The End of Magic (The Witches of Echo Park #3)(46)

Lizbeth opened her eyes to find herself alone in a now-darkened kitchen, her arms folded on the granite countertop like a pillow, her head tucked inside them. She sat up and stretched, her whole body stiff. She looked around, but Tem and Hessika were long gone. She yawned and noticed something wet on her chin, but her fingertips came away clear and she realized she must've drooled a little while she'd slept.

Wait, I didn't sleep, she thought. I was just awake. I was talking to Tem and Hessika and then . . . this makes no sense.

She turned, searching for Dev's girls, but they weren't on the couch where she'd left them. No one was here. She was on her own. Just Lizbeth, alone, in a loft she'd hated since she was a child.

"I hate you," she said out loud. "I hate what you represent. What you are."

The loft didn't seem offended by Lizbeth's outburst. Instead, it began turning on lights, muting the darkness outside and bathing Lizbeth in pale yellow lamplight.

"I'm sorry," she said to the loft. "I'm just overwhelmed. There's so much emotion here."

I feel stupid talking to an inanimate building, she thought. I need to get my act together.

She pushed the bar stool back, expecting a loud screech as the metal legs scraped against the floor, but there was nothing. She squatted down but saw no wheels or padding to protect the wood. She stood up and rapped her hand against the countertop. Nothing, no hollow knock or resounding echo, only an absence of sound.

It was unsettling.

She began to wonder if she was asleep . . . in the dreamlands . . . in death.

The front door opened silently-and she would never have known had she not been staring at it when it happened. A moment later, her mother and Weir-a much younger version of him, at least-came into the loft.

Bit-na was carrying a grocery bag in one arm and a large purple purse under the other. She was above average height with a slender frame that made her look like a model. Her black hair was cut pixie short and she wore bright red lipstick but no other makeup. Dressed well-black linen pants, strappy leather sandals, and an asymmetrical, sleeveless cotton blouse-she was talking animatedly to Weir, who stared up at his stepmom adoringly.



       
         
       
        

Lizbeth could not hear what they were saying. The strange silence extended even to them.

I wish I could tell you both that I love you, she thought, staring at the baby version of Weir, her eyes filling with tears.

In this weird past/limbo/memory/dream state, her Caucasian half brother was probably no more than twelve, but he already came to Bit-na's shoulder. He had a shock of bleached blond bangs that fell into his eyes, the rest of his head shaved. He also had a brown paper grocery bag just like the one Bit-na carried.

If Weir is twelve here in this dream, I'm not even born yet, Lizbeth thought. This is pre-me.

This was before her parents had divorced and Bit-na had taken Lizbeth away. Before her mother had died, leaving Lizbeth at the mercy of a father who thought she was "retarded" (she had a visceral memory of her father spitting the slur out at her mother, a crying baby Lizbeth in Bit-na's arms). What she was watching now? These were the good days . . . before Lizbeth had ripped the family apart by being "different."

Lizbeth stared at the tableau, unable to move. She wanted to run to her mother and brother and touch them, hold them close one more time, but a part of her brain knew that this was impossible. What a shock that would've been, to have a gangling giant of a girl appear out of nowhere and pull you into a bear hug.

"That's not true, you know."

"What?" Lizbeth asked. She was so used to hearing her brother's voice that she answered him automatically.

"That you ruined our family."

She turned and saw the adult version of her brother standing beside her, leaning against the kitchen island. He was dressed in a pair of khaki cutoffs and a black T-shirt, his hair wet, as if he'd just come from a shower. He grinned at her.

"Weir?" she said, her voice cracking.

"I missed you, pipsqueak."

"I missed you, too," she said, letting him pull her into a hug.

He smelled like burnt leaves and metal. She was so happy to see him that she almost cried.

"I didn't mean to leave you guys in the catacombs. I didn't have any control over myself. I didn't know what I was doing. I'm so sorry-"

"Shhh . . ." he said, squeezing her tight. "None of it matters."

She nodded, letting his touch melt away her guilt.

"I get to be here with you now. That's the important thing." 

"It's true," she agreed.