Free The Witch Collector Part II by Loretta Nyhan Page B

Inside the box, nestled on a pillow of red velvet, lay Magda Dabrowski’s tarot cards.
    Heart pounding, I flew back down the hallway and into my bedroom. I shut the door behind me, soundlessly turning the lock.
    There wasn’t time to spare. I drew the curtains and grabbed the nearly spent blue candle from the table in the corner. I lit the blackened wick and placed the candle on the rug with the cards.
    I dropped to the floor, sitting with my back flush against the bed. Romany magic was strong—stronger than Miro’s and Shelley’s, stronger than my mother’s or father’s. I’d watched Seralina read cards twice, so the gift had to be in my arsenal. The only question was, how would it affect me?
    It was a risk worth taking. Romanies could read the past, present, and future in the cards. I had so many questions about all three.
    Placing a palm directly on the deck, I thought about Seralina and her method. I pictured it, practicing her ritual in my mind’s eye. Three cards to start, the heart of the reading. I shuffled the deck, cut it, and peeled three cards from the top.
    I cleared my mind and allowed one question to float through it: Where are they?
    I took a deep breath and flipped the cards over. The first: Three of Swords. Betrayal.
    My hands shook as I turned the second. The Devil. Ignorance. Was Gavin the devil in my life, or was my obliviousness the cause of all my problems? I needed the full story to know. I reached for the third card.
    The card felt warm to the touch, and nearly leapt into my hand. I turned it over.
    The Knight of Darkness. Death.
    With everything I had, I pushed my panic to the side. The magic stirred inside me, yearning to break free, and I had to make use of it. “Go ahead,” I said aloud. “Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something I can understand!”
    I spread my fingers over the cards. “I, too, am Romany now,” I said. “Show me.”
    The room began to spin. I shut my eyes, hoping to calm the whirling nausea inside me. Images spun behind my closed lids, too fast to be more than a blur. I smelled the ripe, earthy scent of the forest. I felt wet leaves under my hands where the cards had been. I felt the presence of others, close enough to brush against my skin. I smelled jasmine. I smelled my mother.
    I opened my eyes.
    Not only was I in the forest, I was in my forest. Back home.
    Greta’s body lay atop a white linen sheet on a marble bier, her blond hair spilling over the edge. The coven circled her, including my mother, who led the funeral chanting.
    “Mom!” I reached out to touch her, but I moved as a ghost through their bodies, my skin translucent, my words lost to the breeze.
    My mother grasped the turquoise talisman at the base of her throat. The earth cracked open, soil rupturing to produce a grave. The chanting grew in fervor, the coven clutching one another’s hands and circling the corpse. All but my mother.
    Her eyes were drawn to Greta’s neck, to the empty place where her talisman should lie.
    Mom floated to me, her feet barely touching the ground. Her eyes took me in like she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing. I felt her magic course through me, making a connection with the blood coursing through my veins. She smiled sadly and reached her hand out to tentatively touch my shoulder.
    I could feel her warmth through the thin cotton of my T-shirt. The connection between us steadied me and the tears started to flow down her face, down mine. “Send her off the right way, my daughter,” she whispered. “We show our love in life and in death.” Her image swam in front of me, my vision clouded by tears. I swiped at them with the back of my hand.
    And in that brief second, she disappeared. “Mom!” I shouted. “Come back!”
    Suddenly they were all gone, the entire coven, except for Greta. Poor Greta. My mother wanted me to do right by her. I stepped toward the bier and felt a pull, an internal tug, and I knew the magic was drawing me back to