The Seer's Spread Read online

  The Seer’s Spread

  Beautiful Creatures:

  The Untold Stories

  by Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Authors

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Authors’ Note

  We came up with the idea for Beautiful Creatures: The Untold Stories because the two of us wanted a chance to tell our readers all the stories that never made it into the Beautiful Creatures novels. We’ve been writing about the Mortals and Casters in Gatlin for eight years now, and we know every backstory, side story, and secret they don’t want you to know. But we’re going to tell you some of them anyway—because what would Gatlin be like without a few surprises?

  These stories are also our opportunity to answer the questions readers ask us most often, like: How did Lila fall in love with Macon? Why did Amma show up at Wate’s Landing to take care of Ethan? What is life like in Gatlin now? Best of all, we’re writing them for our own pleasure as much as for yours.

  The truth is, Ethan and Lena, John and Liv, Macon and Lila, Amma and Marian, Link and Ridley—not to mention the entire Wate, Ravenwood, and Duchannes families—they’re our families, too. Gatlin is our hometown as much as it’s home to our characters and our readers. When we’re not there, we miss it, as we imagine (if you’re reading this) you do, too.

  So read on. You can start with any story in this series without reading the others. However, for our most committed readers (and honorary Casters), if you read all of them, you’ll learn more than a few things you didn’t know about your favorite Mortals and Casters.

  We look forward to sharing the next story with you and talking about all of them with you online. See you soon in the Gatlin County Library!

  Love,

  Kami & Margie

  For our readers. In the end, all our stories are for you.

  There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed.

  —Napoléon Bonaparte

  I. Box of Secrets

  Ethan stared at the yellow box with the words Whitman’s Sampler looping across the lid. He knew there wasn’t a single vanilla caramel or molasses chew inside. “One day I might let you have a look under that lid, Ethan Wate,” Amma had said after she caught him poking around the candy box when he was seven. “But today isn’t the day.”

  The contents of the Whitman’s Sampler box remained one of the many mysteries about the woman who helped raise Ethan—like Amma’s actual age (his dad estimated between seventy and eighty when she died, but no one had ever been brave enough to ask while she was alive); the secret ingredient in her fried-chicken batter (Link thought he’d narrowed it down to red pepper, bacon drippings, or Old Red’s Seasoning Salt, none of which seemed exactly right); and the reason Amma had knocked on the door of Wate’s Landing and moved in the day Ethan’s parents brought him home from the hospital (his mom maintained it was because Amma didn’t think Lila knew anything about babies, but Amma claimed it was because she couldn’t stand the thought of Ethan being raised on frozen biscuits and store-bought pie).

  And now that she was gone for good, no one would ever know.

  Ethan ran his hand over the faded cardboard and turned to his girlfriend, who was sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor next to him, scratching words into one of her notebooks as she twirled her black curls. “Why would Amma leave me her box? Why not my dad?”

  Ethan hadn’t realized he’d said the words out loud and was almost relieved when Lena seemed to be only half listening.

  “Ethan,” she said as she turned a page, “do you really want me to answer that?”

  “No.” He set the box on the rug in front of him. “Maybe I’ll get to it tomorrow.”

  Ethan knew he sounded sad and tired. It had only been three weeks since Amma’s funeral, and he still missed her as much as on the day she died. After losing his mom, he knew that over time the pain would fade into the background just enough to make it bearable, but it would never go away.

  Everything that reminded him of Amma was moving deeper and deeper inside him—the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the strings at the back of her apron, the sounds of the One-Eyed Menace stirring up ten kinds of trouble, and not just in the kitchen. Even now, he could almost hear Amma’s lingering footsteps on the creaking boards of the hallway floors as she settled into his heart for a good long stay.

  Ethan was startled out of his thoughts, at first by the velvet touch of Lena’s hand slipping into his, and then by the even softer words reaching into his mind.

  Maybe she wanted the person she loved more than anyone else in the world to have it, Lena Kelted. It was their private language, Kelting, the unspoken way Casters had always communicated with their kindred. After all that Ethan and Lena had been through together, there were still some things too intimate to be said aloud—even to the girl you loved.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against his old mahogany bed.

  Amma loved my father, L. You know that.

  She closed her notebook and rested her head against his.

  Of course I do. Just like we both know she loved you like her own son, Ethan. What are you afraid of?

  I don’t know, L.

  It was true. Ethan’s dad had given him the yellow box a few days ago—following Amma’s letter of instructions—but he still hadn’t found the courage to open it, and he didn’t know why.

  Wordlessly, Lena sat up and pulled the box back, sliding it between the two of them. Now she faced Ethan as they sat on either side of the cardboard candy box. He saw the familiar look on her face. There was no more stalling.

  “I don’t know,” Ethan said again.

  She looked up at him. “You’re talking about Amma, remember? It’s not going to be something dramatic from your past, and it’s not going to be live snakes.”

  “You’re right,” Ethan said. “She hated snakes, even more than drama.”

  “It could be anything from crossword puzzles and number two pencils to the Holy Grail.”

  “Or Red Hots,” Ethan said. He took a deep breath and touched the box once again. “When I was in second grade, I had a nightmare about Amma dying. I couldn’t sleep for days, and eventually she dragged the reason out of me. She said, ‘I’m not dyin’ anytime soon, Ethan Wate. I know the exact date I’m leavin’ this world to meet my Maker, and I’ve still got plenty a pies left to bake before then.’”

  “That sounds like Amma,” Lena said with a smile.

  Ethan nodded. It was all coming back to him now. He’d been sitting at the kitchen table, watching Amma stir the butter and marshmallows for Rice Krispies Treats, when she’d said it.

  He picked at the corner of the cardboard box. “Amma wouldn’t tell me the date, so I asked her how I’d know if she was right or not. She said she’d write it down somewhere for me.” Ethan tapped on the Whitman’s Sampler. “I bet that’s what’s in here.” Then he looked up at Lena and shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I can’t bring myself to open it.” He couldn’t say the rest, or even Kelt it.

  Ethan wondered if it was too sad for him to see it right there in her handwriting—that date—and the fact that she knew it was coming. That she’d made her peace with leaving the whole world—and him—behind.

  Lena pushed the box closer to him wi
th a firm smile. “She was a Seer, Ethan. Of course she knew things like the day she was going to die.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, L? Amma knew almost everything about everyone.” Ethan stared down at the faded yellow lid.

  Slowly, he moved Lena’s hand to one side of the lid and curved his fingers around the other. “We’ll open it together. Okay?”

  She nodded, and when Ethan tugged on his side, Lena lifted hers.

  Her eyes widened.

  Ethan held his breath—and looked.

  “What is that?” Lena asked.

  Inside, one of Amma’s protection charms and a small vial rested on a stack of white lined paper, thick enough to be a bit more than a journal but something less than a book. Amma’s neatly curved script peeked out where the pages were visible.

  “For protection,” Ethan said with a smile. The charm was one of her favorites, and it smelled like her bedroom—which was a good thing.

  “What is she protecting?” Lena looked puzzled.

  Ethan picked up the small pouch tied with lavender, a tiny bell hanging from the knotted stems. “I don’t know, but I used to find these under my pillow at night.”

  Lena examined the suede bag more carefully. “I’d rather have those under my pillow than Boo spying on me all the time.” She loved her Uncle Macon’s wolf of a Caster dog, Boo Radley. What she wasn’t crazy about was that her uncle could see through the dog’s eyes whenever he wanted—a trick she and Ethan had learned about a little too late.

  “What’s in the jar?” Lena pointed to the vial.

  Ethan lifted it up to get a better look.

  “Are those—?” She scrunched up her nose.

  “Baby teeth,” he finished for her. He rattled the jar.

  “Aww. That’s so cute.” Lena kissed his cheek. “And so disgusting.”

  “Probably also for protection.”

  “From the tooth fairy?” She grinned. Ethan knew she was just trying to keep him from losing it. It almost helped, but more than that, it reminded him how much he loved her.

  Both of you, he thought, looking back at the charm.

  With the other items out of the box now, it was easier to read the words on the top page.

  Two stood out from the rest.

  Ethan Wate

  Ethan’s chest tightened. He couldn’t read any further. Seeing his name written in her handwriting felt like losing her all over again, just as he’d known it would.

  This is the worst part, Ethan. I promise.

  The warmth came flooding back into his mind as Lena squeezed his hand.

  I know, L.

  Are you okay?

  I’m not. But I still need to read it.

  He looked back down at the page.

  Ethan Wate.

  If you’re reading this letter, it’s because I’ve decided it’s time you knew the story I never could tell you—the story of how I ended up on the porch at Wate’s Landing the day your mamma brought you home from the hospital, fussing like you didn’t want any part of what was happening in the world outside her belly.

  It’s a story that started with a little girl and a deck of cards. You see, I picked a hole in the universe long before you did, Ethan Wate. I found my way to you, didn’t I? And I’d do it again. You’ll always be my boy, in this world or the Otherworld, and don’t you forget it.

  Be good. I’m watching.

  Amma

  Ethan lifted the rest of the pages out of the box and began to read.

  II. The Cards Never Lie

  Sixty-Eight Years Earlier

  In Amma’s family, knowledge and secrets were fiercely guarded until the time came to pass them down to the next woman in the Treaudeau line—or, in this case, the next girl. Because at eleven years old, Amma knew more about checking the swamp for gators and kicking the tar out of the boys than she did about being a woman.

  Women were old and ornery, like Mamma and Grandmamma.

  And Aunt Delilah, Amma thought, watching her great-aunt shuffle a gilded deck of cards with her bony hands. The cup of hot lemon water next to her shook with every vibration.

  “I figure it’s about time you stop readin’ rocks and tea leaves,” Aunt Delilah said.

  Amma stared at the floor, her cheeks hot. “The tea leaves were only the one time, and it was an accident. I was takin’ Mrs. Marshall’s cup to the kitchen, and the leaves sorta talked to me.”

  “Well, that one time was more than enough for Reverend Marshall’s wife, seeing as you told her about the good reverend’s lady friend and predicted his death two days before the man dropped dead.”

  “It could’ve been a coincidence,” Amma suggested hopefully.

  He’d led an adventurous life, at least for a reverend.

  “And I coulda been born with a voice like Billie Holiday, except that I wasn’t.” Aunt Delilah stopped shuffling. “The reverend choked on a chicken bone, just like you said he would. Do you know what that means?”

  Amma shook her head. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Her great-aunt patted the seat of the wicker chair next to hers. When Amma sat down, Aunt Delilah leaned close. “It means you’re a Seer. If I’m right—which you know I always am, child—you’re gonna be the most powerful Seer since Sulla the Prophet.”

  Amma had heard her great-great-grandmother Sulla’s name before—everyone within a two hundred mile radius of Wader’s Creek, South Carolina, had. People had nicknamed her Sulla the Prophet for a reason; her readings were legendary, and they were always right.

  Amma studied the gilt-edged cards.

  Cards of Providence—more rare than tarot cards, and, according to her grandmother, more difficult to interpret. Aunt Delilah wielded them the way a snake charmer controlled a rattler. With respect and fear.

  It was hard for Amma to imagine becoming someone as gifted as Sulla the Prophet. She was always getting herself into trouble, hiding a book in her desk and reading during arithmetic, or overworking the dough for the crust when Grandmamma made lemon meringue pie. She couldn’t even win second place in the county’s junior bake-off. When Grandmamma had found her crying out on the back porch with her participant ribbon after the fair, she’d tried to console her with the one thing she had in her hands.

  “This spoon is for you,” Grandmamma said. “It’s my favorite, and I wouldn’t give it to you if I didn’t think you’d put it to good use someday.” She pointed to the hole right smack in the middle of the wooden kitchen utensil. “See that hole? That’s what makes it special.”

  Amma wrinkled her nose. “That old hole?”

  Grandmamma nodded.

  “How does a hole make a spoon work any better?”

  “You’ve gotta figure that out for yourself. Bakin’ a pie is a lot like readin’ cards. Takes patience and practice.” She winked. “And maybe an old spoon with a hole in it.”

  That had been months ago, and Amma still couldn’t bake a half-decent pie. How was she supposed to see the future in a deck of fancy cards with names she couldn’t remember?

  “Pay attention, child. Come on, now,” Aunt Delilah said, fanning out the freshly shuffled deck. “Pick five cards and turn ’em on over.”

  Amma took her time, choosing each card carefully. The old woman had arranged them to form a cross in front of Amma: the Mother of Thunder, the Gates of the Otherworld, the Hourglass, the Wounded Heart, and the Key to the Unknown.

  Aunt Delilah sucked in a sharp breath. “Good Lord Almighty.”

  “What’s the matter?” Amma’s heart thudded in her tiny chest. She found herself wishing she had her spoon within reach, though she didn’t for the life of her know what she’d do with it.

  “I was wrong, child,” her great-aunt whispered. “You aren’t destined to be as powerful as Sulla the Prophet. You’re gonna be more powerful.”

  It had to be a mistake, but it was clear from the look on her great-aunt’s face that she didn’t think so. In fact, Aunt Delilah’s expression was downright terrifying.
/>
  Amma swallowed hard. “I don’t feel all that powerful, Aunt Delilah. Maybe the cards are wrong.”

  “You listen to me, Amarie.” Aunt Delilah only called Amma by her given name when she was serious. “If you remember just one thing I’ve taught you in this life, remember this.…” Her great-aunt rested her hand on the spread, the Mother of Thunder peeking out from beneath her splayed fingers. “The cards never lie.”

  III. Chicken-Fried Fiancé

  Forty-five years and about as many miles away from that day in Wader’s Creek—not to mention maybe more than fourteen thousand card readings later—Amma still hadn’t managed to prove the cards wrong.

  She was rarely wrong.

  Except for now. This fry is ten kinds a wrong.

  Amma took one look at the oil and huffed. It was too darn hot, which was a recipe for a burnt bird, not her famous fried chicken. She’d been making it for more than half her life now—and for all of Mitchell Wate’s, too. He was the boy she’d taken care of since he was four years old, and even Mitchell could tell the difference between lightly golden and Yankee-restaurant brown.

  What a waste a good Wesson, she thought, turning off the burner.

  The girl is distractin’ me already, and she hasn’t even set a foot through the door, Amma thought, filling a stockpot with fresh oil. She kept her eyes on it as tiny bubbles formed around the sides, and tried to clear her head, which turned out to be impossible.

  Mitchell was coming home from Duke for the weekend and bringing his girlfriend with him—a girl he’d been dating for months now. Not that he’d mentioned more than three words about her to Amma or his daddy, which wasn’t like him at all. Still, he was a good boy, sure and true, and she knew if she’d taught him anything, it was to make her proud.

  Whether or not this girl was raised well enough to appreciate it.

  Amma dropped a battered chicken neck into the new oil with her extra-long tongs. The oil hissed loudly, letting her know the temperature was just right.