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Chapter Seven: Housekeeping - Part One
Pennyroyal Plant: (Mentha Pulegium) This highly pungent mint plant is used as a culinary herb, as a tea, and in folk medicine. In certain magics, this plant is used as an herbal bridge between the land of the dead and the land of the living. In its most concentrated form, it’s highly toxic and potentially lethal. Not recommended for children or women who may be pregnant.
Rowan
Rowan sat in the lobby on a big, soft, broken-in chair, staring out at the blizzard still raging outside the hotel, a mug of strong, brandy-spiked tea in his hands and one of his favorite books in his lap.
He’d been surprised to find the little-known work on his bedside table after breakfast. How the hotel even knew about it, much less was able to procure it, was amazing.
Yet Rowan found he couldn’t keep his mind on the story. In front of the full-length lobby windows, his eyes kept drifting outside. He’d always liked storms, the dramatic power of them. They seemed to call to something deep and hidden within him.
This one was wild, whipping waves of white snow about the mountainous region in glorious dips and arcs. The few barren trees scattered about the horizon bent and swayed to the wintry wind’s every whim. Every once and a while, he imagined he could see tundra-tough creatures—thickly furred with snowy pelts—scurry to shelters out of the storm.
He marveled at their tenacity. And their will to survive in the face of the vast, harsh wasteland.
“I’m sorry,” a voice said, interrupting his thoughts.
Rowan turned and saw Mei standing just behind him. He set his tea on the table beside him. “Mei.” Concerned, he stood, urging her to sit in the comfy chair. “Are you all right?” She looked harried and pale, absurdly dressed in a thin, knee-length dress as she stood barefoot in front of him. Her black eyes were wide with a dazed sort of panic. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Rowan,” she repeated as he all but pushed her into the chair. “I don’t mean to bother you.” She stared up at him expectantly, desperate hope achingly obvious in her gaze.
Rowan swallowed hard. “You’re not,” he assured her. He coughed awkwardly. “Is there something I can do for you?” He really didn’t know what he could do though. He could call for Lenten or Flax or someone, but really that was about it.
With a sudden rush of movement that about bowled him over, she grabbed the front of his sweater and jerked him close to her as she knelt on the plush cushion. “You have to help me,” she begged, pulling him close to her. “I need your help.”
Patting her hands, he tried to sound soothing. “Please, um, calm down, Mei. What’s wrong?”
Without warning, she released him, making him stumble and trip backward even as she turned away from him. “My time is almost up,” she whispered so softly and so broken, he almost didn’t hear her. “I can feel it.” Her hushed voice was rasp and hesitant as if it were a struggle to say each word. She turned back to him, her reaching gaze as tangible as touch. “But you can help me. You have to.”
“How?” he asked, perplexed by her words. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re magic,” she said confidently.
He squirmed as she tilted her head and studied him intently. “Calla told me. A Drury. Very powerful.” She nodded. “You’ll help me.”
Rowan choked. “My family—my ancestors,” he corrected, “they were descended from magic, from the Old Ways.” He shrugged helplessly. “But we’re hardly practicing today.” He shook his head. “I mean, we do a bit of ritual and ceremony out of tradition’s sake, but nothing serious. Just enough to honor the curse.”
“You’ll help me,” Mei repeated confidently, making him wonder how she could be so sure.
He shook his head again. “I’ve never even done a spell. Never said a chant or mixed a potion.” It’d been too dangerous, what with his luck. He’d probably end up screwing it up, like botching a spell to help with his finances and ending up with stolen money and a jail sentence to boot.
No, best to leave the magic to the others. “I’ve never done anything. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Please.” She stared at him with disappointment and despair. “Help me.”
He wished he could. He did. “But I don’t know how.”
“Try,” she said. “Anything. I’ll take anything.” Her voice drifted, sounding far and detached like an echo stuck behind her barely parted, pale lips.
He suddenly had a flash, a brief memory of a dream, of his mother with the same pleading look on her fae-like face. Rowan, help us. Save us. We need you
“Please.”
Without thinking—before he could even wonder at the wisdom of such a decision—Rowan nodded solemnly. “I’ll try,” he added quickly, wishing he could make a better promise. But he couldn’t, not without feeling like he was lying. But he could—he would—try.
So with a final nod, he left her there in the chair, backdropped by the raging storm, lost against the whipping white.
But, by the time he’d reached the staircase, he’d already begun to regret his choice. What could he do? He was a Drury, yes, a magic by blood. But he was the Widdershins! His brand of magic was managing to inexplicably trip over his own bloody feet all the time so no one else had to. What good was he going to be to Mei?
Rowan sighed. He wished his father was here. He’d know what to do.
But he wasn’t.
So Rowan made his way alone to his room to think. Opening the door to Suite 113, a faint dusty scent hit him, the oddly earthy odor assaulting his senses as he turned on the light.
He scanned the room, feeling an unfamiliar presence around him. But the room was as it should, just as he’d left it last. Shrugging off his unease, he settled down on his bed and reached for the book he’d been reading the night before.
But there, next to the bedside lamp, the glossy, paperback novel he’d been reading had been replaced by a old, leather bound tome. Reaching out a curious hand, Rowan sat up and studied the book.
He made a small, surprised sound when he saw the title. The Bridges Between, A Mystic Map the golden, embossed lettering on the cover stated
Hmm.
Parting the yellowed pages to a bookmarked place, Rowan began to read.
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