by Coralie Moss
No goodbye. Just the sharp click signaling the end of a typical communiqué from Rose de Benauge.
Tanner mentioned he was in possession of a directory of all the Magicals in British Columbia. We already knew the listing wasn’t entirely accurate—my name was nowhere in there—but it was high time I got my hands on a physical copy of the book. At the least, it would give me a better sense of what I was walking into when I knew I would be meeting with other witches, shifters, and the like.
I continued reading through Rose’s email.
The rudimentary training for a witch like me consisted of modules. So. Many. Modules. I continued to scroll until I read, “Thus ends year one of five.”
I propped my elbows on the edge of my desk and exhaled a thoroughly dramatic sigh. Five years of this. And I was probably the only one over the age of forty. Heck, I was probably the only witch-in-training over the age of twenty-five. All the witches I’d met thus far, from Rose on down the line, impressed me as being embodied in themselves and comfortable with their magic, able to call up their inherent gifts and learned skills and use them, especially when the situation was dire.
What could I do?
I stuck out one finger. I could call people by their full name. If I happened to be holding my wand and directing the point at the person at the same time, they froze. And as I learned when throwing names at Meribah the night of my party, I shouldn’t count on that ability to hold for very long if I was trying to get the words to immobilize a powerful Magical.
I added a second finger. I could call on invasive species of vines and ask them to act on my behalf. That had worked very well, on two occasions.
Another finger, and I counted the ground below my bare feet and hands as a prominent ally. By touching the earth, I could sense when other Magicals were nearby, and often—at least, here on the island—I could differentiate Magical signatures and know exactly who I was “seeing.” I could also read the health of the soil, an essential aspect of my job with the Agricultural Commission. That skill garnered me one more digit.
Four fingers stood firm.
“Stop it.” I spoke the words aloud. I needed to not let myself go anywhere near the Calliope who, for sixteen years, had unknowingly worn a tattoo designed to mute her magic. The same Calliope whose magic had never been acknowledged, much less encouraged, once her mother had died.
I shook out my hands, read through Rose’s email once again. I chose a fresh notebook and roller ball pen and started a list of the supplies I would need, from crystals and herbs to a basic set up for at-home chemistry. I emailed Maritza and let her know I might have found a grimoire. After that, I took a closer look at the course synopsis. Witches were into layered learning. A few of the topics were covered every year, with big ones like Living in Harmony with the Magical Calendar taking the student witch from observer to leader by the end of the five years.
Same thing with herbal studies. Witches-in-training were required to create an at-home garden and plant the basics—some of which I had, many of which I did not. More plants would be added to the plot each year in order to have on hand the raw ingredients for creating ever more nuanced and potent elixirs and potions.
I pulled out volume four of Good Houseweeping, the one labeled Home Maintenance, flipped the book over, and unfolded the map of the property. I wanted to see if other vegetable and garden plots had been marked, but this map wasn’t giving me much.
I tried another, thinking there might be some connection between each collection’s official label and the contents of its magical pages. If Home Maintenance focused on structures on the property, from portals to chicken coops, then volume one, Marriage, would likely hold relationship advice and volume two, In the Kitchen, would be recipe central for food and witch-crafted potions and elixirs. A tingle of anticipation shot up my arms.
Tucking In the Kitchen under my desk, I picked up Farm and Garden. That had to be the one. I performed the book-flipping ritual and brought the tip of my athame to the thick end paper. Sure enough, the knife found an opening, the slit grew, and when the book was laid flat, the page opened into a map
This version showed my acreage had, at one time, been packed with garden plots and not at the expense of cutting down the glorious Arbutus and Garry Oak trees. There were neat rows of fruit trees: pears, apples, plums, and cherries. Herbs occupied a couple of round formations that resembled Celtic knots.
I had my answer. And before the Building Your Herbal Garden module began, I would go over my land, inch by inch, to see if I could uncover even a shadow of what once was.
Satisfied with my search results, I reordered my Good Housesweeping books, all but the unlabeled, empty volume. I wondered if there were words in there, somewhere. I had tried my saliva and my athame. I hadn’t tried to use my blood, but if the book wanted my blood, how was I to do that?
I’d sliced my thumb to create a rudimentary blood ward with Tanner’s help.
I’d had my Blood Ceremony and fed my menstrual blood to my land at the witches’ insistence.
But if this book wanted a taste of me in order to reveal any secrets it might have? I was at a loss.
I shook my head, tucked the book next to the others, and woke up my laptop.
Maritza had responded, short and to the point. I lingered on her closing line: “Please bring with you a genealogical chart and the possible grimoire.”
Chapter 13
I closed my laptop. Spun my chair and rested my calves and feet on the rumpled bedcovers. Closed my eyes. Started to bargain with myself. A nap now, in an empty, quiet house would give me energy for tonight. And tonight’s agenda included a search for the Apple Witch.
I would return to Cliff and Abi’s. Enlist River, Kaz, Belle, and Rose’s help, and Hyslop and Peasgood’s too, if they were up for it. I could not let Jessamyne disappear, Tanner in her wake. Surely, River or one of the other druids would know how to reach Tanner no matter where he was and bring him back.
Bring all three of them—Tanner and Abigail and Clifford—back.
I was afraid to admit the depth of my tiredness. I hauled myself out of the chair and into the bathroom intending to scrub my filthy feet. A glance in the mirror convinced me a full shower was the humane thing to do.
Hair washed, conditioner in, I turned from facing the stream of hot water to let it pummel my upper back. One foot slipped. My hand smacked the wall as I steadied myself. Lifting my chin, I kept my head under the spray until my hair was thoroughly rinsed.
The thud of something heavy landing on the floor above me had me grabbing for the faucets and crouching low. I turned the water off, slicked my hair away from my face, and waited, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Another thud and the muted rattle of a door handle. I slid one leg over the edge of the clawfoot tub then the other, shot my arms into my bathrobe, and scanned the room for a weapon.
Boom.
Menstrual pads and sponges. Nope. An almost empty canister of toilet cleanser. Uh-uh. A plunger. I hefted the wood handle, gave it a swing, and admired the weight and density of the black rubber cup.
Armed and ready, I grasped the door knob and turned.
Mrrowwl?
“Jasper,” I hissed, my legs quaking. “That was not nice!”
The damn cat walked away. My terrycloth clad butt hit the tile floor. I leaned against the toilet and fanned my face. Jasper returned, dropped my cell phone between the doorway and my bare legs, and meowed again.
A text from Thatcher winked at me.
“Mom. Please feed Jasper. Shama said he eats anything.”
This was my life now. Defending myself from hungry magical cats with nothing more than a toilet plunger. I stumbled a bit coming to stand, towel dried my hair, and held the damp mess on top of my head with a thick elastic. I’d brush it out later.
Jasper was waiting by the front door, flicking his tail.
“Do you want to go out?” I asked. The feline was acting very dog-like, and I wasn’t about to as
sume the creature didn’t understand what I was saying.
I opened the door. The cat stepped outside, stopped, and meowed again. He turned his head and glared. His next meow sounded more like a question than an order.
“Do you want me to come out with you?”
His body language said yes. My brain supplied, Idiot. I followed his fluffy butt and upraised tail down the steps, turning to round the corner, all the along the side of the house to my garden area. Jasper walked to the base of the crabapple tree and pawed at the bark.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you need a lift?”
Wrong thing to say. Jasper crouched, leapt, landed on a branch above my head, and jumped down. When he lifted a front paw to his mouth and started to lick, I’d had enough.
“Jasper, what do you want?” I asked, plopping next to him.
Leaning my weight against the tree, I found the sky through the mesh work of branches and little globes of fruit. The annual Perseid meteor shower was due tonight or tomorrow.
“Tanner probably loves the Perseids,” I said to my feline companion, reaching to pet his fur.
A shift in the air pressure preceded a voice coming from behind me. “Who doesn’t love a good meteor shower? Or any other kind of sparkly— Whoops, hello, kitty!”
I screamed and dragged Jasper into my lap. He unsheathed sharp claws from all four of his paws and dug into my thighs. The terrycloth provided no barrier to a Coon cat on the defensive.
“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” the male voice coming out of nowhere continued. “This is not how I pictured our first meeting. Not. At. All.”
A figure swept around from my side and crouched in front of me. The entirety of his cloak arrived a split second after. He pushed a generous hood away from his pale face and bald head and smiled. Sort of. The shape he was making with his mouth could read as a grimace as easily as something smile-adjacent.
I patted the ground for the handle of the toilet plunger. Taking comfort in the thickness of the dowel, I almost copied Jasper and hissed when I spoke.
“Who the fuck are you?” I asked, unable to stop the question from blurting out of my mouth. My curiosity, stunned from the shock of the man’s arrival, shriveled and landed belly-up. I was done with being blindsided by Magicals and their predilection for dramatic arrivals and departures. “And what do you want?”
“I’m Alabastair,” he said, extending his arm. His skintight black shirt had a hole at the end of the sleeve for his thumb. Circling his thumb was a wide metal band, inscribed with markings. “Alabastair Nekrosine, and I will be your portal host this evening.” He rolled his eyes and made a self-deprecating face. “Well, tomorrow too, and any other time during the next three months until you’re ready to travel by yourself.”
Alabastair’s jocular tone prevented me spitting out more swears, but so help me, Goddess… In a flash, it dawned on me this was the “interesting” Portal Keeper Kaz and Wes had mentioned. My fingers thanked me for loosening my grip on the dowel.
“I must have texted the wrong number.” His facial features melted into contrite. “I am so sorry if this is a surprise.”
I took in a long breath through my nose and tried to pry Jasper’s claws from my leg. One of the front panels of my robe was shredded. “Is there a reason why you’ve shown up at my house, at night? In a cape?”
He nodded. “I always wear a cape when I’m on a job. Earlier today, I received an assignment to escort you to a portal located on the property of Meribah Flechette once it was dark.”
“I can tell right now that is a flat out hell no, Alabastair.” Only a sick and twisted mind would think that my presence at my ex-mother-in-law’s estate was a positive. “Who sent you here in the first place?”
“I…” Alabastair looked confused. He patted the front of his shirt then consulted the smart watch strapped over his sleeve. “Maritza Brodeur, the necromancer, and her brother, Malvyn. The sorcerer? Do you not know them? Professor Brodeur is overseeing my apprenticeship. Portal Resurrection and Maintenance is my sub-specialty.” He leaned to one side then the other, appraising the tree behind me. “Correction: one of my sub-specialties. The tree you’re sitting under was once a mini-hub. Four portals are accessible from this very spot, but they’ve been neglected, and a neglected portal is a…”
“Alabastair,” I said, holding up my palm. Thank Goddess not everything the necromancer was saying sounded completely out of left field. “Back up. I know this tree is special, but I am tired. I am wearing a bathrobe, my hair is wet, and this beast of a feline is cutting off circulation to my legs. Would you like to come inside? Maybe join me for a cup of tea, allow me to me check your references?”
He shook his head. “Time is of the essence, Ms. Jones. The sooner you get dressed, the sooner we can go.”
I sighed. Lifted my eyes to the heavens and made a silent plea for guidance. If Maritza and Malvyn wanted me at the Flechette estate, they had to have compelling reasons for entrusting me to the care of this Magical. “What type of event am I dressing for?”
He stood and swept his cape to the side. He was garbed head to toe in snug black pants and a pullover shirt. Only his feet, hands, and head were bared. “We have been assigned to make a reconnaissance mission.”
“And you’re certain the Brodeurs want us to go to this particular property?”
His nod was solemn. He pointed to his wrist. “I have the coordinates right here.”
“Did Malvyn mention why he wants me on this mission? Did he happen to fill you in on the events of the past forty-eight hours? And isn’t this kind of dangerous?”
“Very dangerous,” Alabastair said, “but we have an advantage. The Flechettes are not expecting anyone to arrive on their property via portal. Why? Because no one has used it in forever. And while I do not know if Malvyn shared all the details with me, he did say this particular task is connected to information gathered via his interrogation of two Fae seeking to plea bargain their way out of…” He stopped reading off his watch. His widened eyes mirrored the celestial orbs I had been admiring. “Murder charges. Well, this is a first for me.”
“Me too.” I cocked my head to the side. “Though I’m not quite seeing how dropping an untrained individual into the middle of a protected property makes for smart spy work.” Malvyn must have been extremely short-staffed or desperate to send me into a venue I had no desire to see again. Especially with a half-cocked, cape-wearing lunatic.
The lunatic smiled. “Have you ever read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?”
I nodded, confused. So very, very confused. Alabastair had yet to win me over. Or Jasper.
“There’s the lion,” he said, pointing to Jasper, “you’re the witch, and I’ve got the wardrobe.” He felt for the edges of his cape, bowed, and offered his hand. “Come. Let’s see what’s in your closet. And by the way, Jasper is critical to our mission. I hope you have a cat carrier.”
* * *
Alabastair waited on the front porch, citing an allergy to cat fur and the desire to reread Malvyn’s notes. I left the caped crusader in the dark about Coon cat’s fur being hypo-allergenic while Jasper led me down the hall and into my room. The giant cat watched my preparations from my bureau.
Not at all creepy.
I found ankle-length yoga pants and a long-sleeved black shirt in a drawer and ducked into my closet to change. A bright orange slogan across the front of the shirt meant I would have to wear it inside out. I considered adding my red leather gauntlets to the ensemble, but that seemed like overkill and the reflective metal charms might prove too flashy for night work.
My wand. Opening the closet door to Jasper’s bored look, I located the wand underneath his tail and glared. He toyed with the length of motley ribbons before biting into one and hopping to the floor, prize in tow. I tucked the length of crabapple wood into the waistband of my stretchy pants and glanced over the badges taken from my mother’s Witchling Way banner: an apple, a seal, and a bear. The night of my party, I’d
worn two of the three. Tonight, the bear volunteered to be my ally. I reached behind my neck and pinned the flat, weighted circle to the back of my shirt.
Bear had shown up before, faintly, on two occasions. If this outing with Alabastair went sideways there was a chance Bear would show up.
“Ready?” I asked Jasper. He blinked, discarded the ribbon, and pattered out. I followed him again, this time to the living room, where he hopped into the basket of books and mending. “Reminding me about the cat carrier, eh?”
He licked a paw.
“Alabastair?” I said, sending my voice beyond the screen door’s minimal barrier. “When you said cat carrier, what did you mean? Would a basket work?”
He pressed his face to the newly replaced mesh. “Does it have a lid?”
“Nope.”
“This is an island. Surely you have one of those declassé boat bag contraptions?”
I did. Complete with a zipper across the top. “Great idea. C’mon Jasper, time to saddle up, kitty-cat.”
Jasper glared.
I was getting good at reading his expressions. “Would a snack help lift your mood?”
I unwrapped a power bar, added it to the canvas bag, zipped Jasper inside, and slipped one of my feet in its boot.
“Uh-uh. Barefoot, Calliope. You’re a capital-E Earth Witch, and it’s time to test those tootsies.”
“Al?”
He shuddered. “Please call me Bas.”
“Bas? Do you always talk like you’re auditioning for a show?”
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, grinning and holding both doors open.
Bas led our threesome to a spot adjacent to the old crabapple tree. I slowed my pace, tugged the wand out of my waistband, and palmed the thicker end of the smooth wood. The new stick had almost completely integrated the old one, and the filigree of branches glowed with a burnished, metallic hue. But there was no time to wonder at the transformation.
