As it turned out, there was a final surprise or two still in store.
“It all looks so different.” Clara rubbernecked to take in the changes to her home. I’ll confess my knees felt a little shaky in anticipation of her reaction to the lighter, more airy color scheme we’d selected during the big renovation.
Twenty-five years is a short time in the lifespan of a witch, but a long one when it comes to technological advances. What would Clara think about the 55-inch flatscreen that had replaced her bulky 19-inch television set? Or the shabby chic feel of the whitewashing technique on the wainscoting in the hall. The kitchen had doubled in size when we added the faerie’s wing, but Clara’s bedroom remained untouched. She would have one familiar space at least.
“We can put it all back if you hate it.” As offers go, this one was half-hearted at best. Restoring this house to its former state would be about as easy as unscrambling an egg. I appealed to Terra, begging her with my eyes to say something. Anything. The only time the four of my godmothers are ever this quiet is when they’re getting ready to launch of one of their epic battles, so what was up with that?
Terra winked and then tossed me under the bus without a second thought. “We have some work to do, so we’ll just leave you to get acquainted again. Clara, it’s good to have you back.” She said it, so I had to believe she meant it, no matter what the repercussions. Kin received a pointed stare from Terra on her way out and took the hint.
His kiss carried the perfunctory awkwardness of feeling watched by a gun-toting father. I was pretty sure my grandmother wouldn't need a firearm if she decided she didn't like my boyfriend. Not that she would, he was a likeable sort. “I’ll see you tomorrow, babe.”
Suddenly the room felt empty, and I wasn’t sure what to say to the veritable stranger wolfing down ice cream like it was made from honey and nectar. Apparently, twenty-five years spent frozen in the front yard wasn’t as big a deal to the witches in my family as it was to me.
A whole new world was opening up right in front of me, but my grandmother and great-aunt acted as though Clara had simply been on an extended holiday. Mag filled in the awkward silence with fodder about witches I might have met but couldn’t put a face to any of the names.
“Matilda Backwater mixed up marigold with mandrake in a batch of that cough syrup she’s always bragging about. It reacted with one of the other ingredients and produced a series of interesting side effects. That was a good one.” Mag dished up gossip.
“What happened?” Spoon pinging against the bowl, Clara scraped the last bit of ice cream from the bottom.
“Lost her mind, that’s what. Went on what amounted to a week-long acid trip. Don’t mention dragons in front of her unless you want to hear the tale of how she brought down an albino Wyvern using an enchanted golden lasso. I guess she thought she was Wonder Woman or something.”
Gran’s laugh burst out, “Thanks for the mental image of Matilda all kitted out in a patriotic bathing...”
A whooshing noise pushed against our eardrums.
“My heavens!” Clara exclaimed as the room filled with billows of blue smoke and interrupted the conversation before Mag went off on a diatribe about the proper methods of potion making. Through a wide set of doors leading from the kitchen to the parlor, I glanced toward the ever-burning hearth and saw the Balefire sneeze and emit another belch of smoke. Tongues of flame burst out into the room in a flash of light and fury, then retreated just as quickly.
“Does this happen often?” Clara’s mild tone infused the question with deeper meaning.
“Never.” Embarrassed that on my first day with my grandmother I’d already come off looking like an incompetent, I rushed toward the fireplace to see if I could find a reason for the outburst. “Have you seen anything like it before?” Thrusting my hands into the fire, I picked and prodded my way through the flames feeling for inconsistencies or anomalies that would give me a clue. Soot darker than night stained a trail up the overmantel and across the ceiling.
“Here, let me.” Clara gently nudged me aside and did essentially the same thing I had just done. Evidently, she came to the same conclusions, too, because after a minute she dusted her hands off on her dress and shrugged.
“Probably just flustered,” she proclaimed. “By having two keepers in the house.”
The Balefire formed itself into a shape that reminded me of a person holding hands to either side in confusion before retreating to the back of the fireplace where it turned sullen and banked itself low save for the occasional spark. One fire, two masters. Oh, goody. Why is it that every time I take a step forward, I’m shoved two steps back?
Chapter Two
“YOU PAINTED THE BRICKWORK around the chimney. I think I like the lighter colors.” The warmth and reassurance failed to quell the jump of nerves in my belly as my grandmother’s sharp gaze scanned the parlor before landing again on the fireplace. She reached toward the handle resting inside the flame, then asked, “Do you mind?”
“Of course not. It’s your house, and you should feel free to go anywhere. Though, I’d knock before walking into the faerie’s wing. They have a tendency to react first and think later. It’s their nature.”
The last thing I needed was Faerie Armageddon with a side of Witchfest.
“Noted.” Straightening back to standing, my grandmother leaned sideways to look past me at the rest of the parlor. “I take it the party planning business is going well.” If there was a hint of dryness in her tone, she hid it behind a quick smile.
My glance strayed toward the far end of the room where a dozen potted palm trees awaited their debut at Saturday’s beach-themed, sweet sixteen party. The faeries had a habit of leaving more business lying around than the house could handle. Dodging around bins, boxes, and elaborate floral arrangements was becoming the norm rather than the exception.
“Too well.” I nodded. “But it makes them happy, so I don’t like to complain.” Happy faeries were merry faeries. I preferred them to the cranky versions. “But I’ll speak to them about keeping the common spaces clear. There’s plenty of room in the garage these days.”
Forgoing a comment, Clara bent again and reached into the Balefire for the handle that would unlock the room behind the fireplace. Even though I knew the flames wouldn’t penetrate her skin, it’s still strange to see someone willingly reach into a fire.
Maybe it was just bad timing, or maybe the spirit of the flame chose that moment to descend into pettiness, but whichever it was, Gran’s face hovered inches away from another sneeze-like eruption.
Her head disappeared in fiery gout, and despite what I just said about the Balefire witches’ affinity with the flame, I indulged in a momentary freakout. A great cloud of ash and smoke blasted the fronds off several of Terra’s palm trees and rolled Clara away from the hearth like a bundle of rags. She fetched up against the couch and lay in a shaking huddle while I let out a strangled scream.
“No!” I’d only just met her, it was too soon to lose my grandmother again.
Mag, spry despite all evidence of advanced age, got there first.
“Help me roll her over,” Mag ordered, and together, we gently eased Clara onto her back. A swath of ash-strewn hair hid my grandmother’s face, and I dreaded the sight of whatever injury lay below the white-brown strands. Burns are the worst. Before either of us could brush away the tangles, Clara did the deed and revealed a face untouched by anything other than mirth.
Laughing. The crazy witch found this funny. Fall on the floor, laugh yourself silly funny. Really?
Relief spread through me at about the same rate as pique over needlessly being frightened. But it’s hard keeping a fierce face on when someone else is dissolving into unladylike giggles.
“It’s not funny.” I knew it sounded shrewish.
Clara pointed at me and laughed hard enough that I wondered if she’d been hit with a goofy spell or something.
“It sneezed,” she finally wheezed out. “Get it? The Balefire has
a cold.”
The corner of Mag’s mouth twitched. Just a little. She tried to pull it back, but like yawns, giggles are contagious. I caught them next but was the first one to sober up.
“This is serious.” Everything in my life was serious these days, or had the potential to become a headache at any given moment. Take Clara, for instance. I’d wanted to save her, needed to make up for my mother’s deceit, and yet, having her in the house altered everything. I’d had my own private wing—okay, so maybe it was more like a wingtip, but still, it had been mine alone.
No longer.
A pair of sharp-eyed elders would put a crimp in my alone time with Kin. I wasn’t sure I could have my boyfriend sleeping—or not sleeping, if you know what I mean—over with the two of them down the hall. Not even with a silencing charm.
And now this effect we were having on the Balefire put another butt-shaped wrinkle in the linen pants of my life. The parlor was in shambles and they’d only been here for a few hours. What would happen in another month, another year? Was I supposed to give the Balefire back to Gran now that she was capable of taking care of it again? Was that even a possibility? None of the Balefire lore covered this contingency.
The duty of Keeper, as far as my research could tell me, passed to the next in line at the time of death. That Clara's death hadn't been exactly permanent was a problem.
“Of course it’s serious, dear.”
Giggles subsiding, for now, Clara scrambled to her feet and placated me with one of those pats on the arm that adults give a hysterical child. I retreated toward the fireplace while she reached down to give her sister a hand up. “I’d like to see the workshop, but I think maybe you should be the one to open the door. The Balefire seems to like you best.”
How did she figure that? My puzzlement must have shown on my face because she pointed toward my feet. Flaming tendrils had snaked across the hearth to twine around my ankles like chubby puppies at play.
“Shoo,” I slapped at the questing flames and reached for the handle. Best to get this over with and once our business was concluded, I might try and talk the godmothers into setting up one of their famous hot tubs on the patio.
The Balefire flickered a series of shadows against the chimney, and I swear I saw the outline of a hand holding up the middle finger. Witch or not, inanimate objects taking on a life of their own was getting a bit tedious for my tastes. I stuck my tongue out at absolutely nothing and gestured for Gran and Auntie to go first.
On the one occasion when Aunt Mag had joined me in the Balefire witch workshop I’d come to think of as my sanctum, I’d been shocked by the way the room reacted to her presence. The furniture had practically danced as it reconfigured from my preferred arrangement to hers. A less-than-subtle way of letting me know which witch was the alpha.
It wasn’t me, in case you’re wondering.
The experience had been humbling, but walking in after the sanctum recognized Clara’s energy made me feel about this big.
Bracing myself for an entirely different aesthetic than I was used to, I took in my surroundings and would have let out a low whistle if I wasn’t hopelessly miserable at whistling.
The large, circular dais still sat in a place of honor, just below a gigantic domed glass ceiling framed in intricate wrought iron. I’d recently learned my great-grandmother had forged and inlaid the living gold pentagram design around the perimeter shortly after the house was built, and of course that hadn’t moved either. The rest of the room, however, had undergone a drastic transformation.
“Is that my second best cauldron stand? I knew you borrowed it and never gave it back.” Mag went on the prowl for more of her purloined items. Grumbles of disgust and the sound of things being shoved aside followed her progress throughout the room.
Brighter lighting sparkled over a space organized to the nth degree. Double the usual number of shelves pressed themselves against the exterior walls, leaving a single, circular workstation dominating the otherwise open space.
Ingredients, utensils, and potion bottles marched along the shelves and formed into groups related to their intended use so anything she might need would be close at hand. It made sense, even if I prefer separate work zones because I tend to compartmentalize my magic. Obviously, Clara’s view of the craft was more holistic in nature, and I hoped I’d one day see things the same way.
A solid library ladder replaced the rickety one, enticing me to climb its rungs and choose one of a thousand tomes with titles like Burns and Boils, Volume 3.
“I wasn’t sure I’d ever get a chance to see this place again. It feels good. Like home.”
Emotions crawled up my throat to form a lump that wouldn’t go down no matter how many times I tried to swallow it away. My grandmother was home. Here. In the flesh. Trading my privacy for her presence? Total no-brainer. I’d do it all again—a hundred times over—if it meant I could watch Clara’s hungry face absorb every detail of her domain.
She tossed a glance at Mag that spoke of private things and received a slight head shake in return.
Clara announced she would love a hot shower and a change of clothes and I got the impression the sisters had decided their business could wait.
To cover up that I knew they were hiding something, I did what I always do and babbled. “We kept your room just the way you left it, and I know it’s small, but we can clear the boxes out of the dormer room.” I turned to Mag, “I don't know where you've been staying since your place is gone, but you're welcome to stay here. You could have my room if you need more space.”
“Don’t be worrying, child. I’m not exactly burdened down with possessions. The dormer room suits me fine.” Aunt Mag offered no explanation of her current living arrangements, and I didn't press her on the subject.
Midnight snack time is sort of like second breakfast in my house—completely unnecessary, but an institution we’re not willing to abandon. It’s a good thing we live just on the outskirts of Port Harbor because I don’t like cars and walking almost everywhere burns off Terra’s late-night monkey bread obsession.
I’ll always have curves, though, if Clara’s hourglass figure is any indication. We both have flowing, healthy chestnut-colored hair, and heart-shaped faces. We both have full, berry-stained lips and thick eyelashes. It stands to reason that unless I decide to let myself go entirely, I’ll look almost exactly like she does when I get old. We witches age well, but I’ll still pass up a taxi if it means fitting a little cardio into my day.
Gran’s reintroduction to the household didn’t stop me joining the godmothers, who assembled in the kitchen around the witching hour, and the scent of cinnamon and sugar had drawn more Balefire women than just me from their beds.
“What is that heavenly smell?” Gran asked, rubbing her eyes as she pulled a chair up to the island counter and smoothed a wild lock of hair behind one ear.
Just as I opened my mouth to respond, a peculiar wind began to gust outside. Hinges rattled in the doors, the floors began to creak, and a great, animalistic howl pierced the relative darkness that settled around us as the storm raged above.
Clara’s eyes lit up, though for what reason I couldn’t possibly imagine, and she looked to Aunt Mag with excitement, “Could it be?”
“Could it be what?” I asked with curiosity and a smidgen of concern.
“I can’t think of any other alternative, so my guess is yes,” Mag looked positively giddy with excitement.
“What’s going on?” I asked again, looking helplessly toward the faeries, who merely shrugged and continued to sip coffee while feigning disinterest. Utter hogwash, that.
Apparently, I’d turned invisible, because nobody seemed to have any intention of answering my questions. Another bang drew my attention to the ceiling, where I could hear Salem’s footsteps turn from the light pitter-patter of kitty paws to the heavy thump of a man’s gait.
When he rounded the corner with ears perked—yeah, even in human form, I can tell—I assumed he was just as cu
rious as I was, but of course, Salem had an inkling of what was to come.
At the sound of a sharp rap on the door, I jumped up from my seat alongside Clara and a surprisingly spry Mag. I opened my mouth to ask for information one last time and then promptly shut it as Gran opened the door and the answer hit me in the face like a ton of bricks.
The most quintessentially beautiful Siamese cat sat perched on the top step, glittering blue eyes peeking out from a mask of dark brown fur.
“Pyewacket!” Gran exclaimed, tears of joy jetting down her face as a miniature, purring tornado engulfed the cat in a swirl of fur. The woman left standing in the wake was just as gorgeous as her feline form. Sleek and perfectly put together, she all but oozed into the room.
Gran stepped forward to envelop her familiar in a warm hug, but Pyewacket took a step backward and raised a haughty chin. Ice blue eyes rode slanted cheekbones set high above lips that were probably lush and full when they weren’t pressed into a firm line. We all watched in fascination as Gran’s back went ramrod straight and all the tension in her body traveled north to square her shoulders in anticipation.
“Clara, what happened? Why was I stuck in Mrs. Chatterly’s yard? What sorcery confined me into the form of a garden gnome? Do you have any idea how boring it is watching chipmunks and squirrels frolic around without a care in the world? There are no words to describe how insufferable that woman can be. She complains non-stop about her weight and then stashes Milky Ways in the potting shed. Twenty-five years! Explain yourself, please.”
Pyewacket kept her gaze trained on Gran’s eyes, and it occurred to me that perhaps insubordination and general disdain were traits all familiars shared. I could only imagine the diatribe I’d have to endure if Salem had been put in that situation. He'd only been stuck in his cat form while awaiting my Awakening as a witch, and my penance included a glut of seafood in exchange for forgiveness.
No Chance in Spell Page 2
