Dark Secret (Darkhaven Saga Book 1) Page 4

  I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection. I’m exhausted, but I don’t look it. That’s the beauty of ingesting a healing potion. My skin isn’t dull, my eyes aren’t sunken, and those tiny bags that have plagued my existence ever since I sensed the incoming darkness are finally gone.

  I pull back my hair, brushing it to one side with my fingers, and wince when they catch in a tangle. I gnaw on my lower lip as I assess the damaged goods. The potion did a fairly good job healing my wound, but a scar remains. I was silly to think Mamá’s magic could completely erase the two puncture marks and the crescent-shaped spattering of tiny teeth indents.

  I stand straight and allow my hair to fall back into place. When it hangs over my shoulders, you can’t see the scar. But I can feel it. And it feels like failure. I wasn’t defeated last night, but it sure feels like I was. I should be happy that Liv and I survived and took out three vampires, but I can’t focus on that. I can only focus on my mistake.

  My heart sinks every time I think about the vampire I let escape. His crimson eyes haunt me even now. When I close my eyes, I see his.

  I shake away the vision of him staring back at me and try to refocus on my own reflection in the mirror, but all I see is myself with crimson irises, pale skin, and a bloodstained chin. I’m smiling, and my teeth are tinted pink with the blood of a fresh kill. Fangs hang prominently, and I run my tongue over them, enjoying the way they feel when they scrape against flesh.

  I curse and smash a balled fist against my glass mirror. It breaks under my fury. Small chunks fall from the wall and land on the countertop. Cracks spread outward from the point of impact, fanning into a spider web that distorts my reflection.

  Good. I don’t want to look at myself anymore. Even so, I find myself focusing harder, trying to make the pieces of me fit again.

  Shaking my head, I finally tear my gaze away from the mirror. I can’t keep staring at this reflection. It’s not me. The girl who looks back with a hint of deviousness in her eyes is not me.

  My hand aches, so I check the damage, choosing to focus on the physical rather than my mental distress. Small slashes are scattered across my skin, but the wounds aren’t deep. They’re more of an annoyance than a real concern. They’ll scar and become further evidence of that horrible day.

  I swipe the shards of glass into the waste bin and rinse off my hand before stripping and stepping into the shower. As the water swirls down the drain, I stare at it as if I could be hypnotized into a better place. Perhaps a beach? I close my eyes and imagine the grains of sand beneath my feet. The air is heavy with mist and a hint of salt. Seagulls flock in the distance. My toes burrow as I walk closer to the water, and I keep walking until waves splash at my heels.

  Eyes open, I’m back in my bathroom. I rest my palms against the wall to support my weight and watch the water pool at my feet. I wonder how long I can stand here like this before someone comes looking for me.

  After I’ve finished getting ready, I set out to find Liv. She and I need to talk about the events of last night before we inform her parents that I’m a horrible influence on their perfect daughter. I cross my fingers with hope that Mamá hasn’t already called them.

  I tiptoe to our guest bedroom and peek inside—only to find it empty.

  “Liv?” I whisper as I enter the room and close the door behind me.

  The bed is made, so I can’t tell if someone has recently slept in it. Liv is a guest in our house; she would have made the bed after she woke.

  In search of more clues, I tiptoe over to the bathroom and knock on the door. No one responds. I whisper her name, but again, no one responds. Feeling confident I’m alone in the room, I twist the knob and peer inside. The room is empty—so is the trash can. I saunter back into the hallway, closing the door to our guest suite behind me.

  Has Liv been sent home already? We haven’t even been able to talk about what happened last night or how she should break it to her parents that she killed a vampire while on an ill-advised patrol. I don’t have to be a spirit witch to foresee their disappointment in both her choices and our friendship. They will not be pleased with her decision to hunt last night because they’re all about coexisting.

  Peaceful relationships might work in the movies, but not in Darkhaven. That realization hits home every time. I wish Darkhaven were the place we could all get along. If it were, Mamá and I wouldn’t be alone in this house.

  Exhaling slowly and a bit overdramatically, I prepare to face the inevitable. I take the stairs two at a time and stop at the landing. Spinning on my toes, I follow the smell of breakfast, noting how empty each room is as I make my way deeper into the house. I’m surprised it’s not busier. I could have sworn I heard a commotion downstairs while I was getting ready. Our coven mates should be here. After the events of last night, I slept in, and now we’re mere hours from the ritual.

  “Buenos dias, Mamá,” I say when I enter the kitchen. It’s not exactly morning anymore, but I did just wake. The greeting seems fitting.

  She doesn’t respond, and my mood instantly spoils. I wasn’t in the best mood to begin with, so I really don’t want to deal with a lecture. I need high spirits for tonight’s full moon ritual.

  I glance at the clock. I have just enough time to eat and meditate before the ritual. There really isn’t enough time for a lecture, and I hope Mamá knows that.

  “Yo preparé el desayuno,” Mamá says, and I inhale deeply, trying to see if my sense of smell can detect what she cooked before she tells me. My stomach grumbles. She made my favorite. Maybe she’s not mad after all.

  “Gracias, Mamá,” I say, thanking her.

  I open the cabinet to find a plate and peer around the room as I close the door. We’re alone. For now. I pile a healthy serving of chorizo and eggs and fruit onto my plate.

  “Quieres tortillas?” she asks. Mamá prefers to eat her eggs with tortillas, but I don’t. She asks me if I want some every morning, without fail, even though I always say no. The thought makes me smile.

  “No. Gracias.”

  We eat in silence, and with each passing second, the questions begin to pile up. Where is Liv? Did she go home last night, or did her parents pick her up this morning? Did Mamá tell them what happened? Are they angry with her—or with me? Do they blame Mamá for my escape? And where is everyone else? Our coven should be preparing for the ritual. Abuela, my grandma and the high priestess of our coven, should be here.

  But I’m too scared to ask these questions. I’m almost too scared to speak at all, for Mamá is not known for her silence.

  “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Mamá,” I say finally, after an unbearable amount of time has passed and we can’t possibly sit in silence any longer without me losing my mind.

  “Lo sé,” she says.

  That’s it? That’s all she’s going to say? That she knows? My frustration is boiling within me, and it’s only a matter of time before it bubbles over.

  “Donde esta Liv?” I ask. If she’s not here, where is she? Mamá must know.

  She doesn’t answer. I suppose she doesn’t need to. Liv’s gone home. Where else would she be? But I want to talk about it, and I want to talk about what happened last night. I’m sure Mamá knows that, which is why she’s ignoring me now. She doesn’t like talking about the dark feeling I have, because she doesn’t sense it. She thinks I’m young, a novice. If she hasn’t foreseen it, then I couldn’t have either. She thinks I’m misinterpreting the dreams and my feelings, and that makes me so angry. She gives me no credit for all I do for Darkhaven. I’ve killed dozens of vampires on my patrols. I might have saved hundreds of lives!

  “No puedes estar enojado conmigo para siempre!” I shout.

  Mamá drops her fork. The metal clanks against her plate, and the noise radiates through our silent home. I sink a little farther into my chair.

  “Perdóneme?” she asks. “What did you just say to me?”

  “You can’t stay mad at me forever, Mamá,” I say, repeating
myself.

  She reaches across the table, her hand striking out far too quickly for my tired eyes. The moment her palm makes impact against my cheek, tears begin to burn, but I refuse to cry. Instead, I feign shock, disbelief that she would slap me—even if I did deserve it.

  “Don’t you ever again speak to me that way. You are a child. You do not tell me what I can and cannot do,” she hisses.

  “Lo siento,” I whisper, apologizing.

  “After our ritual, you will answer for your disobedience, mija. I told you not to go hunting. You did not listen!”

  “Neither did you,” I say softly.

  “What did you say?”

  I can practically feel the anger in her words. I’m pushing boundaries I should never even touch, but I can’t help it. I’m hurt and angry that she doesn’t trust my power enough to believe me. That stings more than my reddened cheek.

  “I told you about the darkness, Mamá. You didn’t listen to me!”

  “Eres un niña! Que puedes saber?” she shouts.

  Finally, she’s honest with me. It has nothing to do with believing me and everything to do with the fact that she didn’t foresee darkness so there must not be anything to worry about. I can’t possibly be stronger than her. Well, I may be a child, but I’m a strong witch, and I know when spirit is speaking to me.

  “You will not blame this on me, niña,” she seethes.

  “I’m not blaming you, but you have to understand why I didn’t listen to you. Something is coming, Mamá, and it is my duty to protect this village and our coven.” I use her words from last night against her. It’s a petty move, but my pride is wounded.

  “I don’t want to talk about this, mija,” Mamá says sternly.

  “But Mamá—”

  “Cállate! Go prepare for the ritual,” she orders, and there is no point in arguing.

  Without a word, I nod and walk down a long hallway and step into a small room, closing the door behind me. I inhale deeply as I walk through a cloud of sage smoke. During each esbat, Mamá cleanses our home and ritual room, leaving fresh sage burning all night. The smell is overwhelming to some, but I love it. It feels like magic, and magic is empowering.

  Mamá already dressed the room just as she does for every esbat, a celebratory time for witches. The air is filled with sage, and rose petals and mint leaves trail the floor against the walls. Crystals and herb bundles clutter the altar. The room’s magic feels like it’s seeping into my skin.

  I walk straight for the corner meditation area. Runes for magical guidance, psychic awareness, and spiritual protection are painted on the walls that frame a plush cushion.

  Sitting cross-legged, I glance around the room. Before I begin my meditation, I try to clear my mind of lingering thoughts and negativity. Meditating immediately after an argument isn’t always easy, but I don’t have time to simply walk off the fight and come back later. Our ritual will begin soon, and I need to be ready.

  I close my eyes, clear my thoughts, and stow away the doubts to be confronted another day. One by one, in ascending order, my chakras begin to open.

  My root chakra glows bright red and is found at the base of my spine. It governs my connection to the world and my fundamental needs, like food and shelter.

  I rub the tips of my index fingers with my thumbs, concentrating on the soft sensation that radiates from that spot every time I circle my fingertips round and round. I imagine myself being connected to Mother Earth, her power flowing through me, giving me strength to survive the coming hours.

  My sacral chakra glows bright orange and rests just below my naval. It is intimately involved with my creative process and imagination. Mamá believes my sacral chakra is unbalanced and that’s why I’m foreseeing darkness.

  I gently caress my hands together, holding them out directly in front of my sacral chakra. Even though I find no imbalance, I spend extra time here just to appease Mamá later.

  My solar plexus chakra glows bright yellow and sits just above my naval. This chakra has an important role in mental and spiritual awareness. Without balance, embracing and understanding experiences would be difficult.

  Raising my arms, I place my hands parallel to my solar plexus, letting my fingers intertwine. I focus on my naval opening, allowing the incense in the room to heal my inner turmoil over last night’s disappointment.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I stop for a moment and inhale deeply. The sage’s smoke flows through me.

  My heart chakra is by far the hardest to open. It glows bright green and is located at the center of my cardiovascular system. The heart is intimately connected to the organs around it and is crucial to my survival. But on a spiritual level, an unbalanced heart chakra makes it difficult to form emotional connections. Ever since I lost Papá, I have had to regularly realign my heart chakra. His death left me closed off to others—something I struggle with daily.

  To realign my heart chakra, I lower my left hand to my knee and my right to just below my breastbone. Inhaling deeply and slowly, I envision the tangled mess and smooth out the nicks. I smile from the familiar inner tingling of a realigned chakra.

  My throat chakra glows bright blue and, naturally, is located in my throat. This chakra governs self-expression and communication; a blockage can cause emotional isolation and the inability to effectively express feelings. Usually I have no issues conveying my thoughts, but after last night’s blunder and this morning’s argument, I can feel it growing increasingly more unbalanced.

  After imagining the constricted muscles moving freely, I am able to easily move on to my favorite chakra.

  The third eye chakra glows bright indigo and lies between my eyebrows. This chakra is in charge of insight and intuition on both spiritual and mundane levels.

  As a spirit user, I’ve always been able to connect easily with my third eye, the source of a psychic’s power. This chakra aids me in my prophetic dreams, even if Mamá doesn’t think I’m strong enough to experience a real vision.

  No alignment is needed. My third eye opens and closes easily and on command. I am connected to it in ways I can’t quite articulate to Mamá or anyone else. So I move on to my final chakra.

  My crown chakra glows bright purple and sits atop my head. This chakra is arguably the most important one, because without every other chakra balanced, the crown chakra cannot serve as my connection to the world—both physical and spiritual. A healthy crown chakra creates a sense of well-being, peace, and confidence.

  With my chakras open, cleansed, and realigned, I compel them to close, one by one.

  By the time I’ve finished, Mamá comes for me as if she could sense my meditation completion.

  “It is time,” she says.

  Chapter Five

  Mamá enters the room dressed in a burgundy cloak—traditional witch attire for rituals—and closes the door. In her hands she holds another cloak. This one is meant for me.

  “Bring me the sage,” she says as I stand.

  I carry the burning bundle of white sage from the altar and bring it to Mamá. I wave it back and forth, up and down the length of her body, cleansing her aura as preparation for the ritual. When I’m finished, I hand her the sage, and she uses it to cleanse my aura just as I used it on her. Cleansing with sage is essential to our rituals. We cannot enter circle with negative energy.

  “Quitate la ropa,” Mamá says, and I nod as I begin removing my clothes.

  Tonight, she is not my mother. She is the daughter-in-law to our high priestess—Abuela, my grandma. Mamá is the successor to leadership of our coven, and it is her duty to ensure I become high priestess one day too.

  My throat is in knots, even though I finished my chakra cleansing mere minutes ago. I swallow down my nerves and ignore the goose bumps that form. I brush off the physical side effects of anxiety and continue prepping for our ritual.

  Mamá covers my naked body with the cloak and buttons it closed from breastbone to midthigh. When finished, she spins me around and places a bowl of dried rose
petals in my hand. She twists my hair into a long braid, and I hand her petal after petal as she threads the pieces of flower with my hair.

  “Hemos terminado,” Mamá says, and I nod my understanding. We’re finished prepping for the ritual, which means it’s time to begin.

  Turning on her heel, she leads us out of the room. I glance out the window as we pass. Those not privy to our witchy ways are continuing on with their lives. The distant amber lights of humans in households light up the night. I envy them. Humans never fear for their lives the way witches do. Ignorance truly is bliss.

  We step onto the back porch. Our property borders a ten-acre nature preserve, and that small forest outlines our backyard clearing. It hides our rituals from neighbors and offers the idea that we’re truly in the middle of nowhere. If we could whisk away to complete our rituals, we would, but a gathering of people looks less suspicious in someone’s backyard than in the middle of the woods.

  In the middle of the small clearing, our coven mates stand in a circle. Thirteen witches in total stand arm’s length from each other. I shiver at the sight of them. They’re perfectly illuminated by moonlight, and they stand within a circular barrier made of moonstones. The opalescent color of the crystals reflects the moonlight perfectly. They shimmer, and even glow, in the night. We use these crystals for every moon ritual as our way of honoring the moon’s strength and power.

  At the very center of the circle, there is an altar carved from a one-hundred-year-old oak tree that had to be cut down one year. We were devastated to lose such a precious gift from Mother Earth, but we didn’t let her sacrifice go in vain. We kept the stump and use it in every ritual.

  Even now, it is adorned with various ritual tools—something to represent each element: crystals for earth, candles for fire, incense for air, a chalice for water, and a small cauldron for spirit. Two other items decorate the top of our ritual altar: a bundle of sage, which remains lit and smoking throughout the duration of our ritual to continuously cleanse our space, and a large moonstone sphere to represent the moon.