as I am.”

He left, and Nor swiped at her wet eyes, her old scars screaming so loudly she could barely hear anything else. According to the myths, a banshee’s scream was an omen of death. The thought that, in this case, it could also be the cause of it was terrifying. She stared at those sharp tweezers on the edge of the sink. It would be so easy to just reach over, grab them, and hoard them in her pocket for later, when she was alone. She used to do that all the time. How many times had she waited until Apothia’s back was turned to filch one of the steak knives from the wall? Nor’s hand moved toward the tweezers. She watched her fingers close around them. She thought about Madge and all the ways she’d already failed today.

She hurled the tweezers across the room.





Pike and Sena Crowe leaped from the vehicle as soon as the yellow Jeep pulled up in front of Reuben’s cabin. Pike was barely through the door when he grabbed Gage by the front of his shirt. “What the fuck, Gage? We told you to stay put.”

“We handled it, okay?” Gage spat, struggling to free himself.

“Yeah, you handled it all right, cuz. A woman is dead, her business destroyed. Not to mention you put Nor at risk when it’s our job to keep her safe.”

“Wait, it’s not his fault,” Nor protested. “I was the one who —”

“No,” Gage interrupted. “He’s right. It was my idea.” He looked at Pike. “You’re just jealous you missed all the action.”

“You’re a real moron sometimes, you know that? I mean, I knew you were a dumb ass, but you put Nor — and everyone else — in danger today.” Pike glanced at Nor and shook his head. “The fury the Giantess is going to rain down on you.”

Before they left Reuben Finch’s house, Nor took a last look at the picture of that little girl hanging on the wall. Neglect had clung to Nor like a bad smell back then.

On the drive back to the compound, she thought of the lumpy sweat-stained mattress she’d shared with her mother; she thought of how incense from the Witching Hour had filled her little room and made her cough. Mostly, however, she thought of Madge.

Madge hadn’t grown tired of Nor the way Fern often did. Fern had delighted in Nor’s presence one moment and then thought her a pest in the next, like a tiresome puppy. Children, like puppies, required care. Caring for something had never been Fern’s strong suit. Fortunately for Nor, she’d had Madge.

Madge had given Nor a book of fairy tales for her eighth birthday and read to her sometimes before bed. Madge’s favorite had been the story of a woman determined to rescue her child from the cold clutches of death. It was a story of self-sacrifice and unconditional love, but what Nor remembered most was the illustration of the poor woman crying her eyes out — her eyes literally dropping, like pearls, out of her head and into a great lake. The ending hadn’t been a happy one.