“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Clem told Ethel, two days later.
“Did it involve three longshoremen and a bottle of Scotch?” the older witch asked.
Clem blinked. “What? No.”
“Yes! My record holds.”
For a moment, she was so tempted to ask for details, but with sheer heroic effort, she corralled her curiosity and stayed on task. “Okay, we’re putting a pin in that because I need to hear that story. But can we get back to my issue?”
Ethel rose, stretched, and turned toward the kitchen. “Sure, why not? I’ll get the iced tea.”
“Hey, good lookin’,” said Percy.
Tiredly, Clem waved at the parrot. She’d crept out of Gavin’s apartment at dawn, and she hadn’t contacted him since. To make matters worse, Danica had disappeared because of some impulsive decision-making. If not for the coven group chat, Clem wouldn’t have known her cousin had gone to freaking Arizona while she was busy minding the shop.
With Danica gone, she was working from open to close. It was tough to make repair calls because that meant Clem had to shut down the shop to do it, and she hated hanging that BACK BY whenever sign because she might miss business while she was gone. Still, some appliances couldn’t be hauled in easily, so she had no choice but to head over to someone’s house to check out their fridge or maybe a washer-dryer. Sometimes there were perverts who just wanted an excuse to get her in the house.
Eventually, Ethel returned to the parlor with two tall glasses that glistened with condensation. Impossible not to think of Gavin, who would doubtless prefer his served hot. She sipped at the drink and sighed as Ethel settled in the comfy, overstuffed chair across from her.
“You’ve encountered a snag in your flawless plan?” Sarcasm that thick could’ve been cut with a knife and served on fancy cake plates.
Clem aimed a filthy look at Ethel, who didn’t even flinch. Percy, on the other hand, ran up and down his perch, shouting curses. Which was pretty much how Clem felt too.
“I didn’t have a plan,” she admitted. “Not really. Other than trying to get his mind off witches in general and locked onto me.”
“Now you’re hoist by your own petard,” Ethel said. It wasn’t a question, and she let out a chuckle. “Always wanted to say that, so thank you. I’m ticking it right off the bucket list.”
“You don’t have a bucket list, you’ll live to be a thousand.”
Suddenly somber, Ethel shook her head. “I would never. The cost of immortality is too high, my dear.”
For the second time that day, Clem found herself speechless. The older witch certainly knew the most among anyone in their coven, and she liked to allude to certain secrets, but this was the first Clem had heard about any spell for immortality. Like the story about the three longshoremen and the bottle of Scotch, she was ever so tempted to be distracted by it. This time she failed her saving throw.
I’ll kick myself later if I don’t ask.
“Are you serious?” She wanted to know.
“As a late tax return. There are reasons why vampirism is tied to witchcraft in the old stories. They say witches created the first of the night children, right? But it would be more accurate to report that witches became the first night children. Through old magic, exceedingly difficult, exceptionally rare, and born of blood.”
“Damn,” Clem said. Then she narrowed her eyes, half waiting for the gotcha. “Is this where you admit you’re fucking with me?”
Ethel shook her head, serenely drinking her tea. “It’s up to you whether you believe me. But this much more I will say, the night children are part of why the witch hunters persecute us.”
That was a lot to take in, dropped on her suddenly. “Witch hunters blame us because ancient witches figured out how to unlock immortality via drinking human blood?”
“That’s not the whole story,” Ethel said, “but it’s one aspect. The order keeps its own secrets, and these days, they pretend they have a holy calling.”
“Gavin is certainly not celibate,” Clem muttered, still reeling from the prior revelation.
Vampires are real. They’re really old witches.
That might blow out the back of her head if she thought about it for too long. On some level, it shouldn’t be that shocking—she was a witch after all—but this was how she imagined a mundane would feel if they accidentally learned that magic and witches were real—shocked, awed, and mildly overwhelmed.
“I’ll refrain from asking for the steamy details. Let’s get back to your issue. You said you’ve made a terrible mistake, and then I derailed you. Sorry about that.”
Clem let out a shuddering breath. It was early evening, just past moonrise, and she gazed out at the night sky, stars slowly shimmering into sight, with the small amount of light pollution St. Claire offered.
“You were right, more or less. I had too much pride when I started this because I’d never met anyone who…” What were even the right words?
“Could take your breath away? Make you forget everything except—”
“Yes. That. All of that. I’m talking to you about it instead of the rest of the coven because I can’t stand the teasing. It’s too fresh. You’re usually a bit more measured even with mockery.”
Ethel gave a crooked smile. “Thanks?”
“You are so welcome,” Percy shouted. Then he added, “Who’s a pretty bird?”
“I’m guessing that’s rhetorical,” Clem said dryly.
“Are you here for sympathy or advice? I can offer both.”
Clem sat forward in her chair, setting down the iced tea. “Then I’ll take both. I need some guidance because I’m over my head, and you’re the one I trust the most.”
The other witch laughed softly. “Are you flattering me on purpose? Never mind if you are. I’ll take it. First I need to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“How far are you prepared to go? Is there a line you won’t cross?”
She closed her eyes, knowing what Ethel was truly asking. “I don’t want to hurt him. Hell, I don’t even want him to leave, not anymore, but he must. For the coven to be safe.”
With a nod, Ethel seemed to process that and file it away for future analysis. “Have you read through my mother’s notes yet?”
Clem shook her head. “Not entirely. It would help if I knew the dates. There are so many journals…”
“You must’ve expected that when you carted off a whole bunch,” Ethel said tartly. “Writing longhand in journals was the blogging of the thirties.”
Clem grinned at that. “Fair enough. But you promised both sympathy and advice, and so far, I’ve seen neither.”
“Fine.” The older witch crossed the room and perched beside her, encircling her shoulders with a gentle arm. “We’ve all done things we know are unwise. You’re not the first, and you haven’t shared anything that shocked me.”
“Now that’s a good effort.” Clem leaned into the hug.
Since her family dynamics were profoundly fucked up, she found it easier to accept comfort from someone unrelated to the whole mess, easier to let her guard down too because she knew Ethel wouldn’t use her vulnerability as ammunition in some private war.
“It’s not my first time. As to the practical advice, that is a little more difficult.”
“It’s a hard-knock life,” said Percy.
Clem sighed. “You got that right.”
“Give me a few. I’ll do a little scrying and see if the dead have any suggestions.”
A shiver ran down Clem’s spine. No matter how often she saw Ethel thread the needle and whisper across the veil, it always creeped her out. Even for a witch, there were some boundaries that weren’t meant to be crossed.
But since this was so important, she got to her feet. “Are your supplies in the same place? I’ll help you set up.”
“Of course. I’m too lazy to reorganize.”
“Then I’ll fetch everything and back you up.” Clem headed to the crafting room that was bright explosion of fabrics, spell components, half-made jewelry, and charms in progress.
Ethel brought out her copper scrying bowl and said, “Let’s discover what the spirits have to say about you and that handsome witch hunter.”
She settled across the table from the older witch and lit the candles. Since this wasn’t her first time, she borrowed Ethel’s athame and used it to inscribe protective sigils around the casting circle, and then she sat quietly feeding Ethel energy through the flickering flames. More than most witches, Clem tended to use the candles as a focus.
Slowly, the room built up a soft charge, and the water in the bowl roiled, but instead of producing a vision, milky shapes appeared in the liquid, rising from the tureen in smoky wisps that chilled the air around them. Gooseflesh rose on Clem’s arms. Hell, I hate being surrounded by spirits. This wasn’t something Ethel did lightly, and Clem made sure not to look directly at the spirits because sometimes they took offense to it, as they didn’t look as they had in life.
“We seek to divert a hunter from his course. Can you offer aid or guidance?” Ethel asked.
Sibilant whispers hissed all around them, and Clem experienced an icy shock on the nape of her neck. Hunching her shoulders, she clung to her courage, knowing how dangerous it was to break the circle. Finally, the disparate murmurs resolved into an intelligible response.
“There is a lost spell. One may find it to buy enough time to save you. But what must be, will be. Only love can turn the blade aside.”
***
With every breath, Gavin hated this obligation more.
He was crouched in a cornfield in the middle of the night, watching Dale the Prepper enact an incredibly baffling ritual. The man had been running laps outside his house since the sun went down, dodging through a makeshift obstacle course built of rusty barrels, scaffolding, barricade signs, netting and rope, and a lot of metal tubing.
Is this what Mina meant when she mentioned the man’s strange construction project?
It was hot as the fires of hell crouched in the ripening rows of corn. The wind whistled through the field, carrying a dusty tang that filled his mouth with grit, and sweat rolled down his back. So far, Dale hadn’t done anything that suggested magic, but he could see why Leonard had called this bastard weird.
Once he finished his extended workout, Dale was shouting at the top of his lungs—in no language that Gavin had ever heard. To the outsider, it might even seem like the man was possessed. Honestly, it was a wonder no Catholic priests had come to try their luck.
Who knows, maybe there are a few hiding out here with me.
The mental image of a stern father in a cassock squatting in the corn nearly made Gavin laugh out loud. He had no idea what he’d say if Dale caught him. At best, this was trespassing.
To avoid potential problems in town, he’d taken the baker out for a beer to make amends, and everything seemed fine. St. Claire was overall very welcoming. Gavin doubted that would hold if he got caught doing something as sketchy as lurking in a cornfield to spy on the town oddball. And hell, Gavin didn’t want Clem thinking he was gonzo. That wasn’t a normal concern either. Usually he planned to leave as soon as he accomplished his assignment, nothing to hold him back.
On impulse, he crept closer until he managed to record a fragment of Dale’s shouting. In fact the man was starkers now and shaking a fist at the heavens, the most jaw-dropping display Gavin had ever witnessed. Dale returned to running laps, which went on for over an hour. He was sweaty as hell when he finally stopped yelling and stumbled back into his house.
With a muttered curse, Gavin retreated through the cornfield, hoping the Ducati was still where he’d left it. Otherwise, it would be a long hike home. Even riding the Duc, it was still past 2:00 a.m. by the time he got in. He’d turned his phone off before he went on the recon run, and when he turned it on and plugged it in to charge, he had no new messages.
Surprising on one hand, normally his father would be berating him by now. Disappointing on another, because he feared Clem was already tying up the loose ends on their fling, like a package with a bow on it, ready to be presented to someone else. Dammit, he didn’t want anyone else getting their hands on Clem. She was his gift to savor.
The truth irritated him fiercely. No. She’s not. She’s not your anything.
In a foul mood, he stalked into the bathroom and scrubbed a night’s sweat off his skin, along with the dirt that clung to it. His sheets still smelled faintly like Clem, and he couldn’t gather the fortitude to wash them when he might finish his mission and get orders to move out at any time.
Maybe it’s for the best.
Settling on the bed, he closed his eyes and extended what he thought of as hunting senses. But the night was quiet; he sensed none of the magical spikes that had gotten St. Claire on the order’s radar in the first place. From what he could tell, nobody was casting spells tonight, whatever the hell Dale had been doing. Which reminded him…
He played the sound bite for his phone assistant, and when it identified the language, Gavin couldn’t hold his laughter. He laughed until his sides hurt.
“Klingon? He was shouting in Klingon.”
Since it was a poor-quality recording, he couldn’t produce an actual translation, so for all he knew, Dale was demanding that the Trek universe come to collect him immediately.
Probably not a witch.
Sadly, to rule it out entirely, he would have to observe Dale multiple times to make sure his more eccentric behavior wasn’t a cunning ruse to throw off someone like Gavin, sandwiching actual magic between wild fits and starts. He sighed, not looking forward to more nights in the cornfield. That was special punishment, even for a bastard like him. It was like a scene from a horror film, and if he’d been attacked by a maniac with a hunting knife, he wouldn’t have been shocked.
It was nearly three by this time, far too late to think about texting Clem, who had to be up to open the shop. He forced himself to listen to a book instead, playing it until dawn crept across the floor on little mouse feet. Eventually he drifted off and dreamt of her, curled softly into his side, leaving blissful traces all over his bed.
Gavin woke with a start, someone rapping on his door. Since he rarely got visitors, he stumbled out warily, dressing in haste in a T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts.
To his surprise, it was Mina, the landlady who had given him advice about the area. She wore a bright smile, offering a piping-hot plate of cinnamon rolls. “I picked some up at the bakery, and they’re too delicious not to share. If you don’t eat sugar or—”
“I’d never turn those down,” he cut in. The pastries looked incredible, large and golden, dark with cinnamon, and drizzled liberally with a glass sugar glaze.
Mina grinned. “I feel the same way. We don’t indulge often, but sometimes I’m shopping downtown and can’t resist the smell.”
“These came from Sugar Daddy’s?” he guessed.
Despite making peace with Titus after his 5-hour Energy fueled outburst, he doubted the baker would be glad if he popped in even as a patron. He’d stormed in because the traces of magic were strong there, but he didn’t sense anything from Titus or his sister. Ranting about witches—ugh, he cringed just thinking about the loose hinge on his mouth that day.
“You’ve already heard of it?” She seemed delighted, like a proud auntie boasting of her relative’s achievements. “Mrs. Carminian says there are people who drive an hour to try these.”
“And all I had to do was get out of bed. You’re truly an angel to think of me.”
She glanced at his presumably rumpled hair with a teasing expression. “Sorry to wake you. Since it’s past ten, I thought you’d be up. You must’ve been burning the midnight oil.”
That was clearly an invitation to gossip, but he wasn’t about to admit what he’d been doing. “Working on my paper,” he offered.
“Understood. I won’t keep you. Enjoy the rolls. I’ll stop by tomorrow to get the plate.”
She went back down the stairs with a wave, and as Gavin settled in to enjoy the unexpected baked bounty, his phone rang. Da never fails to find the perfect moment to step on my joy, he reflected. I didn’t even get a take a bite, dammit. The moment was spoiled because he had no doubt his father would ruin his mood and his ability to savor the treat. He answered the call and waited in silence for the complaint.
“You haven’t found anything yet? Are you even looking?” came the snappish words. “I’m warning you, don’t faff about. You won’t like the results.”
I never fucking do.