She knelt next to Luc and touched his burning forehead. “Luc?”
His lips moved soundlessly. Beneath his fluttering eyelids, his eyes rolled wildly.
“He’s fading,” Cricket said.
Anouk stroked Luc’s forehead. Being a witch came with great power, but it didn’t come with obvious answers. She’d thought that once she was a witch, casting spells would be as automatic as breathing. That she’d somehow simply know what life-essence to consume and what words to utter. But as she took Luc’s weak pulse, she felt almost as uncertain as she always had. She knew dozens of spells, but she didn’t know which one would work best, and she didn’t have time to try them all.
“Anouk?” Beau asked softly.
She cleared her throat. “Where’s Luc’s stash of herbs?”
Cricket hunted up Luc’s knapsack, and Anouk dug through his jars of herbs and dried flowers. She thought back on all she’d read in the Cottage library about poison. There was one particular spell that drew out poison like salt drew out moisture, but it required a complicated combination of life-essences.
Something breathing, something bleeding, something blue.
It was time to be a witch.
Chapter 36
“Viggo, get me a few drops of blood,” Anouk ordered. “Put it in that mug. Beau, there’s a stuffed peacock in the storerooms. Bring me one of its feathers. A blue one. And someone catch one of the flies buzzing around the pizza box.”
Her friends set to work. Hunter Black searched for something to prick Viggo’s finger with and found a safety pin attached to a nineteenth-century gown. Beau disappeared to the back rooms and returned with the feather; it smelled like a musty sweater, but the iridescent barbs hadn’t lost their blue sheen. Cricket, with her nimble hands, made quick work of trapping one of the flies. She cupped it in her hands. “Do you need it squished or still buzzing around?”
Anouk felt a flutter of regret. “Squished.”
Cricket smacked her hands together and then dropped the dead fly in the mug. If they’d been Goblins, they would have poured out a sip of tea in honor of the insect’s sacrifice, but as it was, Beau just let out a small sigh. Viggo added his blood and Anouk mixed it with cherry blossoms, then used one of the long white owl feathers to paint a line of the mixture from Luc’s heart to his left hand, whispering as she went. Finally, she pricked the center of Luc’s palm with the safety pin. A black, putrid-smelling liquid oozed out.
Slowly, Luc’s fluttering eyes calmed. He blinked hard a few times before turning his unfocused gaze on Anouk. He squinted at her healed arms.
“Dust Bunny?” A weak smile, followed by a faint knowing laugh. “You brilliant thing. You’re magic.”
She took in a sharp breath. To the others, it must sound like a simple enough comment, but it went beyond that. Just over a year ago, days after she’d been made human on the floor of Mada Vittora’s attic, she’d found Mada Vittora’s collection of wands in the back of the witch’s closet. The delicate one made of ivory. The heavy one of iron. The wooden ones, some of which still had knots and forked branches. She’d played at being a magic handler herself, pointing the ivory wand at the shoes in need of cobbling, the clothes in need of mending, the dresses in need of washing, pretending that magic would spring forth and do her work for her. Mada Vittora had caught her, of course. Anouk had frozen, terrified. But the witch had only laughed at Anouk’s silly games, stroked her hair, then taken the wand out of Anouk’s hand and replaced it with a feather duster.
Here’s your wand, my pretty little beastie.
Luc had been watering the houseplants at the time. He’d overheard it all. That evening, he’d found Anouk dusting the library, took the feather duster out of her hand, and replaced it with one of the books from the shelves.
What’s this? Anouk had asked.
You don’t need a wand to cast magic, he’d replied. This is all you need. Books. Stories. Imagination. You’re magic, Dust Bunny, as long as you have those.
And now here he was, one foot in the grave, and those words meant just as much to her now as they had then.
She cupped his cheek. “Luc, you’re safe. I drained the poison.”
He closed his eyes for a long time. A pained look crossed his face before he said, “Of course you did. Of course you did.”
He opened his eyes and smiled.
She tried to help him up, but he winced and shook his head. “Wait. Attends. It’s going to take me at least as long to crawl back to life as it did to get so close to death.” He eased himself back into the sarcophagus. His breathing was labored. When she gave him a concerned look, he responded with a weak laugh. “I just need rest.” He eyed her closely. “You’ve got dust on your face. No, don’t wipe it off. I like that you’re still you, even as a witch.”
She told them about Jak and Stonehenge and enchanting the bathroom door into a portal back and how it felt to be remade top to bottom by magic and how she now understood why Mada Vittora had been so arrogant (the sheer potential at her fingertips) and yet so callous (because no power was limitless, and not even witches were spared from making mistakes).
“You need a moniker,” Luc said.
Beau and Cricket and Hunter Black turned to her, interested to hear what she would say. Mada Vittora had been the Diamond Witch of Paris. Mada Zola had been the Lavender Witch of Montélimar.
Anouk lifted her chin. “The Gargoyle.”