Prague Murder (11 page)

I was open-mouthed and stupid when my sister walked into the scene.

First she snorted.

Then she said, “Oh Rue. You know better than drinking Mom’s offerings.”

“I was distracted, Brawny,” I said, using the nickname she hated. We had terrible names. Veruca is horrible. But Branka—pronounced Brawn-kah was worse. She went by Bran and owned it, but Holy Hecate Goddess of Magic and the Moon, it was a terrible name. For sisters, we sure didn’t look alike, I had dark brown hair so deep and thick that it seemed to be almost black. My eyes were a similar deep, dark brown and tilted. My skin was goth pale. I was slender, almost without curves. I looked like a yoga master or a dancer, but I only liked to run. As far and as fast as I could. Bran, on the other hand, was a short, freckled, handful of curling red hair, green eyes, and curves. Everything about her screamed adorable except her personality that was all of jagged edges.

Bran was as cute as a button, and she hated it. Just thinking about that made me smile my own cold spread of lips and teeth.

“I believe you would prefer Grace,” Mother said in a way that demanded an answer. She was very, very good at truth seruming her children and then conversing in a way that made the truth serum more effective. If there was a bit of a question behind the statements you made, the truth serum made you want to answer. If people asked outright questions, the need to reply pounded at the self-control of the poor, drugged victim.

“I don’t want to go to Grace College,” I told my mother, precisely. “I don’t want to go somewhere that is yours. I want to be myself. Not be defined by who my family is.”

That meant my mom. And Mother’s snake smile chilled. I could see that cold, distant part of her stir, and then she smiled again, and I admitted to myself that I was going to Connecticut to get away from her. I loved her, and I loved my family and my island, and my coven, but I needed to be somewhere where being Autumn Jones’s daughter wasn’t my defining characteristic.

She wasn’t pleased with my answer, but she said nothing. And then later, she didn’t come with me to the docks when I caught the ferry to the mainland and then had to take a bus to the airport. I was traveling from the San Juan Island’s in Washington State to Connecticut, and my mother couldn’t be distracted from the potion she was brewing when I left. I wanted to be fine with it, but it hurt my feelings.

A lot.

I knew that I was ignoring her wants and desires for my future, but surely even she could see that it was my life.

Apparently not.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I had told myself it time and again, but I told myself right now.

Our family was complicated. My Dad was sweet and affable. He worked hard and adored my sister, myself, and my mom. I didn’t understand why. He was like a puppy dog in a house full of snakes. Branka was tricky, sneaky, underhanded and morally challenged. My mother didn’t even pretend to have morals. She taught us spell work by describing an “arsenal” of spells, and she wasn’t joking around. I could do spells no other witch my age on the island could do. But I couldn't talk to cats like nearly all of them learned when they were pre-pubescent.

I didn’t know what I was, but I knew I didn’t want to be what she was. I suppose that hurt her, but Hecate’s eyes, what could I do about it? Give in and become the cold, calculated witch that my mother was?

I shook myself from my reverie and turned to my sister and Dad. So, this was what homesickness felt like. As if snakes and lizards and had taken up residence in your stomach while your heart physically hurt and your eyes burned with the need to cry.

“Bye,” I told my sister as we faced each other on the docks. Daddy stood to the side, watching us with this sweet heartbroken smile that was too painful to examine.

Bran scowled at me, staring at a point just beyond my shoulder.

“Shut up,” I said, wishing we could just fight. But we couldn’t.

“You’re just going to be a phone call away, witch,” Bran said. I didn’t need to see the tears in her eyes to know she was burning with them. She was my sister. We were witches. So I knew exactly what was going on inside of her head. But she wasn’t a crier. She was more of an enacting destruction-er.

“Now girls,” Dad said. He hated to hear us fight, even if we were just messing around. Or fighting out of reflex so we wouldn't cry.

Neither of them had said anything about my leaving so early.

They knew why I was going.

“Bye, sneak,” I said again and turned into Dad’s arms. He gave me a squeeze so tight, it hurt, and I wanted to beg him not to let me go. But of course, I also didn’t want that. He kissed my cheek and then because he was perfect, he left me to my sister.

Daddy was affable, jolly, kind. He worked hard for his family and adored us. He was far, far too good for any of us. And because of that and because everyone else who knew all of us wondered why he stayed, they assumed he was stupid.

He wasn’t.

He knew exactly who he loved and why we were the way we were. And he knew why I was leaving, why I was going to college across the country, and why I was going so early. And despite his utter and complete adoration of my mother, he supported those choices without ever saying one word.

Branka—my sister—it was different for her and me. Dad chose our life. Bran and I—there weren’t any choices. The madness of our life was simply what we had.

But Bran took my farewell in. I watched her grit her teeth as she controlled whatever she was feeling. All hidden away. Mysterious and dramatic at the same time. But when she spoke, it was what I expected.

“If you come back or regret this, Veruca Jones, I will punch you so hard that you feel it in previous lives.”

I took that to mean that she loved me.

I loved her right back.

When your mother was Autumn Jones, only someone who had been spawned by the same snake could understand you. Which was why I was going to miss Bran so hard. I punched her arm and then when she was fully scowling at me, I hugged her so hard it hurt my arms to hold her that tight. When the hug came to its horrible end, I hugged her again.

And then left without saying anything else.

You can find the rest of Rue’s story
here

Author’s Note:

My gratitude again goes to all those who help my books to come to life. To my family and friends and those people kind enough to read the roughest of my drafts and help me to sort them out. Thanks so much Pamela Welsh, Emily Pavlina, Auburn Seal, and Louisa Lechner. Yet again, I could not have done it without you.

There is much more gratitude to be given to the people in my life who make it better everyday. I am a blessed individual and am well aware how lucky I am to have such wonderful people in my life—especially the biggest blessings a mother could have. My four beautiful babies. They’re too little to know it now, but every word I write is intended to make their life a little better.

I am also grateful to each and every reader who gives my books a chance and looks for something to enjoy. Thank you for letting someone like me reach into your life and share the worlds and people that grow in my head.

~Amanda