Black Magic Sanction. Ким Харрисон

ignored it as Ivy sat close, like it was Christmas.

      The box was light and kind of dusty, as if it had gone from my mom’s attic, to the moving van going out west, and then right back in a mail truck to me. The last two boxes had been the same way. “I really doubt it’s more Nancy Drew,” I told her as I took the knife she handed me. Good grief, she’d brought a knife in for the tape.

      “It might be,” Ivy said. “Volume fifty-two is missing.”

      Oh, my God. Ivy is a closet Nancy Drew fan! Those books hadn’t gone to the brat pack—they were probably under her bed! Amused, I set the knife on the dresser table and smiled at her eager expression. Her hands were carefully in her lap, anxious. I could have teased her about it, but seeing any happy emotion on her was precious. She actually sighed when I opened up the box and leaned to look in.

      “It’s my camp stuff!” I exclaimed, taking out my mom’s handwritten note to see the accumulated bric-a-brac underneath.

      “Oh look!” Ivy said brightly. “There is a book!”

      My gaze lifted from my mom’s letter, and I smirked at her as she reached for Nancy Drew, volume 52. “You opened it up already, didn’t you!”

      Ivy wouldn’t look at me. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I open your mail?”

      “Mmmm-hmmm.” HI, RACHEL, I read as she flipped through the dog-eared pages as if it were a lost book from the Bible. I FOUND THIS WHILE MOVING IN WITH DONALD. IT WAS EITHER THROW IT AWAY OR SEND IT TO YOU. MISS YOU, MOM.

      Setting the letter aside, I smiled. Most of what she’d been sending me had been junk, but this … I gazed into the box. Okay, this was junk, too, but it was my junk.

      “Look at this,” I said, bringing out a lopsided clay bowl painted in garish colors. “I made this for my dad. It’s a pipe holder.”

      Ivy looked up from the book. “If you say so.”

      My fingers pressed into the dents that I’d made when I was twelve. They were really small. “I think it was the only reason he had a pipe,” I said, setting it back in the box. The pressed-flower album I didn’t even remember, but it was my scrawl on the pages. There was a badge from the cabin I was in, dated and covered in rainbow stickers. The pair of dusty sandals on top of it were so small it was scary.

      “How old were you? “Ivy asked when I held them up.

      “They kicked me out when I was twelve,” I said, flushing. It hadn’t been fun. I’d thrown Trent into a tree with a blast of ley-line energy because he’d been teasing Jasmine. I guess they figured if I was well enough to do that, then I wasn’t dying anymore and should make room for someone who was. Trent had deserved it. I think. They had long-term memory blockers in the water and nothing was certain.

      I smiled at the pair of freshwater clam shells Jasmine and I were going to make into earrings. A blue jay feather. Things that meant nothing to anyone but me.

      “What is this?”

      She was holding an antique-looking curved metal hook, and I reached for it as I warmed. “Uh, a hoof pick,” I said, feeling the weight of it in my palm, heavy with the sensation of anxious excitement and guilt. Ivy’s eyebrows rose, and I added, “They had horses, and you had to clean their hooves before you took them out. That’s a hoof pick.” A really fancy hoof pick, with an inlaid wooden handle and a silver hook, of all things.

      Head cocked, Ivy leaned back and eyed me. “And your pulse just skyrocketed why?”

      Grimacing, I set the pick back in the box. “It’s Trent’s. At least I think it is.”

      “And your pulse just skyrocketed why?” she asked again.

      “I stole it!” I said, feeling myself become breathless. “At least I think I did. I’m pretty sure I meant to give it back …” I hesitated, confused. “Crap, I don’t even remember why I have it.”

      Ivy had a weird smile on her face. I think Nancy Drew had reminded her of her own innocence. “You stole Trent’s hoof pick? What is that, some witch-camp tradition?”

      “Maybe I just borrowed it and forgot to give it back,” I said, guilt coming from nowhere. I remember shoving it in my pocket with a feeling of vindication. Trent had been there … and I hadn’t liked him. He was snotty.

      Ivy picked up the book again. “No wonder he doesn’t like you. You stole his hoof pick.”

      Exasperated, and trying to ignore the guilt coming from a memory I didn’t entirely have, I closed the box and pushed it away. “The feeling is mutual,” I said, tugging on my socks. “Trent is a lying, manipulative brat, and always has been.”

      She handed me the Nancy Drew, exhaling slowly. “So … you think this entire situation with the coven is one of his scams? That Trent told them about you?”

      I looked at the cover and the furtive posture of Nancy as she held a tablet engraved with ley-line glyphs, treasure hunting. Oh, when it had looked that easy. “I don’t know,” I said, miserable with confusion as I handed the book back to her to keep.

      Ivy held it possessively as I looked at the closed box of memories. I wanted to be pissed at Trent about the coven, but something in my gut said no. Seeing the stuff from camp … things had happened there that I couldn’t remember. Memory blockers were like that, clouding events but leaving emotions intact, and as the collective mementos touched on half memories, I couldn’t tell if my anger at Trent was because he was a camp brat or if he was truly bad.

      “I just don’t know anymore,” I finally said. “He is in jeopardy, too, now, and there are easier ways for him to make my life miserable.”

      Ivy made a soft sound and set the dog-eared Nancy Drew carefully beside her. Much as I’d like to believe he hadn’t told the coven I could invoke demon magic, I was done with being stupid. It was far easier to believe this was one of his elaborate schemes. Easier, yes, but smart? Because if Trent hadn’t told them, then someone else had, and I didn’t have a clue as to who. Logic said he had done it, but if I was logical, I’d have made the familiar bond active between us and forced him to be nice to me. Instead I had rescued him at great cost to myself because of a freaking gut feeling. And I still didn’t know why. My eyes strayed to the box, feeling as if the answer was in there somewhere.

      “Why don’t you use the Pandora charm and find out?”

      I stared at Ivy—I’d forgotten that I even had it. “You think it’s something from the camp?”

      “He did say he might make you one if the memory you wanted was of camp or your dad. Well, he made you one.”

      “You’re nuts!” I exclaimed, but she was shaking her head, smiling.

      Her eyes touched on the closed box. “Whether you remember it or not, you and Trent go back a long way. I’d think it worth finding out if your gut feelings about him are based on something real or a childhood argument over a hoof pick. Don’t you?”

      Well, when she put it like that … From the back living room came a masculine voice raised in anger. My gaze went to my top drawer, where I had stashed Trent’s charm, and I stifled a shiver. I needed to know if I could trust him, and not just with surface stuff, but really trust him. I needed to know why I disliked him yet would risk my life to save his worthless skin. I needed to use his Pandora charm.

      My pulse quickened, and I swung my feet to the floor, wincing when my knees protested. If I was going to do this, I’d rather do it when all the pixies were spying on Nick and Pierce, arguing. “Okay, but if it kills me, it’s your fault.” Shuffling to my top dresser drawer, I yanked it open. Maybe it was a memory of my dad.

      “Uh …,”Ivy stammered, and I glanced up to see her eyes wide in consideration.

      “I’m kidding,” I said. “It passed the lethal-amulet test, remember?”

      “Not