For a moment she stayed where she was, drawing in deep breaths, trying to calm herself. The way the magic buzzed through her right now, she worried she might tear the kitchen apart without lifting a finger.
“Listen, Fiona.” Dayna paused as the kettle began to rumble, pulling it off the stove. “Are you going to be seeing Dr. Roth now that you’re home?”
Fiona nodded, glancing down as Dayna slid a mug of tea across the table to her. “Yes, your father set up an appointment for the end of the week.”
“That’s what I figured.” Dayna scowled, wrapping her hands around her mug. “Look, you’ve got to convince him to get you outside help. Dr. Roth isn’t going to be better than camp; he’s just another church lackey. Trust me, I’ve been to him before and he’s useless. You need a secular counselor, one who asks questions other than how high when Dad tells him to jump.”
There was a shuffle from the doorway, and Dayna turned to see her father standing there in his dressing gown, his brow furrowed with irritation. “Dayna, finally. I told you, I want you home by ten. There’s a killer on the loose, and you’re out running around with your friends until past midnight.” His voice was getting louder. Dayna stood up, snatching her bag off the floor.
Of course he would ruin this, just when she was getting to speak to Fiona. “We were discussing the fact that you’re saddling her with Dr. Roth. That’s not good enough.” Her anger leaked out, making her words sharp.
“Go to bed, Dayna. Tomorrow we’ll discuss you ignoring your curfew.” He glanced sharply at Fiona. “Both of you. You should be sleeping.”
Dayna took a step toward him, suddenly furious. “She’s an adult. Your wife, actually, and you’re treating her like a child.” Before he could reply she turned and marched into the hallway.
The reverend followed behind her. “Dayna, you can’t just walk away whenever you don’t like something.”
She stopped just around the corner, turning on him, keeping her voice low. “Was there abuse at camp? Is that why you pulled her out?”
“What?” The reverend looked shocked. Dayna didn’t think the expression was fake. “Why would you ask that?”
“She has bruises up her arm.” Dayna frowned at him. “You really didn’t notice?”
The reverend sighed, rubbing his eyes with a finger and thumb. “Oh, yes. Yes, I— Those are old. She fell during camp activities. Your mother bruises easily.”
“Can you not call her that?” The word rattled in her ears; it didn’t feel right. “It’s…just Fiona. Fiona is fine.”
“She is your mother.” The reverend’s expression hardened for a second, and then he just looked exhausted. “Look, she needed help, and that’s why she went to camp. But she’s okay now. Things can go back to normal.”
Normal. As if bringing this stranger into their house was going to make things normal. The lies he told himself to ease his guilt…
Dayna narrowed her eyes, watching his face. He was avoiding her eyes, she realized.
“She’ll be kept to a strict schedule here and won’t be leaving the house. Eventually, when she feels up to it, I’ll take her to church.”
“Seriously? You’re going to treat her like a prisoner? That’s your solution?”
“She’s doing so well. This is the best way to make sure she keeps up with her medication.”
“The best way is to get professional help. Not Jesus camp, and not locking her up.”
“She doesn’t need outside help. She’s fine now.” The reverend was getting that look on his face again, like he was shutting down. It made the ever-present coals in the pit of her stomach flare to life, burning her insides.
“Are you sure about that? It looks like she’s not sleeping.”
“Dayna, that’s enough.” He stepped closer, clearly frustrated. “I know you insist on questioning me at every turn, but—” He paused, and then leaned forward so quickly that Dayna took a step back, startled. “Are you drunk?”
Shit. The tea. She probably smelled like booze.
“Dayna Walsh, how dare you sully this house with—”
She was already turning, halfway down the hall toward her bedroom. “Forget it. I can’t talk to you. I’m going to bed.”
There was a thump behind her, and her father’s stern voice. “I wasn’t finished. You’re grounded for a month at least. Don’t walk away from me, Dayna.”
She jerked to a halt in the doorway, feeling her heart stutter in her chest.
The memories flooded back without warning. The long arguments with her father, she could be fixed, she could be helped.
The men in dark suits at the door, there to convince her she could be cured by the church’s camp program.
Talking turning to fighting. Dayna trying to leave the room. Her father yelling.
Don’t walk away from me.
One of the men had blocked the door, and the other grabbed her. Fingers bruising her arms, faces full of righteous anger.
She’d screamed as they dragged her down the hallway, cried out for her father. The reverend had followed, watching them drag her away. His face had been pale and strange in those few, horrible seconds, his eyes glassy. She’d screamed a second time, trying to wrench out of the suited men’s iron grasp, and her father jerked as if he’d been stung. Finally he’d called for them to stop. He’d sent them away and collapsed, trembling, into the chair at the kitchen table, hand over his mouth.
It was too late. She’d seen the blank look on his face. He’d been on the brink of turning her over. Letting them take her away.
Now for one second, two, she stood frozen in the doorway. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many terrible, angry things.
Instead she turned and kept going, letting the bang of the bedroom door do the talking.
On the other side she paused, breathing hard.
The rush of adrenaline made the magic flare momentarily, hot and bright. Dayna staggered forward, socks sliding on the wooden floor. She gaped down at her hands.
For the moment her father was entirely forgotten.
She’d seen the other witches make things float, pencils, erasers, coins. She’d watched jealously, wishing she could access the power to do actual spells. She’d memorized the spell in preparation for this, had always known it was the first thing she’d do. But pencils and coins seemed so small compared to the sheer amount of power rushing through her.
If this was only going to last three days, like Yemi had said, then she might as well use it.
She fixed her eyes on the heavy wooden dresser beside the door and cupped her hands together, fingers woven through one another as she’d seen Yemi do. Heart thumping, she whispered, “Bogadh,” and inwardly pushed. The dresser tilted wildly on two legs and shot sideways, scraping across the hardwood floor. She grinned and then winced as it slammed into the door and wobbled onto its front legs with a bang. Everything on top crashed to the floor, spilling bottles of nail polish, aspirin, and a half dozen partially full bottles of nasal spray.
She flinched and went still, expecting footsteps on the stairs, or her father’s voice through the door.
There was nothing.