We walked in silence as she clutched the banister of the staircase, her eyes glazing over occasionally, working through puzzles that only seemed to present themselves to her.
The kitchen was large. Far larger than was necessary. It spoke of parties and laughter - a time long since past. Because those things required safety. They required trust. They required family. And we had long since lost those. Now, I only had a handful of people I could trust, and they would barely fill the kitchen, let alone the vast entertaining areas within this house. The right thing - or smart thing to do would be to auction the house. But I couldn't bring myself to part with it. Not when the very ground here held so many memories and experiences, not when the soil had been seeped in my parents blood.
Call me sentimental.
The checkered tiles were so well polished that you had to be careful how you walked across it. A large island took up most of the kitchen and I gestured for her to take a seat against it on one of the bar stools as I grabbed the carton of milk from the fridge. She still wore a dazed expression, but complied, seating herself at the island.
At least she wasn’t arguing and thank fuck for that. I don't think I could have handled her impetulant nature right now.
As I heated the milk, I tried to temper my tone as I asked, "What spellwork did you do, and what was that thing that arrived when you started chanting?"
My tone still managed to come out as a growl, but when I turned towards her to offer her the mug of warm milk, she was smiling. Grinning actually. As if what I had just said was in some way humorous.
She must suffer from mental illness - institutionalized at some point perhaps? It was the only explanation for her child-like moods.
"What?" I barked out, making no effort to curb my tone. Her eyes flashed in challenge and I had to will myself to not simply march towards her and give her something to smirk about.
"Nothing," she shrugged almost nonchalantly, "I'm simply surprised that you're even acknowledging that what I did was real," she swivelled in her chair, quivering a brow in my direction. "I mean, wasn't it you who said that I was simply playing at being a - what did you call it?"
"Fine," I grunted, "you've made your point."
"No, but seriously - what did you call it?"
I gritted my teeth and glared at her for a long moment, whilst she in return simply grinned up at me. I wouldn't last a day with this woman, let alone three weeks. I wanted to ruin her just for questioning me. Just for planting that seed of doubt in my mind. But Beloski's did not ruin people on a whim, it was always thought out and calculated. And I was still Arlo's grandson. So, I spoke through my gritted teeth, "Vedman."
"Ah, yes," she leant forward, grabbing the hot mug, "the Russian word for Witch."
She sipped her milk, leaving a frothy white moustache above her upper lip.
"I like it," she offered, completely oblivious to her appearance - or perhaps she simply didn't care, "I like that name for Witch better than the others I've heard."
Ignoring her quip, I pressed once more, "The Magick…" I allowed the statement to linger, not accustomed to repeating myself.
Sighing, she finally offered me something to work with. "The first set of candles were essentially the preparation of a series protection spell - twelve to be exact."
She glanced up at me, a scowl creeping onto her face in frustration at my questioning. Well, right fucking back at you, Princess.
“The second set - the last two, were specifically keyed to you and Arlo. Where I imbued protective properties into your bracelets so the two of you remain safe from Magickal harm."
"From that Voodoo bitch," I confirmed.
Her lips thinned, tightening as she nodded.
"And the other spell - the one with the mirror?" I asked, watching her come back to life with each sip of hot milk she took.
"That was a reflection spell," she stared past me as she spoke, lost in her own thoughts.
"Hey, Bambi," I waved my hand in front of her face, annoyed that she wasn't giving me proper fucking answers.
Her eyes darted back to mine as she glared at me. "A reflection spell," she spoke slowly, annunciating every syllable.
"Fine," I ground out, "What the fuck does a reflection spell do?"
She smirked at me and I wanted nothing more than to punish her for her insolence. But she wasn’t one of my men, and she wasn’t part of my organisation, which meant that such punishment needed to be creative. My body roared to life, immediately on board with just the idea of meeting out her punishment.
"A reflection spell," she went on to explain, finally licking the milk off her upper lip, her tongue darting out quickly, "is a pretty versatile spell, actually. You can key it so that someone is forced to reflect upon their wrong doings and how their acts have affected others or made someone feel inferior."
That sounded terrible. The last thing I wanted was to reflect on my sins. I knew which side of the earth I would end up on, but hell didn't scare me. I was long past saving. A lot of men in my position confessed at church regularly, whereas I was grateful that my hands were bathed in blood. It made me feel useful - as though I were doing something that mattered. Because these deaths by my hands mattered. They mattered more than anyone could imagine. There wasn’t a priest alive that could help me atone for my sins, and so I welcomed my role as perpetual sinner in this world - and I refused to be remorseful about it - remorseful for the things I had done of this earth to not only get ahead in this life, but to survive and protect the small remainder of my family that I had - Arlo.