Scythe and Stone
by Oracleholly
Title: Scythe and Stone
Author: Oracleholly
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Summary: When her brother is murdered, Annelie Bostian decides to find out why and subject the killer or killers to her own brand of justice. With the help of her unique family, Annelie searches for answers and perhaps uncovers some secrets she may wish she’d never learned.
Disclaimer: The characters in my story are wholly owned and created by me. Any resemblances to any person(s) real or created in other pieces of fiction are purely unintentional. While the character of Annelie does not consider herself to be a practitioner of Wicca, she does adhere to some of their practices. I am neither a Wiccan nor a practitioner of witchcraft, so please excuse any errors along the way.
A/N: Tremendous thanks to both and for their betaing. This will be a long fic, so I will be taking advantage of posting post-Sept 1st.
Chapter One
It’s ironic how a simple thing like a phone call can have such an enormous impact on a life. Think about it. Phone calls burst through our collective lack of attention spans demanding that they be answered. The messages they contain can then alter an answerer’s mood, plans for the day, stress levels, and more. Of course, Caller ID has changed some of that. An unrecognized number may get screened, while a recognized one may or may not. However, when the answerer is too distracted to pay attention, as I was, the message of the call may come out of the blue and shatter a piece of one’s world.
I believe I stared at my cell phone for at least two minutes, wondering absently if I even said, “Thank you” before I had hung up. To say I’m unnerved only scratches the surface of my emotions. A piece of myself that I had long thought locked away and buried in the recesses of my heart had just been dredged up, exposed, and laid to waste.
“I’m sorry to inform you, miss, that your brother was found dead this morning. We would like to make arrangements with you to come and make a positive identification…”
I must have blanked out for a few moments, because the next thing I remember was the detective repetitively calling my name, each time more insistent than the one before. After a few more exchanges, this time with me actually participating albeit on autopilot, I now find myself staring at the phone, wishing that I could alter the fabric of time.
Well, actually, I could if I put my mind and effort into it, but I would not do such a thing – no matter how badly I may want to at times. Many people wish they could fold reality back like the character of Samuel Beckett and “make right what once went wrong.” However, true temporal fold spells have resulted in more harm than good and have thus been outlawed for some time now.
So, my brother was dead, and, from the pulsing vein in the center of my forehead, I just knew the supposed accidental death was anything but. No, I had picked up the detective’s undercurrent thoughts, and even he had more questions than what his superiors were allowing him to ask. Even if I had not sensed what the detective wasn’t saying, just the circumstances themselves would have told me the same. Alex was murdered, plain and simple.
I sink into the welcoming embrace of my favorite chair as the wave of pain from the loss finally, truly hits me.
Alex is, or rather was, a brother to me in circumstances only. He and I had long ago declared ourselves brother and sister at one of many foster homes we shared. So, while we were not blood relations, for the longest time, Alex was the closest thing to family I had ever known. After my ‘mother’ took me away from the foster homes, I had tried to keep in touch with him. However, in the past decade, distance had come between us, or so I had thought. It appeared as if Alex had kept better tabs on me than I had realized seeing as how the detective knew my name and direct number.
My amber pendant warms the hollow of my throat, and I clutch it for security. It too serves as a link to family though I rarely use it these days. Mother must have sensed my anguish and confusion and wished to send me a sign that she would be on her way. Despite the recent strain in our relationship, I am glad she is coming. I would need her help…hers, and maybe my aunts.
Stroking my pendant for comfort, I am once again thinking about Alex. Poor Alex. Alex had been a chubby boy at the age of twelve when I had met him on the front steps of the home we would share for the next five months. His unwavering gaze of curiosity held my own as I stumbled to keep up with the latest in the unending line of foster dads. The tugging on my arm had prevented me from asking him what his problem was. I, myself, was known as a troublesome eleven-year-old with a mouth on her.
After- I think it was Marie and Robert - showed me where I would bunk, I slipped out to find the boy on the steps. I eventually found him hiding in a nook in the back yard, and immediately gained his friendship by punching him hard in the nose.
He hadn’t cried which made me mad. I liked to make the boys cry, but this one decided to get some of his own back by throwing a meaty fist at me. Being street-wise at the ripe old age of eleven, I ducked it and laughed. He wiped the blood from his nose and buried his fists in the pockets of his pants.
After a few tense seconds, I had made up my mind. Sticking out my tiny hand, I offered it to him. “Hi. My name is Annelie. Don’t remember my last name. Don’t care to. What’s yours?”
Gauging whether or not my move was a trick, which I have to confess impressed me the most that day, Alex finally took my hand in his own and shook hard. “I’m Alex. Don’t hit me again.”
“Oh, come on. You started it.”
“Did not. How can you say that?”
“You stared at me.”
“When?” Alex asked.
“When I got here, dummy,” I sassed.
“Well, duh, have you looked in a mirror lately? What kind of outfit is that? And what’s with your hair?” Alex ventured.
Determined not to get angered by his ignorance of cool clothes – they were my only good clothes, so I deemed them cool – I swallowed my first response. Instead I answered him almost politely, which I think scared him more. “These are what I have left. I like to put my hair up in little knots, it’s just easier.”
“Okay, what happened to the rest of your clothes?”
“This stupid boy at my old house burned them.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“No big. So, Alex, what are Marie and Robert like? Are they total losers or what?”
During the next month, we became inseparable, and one night I woke him up to sneak up to the attic. I had pilfered several tea-light candles, stones, beads, a scarf, and feathers and had arranged everything in a big circle. I sat Alex down on opposite of where I would sit and then walked to a big crate for the paper, pencil, and matches I had stashed there earlier in the day.
Sitting down across from Alex, I smiled at his wide eyes. I took a match out of the packet and folded the cover. Casually flicking the match against the strike pad, I was able to use the flame to light five of the candles before having to blow it out. A second match finished the remainder.
“Give me your left hand.” I told Alex.
“Why? What are you going to do? What’s all this?” he stammered.
“Just give me your hand, you big dope. I’m not going to bite you.”
Alex extended his left hand over the circle, and I grabbed it with my own left. With my right I took the scarf and wrapped it loosely around our wrists, making sure the fabric was well out of the way of the flames.
“Do you trust me, Alex?” I asked, yearning for a positive response.
“Sure, Annelie. I do, but what are we doing?” Alex asked again, beads of sweat had formed on his brow.
“Do you want to be my family? Would you like for me to be yours?” I questioned softly, my eyes lowered.
“Yeah.”
At the serious change in his tone, I ventured a glance at his face. He understood. I wasn’t marrying him or anything like that. This was for me and him, and nobody else.
I can’t tell you why I thought of the items I did or how I knew to draw a sacred circle. I just did. But in that candle-lit attic, in that circle with our hands bound by a borrowed scarf, Alex and I formed our own family. I swore to him I’d be his sister to the death and back again, and he swore he’d be my brother to the death and back again.
I was too young to know of the Rule of Three or any other rules. My instincts guided me, and for the most part, they still do. According to my adopted mother and my aunts, I am a natural born witch. Despite the nature of my adopted family or things I’ve seen in my thirty-three years, I don’t believe in re-incarnation or past lives, but I have to admit, at times, I just know things I shouldn’t know. My little ceremony for Alex and me as kids was just one in a very long list.
I glance at my watch and frown at the time. Got to get moving. There are things I need to do before mother arrives.
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