Witches & Stitches

by Beverly Sanders

  “And you are?” he asked.

  “Babbs Mcghee,” she replied. “This is my partner, Ginni Black. We’re fashion designers.”

  I didn’t mind letting Babbs take the lead here. I’d had almost no experience with police officers since joining the mortal realm, though I’d been warned about breaking laws and how it could land a girl in a whole world of trouble.

  “And the victim,” Robert continued. “How did you know her?”

  “She was my muse model,” I replied.

  “Muse model?”

  “Yes. It’s like . . . the girl you picture wearing your clothes as you’re making them. She was supposed to wear the finale piece in my show.”

  “It doesn’t look like that will be happening now,” he said, his words void of any emotion.

  “No,” I agreed. “I guess not.”

  “How long were you away from the victim?” he asked.

  “No more than five minutes,” Babbs replied.

  The three of us spent the next hour going over exactly what happened, though most of it wasn’t exactly true. But it’s not like I set out to lie. It’s just . . . how was I supposed to explain it? It’s not like I could just say some rogue warlock with a vendetta tricked me into letting him kill my model as I watched. That kind of thing would probably land me in an asylum or something. And goodness knows, I didn’t need that. Not now . . .

  “All right.” The detective finished his questions. “Let me know if you think of anything else. And try not to leave town without telling me. We may want to question you again.”

  “Question us again?” I asked, the thought of accidentally saying too much weighing heavily on my mind.

  “Its standard procedure to take multiple statements,” he assured me. “Sometimes, people remember things after some time away.”

  “Will do!” Babbs stood to her feet, taking my arm and heading for the door.

  A few stressful hours later . . .

  The look on Pascal’s face said more than any words ever could. This was the kind of thing I’d been warned about before leaving my home. The kind of tragedy that only struck mortals. Only a warlock had committed this crime. I was sure if it.

  “I’m telling you,” I said. “He was a warlock. It was magic that killed Elle. Nothing else.”

  “It’s against warlock code to kill innocent mortals. Unless they are actively threatening a witch, they are to remain free of harm,” Pascal replied.

  “I know the code,” I said. “I’ve recited it a million times. But I also know what I saw. I know this was a warlock. I know magic when I see it. I know the sensation, the look, the smell. I’m a witch, remember?”

  “Oh,” Pascal answered. “I know it all too well.”

  I’m sure watching over me all the time was no picnic for the man. I mean, it was probably as boring as anything he could have imagined. But I’m not the one who assigned him to watch over me. No, he had my father to thank for that one.

  I respected the man, sure. But that didn’t mean I liked the idea of letting him speak to me like I was a child. As though I had no idea what I was talking about, as though I’d imagined what I saw.

  “Where is my father?” I asked.

  “Here.” The unmistakable sound of my father’s voice echoed out.

  “Dad!” I yelled, more than a little startled. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

  “Yes,” he answered, walking toward me, his hands folded behind his back. “I decided to go for a quieter entrance this time around.”

  “It was a warlock. I saw him.”

  “Show me.”

  At his command, I stepped over to the kitchen, grabbed a large bowl, filled it with water, and placed it on the table. Then, standing above it, I slowly dipped my finger in the cool liquid, swirling it around and around until images finally began to appear.

  Hydromancy was a magic first developed by, of all people, the famed prophet, Nostradamus. It was also among my strongest forms of magic, one I’d been practicing since very early on in my youth. As a result, bringing the images of the warlock’s face into the liquid proved relatively easy, even though I hadn’t done it in quite some time.

  “There,” I said as his smiling face rippled across the water.

  “I don’t recognize him,” my father replied. “Are you sure this was him?”

  “The magic doesn’t lie,” I answered. “You know that.”

  It was true. Magic was, if nothing else, a beacon of truth. At least when it came to memories. Only the strongest of witches were able to alter memories, especially those of magical creatures. And for good reason too.

  You see, in my world, memories are alive. They reside within us, holding on to our past and helping to guide our future. It is their ability to replay our lives over and over that afford them power over us. A good memory can inspire, while a bad one can torture. Either way, once a memory invades the mind, there is little you can do to ignore it.

  “I will take this to the Council,” my father said, snapping his fingers. Between his thumb and index finger appeared a thin piece of parchment. He lay it on the water, letting it soak up the image, then lifted it in the air.

  There he was, the warlock who killed Elle, his wicked smile playing out over and over like a three-second movie on a paper screen. My father snapped his finger again, causing the paper to vanish into thin air, fading away into a small cloud of darkness.

  “He is with the Council now,” he said. “We will look into this matter. Until then, I must insist that Pascal remain close by at all times.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary—”

  “Young witch,” he interrupted. “Pascal is a being of powerful magic, and you’re rusty in your spells.”

  “If he wanted to do me harm, he could have done it then,” I said. “Maybe—”

  “This isn’t up for debate,” my father answered, vanishing into thin air.

  Later that night and against my better judgement . . .

  “I don’t know . . .” I said, sliding my foot into shiny gold heels. “I just don’t feel right about going out after what happened.”

  “And I understand that,” Babbs answered. “But this is a big deal.”

  “It’s the opening of a club.”

  “It’s the opening of a club sponsored by Stone and Hart,” Babbs said. “You now what that means.”

  “I know,” I answered. “It means we need to be there.”

  “Damn right, it does. They weave the best silks in the world and we need to get in on that. Unless, of course, you’re willing to cast a little magic in the sewing room.”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Then slide those heels on, darling. We’ve got some people to talk to,” Babbs snapped.

  I know what you’re thinking. Why would a silk manufacturer sponsor a club opening? Well, like I said, this is Atlanta Fashion Week, which in recent years had become one of the biggest runway collectives in the world. As a result, Stone and Hart thought it best to show off their newly printed silks in a high-profile, star-studded club opening. It’s actually pretty masterful advertising when you come to think of it.

  I’d have never in a million years thought I’d be lucky enough to score a ticket, but after that magazine article, things just kind of opened up for me. And yes, my muse model had just died at the hands of some lunatic warlock, but like my best friend said, this was just too important an opportunity to miss out on. And anyway, I had my dad and the entire witch council working to find him. There’s no way he’d last too much longer. At least, that’s what I thought . . .

  Turns out I was wrong. Who saw that one coming, right?

  “Fine.” I looked to Babbs, who’d managed to squeeze her small five-foot, two-inch frame into an even smaller dress. “I guess you’re right. We need the connections.”

  “Of course I’m right.” She smiled, adjusting her cleavage, making sure to highlight herself in all the right places. “I mean . . . just look at me in this dre
ss. How could I be wrong?”

  “Sure.” I smiled, sliding my other foot into its shoe.

  “Seriously, though. Am I not killing it?” she asked. “You know what? You don’t need to answer that. Of course I’m killing it!”

  “Oh.” I smiled. “It’s dead.”

  “Thanks, babe.” She winked. “Now let’s get our fine selves out of here. No need wasting this thang on a mirror and a—” She stopped. “Whoa.”

  “What?” I asked, turning my head to see Nicco standing in the door frame.

  His dark hair was slicked back, revealing his perfect face. His tall, toned and muscular body pressed hard against a grey suit, his thick, bulging muscles rippling under the fabric as he stepped into the light. I felt my heart skip a beat and my pulse increase. I may not be in love with him, but I was still a woman. And he was man, likely one of the most perfect ones to ever cross anyone’s path, most assuredly mine.

  “You look lovely.” He smiled at me, those sexy dimples sending shock waves through my body.

  “Her!” Babbs snapped. “Look at yourself. I mean . . . how do you even stand it? I don’t think I could ever go outside. I’d feel like I was cheating on myself or something.” She stepped closer, her head cocked. “Just look at yourself. I mean . . . just look. You’re just so gorgeous. It’s disgusting!”

  “Babbs,” I said. “Chill.”

  “Have you seen this guy?” she snapped, quickly turning her gaze back to Nicco. “I mean . . . just look at yourself.”

  Nicco smiled, looking down at her. “You look lovely too.” He ran the back of his hand across her cheek.

  “Th–thank you.” She fell silent.

  “Nicco,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “Coming with you,” he answered. “I know what happened today. I don’t want you headed out into the night alone.”

  “That’s sweet, but you don’t have to.”

  “I know that,” he said. “I want to. I wasn’t sure what to wear. Is this okay?”

  “Okay?” Babbs chimed in. “Just look at your—”

  “Babbs!” I snapped. “He’s hot. Let it go!”

  “Eck!” she said, snapping his picture with her phone then sliding it into her small studded handbag. “I’m gonna look at this later.” We headed for the door.

  5

  KAST was, according to nearly every fashion blog and newspaper in town, Atlanta’s hottest new thing. Not to mention how excited all of my witch and warlock friends were at the thought of the clubs opening. Built in what used to be an iron factory and only a stone’s throw from the magical Atlanta borough I called home, the place was a multi-floor, bar-filled, bass-thumping spot for all things trendy, fabulous, and over the top. At least, that’s how it had been described.

  From the outside, it didn’t look like much, just another forgotten building in one of Atlanta’s oldest neighborhoods. But tonight, that was all going to change, and in more ways than I expected. My gold heel pressed hard against the blacktop as I stepped out of the car and into the parking lot.

  I felt Nicco’s strong hands resting against my shoulders. For a second, I wanted to pull away, but then, as it often did, it hit me just how much he cared for me. Call it magic, call it science, call it anything you want. No matter how I felt about it, I knew to him, it was nothing more than the truth. He loved me in a way that was both real and pure. He respected my boundaries and honored my wishes. So, in the end, what was a little bit of shoulder action?

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered in my ear, his warm, sweet breath caressing my neck.

  “You already said that,” I replied.

  “It was worth repeating.”

  The three of us headed into the club, and with Babbs at my front and Nicco at my back, I couldn’t help but feel completely safe, completely at home in this world. Strobe lights danced across the metallic silver floors. People filled every corner of the room, each one dressed to the nines, each one vying for attention from the industry. Bloggers, influencers, and social media stars of every sort strolled past, each one making sure to pose for the perfect selfie.

  “This is amazing!” Babbs smiled. “I recognize so many of these people. Look! There’s Adriana Lamaar!”

  “Who?” Nicco asked.

  “She an Instagram influencer,” I answered. “She’s one of the people fashion labels pay to wear their clothing as they take selfies in Italy and stuff.”

  “People really do that?” Nicco asked, raising one of his thick, luscious eyebrows. “I really don’t understand the mortal world, do I?”

  I smiled. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Ginni, darling!” Babbs said. “Get yourself out on that dance floor. We need people to know we’re here.”

  “I doubt anyone will notice me.”

  “Please,” she scoffed. “With that candy on your arm and that dress clinging to your body, you’ll end up on every pictorial from here to . . . somewhere else.” She waved her hand. “I never got to say it, by the way, but awesome dress, girl!”

  She was referring to the orange and yellow ombre number I’d whipped up a few days before. With a hi-lo hemline and little bit of lace detail for added pop, I had to admit it really did look great under the bright club lights. Nicco took my hand, a wide grin painting itself across his face as we made our way onto the floor.

  I’m good a lot of things, sewing, designing, casting—I’m even okay at cooking. Dancing, though . . . well, that was another story. At least, it always had been. But then, suddenly, the light went bright, the music got loud, and I began dancing. It was like magic. Wait . . . it was magic.

  I looked over to see Babbs smiling wide, a devilish grin on her ace as she laughed and laughed, moving her hands as though she were controlling a marionette, my body following along with her. She’d hexed me and I hadn’t even noticed. Wow, maybe my father was right. Maybe my magic really was getting rusty.

  I didn’t care, though. I was happy, happier than I really had any right to be. But then, just as so often happens, my happiness was shaken, stripped away from me by the harshness of reality. From the corner of my eye, a figure emerged. I recognized him immediately. His walk, his dark and narrow eyes, and the way they looked at me. It was him, the warlock responsible for Elle’s death.

  “Nicco!” I said. “There. That’s him!” Nicco’s head turned quickly to the side, his eyes locking onto the warlock’s in a sudden flash. I called my hands together, uttering a small two-word incantation, thereby freeing myself of Babbs’s hex.

  Together, Nicco and I chased him through the club, the long back of my bright dress flowing as it caught air. I could feel the animal in Nicco as it came to the surface, as he struggled to hold back the wolf inside him. Seconds later, we were outside, surrounded by the empty buildings of Atlanta’s forgotten downtown alleyways.

  “Ginni!” Nicco said, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me in closer. “Stay near me.”

  “All right,” I said, trying my best to gather my magical center. Battle magic had never really been my strong suit. Not that I hadn’t practiced it a time or two. It just seemed to require a level of anger and rage I simply seemed to lack. That didn’t mean, however, that I couldn’t call down a few lightning bolts if the occasion called for it.

  “Well, well.” I heard the familiar sound of his voice spill out onto the near-empty alley. “Little witch from nowhere, gonna change the world. Isn’t that sweet?” There was a sickening tone to his words, one that let me know in an instant how much he despised me.

  “Who are you?” Nicco asked. “And what is it that you want?”

  “It isn’t you, puppy,” he answered, almost seeming to hold back laughter. “It’s her. The strong one.”

  “You won’t get her,” Nicco replied.

  “Strong?” I repeated. “What? Listen, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. But I’ve given the Council your face, your magical signature. They’ll find you.”

  “They haven’t found me yet,
” he answered.

  “Step into the light,” Nicco said, “if you’re so sure of yourself.”

  “Have it your way,” the warlock said, suddenly emerging from the shadows. It was him, all right, the same guy from before. He slowly circled us, Nicco trying hard to keep himself in check while I summoned the strongest battle magic I knew. I felt it pulsate through my body, burning and crackling at my skin from within.

  “I’ve got this,” I said to Nicco, feeling a bolt of confident power resonate inside me. “Hattalla Meoree!” I said, snapping my fingers.

  Invisible energy surrounded the warlock, closing in on him like a room he couldn’t escape from. “Breathless,” I whispered, watching as all the oxygen around him dissipated. If I left him like this, he would die. He would suffocate right in front of me. Don’t get me wrong, that’s totally what he deserved. But murder just didn’t feel right to me. I’d never hurt anyone. It was never even a thought in my life. This was different, though. This was an evil person. He’d killed an innocent woman for no reason.

  In the end, though, I just couldn’t go through with it. “Reverrree!” I snapped.

  The invisible box around him faded and the air returned to normal. The warlock fell to the ground breathlessly. I stepped closer, Nicco at my side. He looked weak, or at least I thought he did. Not weak enough, though . . .

  “Stupid witch!” he said, anger rising in his voice, a dark energy pulsating out from around him.

  “Leave!” Nicco said. “If you want to live!”

  Suddenly, a bolt of bright white lighting struck the blacktop, shattering it to pieces right in front of me. A world of crumbled roadway and debris rained down all around us, revealing in its center my watcher, Pascal, standing still and stoic, his hands illuminated with crackling magic.

  “Where is he?” he asked, looking around in every direction.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “He was just there!”

  Pascal closed his eyes, focusing his energy. I could feel the powerful magics emanating from his body as he searched the surrounding area for the warlock’s magical signature.