Read The Witch Collector Part I for Free Online

when I felt Brandon’s hand reach for mine. “It’s ours,” he said. “It will always be ours.”
    The traffic on Sacramento Boulevard jolted me from the vision. I put a hand out to steady myself and turned toward the sky. It was impossible to see any stars. Not a single one.
    But I couldn’t think about that. I just had to get home .

CHAPTER 5
    M y legs, unsteady beneath me, seemed to belong to another person as I tripped down Sacramento. Fireworks of pain burst behind my eyes. What was wrong? Did magic really make a person this sick?
    I spotted the tip of St. Sylvester’s spire and kept it in my line of vision, not stopping, not looking when I crossed the street, not pausing when a man walking a Dalmatian asked if I needed help.
    What was happening to me? The question pummeled my thoughts, over and over, as our apartment came into view. My breathing turned ragged as I pushed open the gate and staggered up the walkway leading toward the front door.
    I didn’t have a key. My trembling hand hovered over the doorknob. Should I risk making myself worse?
    I did.
    The dead bolt opened with an echoing thunk . I bolted to the third floor, my stomach roiling with acidic bile. Once in the apartment I dashed for the bathroom and dry-heaved over the sink. When I stopped retching, I splashed some water on my face and brushed my teeth. Raising my head, I caught my reflection in the mirror and shivered. I was looking at a ghost. The deep purple smudges I recognized from below my mother’s eyes marred the skin under mine.
    We’d finished tilling my mother’s garden, the rows of rich, black soil straight and neat .
    Gavin withdrew an athame from the inside pocket of his jacket. The blade looked too dull to do much damage, but when he drew it across his palm a crimson line appeared. He tipped his hand, letting the blood drip. “Return my essence to the earth, give this garden life rebirth.”
    I stared at the red droplets slowly sinking into the dirt .
    Shaken by the vision, I lowered myself to the edge of the tub. I needed sleep. Real sleep—not a few hours grabbed at dusk. I bent to fish through my backpack, but it wasn’t there. Had my mom put it in my room? Was she awake?
    â€œMom?”
    No answer.
    I stood on rubbery legs and somehow walked to my parents’ bedroom.
    The door was open a crack. “Mom? Dad?”
    Nothing.
    It was too late for privacy. I pushed at the door and it swung open, revealing an empty bed, the sheets wrapped in a tangled mess on the floor.
    The room still held my mother’s scent, a mix of jasmine and musk. It smelled of something else, too—sharp and metallic. I flicked on the light.
    Blood.
    A smudge across a pillowcase. A handprint on the wall by the radiator. A splash of crimson on the mirror.
    â€œMom?” But I knew I wasn’t going to get a response. Panic clutched at my heart; my pulse roared in my ears.
    A noise, squawking and insistent, sounded outside. I backed into the living room, which shimmered with flickering red and blue lights.
    Someone had called the police.
    Policemen usually made witches nervous, but all I felt was relief to imagine someone might be able to help me. I stumbled down the stairs leading to the front door and tugged it open.
    A cop stood just outside the iron gates, his head tilted back, looking up at our apartment windows. His dark blue uniform melted into the night, and the streetlight illuminated his pale face.
    â€œDo you need help?” he called out.
    I ran to him, throwing open the gate. “My parents!” I shouted. “It’s my parents. They’re gone. There’s . . . blood.” I was barely making sense, tears catching in my ravaged throat.
    â€œCalm down,” he said.
    â€œThey’re gone! We’re wasting time.” My mind reeled. “Shouldn’t you alert someone?”
    He stepped forward, placing a cold hand on my forearm. “They