Charms & Demons

by Kim Richardson

  And yet even the wisest people in the world could be wrong sometimes.

  I had to keep hoping. I wasn’t ready to give up. I wanted to rid myself of more than just the unsightly burn marks. The memories that came with them needed to go as well—specifically, my dear ol’ dad.

  The scars were a constant reminder of what had happened to me when I was eight years old. My father had tossed me into a fire like I was a piece of driftwood.

  I hated the bastard. Whenever I looked at my arms and hands, his face would flash in my mind’s eye. He was dead to me, and I wanted to stop him from creeping into my thoughts.

  I stood facing the mirror for a long time, wondering if Logan could see past the scars. I didn’t know why I was wasting my time thinking about him or the kiss we shared a week ago. It wasn’t like I’d ever see him again. He was an angel-born, after all—a mortal blessed with angelic essence in his veins—whereas I was a dark witch with demon essence flowing inside me. The angel-born and dark witches were like oil and water to each other. We just didn’t mix. No matter how much you stirred, we always split apart. Some things just weren’t meant to go together.

  As a dark witch, I shouldn’t even be bothered by scars. Most of us had plenty. As a general rule in our practices, it was customary to lose limbs, teeth, and parts of your soul when you borrowed magic from demons. It was just how things worked around here. My ex-boyfriend lost two pinky fingers when he tried to trick a mid-demon into giving him its powers. I always thought he was a dumbass. If I’d been the demon, I would have taken his head.

  Still, I just couldn’t get Logan’s kiss out of my mind. It had been a damn good kiss—the kind that sent my knees wobbling like an idiot. Yeah. It was that good.

  Why hadn’t he stepped away? Why did he keep kissing me? Maybe he just wanted to know what it felt like to kiss a dark witch. Wouldn’t be the first time. A male faerie had stolen a kiss from me when I was thirteen. I made sure he had no more mouth to kiss anyone after that.

  After an insanely ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, I pulled on a clean pair of jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and finally, my black leather fingerless gloves. I let my wet hair hang down my back as I pulled open the door and headed for the staircase. The thought of chicken tandoori and creamy butter chicken had me salivating as I walked down the stairs.

  “Is the Indian food here yet?” I called when I reached the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

  My grandfather stood by the kitchen island, a navy-blue bathrobe hanging on his shoulders. At six feet tall with a head full of thick white hair past his ears and white bushy eyebrows, he was ninety-two but didn’t look past seventy.

  “Here. Taste this,” said my grandfather as he handed me a glass of clear, light blue liquid, his eyes alight with joy. “It’s my newest batch. Finished boiling it in my cauldron just this afternoon,” he added, smiling proudly. The fair skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled in seams and fine wrinkles.

  “So, that’s what the smell was.” I reached out and took the glass. “What am I drinking? Gordon’s Broomshine? Or is this something else?” I tipped the glass to my nose and made a face, eyes watering. “Smells like rubbing alcohol.”

  “That’s because it is,” came a voice. A flutter of wings rose in the air to my right and a large raven landed on the granite counter next to me, his feathers gleaming under the kitchen lights like black silk. “You sure you want to drink that? It might be better served to wash the toilets.”

  My grandfather glared at the raven with his lips pressed into a tight line. “What do you know of refined gin-making skills, demon? Of the craft and hours of endless and meticulous preparation?” He pressed his hands on his hips. “I’ll tell you. Absolutely nothing.” He looked at me, his blue eyes expectant. “Go on, Samantha. Have a taste and let your palate dance with the delights of the grain spirits and natural botanicals.”

  “More like magical botanicals,” grumbled Poe as he ruffled his feathers.

  I had to agree with my familiar on that. I knew gin wasn’t made the same way as wine. The process was somewhat faster. Still, there was no way my grandad had brewed a new batch in a few hours without some magical help. If I took a sip, I’d be subjecting myself to whatever magic he’d used to speed up the process. And knowing my grandad, this stuff had more magic than it did liquid.

  My gaze went to my grandfather. “I thought gin’s supposed to be a clear liquid. Why is it blue?”

  My grandfather’s eyes widened. “Blueberries. You like blueberries. Don’t you?”

  I thought about it. I did like blueberries. I liked them in my cereal or in a pie with ice cream. Never in a magically induced alcoholic beverage.

  I swished the contents in the glass, eyeing the liquid. “And you’ve tried it already?”

  Poe laughed softly and I bit my tongue to keep myself from laughing.

  “Cauldron be damned. It’s not poison!” exclaimed my grandfather as he grabbed the bottle on the counter next to him, poured himself a glass, and chucked the entire contents in one shot.

  He smacked his lips. “There,” he wheezed, his face turning a slightly darker shade. “See? It’s not poison.” He coughed, and coughed some more. “Nothing to it.” His gaze fixed on mine, eyes watering. “Better do it in one go,” he advised.

  “Right.” I put the glass on the counter. “I think I’ll wait for the food.”

  Poe snorted—because birds can actually snort—and I looked at him. A large diamond ring was wrapped around his leg like a metal leg band, winking in the light.

  I leaned closer. I didn’t know much about diamond rings, but I did know the larger the stone, the larger the price tag. And this one happened to be the size of a large pea.

  “Poe. Where did you get that ring?” Cauldron help me if the raven started to steal from the local jewelry stores.

  The raven looked away and crossed his legs, hiding his ring foot with his left as though that would keep me from seeing the huge rock. It didn’t.

  “Poe?” I demanded, and I placed my hands on the counter next to his right foot. “If you’ve been lifting rings from the local jewelry stores... I think I might have to pluck all your feathers.” The nerve of that bird. I had enough problems without having a warrant out on his ass. Familiars weren’t exempt from thieving or other lawbreaking gambits. Plus, witches were responsible for them. If your familiar broke the Coven Law, he or she would be labeled as an Un-familiar, and they’d either be returned to the Netherworld or be destroyed, depending on the degree of the crime and the circumstances surrounding the situation.

  I didn’t want either of those options. I loved Poe, but he was more than capable of driving me insane.

  “Give me the ring, Poe, or I’m gonna whip your ass.”

  The bird tutted. “And you kissed Logan with that mouth?”

  Heat rushed to my face. My gaze flicked to my grandfather. He was slushing his gin around in his mouth like mouthwash and didn’t seem to have heard the raven.

  I’d had enough. “Give it.” I reached out towards the ring with my right hand—

  In a blur of black feathers, Poe lashed out, and his beak sliced into the soft flesh of my finger.

  “Ow!” I cried, yanking my hand back. A nasty red welt stood where Poe had bitten me, and blood seeped through a small cut. He’d broken the skin. “I’m bleeding.” I hissed at the bird. “You made me bleed! Are you crazy?”

  The raven glared at me, eyes bright with anger. “You know better than to surprise a Malphas demon. You came at me. I acted on instinct. It’s not my fault your hand got stuck in my beak.”

  “Like it won’t be my fault if you accidently fall into my boiling cauldron.” I clenched my jaw. “You know damn well I was just going for that ring.”

  The bird shrugged. “I’m not Colin, the boy psychic. I don’t read minds.”

  A laugh escaped my grandfather, and I glowered at him.

  “Don’t give me that look, girl,” he said as he refilled his glass with h
is cauldron-brewed gin. “You chose a raven for your familiar when you had your pick of cats. Everyone knows ravens are too wild and too unpredictable to make compatible familiars. Even a rat would have been a better choice.”

  “I wanted a familiar to pick me. Not the other way around.” It had sounded right at the time, but now I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  I moved towards the wicker basket next to the fridge and pulled out a pen. I drew the anti-pain sigil on my finger, just below the cut. “Sine dolore,” I breathed just as I finished drawing the sigil.

  A tingle spread over my hand to my fingertips. After a few seconds, the throbbing in my finger subsided. It wasn’t a huge cut, but he had broken the skin. My own familiar had made me bleed.

  I was going to kill him.

  I let out a labored breath, straining to keep my anger from seeping through my pores. “Poe,” I said, trying to keep the anger from my voice. I waited for the raven to turn his black eyes on me. “Do you want to be branded as an Un-familiar? Is that what you want? Because if you don’t stop stealing, that’s exactly what’s going to happen, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

  “You’re getting all worked up for nothing,” said the raven as he walked over to the center of the island to the wooden fruit bowl. He jumped up and clasped his claws around the rim of the bowl as he peered inside.

  I pressed my hands on my hips. “It’s not nothing if you’re stealing diamond rings.”

  A puff of annoyance sounded from Poe, and then he picked out a peach from the fruit bowl, jumped back down on the counter and began to tear it apart.

  “You really disappoint me sometimes,” I said, thinking perhaps my grandfather was right. I should have picked the old, one-eyed, orange tabby as my familiar instead of a stubborn raven.

  The large black bird looked up at me, juices trickling down his beak as he swallowed a large chunk of peach. “Did you tell your grandfather about the kiss?”

  The little shit. I am going to kill that damn bird.

  My grandfather set his glass on the counter and raised his brows at me. “Kiss?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What kiss? Did you get kissed, Samantha?”

  How old am I? Twelve? I glared at Poe. “There’s a nice boiling cauldron upstairs with your name on it, Poe. Care to take a dip?”

  The raven chuckled, cementing my anger.

  Ticked, my lips parted. “I swear—”

  Something gray and white shot through the open kitchen window.

  My heart slammed against my chest, a spell forming on my lips, as the thing skidded to a stop on the island. It wasn’t a thing. It was a pigeon.

  Poe let out a cough of laughter. “Well, I’ll be damned. A freakin’ messenger pigeon. Hallelujah. The mortal world is saved.”

  “Bite me, crow,” shot the pigeon as he puffed out his chest proudly. He was a beautiful bird with gray and white feathers and a bit of purple on his wide chest. He was large for a pigeon, but he was still half the size of Poe.

  The raven walked up to the pigeon slowly in a show of size and strength. “I would, but I wouldn’t want to soil my beak with the taste of pigeon servitude.”

  “Servitude?” laughed the pigeon as he raised his brows indignantly. “Looks to me as if you’re the slave here. A witch’s slave. Whereas I have a job. A real job, which consists of getting paid, three weeks off a year plus benefits and a retirement plan. I have my independence, which is more than what you have.” He eyed Poe. “You’re nothing but a witch’s pet. A familiar. Bound to do what they demand. So tell me now, crow,” the pigeon mocked, “who you calling a slave?”

  Poe made a strange sound in his throat. “What do you want, duck?” His words came out a tad higher than usual, and guilt tugged in my chest. I didn’t want to think of Poe as my slave, but familiars were bound to us witches and were expected to follow our instructions.

  The pigeon straightened. “A message from the dark witch court.”

  My grandfather came around the counter. “Who’s the message for, Tank?”

  “For Samantha Beaumont,” replied the pigeon as he turned to look at me. The bird stuck out its leg, revealing a rolled-up piece of parchment clasped to it.

  I stiffened, staring at the parchment. This wasn’t my first messenger pigeon. The pigeons were common in Mystic Quarter—the witches’ version of emails, just a little dirtier.

  This had to do with the vampire attack last night. I was sure of it. The timing was right. After the human police conducted their primary investigation, the scene and the particular way the victim was killed would have alerted the paranormal community. Hence the pigeon.

  And I was the idiot who’d forgotten to inform the court. Great.

  I reached out and grabbed the piece of parchment from Tank’s leg. I looked up at the sound of wings, and my chest contracted at the sight of Poe flying out the kitchen window. Damn. He didn’t even wait to hear what the message said. Guilt swam up anew.

  I took a breath, smoothed out the parchment, and began to read.

  Dear Ms. Samantha Beaumont

  Your presence is required at the dark witch court this evening at midnight.

  Return your reply with the messenger pigeon. Feed the gargoyle with a drop of your blood.

  Sincerely yours,

  Magda Ratson, Dark Witch Court, Sec.

  Mystic Quarter, NY

  “A new job?” asked my grandfather as he drained his new glass in a single gulp.

  I shook my head, my insides twisting. “They want to see me,” I told my grandfather, watching Tank eyeing the bowl of fruit with his beak open. Was he drooling?

  Crap. If it had been a job, the note would have specified that. No. This was different.

  “Why do they want to see you?” asked my grandfather, faint worry lines creasing his forehead. “A witch does not get summoned by the dark witch court to swap cauldron recipes, Samantha. Why do I get the feeling you’re keeping something from me?”

  “It’s nothing. Let me worry about this. Okay?” Liar. Liar. Liar.

  My guilt redoubled at the fact that I hadn’t told him I’d used my gift—the one I’d promised to never use for fear of discovery—to vanquish Vargal. I didn’t have the heart to tell the man who’d saved me and kept me safe all my life. I was an asshole.

  Greater demons I could handle. Even an ancient vampire skilled with magic. But a meeting with the dark witch court was a little trickier. Plus, I’d never been summoned before. Ever. And what did “feed the gargoyle with a drop of your blood” mean? What gargoyle?

  Unease lurched in my chest like a sudden thunder. My grandfather was right. This was no ordinary summoning. Why did they want to see me? Did they know about my secret?

  I had a feeling my life was about to change, and not in a good way.

  3

  My heart was a steady drum in my chest as I strolled down Wicked Way, my knees a little more wobbly than usual, and my boots kept catching on crevices from the uneven sidewalks. It was almost as though my own legs were trying to trip me, like some mysterious force was trying to stop me from going to meet the dark witch court.

  Maybe these forces were right. Maybe I should have stayed home.

  But I couldn’t refuse the summon. No witch in his or her right mind would refuse, not unless they wanted to end up in the witch prison—Grimway Citadel—a horrid, windowless concrete castle with enchanted walls and glistening with every protection ward imaginable. I’d heard rumors of witches exploding into chunks of blood and guts as they tried to make their escape. Only a fool would even think about trying to escape from the citadel. You had to be mad.

  I lifted the strap of my shoulder bag, adjusted the weight, and kept going.

  The wind blew through the buildings and the few trees scattered around, bringing forth the scent of sulfur and rot—the tell-tale sign of half-breeds and demonic magic. Light spilled from the street lights, and blue-white moonlight pooled around me as I made my way through Mystic Quarter, the paranor
mal district in Manhattan where witches, vampires, werewolves, faeries, trolls, and all manner of half-breeds mingled.

  The district was as eccentric and unusual as its inhabitants situated in the jumble of buildings that made up of Mystic Quarter. Vampires sat outside on terraces, drinking maroon-looking liquid, while werewolves stood next to a Meat on the Go food truck, tearing meat from bones the size of my arm with their teeth. A cluster of witches lounged in a small garden, drinking from miniature cauldrons. Yeah, it looked weird. But most of the district was just like any other borough in New York, just a gathering of people sitting around eating or drinking and having a good time.

  All except for me.

  I trudged up Odin Boulevard, pushing my legs faster. I didn’t want to meet anyone I knew right now. My pulse hammered and a sliver of adrenaline sparked through me. My boots clanked with every step while the dark witch court occupied most of my thoughts except for two—Poe and Logan.

  Logan because, well, the guy was hot and his kiss piqued my curiosity, and Poe because I was worried about him.

  The raven was a no-show once again. I really didn’t understand why he’d gotten all worked up after seeing Tank. It’s not like he’d want to be working for the dark witch court as a messenger boy. Or would he? He was hurting, and I had no idea how to help him. He didn’t want to share whatever had been bothering him with me, and that stung a little.

  Poe was my support system, and without my buddy, I felt empty as I made my way through the dark streets of Mystic Quarter. With Poe perched on my shoulder, I always had a sense of security, of him having my back.

  I walked up Twilight Avenue and slowed as I passed my aunt’s shop. I thought about stopping by to get her opinion on this meeting with the dark witch court but then squashed the idea because I knew it would only upset her. Worse, she’d probably demand to come along, which wasn’t a great idea since most of the court members despised her. She would say it was because she was more powerful than them, and I would say the members didn’t like her because she thought she was.