change. “No, sir. I have my car.”
“You live far?”
I shook my head. “No, but it took me a long time to get here this morning.”
He picked up his coat. “It’s late, and Taran obviously didn’t share that he’s grounded, so I’ll follow you home.”
There was no arguing with this man. That was clear. I wanted to stay and help protect Taran, but I could only hope his father being home would do the trick. That and the saltpeter and dill, because he made us pick up the gargoyles.
Taran and I exchanged numbers before I left, and I caught his dad watching him out of the corner of my eye. There was something in his expression that made my heart ache—a weird mix of exasperation and yearning when he looked at his son. He made me wonder what it would be like to have a father. It wasn’t the first time. Shame still ate a hole in my chest when I thought of all Mom’s boyfriends over the years and how many of them I tried to use as a replacement. She’d once told me I ran them off before she could.
Mr. Breen, or Grady, didn’t give Taran and me any time to talk alone. Frustration kept me quiet and I saw my feelings mirrored in Taran’s expression.
We needed to figure out what was happening with that hammer.
Grady Breen followed me all the way home, even though it took nearly an hour to get there in the snow and traffic. He didn’t leave until I waved safely from my open doorway.
I hurried into the house, my bag clanking against my hip, shivering because the power was still out, and I could see my breath in the air. Thankful that Raven always insisted we keep the garage stocked with propane for emergencies, I pulled out one of our old camping heaters and set it up in my bedroom. I could keep the door cracked for ventilation.
Forgoing what was sure to be an icy shower, I changed into two pairs of pajamas and Raven’s robe. While the water heated for tea—this one chamomile and mint—I hauled a bunch of Mom’s spell books onto my bed so I could look for something that might explain how someone else called Taran’s hammer. I was starting to get really scared that it could be my mother, though I could not come up with one reason why.
My hands started to ache with cold, and I remembered that my mom had a stash of fingerless gloves in the top of her closet. Her room smelled kind of funny, so I looked under the bed, opened all the drawers, but she had so much crap for spells stashed everywhere, all the scents started to meld.
I sneezed.
Giving up on the smell, I reached into the top of her closet, grabbed the gloves and the yarn caught on something—something that crashed onto the floor and spilled everywhere. I knelt and grinned at the tiny, black rocks.
“Black salt,” I murmured. “Perfect.”
Despite the weird odor in the room, I could easily pick up the nose tingling mix of iron and black pepper. Mom had used scrapings from a skillet—which would normally be a bad thing—but not this time. For the first time in days, a light filled my heart. Black salt worked as powerful protection and because my mother had made it, it would work twice as hard against her if she tried to do harm. I scooped all the granules into a vial and stashed it in my bag.
Before I settled with my tea and books, I huddled in front of the heater, pricked my right finger and let three drops of blood fall onto my left middle fingernail. It was an old trick my mother had taught me years ago—one I should have remembered to try the night before. The drops would form into a shape...or a clue. As I watched, the blood moved, merging into a rune. One that resembled a
P.
Thurisaz.
I frowned because that could mean anything. In some cultures, it represented frost giants. In some, or really all, it meant something dangerous or bad. Trials and tribulations, or natural force devastation, which was so obviously going on that wasn’t any help. Sometimes the rune was used in stories of Loki. Most of the time, it was about Thor and his
“You live far?”
I shook my head. “No, but it took me a long time to get here this morning.”
He picked up his coat. “It’s late, and Taran obviously didn’t share that he’s grounded, so I’ll follow you home.”
There was no arguing with this man. That was clear. I wanted to stay and help protect Taran, but I could only hope his father being home would do the trick. That and the saltpeter and dill, because he made us pick up the gargoyles.
Taran and I exchanged numbers before I left, and I caught his dad watching him out of the corner of my eye. There was something in his expression that made my heart ache—a weird mix of exasperation and yearning when he looked at his son. He made me wonder what it would be like to have a father. It wasn’t the first time. Shame still ate a hole in my chest when I thought of all Mom’s boyfriends over the years and how many of them I tried to use as a replacement. She’d once told me I ran them off before she could.
Mr. Breen, or Grady, didn’t give Taran and me any time to talk alone. Frustration kept me quiet and I saw my feelings mirrored in Taran’s expression.
We needed to figure out what was happening with that hammer.
Grady Breen followed me all the way home, even though it took nearly an hour to get there in the snow and traffic. He didn’t leave until I waved safely from my open doorway.
I hurried into the house, my bag clanking against my hip, shivering because the power was still out, and I could see my breath in the air. Thankful that Raven always insisted we keep the garage stocked with propane for emergencies, I pulled out one of our old camping heaters and set it up in my bedroom. I could keep the door cracked for ventilation.
Forgoing what was sure to be an icy shower, I changed into two pairs of pajamas and Raven’s robe. While the water heated for tea—this one chamomile and mint—I hauled a bunch of Mom’s spell books onto my bed so I could look for something that might explain how someone else called Taran’s hammer. I was starting to get really scared that it could be my mother, though I could not come up with one reason why.
My hands started to ache with cold, and I remembered that my mom had a stash of fingerless gloves in the top of her closet. Her room smelled kind of funny, so I looked under the bed, opened all the drawers, but she had so much crap for spells stashed everywhere, all the scents started to meld.
I sneezed.
Giving up on the smell, I reached into the top of her closet, grabbed the gloves and the yarn caught on something—something that crashed onto the floor and spilled everywhere. I knelt and grinned at the tiny, black rocks.
“Black salt,” I murmured. “Perfect.”
Despite the weird odor in the room, I could easily pick up the nose tingling mix of iron and black pepper. Mom had used scrapings from a skillet—which would normally be a bad thing—but not this time. For the first time in days, a light filled my heart. Black salt worked as powerful protection and because my mother had made it, it would work twice as hard against her if she tried to do harm. I scooped all the granules into a vial and stashed it in my bag.
Before I settled with my tea and books, I huddled in front of the heater, pricked my right finger and let three drops of blood fall onto my left middle fingernail. It was an old trick my mother had taught me years ago—one I should have remembered to try the night before. The drops would form into a shape...or a clue. As I watched, the blood moved, merging into a rune. One that resembled a
P.
Thurisaz.
I frowned because that could mean anything. In some cultures, it represented frost giants. In some, or really all, it meant something dangerous or bad. Trials and tribulations, or natural force devastation, which was so obviously going on that wasn’t any help. Sometimes the rune was used in stories of Loki. Most of the time, it was about Thor and his
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