by Coralie Moss
Magic Remembered
Coralie Moss
Copyright © 2018 by Coralie Moss
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, objects, and incidents herein are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual living things, events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Published internationally by Pink Moon Books, British Columbia, Canada
ISBN: 978-1-7752646-7-5
Created with Vellum
Created with Vellum
For my husband, Martin.
Thank you for manning the cappuccino machine.
Thank you for making the hot chocolate *my* way.
Thank you for picking up my slack.
Thank you for asking, “But what happens next?” and thereby volunteering to do it all again.
And thank you most of all for being my rock.
For the witches.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Join Coralie’s Newsletter
Also by Coralie Moss
Tanner
Chapter 1
I rued the day I downloaded ShiftR, the dating app designed for witches and the like. My first experience with swiping found me grimacing at my ex-husband’s smug face and wondering why the avowed magic-hater was trolling for non-humans. Swiping in the other direction—over and over—eventually netted two possible matches, both of them werecougars living across the channel on Vancouver Island.
After a cluster of dating disasters, I wanted a no-strings-attached romp. Choosing one shifter over the other because of a shared interest in vintage Airstream campers, a romp inside a restored, aluminum-sided Clipper was exactly what I got. But even in his fully human form, the werecougar’s combined size and enthusiasm may have led to a busted condom.
And now, my period was almost two months late, and I couldn’t make myself pull open the glass door of the medical building, step over the threshold, and show up to my appointment at the women’s health clinic.
Calliope Jones, you can do this.
Not emphatic enough. I needed a middle name. I hadn’t been given one and before I could tumble onto the map of dead ends that comprised the missing pieces of my ancestry, the glass door banged open. A very pregnant woman lumbered out. I gripped the door handle and watched as she waddled to her nearby car.
That could be me in seven months.
Nursery décor themes danced in my head as I entered, registered and accepted a plastic cup. I dutifully peed and followed a nurse’s Medicinal Pink-clad backside down the hallway and into Dr. Renard’s office, where I used the wait to review my options as a possibly pregnant forty-one-year-old divorced mother of two teenaged sons.
I helped myself to the water cooler, swallowing against a rise of nausea. Another wave from the center of my agitated belly to the base of my throat sent my eyelids slamming shut. Nausea had been an issue nineteen years ago, when I was in my first trimester with Harper. It was going to be an issue again.
Shit.
I finished the water, crumpled the cup, and opened my eyes to Dr. Renard’s concerned gaze. “What brings you here today?”
“My period’s really late.” Goddess, those words stung when uttered aloud.
“How late?”
“Six, seven weeks.” Eight. Maybe, nine. I hadn’t been keeping track of my cycle.
Dr. Renard scanned the medical records displayed on her laptop and glanced over thick green eyeglass frames to the nurse hovering in the doorway. “Did we get Ms. Jones’s urine?”
The nurse nodded. “Three more minutes and we’ll have the first results.”
The door snicked closed, and my belly clenched again. Dr. Renard leaned in, placed freckled hands firmly on my khaki-clad knees, and looked at me head on. “Calliope, we haven’t known each other very long, but you are under my care and you can tell me what’s going on.”
“The guy I was with suffered a condom malfunction,” I blurted.
The kindly doctor arched both eyebrows over her big, cornflower-blue eyes and hmmed. I fidgeted with the snap on the flap of my pants’ thigh pocket as my feet broke out in a sweat.
“My sex life since my divorce was finalized has been the stuff of legend. You know, the kind of legend that’s fodder for someone else’s comedy routine.” The calendar tucked in my underwear drawer—a place I knew my sons would never explore—recorded one dating disaster after another from the moment I decided to dip a toe in the proverbial pool.
Hands tapped the outsides of my knees, and another comforting hmm reached my ears. Dr. Renard pushed her rolling stool away from the upholstered chair as a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.”
The same nurse handed over a piece of paper and slipped out of the room. Dr. Renard read the results, glanced at me, and smiled, folding the paper in half and half again, before tucking it into a pocket of her lab coat.
“Calliope, I have some good news.” She leaned back and crossed her legs. “You’re not pregnant. The more likely scenario is you’re starting menopause.”
I exhaled in relief and quickly inhaled confusion. Menopause meant the end of…of rapturous sex and luxurious hair, and I was in no way prepared to give up on either, especially since I had yet to experience the kind of sex I was currently on a mission to find. “But I’m only forty-one!”
“Have you been experiencing any sleep disturbances?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. “Night sweats, unexplained weight gain, vaginal dryness?”
“Every couple of weeks I sleep the night through, but mostly I wake up at least two or three times.” And here I thought it was the stuffy air from July’s heat and seasonal forest fires. “And my vagina is fine. I’m…” I sighed and smirked. “I’m more the opposite. I can’t stop thinking about sex.” Hence my personal mission and current predicament.
“So, heightened libido, sleep patterns are off, and you’re sweating. Anything else?”
My sons, Goddess love them, were simultaneously charging toward manhood and clinging to their childhoods with tenacious fingers. “Does an increasingly laissez faire attitude about parenting count?”
That elicited a chuckle. “Actually, yes. It’s not uncommon to care less about clean toilets and getting dinner on the table and more about pursuing whatever makes you happy.” She returned to reading through my records. I distracted myself by longing for her saffron curls instead of my dull brown waves. I’d run out of argan oil, and my hair was suffering. “Let’s do a PAP test while you’re here and a full work-up for STDs.”
“Ready for the sexy robe.” I undressed and waited, wobbly on the inside from the whiplash-quick switch from picking baby names to cursing my hormones, and scratched at the tat
too inked directly over my left ovary. Doug, my vexatious ex, had talked me into getting matching designs after our second son was born. Once the divorce was finalized, I had considered getting the tattoo done over so the original design was unrecognizable. Now, I just wanted it off. The ink might have faded, but its presence was a sore reminder of someone I no longer loved.
Or even liked.
Dr. Renard returned, warmed her hands at the sink, dried them on paper towels, and settled herself at the side of the table. “Are you doing regular self-exams?” she asked, lifting the gown and palpating the area around my breasts. When she moved the modesty sheet covering the lower half of my body, she sucked in a quick breath. “Anything you want to tell me?”
The flush blooming across my chest was hidden by a yard of hospital-blue polyester blend.
“You mean about the bruises?” The werecougar and I had tried the dating thing again, but it was clear the only thing we had going was mutual horniness. As much as I liked sex and wanted a steady lover, I wanted more than a well-endowed fuck buddy.
Dr. Renard leaned her hip against the side of the table and removed her glasses, tucking the sheet snug against my outer leg. “Those are more than bruises on your thighs, Calliope.” She tapped the eyepiece against her chin before sitting the glasses back on her nose. “Did your date have…”
“Claws?” I dove in. I trusted Dr. Renard—plus, the pentacle she was wearing had started to glow green—and the day couldn’t get any weirder than admitting your date had a hard time controlling his ability to shift while in the throes of arousal.
“Yes, for starters,” she said.
“Those marks are a physical record of my dalliance with an enthusiastic…” I faltered.
The look in her eyes was still kind and very direct. “Shifter?”
The tension along my spine released into the Naugahyde cushion. Shifter sounded so very normal when spoken aloud in a clinical setting. I nodded.
“I only pry if I suspect there’s been any kind of abuse, Calliope.” She made a point of continuing to stare at me.
“No abuse,” I assured her. “Just an abundance of arms and legs maneuvering in a very tight space. Electric cars weren’t designed for making out.”
She chuckled, patted the unblemished section of my leg, and moved to the foot of the table, opening and closing drawers and snapping on a pair of exam gloves. “Tell me, what rituals does your coven use to welcome their members into menopause?”
“What do you mean?” Her question startled me out of my pre-exam disassociation. Two of my fingers were firmly wedged in a knot of fabric, and now I had to consciously relax the muscles in my hands and unstick my knees.
“You know, rituals that mark the milestones in your life? First menstrual period, being accepted into a coven, giving birth? You’ve had all of those, right? And you’re going to feel the speculum, there…can you tilt your pelvis slightly? Yes, good, okay.”
I clung to my breathe-in, breathe-out mantra during the rest of the exam. Coven? I’d been without a formal education in the magical arts since my mother’s death left me in her sister’s care. My aunt was a good ten years older than my mom, and apart from the loss, my childhood had been rather unremarkable. The trauma of losing my only known parent had given way to a bland and predictable routine. Passable for a young girl in a family with low expectations and less than optimal for a budding witch.
“Now that I think of it,” I started, “I can’t recall a single ceremony aside from birthday parties. And I’ve never belonged to a coven.”
Dr. Renard stood and removed the disposable gloves. “Scoot back and then you can sit up.”
I used the small sheet to wipe the excess gel from between my upper thighs before pivoting my legs to the side. I offered up both inner elbows for Dr. Renard’s inspection and looked away as she drew three vials of blood. When she finished, she opened the door and called for her assistant.
“Rachel, can you please send Calliope’s samples to the Grand St. Kitts lab in Vancouver? Thanks.” She closed the door, hooked her foot around the rolling stool, and pulled up close. “If you’re truly at the start of menopause, there are specific ceremonies you must participate in to advance your magical abilities before your moon blood stops for good.”
The hot fingers poking through my belly slid to the back of my neck, dropping fiery bits of slag along my hairline. “What do you mean? And how do you know?”
“Has no one talked to you about this?”
I shook my head, choking down the bubble of loss threatening to rise and burst. “My mother died when I was six. Her older sister raised me. I’m a witch, like my mom, but my magic is...” I turned my hands and studied both palms, as though I was a fortune teller and all the answers lay somewhere between my thumb mounds and a lifetime’s accumulation of forked lines. “My magic isn’t very strong.” Shrugging, I rubbed my now-sweaty palms on the examination smock, unable to fully breathe out. “I’ve tried to use my mother’s old books and notes to teach myself basic spells and counter-spells, but there’s nothing in them about what to do for…for menopause.”
“Calli, would you like me to put you in touch with my local contacts?”
“I would,” I said, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. Months. “Are you in a coven?”
She nodded. “I am. And I’m trained in Western medicine too. Obviously. What about your ex-husband? And your sons?”
“I suspect Doug’s mother had some magic. And I think my boys do too, but…Goddess, this is hard to admit, Dr. Renard…”
“Rowan. Please, call me Rowan.”
“Rowan. Okay.” I sucked in a big breath. “I’ve never actively sought the company of other witches. I mean, I haven’t avoided them, but my husband—my ex-husband—insisted I not use my magic and it was just easier to not practice, to not even talk about magic.”
“Tell me about your sons.”
Relief. “Harper’s eighteen. He’ll be a senior in high school this coming year, and Thatch is sixteen and a half.”
“And their magic?” Rowan asked, speaking over her shoulder as her assistant knocked on the door and entered.
“Doctor Renard, the hospital called. Lolly Brooks has gone into labor, so…”
“I’ll be right out.” She turned to me. “Let’s talk later. I want to hear more about your sons. And you. I’ll call with the results of your tests within the week. And here.” She scribbled on the back of a pamphlet. “My coven is based in Vancouver. We’re all healers and followers of Airmid, but Belle and Airlie live here on the island. Their addresses and phone numbers should be listed in the local directory. The other woman, Rose, can be challenging, especially if she doesn’t get a good first impression, but give her a chance.”
“Thanks, Rowan. For everything.” I extended my arm and accepted the hug she offered instead.
I took my time changing into my clothes. Zipping my pants, I stared at the wall without seeing. My entire body deflated when I sighed. I wasn’t pregnant, a state of being I had some familiarity with. I was entering my menopausal years, completely unknown territory. I wasn’t about to watch a life grow inside me, I was about to…I had no idea. Doug had slowly isolated me to the point I had few female acquaintances and no real friends. Post-divorce, I’d been trying to connect with other women. But shy of wearing a sandwich board advertising my loneliness, I hadn’t figured out how to find a bestie.
Folding Rowan’s note, I slipped it into the back of my cell phone case and half wondered if there were apps for updating one’s magical abilities and for gathering friends.
At least I was on top of things at work.
Next up was a visit to the Pearmain orchards. A manila envelope with no return address had arrived at my office via Canada Post. Inside, a handwritten message—accompanied by a few out-of-focus photographs—accused Clifford and Abigail Pearmain of using banned herbicides on their certified organic apple orchard.
As an acquaintance of the soon-to-be-retired grower
s, I doubted they dabbled in forbidden chemistry. As a Provincial Agent for the GIAC—Gulf Islands Agriculture Commission—it was my responsibility to investigate. What troubled me was the accuser’s apparent desire for anonymity.
I arrived at the turn off to the orchard without remembering a thing about the drive out of town. The untrimmed grass growing in the center of the single lane dirt road brushed the undercarriage of my car. I parked on the verge next to a dented pickup truck, grabbed my cross-body bag, and pocketed my phone. Making sure my wand—more ceremonial than useful—was in the bag too, I peeked into the truck’s cab. There was nothing unusual about the portable coffee cup in the built-in holder or the soft leather briefcase on the passenger’s seat. I flipped the door handles; both were locked.
The winding driveway to the farmhouse and outbuildings was pitted and unkempt, which was unusual for a thriving apple farm. Grasses going to seed lined the former sheep path, and berry canes, heavy with blue-black fruit, grew more dense and entwined the closer I got to the main gate. I’d been working for the GIAC long enough to be wary but not overly alarmed at the lack of activity. Farmers were busy people and far more likely to be out in their fields and greenhouses, monitoring their crops.
“Clifford! Abigail! It’s Calliope,” I hollered, banging on the combination split wood and wire enclosure. Trinkets hanging from bits of string and knotted straw rattled every time the side of my fist hit the frame of the homemade gate. One last forceful smack of the heel of my palm and the rusted latch acquiesced to the pull of entropy and dropped from loosened screws. As the gate creaked open, its bottom edge scuffed a break in the curving line of salt placed across the surface of the dull brown dirt.
