by H. D. Gordon
“I mean no harm,” he says. “I just want a word. Please.”
I get the feeling that my magic does not scare him in the least, that he is only appearing cautious to appease me.
“Answer me,” I say.
He keeps his dark eyes on me as he bows deeply at the waist. “Alexandre Antonio Alabaster,” he says. “And I am a Warlock, since I know you’re wondering.”
“That’s a mouthful,” I say, and shift on my feet, wishing I had some clothes on for this weird conversation.
He ignores my statement, clearly having heard it before. As if reading my mind, Alexandre flicks his fingers, and suddenly, I am dry and dressed in my sweatpants and t-shirt.
Anger flares at this not-so-subtle display of power, but he speaks again before I can address it.
Warlocks are rare creatures, as magic does not usually pass to the males of magical families. On the rare occasions that it does, however, the males are particularly powerful.
“You can call me Alex,” he replies. “And, you, Miracle Meadows, are a witch of the Philadelphia Coven who has been secretly helping deliver hybrid babies. Three in the past year, I believe, despite that being outlawed by the Sisters Superior.”
My jaw clenches. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Warlock laughs. “Of course you do. That’s where you were last night, no? In North Philly helping deliver a little wolf-witch baby. Got you into a spot of trouble, too, didn’t it?”
I fold my arms over my chest. I do not like where this is going. “What do you want?”
He shrugs and reclaims the seat on my bed. I cringe but don’t protest. “To know what happened,” he says.
I stare at him. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. Hell, I can’t say anything. I signed that stupid contract.
Alex leans forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his knees and holding my gaze intently. I don’t have much experience with Warlocks, but they are known to be a wily bread, loners whose only loyalty is to themselves.
“They murdered that wolf right in front of you, didn’t they?” he asks. “They shot him dead for no good reason.”
I feel suddenly like I might throw up, and have to swallow past it. Whatever look is on my face must give me away, because Alex nods as though I’d answered.
Silence hangs between us for a moment.
I nod once.
That’s all I can manage. I am both angry and ashamed. I decide to run with the former.
“Get out of my house,” I say.
The Warlock is no longer smirking. I expect an argument, and am still summoning my magic as he opens a portal in my bedroom, another testament to his power with the wards protecting the place.
Just before he steps through the portal, he turns back to look at me.
He flicks me a card, the paper floating to me on magic. I pluck it reluctantly out of the air.
“You know what they say about the truth, Miss Meadows?” he says. “It will set you free… When you’re ready to talk, let me know.”
Then he is gone.
Leaving me with his card.
And my guilt.
I sleep like the dead, and wake feeling the same.
My mouth is dry as bone, and my head swims as I blink my eyes open. I manage a breath before the events of earlier this morning flood back to me.
I try to shove the memories away. They shove back.
My door opens. Echo bounds into the room, Winter following slowly on her heels. Echo places a plate of strawberries and buttered toast on my desk near the balcony doors, and Winter carefully brings me the steaming tea.
“Shouldn’t you little butts be in school?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
Echo laughs. “It’s Saturday, auntie,” she says.
Right. Shit. Saturday. I knew that.
“Mommy said to bring you this,” Echo says. “She said to make sure you eat it.”
“What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s almost noon,” answers Winter.
At just a year older than Echo, Winter is the opposite her little sister in every way. She moves gently and quietly through the world, whereas Echo would rather sprint through flipping and screaming.
I love them both just exactly the way they are. I could not imagine loving a human being any more than I do them. Hands down, they were the very best nieces on the planet.
“Mommy says we can go to the Market this morning if you get your lazy butt up, auntie,” Echo says, placing her hands on her hips.
I smile as I take in the little purse slung over her shoulder and the shiny clear lipgloss she’s applied to her lips.
Winter, on the other hand, wears an oversized hoodie and bright green glasses that tend to slip down her nose.
Goddess damn me, but I do not want to go to the dang-a-lang Market right now. I want to cover my head with my blanket and fall back into the sweet oblivion of sleep. But in reality, I would just lie in bed, depressed, unable to sleep for the recent happenings.
And damn if my sister Flora doesn’t know this.
And that I am powerless to say no to my nieces.
I grumble as I stand from the bed. “Fine,” I say. “Shoo-shoo, you little turds, so I can get dressed.”
Echo giggles as she races out of the room yelling, “Little turds!”
The exact type of exit I would expect her to make.
Winter pauses in my doorway, looking back at me with big eyes. “Aunt Mira?”
“Mm?”
“Are you okay?”
The three-worded question just about brings me to my knees. I feel tears trying to rise to my eyes, feel the air catch in my chest.
No, I want to say. I am not okay.
And there is no point in lying to Winter. One of her magical affinities is aura-reading. Though this is an incredible gift, I also feel bad for her sometimes. The ability makes her a true Empath, with the proclivity to feel both immense joys, and the deepest of pains. I share some of this affinity, but I’ve never met a witch with as much propensity for it as my darling Winter.
“I will be,” I tell her. “And what do we say?”
She sighs, her shoulders, which seem to be permanently slumped as of late, sink a fraction further still. “It’s okay not to be okay. We just can’t stay in that place forever.”
I nod. She gives a shy smile and exits the room.
As I get dressed and force down some food, I urge myself to take my own damn advice.
And do not quite succeed.
6
1:39 p.m.
The Reading Terminal Market in Center City, Philadelphia.
A fun place to visit if you’re a human…
An absolutely magical place if you are a supe.
It is indeed Saturday, and the place is packed to the gills when we enter. People avoid eye contact as they slip and shove by each other, and the symphony of smells and sounds blend together into a hum.
Flora is leading our little group of four, with Echo and Winter between us, and me bringing up the rear. I am always extra cautious with the girls out in public, especially with the current social and political climate. Nevertheless, even if humans didn’t know about the existence of supes, leaving pretty little girls unattended in public was never a good idea.
Goddess, what a fucked up world we lived in.
Phantom gunshots sound in my head. I grit my teeth against them, and sigh with relief when the hum of the Market fills back in.
I look down and see Winter has taken my hand, pulling me onward as we weave through the crowd. Not for the first time, I am floored by how much I love this little girl. She tosses a small smile over her shoulder as this thought flutters through my mind.
Then we have reached the entrance to the real Market—the hidden passage between the worlds.
It is tucked in a corner between the booths and stalls and shops that make up Reading Terminal, right between Tinctures and Teas and Johnnie’s Gourmet Popcorn. The space is so slight one must turn
sideways to slip in.
My little band of witches does so holding hands…
And then we are through, entering what supes call the Underside of the Market, a place for magical creatures of all sorts, dating all the way back to its opening in 1893.
Echo’s giggle travels back to me, and combined with Winter’s slight intake of breath, the reactions are almost enough to make me smile.
A night sky stretches above us, the stars somehow much lower than any other spot I’ve visited on earth, as if I could just reach out and pluck one from the heavens.
“Look, auntie!” Echo says as a baby dragon the color of emeralds flaps through the air just above us. A tiny column of flame erupts from its mouth as it goes by, snake-like eyes and barbed tail flicking this way and that.
“I want one,” Winter says.
They say this every time we come to the Market.
I reply, “I want one, too. Let me just go sell my eggs in order to afford one right quick.”
Flora shoots me a look while Echo chuckles and Winter wrinkles her nose.
“You brought eggs?” Echo asks, looking at my pockets for where I might have them hidden.
“Never mind her,” Flora says, shooing us along.
She guides us through the crowd, taking the same route we always take, being mindful not to stray. With so many supes and so much magic around, it is best one mind where they step.
Cats of all colors and sizes dart from here to there, some having tagged along with their witches, others feral and living off the generosity of the supes in the Market, who feed the little beasts and often times end up taking them home.
A black cat shoots between me and Winter, making us both smile, and reminding me that I had not seen Lucifer, our black cat, this morning when I’d been home. I wonder where that little bastard could be.
My mind is pulled back to the present as I pass a stall selling wands and other magical trinkets, and pick up bits of conversation between two wolves with long braids and stunningly pretty faces.
“They shot him eight times. Dude was unarmed. Now they’re trying to say he was a suspect in a nearby robbery. Fucking bullshit.”
“Lying pieces of shit. SICE is rounding up supes on the low, just for being supes. Been doing it forever, it’s just that nobody was talking about it. It’s a lot harder to keep shit under wraps now, with social media and everyone walking around with cameras in their pockets.”
I only realize that I am staring when the two wolves look at me. I look away quickly and keep moving, but a rock seems to have lodged at the base of my throat.
Winter squeezes my hand. “Who did they shoot, Aunt Mir?” she asks.
I shake my head. It is all I can manage. I am afraid if I even try to tell her, I will burst into tears right here. And that’s just a firm hell no. There is nothing wrong with crying; a mortal reaction. But I believe it is best practiced in safe spaces, and public has never been a safe space for anyone.
Winter being Winter, she lets it go. Bless her little heart.
We pass between two stalls selling floating hot powered cakes, and I am already pulling out my debit card as Echo’s and Winter’s eyes light up.
“Can we have one, mommy?” Winter asks, yanking on her mom’s arm.
I wink at my sister and am ordering two mini floaters before she has fully agreed.
We approach the glass front of the booth, watching in wonder as the witches behind the barrier cook our cakes using simple magic. The creation is like art as they flick their wrists, moving in perfect harmony. One witch uses fire magic to cook the dough, which dances through the air as the other controls it with telepathy. The dough fries in mid-air, turning brown and filling the space with a sugary aroma.
Echo’s grin is worth every penny as the witch spells her name in dough, the ECHO as ornate as calligraphy. Powered sugar appears like snow and drifts down upon the cake. Then tiny colorful chocolates sprinkle over that. With a final wink, the witches flick their fingers, and the cake floats over to Echo.
The same process follows for Winter, and by the time we reach our destination, both girls have powder covering their little faces.
I may be feeling low, but at least I’m a pretty good aunt, I think.
Up ahead, I see the shop we always come to when we visit the Market. By now, the rollercoaster of emotions that is today has exhausted me. I am ready to get out of here and crawl back under my covers.
The Fates, however, seem to have different plans in order.
Only as I draw closer do I notice the small crowd that has gathered near Tatiana’s, our favorite shop at the Market. Out front, a wolf in colorful skirts stands upon a crate, giving her a stage above the gathered.
The first thing I notice about her is that she is lovely, captivating, even, with her glorious dark curly hair and smooth brown skin. Silver bangles hang from her wrists and large silver hoops swing in her ears. Her eyes scan the gathered, and her powerful voice carries over the crowd as if by magic.
Perhaps the purest kind of magic–genuine charisma and leadership skills.
But it is not these qualities that freezes me in my tracks, that makes me want to open a portal in the floor and slip out of here to literally any place else in all the realms.
“Edmond Harvey Jackson,” she says. “Say his name!”
The gathered shout back:
“Edmond Harvey Jackson!”
7
3:00 p.m.
Edmond Harvey Jackson.
The name seems to enter through my ears but also my skin, permeating my bloodstream and nestling in my bones.
Goddess, news travels fast nowadays.
I think I am going to be sick.
“Fuck,” I hear Flora mutter.
Then she is dragging us away from there.
We are at another booth entirely before I am able to see what is going on around me. I am dizzy with guilt or trauma or some shit. I’ve never been prone to panic attacks, but I am pretty sure this is one of them. My heart is racing and I’m suddenly sweating profusely. My hand is clammy in Winter’s, and I’m dimly aware of her eyes on me, watching with concern too wise for her ten years.
“Four tickets to Cherry Gardens, please,” Flora is saying to a witch behind a glass in a little booth. The witch takes my sister’s payment and hands over the tickets.
I say nothing as Flora hands me mine.
“We’re going to Cherry Gardens?” Echo asks. “Yes!”
I think I try to smile. I’m not sure I succeed. I count my breaths in an effort to calm myself.
Winter usually loves Cherry Gardens, too, but she is too busy watching me to express delight. My heart is still racing, my palms clammy and my neck terribly hot. I’m starting to feel dizzy, my mind stalling.
We approach a turnstile, where a calico cat sits watching with sharp green eyes. When I just stand there, trying to steady my breathing, Flora slips my ticket into the slot for me and shoves me through.
I stumble as my feet touch soft grass and warm sun kisses my face, and the smell of Cherry Blossoms in full bloom takes the place of the scents of the Market.
I try to draw a deep breath. I cannot seem to rein myself in. I can’t seem to get enough air.
I cannot breathe.
I am going to die.
What. The. Fuck.
I’m barely aware of Flora telling Winter to take my other side. I nearly collapse as we reach a stone bench set along the pathway. The gardens blur around me as I keep sucking in air, not quite filling my lungs no matter how hard I try.
I am starting to freak the fuck out.
Flora gives Echo some directions, and Echo runs off to comply. She returns a moment later with some magical chamomile tea. I take the steaming cup gratefully and sip it deep enough to scour my tongue and throat.
But the chamomile magic does the trick, the herb much stronger than that sold by humans.
Finally, after a few gasps, my body starts to return to normal.
But you can jus
t color me freaked the fuck out. If that was a panic attack, I never wanted to have one again. What is wrong with me?
A breeze picks up, drifting through the garden and carrying with it the scents of flora, grass, and sugar. I watch my nieces and sister as their hair lifts off their shoulders, and know the breeze is Echo, using her elemental magic. The sight of my three most favorite people in the world calms me further still, and I thank the Goddess for her blessings.
Sheesh. I need to get it together.
“Feeling better, Auntie?” asks Echo.
I am finally able to draw a full breath. I sip the magical tea and manage a real smile. “Yes, thank you,” I say, and stand, pleased when my legs hold me. “What are we waiting for? Let’s play.”
That is all the permission the little witches need. Winter and Echo dart off across the grass, heading toward one of the many sprawling jungle gym/treehouses that live in Cherry Gardens—a pocket between the realms, a playground for witches.
Also, an expensive place to purchase tickets to. My sister just dropped a few hundred dollars to get us here from the Market.
I cringe as this settles over me. Flora doesn’t even have to look at me to know what I am thinking.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “It’s just money.”
Which, is something I was once told, that only people with money say.
I seem to be doing quite a bit of questioning my place in the world today, particularly in relation to others.
No wonder I’m having panic attacks.
A spark of electricity strikes my shoulder, and I jump at the jolt. I look over at Flora, who is grinning wickedly.
Two more sparks flick from her fingertips and strike me in the foot, making me hop and dance in place.
“You’re it!” she says, and then takes off running.
Flora grabs one of the many brooms lying about and hops aboard it, side-saddle. Then she is zooming up into the air.
Even in my depressed state, I cannot ignore the challenge. Brooms has been a favorite game of ours since we were witchlings.
I stretch out my hand and summon a large, ornate broom that rests against one of the majestic oaks dotting the space. The broom comes to me, waking up and heeding my call.
