No Rest for The Wiccan

by Madelyn Alt

  “She?”

  “Now you’re not going to tell me I have to instruct you on the intricacies—”

  I laughed and held up my hand to stop her in her verbal tracks. “No, no. I think I have that all figured out, thankyouverymuch.”

  “Oh, do you now.” She assessed me closely. “That’s good to hear. A girl should have that ability down pat at your age—”

  “Hey!” I protested. My birthday—my thirtieth birthday—was right around the corner, and I was not looking forward to it much. If at all.

  The kitten stretched out a paw toward me, gentle, with soft pads like fine leather and no claws in sight. As though she was reaching out to shake hands with me. I tried not to look at her, because I knew my heart was in serious danger. Full-out frontal attack. As though wondering why I wasn’t paying attention, she cocked her head, looked at me again, and bleated out another soft mew.

  “I think she wants you.”

  Reluctantly—but not really—I held my hands out to take her. The sweetpea tucked herself up into a tight little ball in my curved palms, her toes barely peeking out, then leaned her head back and lifted her chin to look up at me from upside down. She appeared to have the tiniest patch of white under her chin. “Aww . . .”

  It just slipped out. I swear.

  “What are we going to do with her?” I asked. “We can’t leave her here. She’ll get run over by a farm truck or eaten by wild dogs or something.”

  “We’ll just have to take her with us,” Liss responded immediately and predictably. “She’s far too young to be out on her own. And just look at how taken she is with you! Great Goddess. Have you ever seen anything so sweet?”

  Hm.

  We got in the car and sat for a few minutes with the windows rolled down, discussing Joel’s death. “Poor, poor thing,” Liss murmured when I told her about Libby. “More trouble.”

  Maybe Libby’s worries hadn’t been so off base after all.

  We tried to decide whether it would be best to make another attempt to leave now or wait a few minutes more. The mosquitoes were thicker here with the far-reaching fields on our right than they had been on the feed mill complex with its extensive concrete lot. I had the kitten in my lap, mostly because she refused to sit elsewhere, even when I waved my hands around like a maniac in an attempt to dislodge the mosquitoes that were trying to feast in places I couldn’t easily slap or rub or brush. She had fallen almost instantly to sleep and was now purring away like a motorboat on overdrive.

  Liss, I noticed with the teensiest bit of envy, wasn’t affected by the mosquitoes at all.

  “How do you do that?” I asked her when I’d slapped the back of my neck for the fourth time.

  “Do what?”

  “How is it that the mosquitoes aren’t after you? I mean, is it a spell that you cast? Because if it is, I’d really like to know. I think I might be game to try it after tonight.”

  “Oh, are they bothering you? Perhaps it’s the energy work I do, keeping them at bay. Or maybe they don’t like the taste of my foreign blood.” She laughed, then said, “Far more likely it’s the vervain—verbena, that is—and lavender that I use to scent my drawers and closets. Most flying insects don’t seem to enjoy the scent of it. You should try it.”

  I made a mental note to raid Enchantments’ stores in the A.M. This was one old-school Craft “remedy” I was more than happy to adopt into my modern-day lifestyle.

  “In the meantime, perhaps we should radiate more.” At my blank stare, she explained, “Our personal energies. Perhaps we should send out a little power surge. Sometimes that helps to keep the unwanted at bay.”

  That sounded like yet another handy-dandy witchy tip. I couldn’t help wondering what other little helpful tidbits she had hidden up her sleeves. I was about to ask her to explain when I saw Officer Johnson heading in our direction.

  He ducked down by my open window. “Looks like you’ll be able to head out, ladies. They’re getting a path cleared for you now.”

  Thank goodness.

  He looked back over his shoulder, took a message from someone over his radio, and spoke into the mouthpiece clipped to his shoulder. Then he stepped out to the side of the road. “Okay, what you’ll want to do is turn into the drive, go into the complex past the office, and just past the second hog barn you’ll find a drive that passes through. You’ll turn right and follow behind the buildings. You should be able to come out on the other side with no problems. Thanks for being so patient.”

  I followed his instructions to the letter, creeping through the feed mill complex at five miles per hour. The last thing this town needed was for an emergency aid worker to be run over at an actual emergency. We Stony Millers had enough trouble on our plate as it was. I motioned to Tom as we passed him by, sticking out my pinkie and my thumb and holding it to my head like a phone receiver in the universal sign language for “Call me!” until he acknowledged me and nodded. Thank goodness we couldn’t see past the crunch of people, vehicles, and equipment. Viewing the hideous result of a tragic and violent accident was not tops on my To Do list.

  Finally we were on the move again.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Liss said with her usual talent for understatement.

  “I’ll bet Mr. Turner said that very thing as he was plummeting toward the ground,” I said wryly. With the comment came an instant mental pang. Oh, that was bad. Joel Turner might not have been the friendliest of people the one and only time he came ever-so-peripherally into my life, but my Grandma Cora would never have stood for one of us speaking ill of the dead. Especially not someone so recently passed. Knock wood. If I had salt, I’d throw some over my shoulder. Except then I’d have to vacuum.

  “Speaking of your love life,” Liss said conversationally.

  I blinked, and my brows shot up. I kept my eyes on the road. “Were we?”

  “Feel free to tell me it’s none of my business—because Goddess knows that wouldn’t be far from the truth at least ninety percent of the time; you know how I love to be in the thick of things—but . . . well, I’ll just go right ahead and say it, then, shall I?”

  “Sure,” I said, a trifle faintly. “Shoot.”

  “You see, I’ve noticed something.”

  “And that is?”

  “You don’t seem to have much of one. I mean, between your Tom’s work schedule, and the store, and even your family, there doesn’t seem to be much time for you left.”

  Tell me about it. “It won’t last forever,” I said, not voicing the selfishness that was my first instinct. “Sometimes we have a hard time getting all of our schedules in sync.”

  “Sometimes when you want things to work, you make them work,” she said, as enigmatic as ever.

  I mean, what was that supposed to mean?

  “I won’t even ask you about Marcus,” she continued.

  That was good. I didn’t know what I could tell her about the most dark and dangerous-to-my-equilibrium member of the N.I.G.H.T.S. that she didn’t already know anyway. Because actually, I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks. Since the last N.I.G.H.T.S. get-together, in fact. And yes, I was avoiding him. I know, I know. Tom and I weren’t an exclusive, and in fact, we had even less of an actual relationship now than when I had realized that Liss and Marcus weren’t an item. We’d never said we’d date each other and each other only . . . and yet I found that, even though modern dating rules made it clear that I would be perfectly legit in accepting a date with another man, getting my mind wrapped around that was a little harder. Call me old-fashioned, but I was raised to honor the boyfriend-girlfriend factor from the get-go; to treat every prospective boyfriend in the way that I would want to be treated as well. For me, the Golden Rules of Dating still applied. Which meant, of course, that any attraction I felt toward Marcus was better left unexplored, unscrutinized, unprobed.

  Un-everything. Because that single kiss we’d shared so unintentionally might have raged out of control if it had remained unchecked by reason. And
ethics.

  “And I can see you won’t be offering any information either,” she said with the usual pinpoint perception. “I had hoped the two of you . . . well, of course it’s none of my business . . . and of course you’re still with Tom, so that’s that, and I suppose that’s for the best.” She paused, then said, “At least for now.”

  I shook my head and uttered a short, nervous laugh that made the kitten raise its head and blink at me. “You’re amazing, you know that? I promise, if anything improves in that area of my life, you’ll be the first person I tell.” Then, because it was easier to remain on the defensive by going on the offensive, without being offensive, I nudged, “So, what about that state trooper, hm? That looked promising.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. He’s young enough to be my younger brother. But if anything develops in that area of my life, you’ll be the first person I tell.”

  “Deal.”

  Continuing on our belated path toward the store, I explained more about how I’d been shanghaied by the Turners’ distress and by their need to distance Libby from what was going on at the scene. “It was really uncomfortable,” I admitted to her. “I don’t know Libby very well at all, and she . . . was so open with her grief and despair. And then with her brothers-in-law, too . . . trying to hold it all back . . .” I shook my head. “To tell you the truth, toward the end it was getting to me. I have the beginnings of a migraine right now.”

  “It was just too much for your shields, that’s all. Did you remember to strengthen them when you felt them slipping?”

  Effective shielding was of key importance to a person with sensitive/intuitive tendencies. A method of reinforcing our personal boundaries—our auras—against the accidental intrusion of the emotions of others. Some people wear their heart on their sleeve as a matter of course. What that means, metaphysically speaking, is that their emotions bleed out of their personal space and into the world around them. What that means to an empath whose protections are failing is that all those sneaky little tendrils of rogue emotion can infiltrate and overwhelm her own energy fields faster than she can ward them off.

  All of this I already knew. Liss had been a very patient teacher. Why hadn’t I remembered the rest? “I guess it happened too fast,” I said, answering my own question with my musings. “I didn’t even think to . . .”

  “And that’s the source—”

  “Of the headache. Of course.” The kitten woke up and stretched itself out over my lap, flaring its toes. The purring started up again, louder than ever, but it was . . . nice. Soothing.

  Liss reached over and patted my hand. “When you get home, take a wonderfully hot shower and let the water stream down you and rinse away the emotional grunge. Then take some aspirin and go straight to bed. Trust me, it will do wonders for you. And when you wake up in the morning, voilà. A whole new you.”

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when I dropped her off by her car and told her I’d see her in the morning. I waited, wanting to make sure she got off okay. It was only after she’d backed out in front of me, taillights flaring red, and then pulled away with a wave in the rearview, that I realized I still had the kitten in my lap and neither of us had made any suggestions about what to do with her.

  I sighed.

  “You just suckered me, didn’t you?” I said to the fuzzy little creature who was probably shedding black hairs, dirt, and goodness knows what else all over me.

  What could I do? I stopped at a quickie mart that I knew carried emergency supplies, including pet food and, more importantly in this particular case, kitty litter. The kitten had been found outside, so all I could do was hope—fervently—that she would know what to do with cat litter. I had had a traumatic experience the last time I had taken in a lost and needy animal. Good bathroom habits are so important in a temporary roomie, don’t you think?

  “I expect you to be good,” I told her, speaking as I would to one of my nieces. “You have to mind your manners. None of this shredding my furniture, or marking your territory in the corners. I’ll just keep you in the bathroom tonight, and tomorrow we’ll see about finding you a home, ‘kay?”

  My To Do list was growing by the hour. Return my sister’s calls, find home for helpless orphan, consult with the N.I.G.H.T.S. on the best way to banish evil whatchamacallit from my sister’s home, banishing the actual . . .

  Heeeeeeeeey now. Maybe Mel was the answer to one of my To Do’s. Maybe she’d be willing to take in the little fuzzball as a thank-you for getting rid of the weird energy she’d invited into her house.

  I pulled up to my apartment on Willow Street with a sigh of relief. It had been a long and eventful day, and I was ready to call it that. Just a few things to take care of first, and then I could haul my headache off to bed. So to speak.

  The kitten woke up the moment I switched off Christine’s old engine with the usual hiccup-choke-cough of its cylinders. She stood up on all fours and stretched with a great, arching back, all her claws digging into my legs. “Yeouch, little one. How sharp are those things?”

  I shuffled her around with my bag and the jug of cat litter until I had them all situated securely, and made my way across the yard and down the sunken steps to my apartment. Unfortunately I had forgotten to keep my keys out. Dumb-de-dumb-dumb. I ended up tucking the kitten inside my purse at the bottom of the steps while I dug for the keys and then used them on the door. She actually seemed to like her impromptu cubby.

  A flip of the switch reassured me that all appeared to be in order within my little apartment. No lights burning where none had been left on, no strange smells or sounds, and most importantly, no funny stuff for me to see out of the corners of my eyes. Perhaps the spirits could sense my weariness and were giving me the night off.

  A girl could hope.

  I set my bag down on the floor and closed the door, sliding the deadbolt into place with a solid, reassuring switch of metal into casing. The bag of kitty litter was surprisingly heavy, so the first order of business would be to set it down, followed by locating a box to use as a temporary litterbox. I went into the bedroom and began searching under my bed for the box that had held the strappy silver sandals that were my last impulse buy. Aha. There it was, near the head of the bed. I laid myself out on the floor, reaching, stretching with all my might. My fingers bumped the box, pushing it about a centimeter out of reach. Bloody hell. I closed my eyes and gave one final full-body lunge . . . Success! My fingertips curved over the rim of the box, and I bent my fingers to draw it toward me, a fraction at a time, carefully so as not to lose it again.

  I felt a wet scratching on my nose and opened my eyes. Two eyes stared at me point blank, one blue, one green, while a bubblegum pink tongue slid repeatedly along my nose.

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  It was the most action I was likely to get for a while, so I supposed I should enjoy it. The kitten sat back on her hindquarters then and, lifting one long, rabbitlike rear foot, began to vigorously scratch at her ear. She finished off the energetic ministrations with an equally vigorous and energetic shaking of her head. She looked a little dazed when it ended. I couldn’t say as I blamed her. That was hard enough to rock anyone’s world.

  “Hmm,” I said aloud while she blinked at me. “First order of business, litterbox. Second order of business might just be a bath for you, little one. I don’t know if it’s the dirt that’s making you scratch or something more insidious, but I’m hoping just dirt.”

  As though she’d understood what I said and didn’t like the sound of it, she took one last look at me and skedaddled out of the way.

  “Right, then.” I slid the box out the rest of the way, then got to my feet. Cardboard shoeboxes probably wouldn’t hold up well to anything wet, so I pulled an empty trash bag from beneath the kitchen sink and stuck the shoebox inside it, molding it to the box and tying off the excess before pouring an inch or so of cat litter into it. Instant litterbox, kitten-sized.

  I went to look for the little furball
, but didn’t see her. Then I heard a crashing, skittering, bumping sound beneath my sofa. I lifted the skirt to see a black blur bouncing back and forth, up, down, and all around the low space. It was a lot of racket for one small critter, and rather impressive in an alarming sort of way. She must have found a bit of paper or cloth or something to entertain her, I decided, shaking my head.

  Or it could have been the mouse that zipped out from under the sofa, passing very near my nose.

  I shrieked, and for the second time that evening, I found myself rearing back in surprise, losing my balance, and falling on my behind. Immediately I scrabbled away, crab-style, then leaped up on the old sofa itself in a single bound while the kitten burst out like a shot from beneath it and spun around wildly, looking for the mouse. Catching sight of it, she took off like a shot. I watched the crazed procession, rooting the kitten on when it got close, cringing when she caught it in her paws and wrestled around with it. Finally, this little bitty kitten somehow managed to get a stranglehold on the wriggling, squealing mouse. It was the squealing that mobilized me off my perch on the sofa. She was way too small to do any real damage to the mouse. I was going to have to lose my aversion in order to get rid of the beast so that I could actually get some sleep tonight without feeling little scrabbling feet, imagined or otherwise, climbing over my sheets.

  The only thing I could think to do was to grab a big pitcher from the kitchen. The kitten growled and wrestled around with the ball of wriggling beastie. I was starting to lose my objectivity, because I was actually beginning to feel sorry for the mouse . . . and yet I couldn’t quite decide how to part the two of them. Soon enough, the inexperienced kitten lost its tenuous grip. The mouse ran in one direction, then another, obviously disoriented. I took the opportunity and clapped the pitcher down over it before the kitten could figure out how to recoup her loss.

  She looked up at me and blinked reproachfully as if to say, What are you doing? Couldn’t you see I was busy? And then . . . All right, if you’re so smart. Now what?