The Source (Witching Savannah #2) 7

A middle-aged man with an average build and thinning mousey brown hair that framed a friendly and guileless face stepped forward. In my mind, I labeled him Mr. Beige. “If it is all right with everyone, I will volunteer to speak for the group.” The fact that no one protested or even spoke up told me that this decision had long since been made, and that this was in fact nothing more than a show, probably intended to demonstrate how well the rest of the anchors played together. Yep. They were all about the collaboration. All about the team. Individuals need not apply. “Even though we each represent our respective families, we anchors like to think of ourselves as a family in our own right. A family of anchors.” He smiled, holding his hands out toward me. “On behalf of all of us, it is a pleasure to welcome you.” He didn’t introduce himself; no one did. I said nothing, letting the silence thicken around us.

“I regret that our first meeting should occur under the cloud of the regrettable circumstances your mother created.” He accented the last three words, an obvious attempt to goad me, but I didn’t bite. My failure to respond as expected affected his confidence. He seemed a little less sure of himself when he began to speak again. Small beads of sweat started to form on his upper lip. “It’s unfortunate that we had to step in. We merely did what we felt necessary to protect the line. We hope that you will understand that and put aside any ill will you may feel about the actions we felt compelled to take.”

“Tell me,” I said. “What is it you want from me? Are you looking for pardon? Because I have to tell you, I’d only consider forgiving you if I thought you wouldn’t follow the same course again.”

“Well, no,” Beige said, pulling himself up, the air of congeniality slipping away, “we are not looking for forgiveness. We did what we felt we had to do to protect the line.”

“And that makes the fact that you are all attempted mass murderers something I should overlook?”

The other eight began shifting, looking at one another. “I didn’t want anyone to come to harm,” a diminutive Asian woman said. The illusion of cohesiveness crumbled. “I didn’t want to interfere with your efforts.”

“Then why did you?” My own voice surprised me, a venomous hiss pinning the woman to the spot as I leaned forward and struck her with my eyes. “Why did you allow them?”

“I, I was outvoted,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“Listen,” Beige continued, trying to regain momentum, “none of us wanted harm to come to the people of Savannah. Remember we didn’t start the storm.”

“No. Emily did. She did it to prove a point to me. The point that you all would be willing to see an entire city wiped off the map. That you would be willing to bathe in blood, and would pat yourselves on the back for doing so.”

Beige looked around at the others. “This path will get us nowhere. We came here today because we want to put what happened behind us. Yes, you defied us, but we were perhaps in the wrong.”

“Perhaps in the wrong?” I spat back at him.

“Yes, from your perspective, we were wrong. Evidently from the line’s perspective as well,” he allowed, a trace of humility in his voice. “We don’t understand what happened. We know you don’t like the stance we took, but it’s the same stance we anchors have been taking since the creation of the line. And that stance is to protect the line at all costs.”

“Costs that others are left to pay. Well, this time the line kept you from standing on the sidelines and letting people get hurt. The line doesn’t seem to want the kind of protection y’all have been offering.”

With this, Beige’s bluster faded, and the real man stood before me. Middle-aged, balding, dressed in a tan suit and loafers, and suddenly faced with the possibility that for a good portion of his life he had been working under the wrong set of assumptions. “You seem to have a deeper connection to the line than any of us. You communicate with it. It interacts with you as if it were a living entity in its own right.”

It surprised me that my experience of the line was not common to the rest of the anchors, but I did my best to feign disinterest in his disclosure. It would not do to give too much away. “I never assumed it wouldn’t communicate with me.”

The other anchors looked at one another, and I could hear a buzzing of communication between them. They blocked my full comprehension, but I could still pick up snatches of their conversations. The words dangerous and control popped out at me. When the buzzing stopped, Beige addressed me. “We understand that for some reason the line has chosen you to enjoy a special relationship with it. We would like to better understand this relationship, but you must have your own concerns that you would like us to address. Perhaps you can tell us what you would like from us?”

I took a moment to consider. The truth was, all I wanted was for these witches to go away. To leave me and my family alone. To let us live out our lives in peace. But I knew that even if they promised that to me, they would be lying. The line had used me—no, it had used my son—to loosen these people’s stranglehold on it. They would grant me no peace until they could understand what had happened and find a way to dig their claws back in. I could read it in their eyes that this false promise of security was exactly what they wanted me to ask for. They thought I would trade what I knew about the line for their promise to leave me be. They could not have been more mistaken. “Just tell me the truth about one thing. What is the source of the line’s power?”

“I believe you already know the answer to that.”

“I’d still like to hear it from you. Come on. I’m an anchor now. I thought I had earned the right to learn the secret handshake.”

“The sharing of knowledge follows the gaining of trust,” Beige said, stiffening as if he had suffered a personal affront. “And sharing what you know about what happened to the line will go a long way toward gaining our trust.”

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

“Now you are just being childish,” exclaimed a heavyset woman with a thick Russian accent. Whatever she saw on my face silenced her. She stepped back.

“We don’t know,” the Asian lady spoke up. “We know that the line is stronger than before, but the magic has been modified. There has been a foreign strain added to it. It is somehow less ours.”

Less in their control, she meant. Beige glared at her, willing her mouth to close. “This foreign magic,” he said as he turned to face me, “it is not unknown to us, nor is it totally unrelated to our own. We encounter it occasionally in a burst here and there, but never in such a quantity or concentration as last night.”

Now he had my attention. “How is it related?” I leaned forward, straightening my back and tilting my head. My posture had betrayed my interest. That meant they would never tell me. I felt one pair of eyes pin me with more intensity than the others. Instinctively I turned toward a waiflike young witch, impossibly pale and fair, nearly androgynous with the scale leaning almost imperceptibly toward male. His eyes, white and devoid of either iris or pupil, fell to my stomach.

“The sharing of knowledge follows trust,” Beige repeated. His words were almost drowned out by the buzzing unspoken communications of the other anchors. Beige continued his soliloquy, but I tuned him out. I focused intently on the thoughts of the others, until the words Fae and infant and study twined together and became the common thread. The boy had made the connection between the magic and my son.