The Price Guide to the Occult(60)

Nor stared down at the blackbird tattoo etched onto Reed’s arm. She thought of the blood that had dripped from Gage’s ears and the puckered pink scar that would forever mar Pike’s face because she hadn’t been able to heal him. She thought of the inexplicable light that had poured from her hands, and the way her mother had unraveled before her eyes.

Above them, two blackbirds fought over a strand of algae tangled in the branches of an apple tree. “I should get Grayson home,” Reed said after a moment. He leaned down to kiss her. She raised her lips to his and wondered if he knew, like she did, that it was likely for the last time. She had to break up with him. Like it or not, whatever path she was on would continue to be a dangerous one. He deserved to be protected from her, from what might yet come.

Nor watched him leave, prepared to bite her tongue hard to keep from crying out. But though it felt like her heart had been punctured, she was startled to find she no longer felt the impulse to spill her own blood or to taste it. Even the scars on her wrists, ankles, and arms were silent.

This pain seemed content to remain where it belonged.

Inside, Nor found an idyllic scene, so contrary to the mess still left outside. In the parlor, Dauphine and Everly shared the last few pulls from the bottle of scotch. Wintersweet sat next to the fire crackling in the hearth, quietly combing burrs out of Burn’s thick pelt. Gage and Reuben sat on one of the tufted Victorian couches with their muddy boots propped up on the coffee table.

“You missed some when you washed up,” Apothia said, reaching over to wipe a bit of blood from Nor’s cheek with the sleeve of her sweater. She motioned upstairs. “Your grandmother wants to have a look at you.”

Nor climbed up to the Tower’s second floor. Along the walls hung portraits of the Blackburn daughters. Nor felt their scrutiny and imagined their gazes alternating between pride, sympathy, and disappointment.

As revealing as portraits could be, there was also much they could conceal. The color of Greta’s wild red hair was lost in her black-and-white photo. In a Kodachrome snapshot, Fern looked like a nice girl without a care in the world. Nor wondered what her own portrait might hide from the innocent viewer.

She stopped into the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face. She looked in the mirror. Her hair was tangled and singed. She tried to pull her fingers through the knots, but strands broke off and fell to the floor like dried straw.

She gathered her hair — what was left of it — against the nape of her neck and began rifling through drawers until she found what she was looking for.

“Are you sure you want to chop it off, just like that?” Gage was standing in the bathroom doorway.

“Yes, I am,” Nor said defiantly, then reached back and hacked through the thick ponytail with the scissors. Triumphantly, she held it up, then dropped it into the sink. She turned her head and examined her handiwork. The left side seemed to be a bit shorter than the right, but it would have to do for now. At least Judd couldn’t accuse her of hiding behind her hair anymore.

“You should have asked Savvy to do it for you,” Gage said. “It looks like shit.”

“That’s possibly the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Well, now I feel extra accomplished today.” He took a slight bow and smiled.

Nor thought of all the injuries he’d sustained trying to help her — the broken fingers, the burn on his arm. She thought about how he had trudged through that flooded room, had upheld his promise to get Sena Crowe and Savvy home safe. She thought about the smear of blood she had left on his neck, like a lipstick kiss, the remnants of a lovers’ tryst.

“Look, about when I kissed you —” Nor started.

“You thought you were heading to your death,” Gage cut in. “It was a natural reaction. It could have been worse. If I hadn’t been there, you could have ended up tonguing Sena Crowe instead.”

“I did not tongue you!” Nor insisted.

“There was some tongue.”

Nor laughed. “Shut up.”

Gage smiled, holding out his hand. “It didn’t count. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” They shook hands, and Nor was relieved that he let go first.

Across the hall, in Judd’s room, Nor found her grandmother standing at a window, smoking her rosewood pipe. The room, full of large masculine furniture and rich-colored fabrics — all dark greens and scarlet reds and chestnut browns — had always made Nor feel particularly small. Today was no different.

Nor’s grandmother led her to a worn leather couch. Nor sat down next to Antiquity. The old dog’s dream of running through the forest wasn’t quite as winsome as one of Bijou’s dreams, but it was a pleasant one nonetheless.

“Let me get a look at you,” Judd said in her gruff way. She gripped Nor’s chin with her large fingers and turned Nor’s head one way and then the other. She examined Nor’s hands, but nothing was left to heal. Those particular wounds had stopped hurting hours ago.

“I met my father,” Nor blurted out.

That caught Judd’s attention. “I suspected you might. Is he still alive?”

Nor shook her head.

“That’s probably for the best.” Judd grunted.

“Do you think she loved him?” Nor asked. “Do you think that’s what caused all of this?”