“The most powerful words you can speak,” Mrs. Raven said, lowering her chin, “are the truth.” Someone blasted a whistle at a particularly high decibel, and she winced.
My face warmed. “You must really be enjoying your time in Doyle,” I said maliciously. “It's been, what, three months now?”
Mr. O'Hare blew out his pink cheeks. “Threes represent creation, fertilization, and growth. Three is the first manifestation of something real. It’s the manifestation of what we want through working with others. Three is related to the Empress card in Tarot. It’s the generative force. Three brings life and creation to fruition through the coming together of the elements. The number three is astrologically related to Jupiter and Venus. Of course, in Vedic astrology, it rules the balance of karma.”
“Uh, huh,” I fumbled, my eyebrows squishing together. What did that mean? “I can see why you're friends with Mrs. Steinberg.”
“We are not friends,” Mrs. Raven tossed her marcelled hair. “We are colleagues.”
I should have let it lie. But I couldn’t resist poking the bear. Or the raven. “So, you work in local government too?”
“More like— what do you young people call it today?” O'Hare's eyes glittered. “A gig economy.”
“Mr. O'Hare,” his companion reproofed.
He leaned closer to me and squinted. “Are you quite well, Ms. Bonheim?”
I edged backward and bumped into a cowboy. “I'm fine.” Or I had been until he’d asked. Now I wasn’t so sure.
Now both stared.
I shrugged my shoulders nervously.
Mrs. Raven tapped a long finger against her chin. “I see what you mean, Mr. O'Hare. Interesting. But how does this fadge?”
“Shakespeare!” He beamed. “I do love when you quote that play. But to answer your question, I suspect we'll require more data.”
Her lips pressed together, her nostrils pinching. “Mm.”
“Okay,” I said, hearing the uncertainty in my voice and hating it. What had made me think I’d come out on top talking to them? “Well…”
They kept staring.
“Have a good night.” I escaped into the crowd and to the jukebox. Bracing one elbow on its glowing plastic top, I blew out my breath. What the hell had just happened?
My fingers twitched. If I used just a little magical probing, maybe I could tell…
I shook myself. No, I was not going to use magic. Brayden and I didn't need the stuff. Though it would be nice to clear a table…
I raised my chin. But if Brayden and I had to use the jukebox as a table and make out against the wall, well, that could be fun too. The door to the bathroom slammed open and banged my side.
“Ow!”
“Whoops. Sorry.” Darla peeked around the door. “Oh, hey Jayce!”
“Darla!” I smiled, relieved. “Have you got a table?”
“I had one.” She nodded to a small round table crowded with men in biker leathers. “I'm on my way home.”
I rubbed my shoulder. “Rats.”
“I know, it's crazy here tonight! Well, have fun.” She scooted through the heaving crowd.
The top of Brayden's head wove above the cowboy and party hats. I stood on my toes and waved.
He joined me at the jukebox and handed me a beer. “Wow. No table?”
“Not yet.” I toed a halfhearted magic circle into the sawdust on the floor.
He smiled and pulled me closer. “We don't need one.”
The bathroom door opened and ricocheted off his shoulder. Beer slopped over the side of his mug. He winced. “Maybe Sacramento wasn't such a bad idea after all.”
I took a hurried sip of my beer.
“Was that Raven and O'Hare I saw you talking to?” he asked. “What's up with those two?”
“Up?” I said, my voice rising an octave.
“Well, they're kind of weird, even for Doyle.”
“No idea. They're a lot like Mrs. Steinberg, talking in circles. Not that I was trying to get anything out of them. They've been here so long, I thought they might be moving here.”
Setting his beer on the jukebox, he pulled off his jacket, revealing the plaid, flannel shirt beneath. It was so ordinary, so Brayden, so uncomplicated, my breath caught.
His dark brows drew downward. “Are you okay?”
“Why do people keep asking me that?” I muttered. But something was off. I felt wrong-footed, out of step.
“What?” he asked, lowering his head closer.
“I'm fine!”
He looked away.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I can tell when you're keeping something back,” he said.
“I'm not! Raven and O'Hare are a mystery to me too.”
“But something's different.”
I scowled. “Yeah, we don't have a table.”
“Wait.” He blinked. “All those times you said getting tables was your magic power, you were speaking literally, weren’t you?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“And you're not using that power now,” he said.
“I don't need to. I mean, we don't need a table. Sure, it would be nice, but we don't need it.”
“No, but that's not the point. Staying in Doyle instead of going to Sacramento, not telling me about Raven and O'Hare—”
“I honestly don't know anything about those two.”
“Not using your magic…” He ran his hand over his curling, black hair. “This is because of me.”
“No! I mean…” I trailed off, confused. Some of it was because of him, but some wasn't. “It's no big deal, and some space from magic is what you said you needed.”
“Yeah, I know.” He set down his beer. “It is.”
“Look, I don't mind. In a relationship, you need to figure out what's important and make compromises.”
He stared at me. “I know. But you wanted to go to Sacramento.”
“Wanted. Past tense.”
“And you weren’t really worried about me and work, were you?”
“Okay, if you want to go to that club, let's go.”
“No, I think…” He lightly squeezed my upper arm. “I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“But—”
He kissed my forehead. “It's okay. There's just something I've… I can't do this to you. It isn't right.” He grabbed his jacket off the jukebox and strode through the crowd.
My stomach gripped. What the…? “Wait!” I hurried after him. A trio of drunk twenty-somethings lurched from their booth and plowed into me. I stumbled against a round table and half fell into a biker's lap.
“Whoa.” The biker, his gray beard thick and long, laughed. “Steady now.”
“Sorry,” I said and jerked to my feet. “It's crazy in here.”
Threading my way through the crowd, I pushed past the batwing doors and onto the raised, wood plank walk.
Brayden was gone.
I trotted down the steps and into the street. My breath steamed the night air. He couldn't have disappeared that quickly.
A horn blared behind me, and I leapt sideways.
A Prius drifted past, its driver shaking her head.
“Sorry!” I shouted after the car.
I crossed the road to the sidewalk. This was ridiculous. Digging my phone from my pocket, I called Brayden.
It went to voice mail.
“Brayden, it's Jayce.” My insides twisted like barbed wire. “Look, I don't know what happened tonight, but call me.”
I walked down the road and stopped in front of Lavender's tasting room. The light in the high, square window beneath the eaves was off, the hidden speakers gone.
What had happened between Brayden and me?
The vibe had been off from the moment we'd walked into Antoine's, and I didn't think I could blame Raven and O'Hare. I couldn't blame Brayden either.
My boot kicked a pebble. It rattled down the
sidewalk, an empty, lonely sound.
I halted. I was the problem. I hadn't been honest with Brayden.
The chill air stung my cheeks, and I jammed my hands in my jacket pockets.
I didn't like not being able to tell him about what I'd overheard outside Lavender. And I wanted to tell him about the odd Raven and O'Hare, because they were so damn uncanny there had to be magic afoot. And I especially didn't like not using magic in the bar. It wasn't only because it would have been nice to get a table. Though it would have. It was because I loved magic. I loved the zing of energy rippling through my veins. I loved being able to help people with magical nudges toward love or prosperity. I loved the joy in my customer’s faces when life just… magically, worked out.
But I loved Brayden more.
If it was between magic and Brayden, Brayden won. Always.
An owl hooted. I scanned the tops of the old-west false fronts. Stars gleamed coldly above the unlit windows, but the night bird remained invisible.
I shook myself.
The taste of ashes, burnt and bitter, filled my mouth. It was no big thing. I could live without magic.
But how could I make Brayden believe that?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Nauseated, I hung up my jacket and collapsed on the couch, jiggling the ivy plants on the table behind it.
Would Brayden call?
Were we really over this time?
Don't think that way. But how could I not think that way after everything we'd gone through? Love. Murder. Witchcraft. It wasn’t a great trifecta.
Picatrix streaked through the cat door. Rounding the corner into the alcove, she sprang onto a cushion beside me. The cat howled, a ridge of ebony fur standing on her spine.
My skin prickled. “What's wrong with you?”
Lightly, she bit my hand.
“Hey! Uncool, Picatrix.”
The black cat slithered from the couch and crawled between my feet.
“What the…?” I let my head drop back on the couch. Great. Just great. All I wanted to do was figure things out, and Picatrix chose now to have a moment. “I'm not going in after you,” I warned the cat. It was dusty down under the couch.
Picatrix sneezed.
“Serves you right.”
She yowled, a sound that raised the hair on my scalp. “What is going on with you?” I asked, uneasy. Was the cat picking up some threat that I hadn't?
I rose and walked to the kitchen window overlooking Main. The dark glass reflected my own blurry form.
I turned off the sixties-green pendant light and returned to the window. A few streetlamps lit the road, but it was otherwise dark. Most of the old-timey shops and restaurants were closed Sunday nights. Only the clouds over the moon stirred, roiling, but not releasing any snow.
The cat growled.
Something rustled behind me.
I whirled, heart thumping.
The kitchen was empty.
Wary, I tiptoed toward the exterior door.
Its cat flap rocked back and forth.
The cat's growl rose, steady and unrelenting.
Swallowing, I returned to the kitchen and grabbed my broom. It's probably just a raccoon or squirrel.
Or a rabid raccoon or squirrel.
Or a demon from Fairy.
Or a ghost. “Cats can see ghosts, can't they?” I whispered to Picatrix.
I gripped the broom more tightly and crept past the growling monster-under-the-couch. The door to the guest room was open. It was also closest to the cat door. If an animal had come through, it would probably go there.
I scanned the room — the daybed with its India-inspired headboard, the sparkling cushions, the media center that had once held my magical swag. The mirrored closet door was closed, so nothing had gone in there.
Keeping well back, I got onto one knee and bent, looking beneath the daybed.
Nothing was there but some books on magic I’d hidden.
I rose, hands clammy on the broom handle.
Behind the media center? I tiptoed to the black cabinet. Pressing one side of my face to the wall, I peered behind the center.
Nothing but dusty cables from the TV.
Something scrabbled above me.
I yelped, leaping backward.
A potted philodendron crashed from the top of the media center to the laminate floor.
Pulse jittering, I cursed.
The cat's yowls rose.
I scowled at the open door. “Some good you are. Aren't cats supposed to chase mice? Why am I doing all the work?”
Three more potted plants crashed to the floor. I jumped backward, dodging fragments of pottery and soil.
“Oh, that does it!” I swept the broom across the top of the now plant-free cabinet and struck something solid.
A virika flew from the cabinet. It hit the carved headboard, bounced off a pink and gold throw pillow, and landed on its butt on the daybed.
The gnome swayed, expression dazed. Then the creature slowly tilted and fell on its side. A tiny groan issued from its mouth. Beneath his red cap, one eye was black and swollen. A crimson bite mark decorated his neck.
Broom extended, I prowled toward the tiny creature. My boots crunched on broken pottery. Where there was one virika, there were more. And they only came… My muscles tightened, my palms slick on the broom handle. They only came when death was on its way.
I sagged against the doorframe, broom tight against my chest. No. It was a mistake. Death wasn’t on its way here. But black fear sprouted from my heart, strangling the breath in my lungs.
No. I shook myself. This wasn’t happening. I wouldn’t let it happen.
Keeping an eye on the virika, I walked to the window overlooking the alley. I stared out, past my own pale, wide-eyed reflection. Downstairs, a lone streetlight illuminated the narrow alley in a beery glow. Nothing moved in the shadows of the staircase or my F-150.
I turned to the virika.
He was sitting up now. The gnome rubbed his head beneath his red cap and shot me a hurt look. He smelled kind of manky.
“Well, what did you expect to happen when you broke in here?” I croaked, mouth dry. I'd never heard of virikas actually entering someone's home. In all the literature and in my experience, they held their death watch outside. This was not good.
Not good at all.
Footsteps thundered up the exterior stairs, and I started. The overhead light outside the upstairs door popped on. I looked out. Brayden. My shoulders relaxed, and I blew out a breath.
I pointed at the gnome. “Stay.” I trotted toward the guest room door.
The virika sprang from the couch and affixed itself to my leg.
Needles of pain lanced my shin. “Ow!” I cursed, trying to shake it off.
It buried its teeth deeper in the leg of my jeans and wrapped its arms around my shin.
Blood thrummed in my head. I hopped around the guest room. “Let go!”
But the virika stuck like Velcro.
Brayden knocked at the door.
“Just a second!” I called out. “Cut it out,” I hissed at the gnome.
It shook its tiny head. Releasing its grip on my leg, it gibbered something unintelligible.
I grabbed it by the back of its filthy collar and wrenched it free. The virika twisted in my hands and bit my thumb.
“Ow!”
It scrambled up my arm, over my shoulder, and down the back of my emerald sweater. Its tiny claws sank into my spine.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Whirling in a hapless circle, I reached behind me. My fingertips grazed the creature, unable to get a grip.
Brayden knocked again. “Jayce?”
“One second!”
The cat howled.
Panting, I twisted like a yogini to reach the creature. “Brayden does not like magic right now. And you are definitely magic.” I studied the wall beside the closet, and my eyes narrowed. “You asked for it, buddy.” I
turned my back to the brickwork, hesitated. I couldn't really smash it against a wall, could I?
I hung my head.
No, I couldn’t. “Dammit!”
Striding from the room, I grabbed my bronzy parka off the hook near the door and shrugged into it. I pulled my hair free from my collar and unlocked and opened the door.
Brayden's dark head lowered. “I would have used my key, but I wasn't sure you wanted to let me in. Maybe I deserve standing out in the cold. I shouldn’t have left like that.”
The virika wriggled. Its claws found new, tender spots to pierce, emerald yarns to unravel.
I grimaced. “No-o! I mean, you don't deserve it. Everything that’s happened is on me.” I panted. “I'm glad you came. I didn't like the way we left things.”
“Neither did I.” He eyed me. “Can I come in?”
“Right. Right!” I backed from the door, and he stepped inside.
“Why are you wearing a coat?”
“Oh! I just got home. I went for a walk after Antoine's.” Not a lie. I had walked home from the bar.
His brow furrowed. “Are you sure that's safe?”
“I can't… Maybe not.”
He shook his head. “No. It's not for me to tell you what to do. Look, about tonight. I want to be with you, Jayce. I love you. I've always loved you.”
My heart lightened. “I love you too.”
He reached for me, and the virika shifted beneath my jacket. I jumped, skin twitching.
“Are you all right?” Brayden asked.
The cat's growls rose.
“What's with Picatrix?” he asked.
“She's having issues. And I'm fine. It's just been a long night. I'm not exactly at my personal best.”
The virika scrambled higher on my back, points of fire lancing my spine.
I smothered a yelp. “Look, I'm in a mood. Things are weird right now. I need to get my head on straight too. You've given me a lot to think about,” I rambled, walking forward and moving him toward the door. “I love you. I don't want to screw this up.”
The virika reached my shoulder.
“What's that?” I yelped and pointed behind him.
He spun.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 17
