“Gideon?” I say absently, and take the envelope. It’s a little bit weird. Usually when he sends us mail it’s an enormous care package of books and the chocolate-covered flapjacks my mom likes. But when I rip it open and tip the contents into my palm, all that falls out is an old, blurry photograph.
Around me I hear the clicking of wax on wax as my mom gathers up candles. She says something to me, some vague question as she moves around the tree, smearing the ash of the amber resin against the rock. I don’t really hear what she says. All I can do is stare at the photo in my hand.
In it, a robed and hooded figure stands before an altar. Behind him are other figures, dressed similarly in robes of red. It’s a picture of Gideon, performing a ritual, with my athame in his hand. But that’s not the part that stops my brain. It’s the fact that the rest of the figures in the photo appear to be holding my athame as well. There are at least five identical knives in the picture.
“What is this?” I ask, and show it to my mom.
“It’s Gideon,” she replies absently, and then stops when she sees the athames.
“I know it’s Gideon,” I say. “But who are they? And what the hell are those?” I point to the knives. Dummy knives is what I want to believe they are. Knockoffs. But why? And what if they’re not? Are there others, out there, doing what I do? How have I not known? Those are my first thoughts. My second is that I’m looking at the people who created the athame. But that can’t be right. According to my dad, and Gideon too, the athame might literally be older than dirt.
My mom is still staring at the picture.
“Can you explain that?” I ask, even though it’s plain that she can’t. “Why would he send me this? With no explanation?”
She bends and picks up the torn envelope. “I don’t think he did,” she says. “It’s his address, but not his handwriting.”
“When is the last time you heard from him?” I ask, wondering again if something’s happened.
“Just yesterday. He’s fine. He didn’t mention it.” She looks toward the house. “I’ll call and ask him about it.”
“No,” I say suddenly. “Don’t do that.” I clear my throat, wondering how to explain what I’m thinking, but when she sighs, I know that she already knows what I’m thinking. “I think I should go there.”
There’s a slight pause. “You just want to pack up and go to London?” She blinks. It wasn’t the outright no I expected. In fact, there is more curiosity in my mother’s eyes than I’ve seen in maybe ever. It’s the picture. She feels it too. Whoever sent it, sent it as bait, and it’s working on both of us.
“I’m going with you,” she says. “I’ll book the flights in the morning.”
“No, Mom.” I put my hand on her arm and pray that I can make her understand. She can’t come along. Because someone, or something, wants me to go there. All of that mojo that Morfran was talking about, that thunderstorm of push and pull; I’m finally catching its scent. This photo isn’t a photo at all. It’s a big fat breadcrumb. And if I follow it, it’ll lead me to Anna. I can feel it in my gut.
“Look,” I say. “I’ll go to Gideon. He’ll explain this and keep me out of trouble. You know he will.”
She glances at the picture with doubt flickering through her features. She’s not ready to let one image change everything about a man we’ve known most of our lives. Truthfully I’m not ready to either. Gideon will explain everything when I get there.
“Whoever is in that picture,” she says, “do you think they know about the athame? About where it came from?”
“Yes,” I say. And I think Gideon knows too. I think he’s known all along.
“And you think they’ll know how to open it, like Thomas said?”
“Yes,” I say. And more than that. It all feels connected. Mom is looking down at the tree, at the black smudge of ash left over from her prayer.
“I want you to do something for me, Cas,” she says in a faraway voice. “I know you want to save her. I know you think you have to. But when the time comes, if the price is too high, I want you to remember that you’re my son. Do you promise?”
I try to smile. “What makes you think there’s going to be a price?”
“There’s always a price. Now do you promise?”
“I promise.”
She shakes her head, and brushes the grass and dirt off her dress, effectively brushing off the gravity of the previous moment. “Take Thomas and Carmel with you,” she says. “I can pitch in for their tickets.”