Witching Your Life Away

by Constance Barker

  Witching Your Life Away

  Constance Barker

  Copyright 2016 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  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.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Also by Constance Barker

  Prologue

  Chloe Minds watched her daughter across the top of Wendy Robinson’s coffin. Bailey’s face was a mask of numbness at this point, her eyes puffy and red from too many tears. Her hair had been hastily braided, and she leaned her head against Ryan’s shoulder while he held her close with one arm.

  It had been sudden. Bailey hadn’t gotten the chance to say goodbye, and it reminded Chloe of her own mother’s death. Nothing would fill that void, of course, but she none the less wanted to try.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this day to honor the life and memory of Wendy Amelia Robinson—wife, mother, sister, and daughter,” the pastor said to those gathered.

  Wendy had been well loved and liked by Coven Grove. There were hundreds of people here; even Mr. Dove had shown up. He’d played his pipes as people filed in, a somber, inspirational tune; improvised, as they always were. Wendy had loved to hear him play, like everyone else in town did. She’d have liked that he was here.

  The pastor regaled the mass of people with anecdotes and praise, as was the usual way of funerals. Among the throngs, there were smiling faces as they remembered Wendy—she had delivered them, or their children; she’d brought them soup or casseroles when they were sick; she had heard their complaints and offered her semi-expert opinion on all manner of ailments. There was something of the village wise-woman about Wendy Robinson. It was why Chloe had given her daughter to the woman.

  Bailey neither smiled, nor cried. She didn’t react at all. She didn’t watch, or possibly listen to the pastor, either. Her eyes rested on the coffin, and stayed there until it was lowered into the ground.

  Chloe found her afterward, when most of the crowd had dispersed, and sat quietly by Bailey for a time. Her tongue froze when she tried to think of something to say. Bailey saved her from the need to speak first, though.

  “I’m angry,” she whispered. Her eyebrows knit tightly together, and she glanced up at Chloe. “Isn’t that terrible? I should be sad, and I’m trying to be, but… all I can feel is this… anger.”

  “There’s no normal way to feel after something like this,” Chloe said softly.

  “I wish I could be angry at someone, or something,” Bailey went on. “It’s just sitting there inside me, boiling and burning. For no reason.”

  “I know,” Chloe told her. She did know. Her mother had died when she was ten, a car accident on the way back from visiting a cousin in California. Her father had flown in for the funeral, but he hadn’t stayed long. She been angry at him for that, and then angry at the Crones for not predicting her mother’s death, and then angry at herself for being too weak, too young to do anything about it herself. There was every chance Bailey’s anger would find targets, too.

  “When will it get better?” Bailey asked. Her eyes tracked every shovel of soil as Wendy’s grave was filled.

  “It doesn’t really get better,” Chloe said honestly. “It just gets quieter. If you… if you need someone to talk to…”

  Bailey looked up at Chloe, and gave a small nod before she touched Chloe’s hand. “Thank you for being here. And for waiting with me. It means a lot to me. Um…” she looked pained.

  “You want to be alone,” Chloe said for her.

  “It isn’t that I don’t want you with me,” Bailey said, her cheeks coloring. So mature for such a young age.

  “I know, Bailey,” Chloe assured her, and stood. Bailey stood with her, and they hugged for a long moment. “When you’re ready. Okay?”

  Bailey nodded, and folded her arms over her chest as though cold.

  Chloe left her there, to grieve in private or speak to her mother. She really did understand. She’d once sat at her mother’s fresh grave and talked for hours. Martha had come to find her when the sun began to set, and had to drag her away to Frances’ house, where her parents had agreed to let her stay for a while until something could be figured out.

  At least Bailey had Ryan. Chloe’s father hadn’t even entertained the idea. The last thing he wanted was another mind reader living under his roof.

  Mr. Dove leaned against a tree at the edge of the cemetery. Chloe spotted him in his stark white coat when the glint of his silver pipes winked at her in the afternoon sun. He glanced up when she approached, his thin, handsome face sympathetic. “How is she?” he asked.

  He was the only other person in town besides Chloe’s coven sisters who knew about her relationship to Bailey. Outside of the coven, Mr. Dove was the only person she truly trusted. He had that effect on people. Coven Grove’s own treasure, that man. “She’ll never be the same,” Chloe said. “For better or worse.”

  “This sort of trauma tends to stir things up, does it not?” Mr. Dove wondered. “Do you think her… gifts might begin to awaken now?”

  “If she has any,” Chloe said. “But there’s no way to predict what will trigger them. My magic didn’t stir until I was sixteen.”

  There were precious few people in town that knew about magic who weren’t directly involved. Most of them had some old family connection to the coven. Mr. Dove didn’t, but he was almost as knowledgeable as any of the witches Chloe had known. An old hobby interest, he’d once said.

  Now, he nodded distractedly as he peered off in the direction where Bailey was. “She’ll wake up in time,” he said. “Mark my words. That young woman will be a powerful witch. Even more so than the old gals. Maybe the next Medea, even.”

  Chloe shivered at that, a chill that swept through her at even the mention of the ancient witch-queen. “I hope she never had to deal with anything like that,” she muttered. “I’d almost rather magic skip her entirely.”

  “Come now,” Mr. Dove chided, “it isn’t all that bad. You’ve done a lot of good, and she will, too. I believe it. So should you.”

  She sighed, and smiled at him. “I’m sure you’re right. She has a good heart.”

  “Do you think you might speak with her about your relationship to her, then?” Mr. Dove shifted a bit, and tucked his pipes into his coat pocket. “She’ll have to know, eventually.”

  “Now isn’t the time,” Chloe said, her voice strained. “She’ll be angry for a while, and she needs to process that before I throw something like that at her. I will, though… one day. I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  “We always have a choice, my dear,” Mr. Dove said, and hooked his arm through Chloe’s elbow to lead her th
e rest of the way out of the cemetery. “I assure you—the two of you will one day be reunited. It couldn’t be any other way. Then, you’ll have all the time in the world to make your family whole once again.”

  Just speaking to him made her feel better. Chloe felt the weight of Bailey’s years lessen just a bit from her shoulders. “I know you’re right,” she said, and patted the man’s arm where they were linked. “Thank you, Mr. Dove. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “It’s no trouble, Miss Minds,” he crooned. “I’ll be here anytime you need me. Always.”

  Chapter 1

  Aiden cooked Bailey breakfast.

  He’d done this once before, at her house, after a long night when he’d stayed up while she slept. This time they were at his house. In addition to buying Poppy Winters’ business, he’d purchased her beach side home as well. All part of the package, apparently, and like the business she’d sold it at a steep discount. Presumably the sale was keeping her stocked in goods from the commissary in prison.

  So much had changed since then.

  Bailey watched as Aiden expertly flipped slices of French toast while bacon sizzled on a skillet along side two eggs for each of them. He hummed as he did, and Bailey couldn’t help smiling as she watched. This magic was something altogether different from the kind they were used to; but it was every bit as enchanting.

  Lingering in the air, of course, were some unasked and unanswered questions. The past two weeks had been good. Wonderful, even. But they seemed to have an unspoken mutual agreement not to approach the complications just yet. There was time, wasn’t there?

  Bailey schooled her expression to a pleasant neutral when Aiden turned with the skillet and delivered eggs and bacon to two plates. He winked at her, and deposited the skillet in the sink before he snatched the pan off the stove and slid the French toast onto their plates as well. A sprinkle of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar, and breakfast was served.

  “Bon appetite,” Aiden said as he passed Bailey her plate. He leaned in as he did, and she met him part of the way to kiss him. It was just as electric as it was the first time, and all the times since.

  “So,” she said as he took his seat in the stool next to hers, “we don’t have a single tour scheduled today. The dead season has arrived.”

  “That’s alright,” he said. “I never expected the tour business to make a significant profit. It’s done a great deal better than I expected, but as far as I’m concerned, any income it produces is enough.”

  Bailey chewed her bacon slowly as she peered at Aiden. Money wasn’t a subject they’d discussed and she didn’t intend to do so now. But it was hard not to be curious. Now, of course, she knew that he hadn’t purchased the business or the beach house for a change of scenery—he’d moved here for the Seven Caves, because another set of caves just like it back in England had failed and he hoped to keep these from doing the same.

  More, he hoped to repair them. So far, there hadn’t been much progress on that front. In addition to a mountain of distractions and disasters, the magic that made the caves in Coven Grove and the others elsewhere was ancient and powerful; the sort of magic that might not even be possible anymore.

  When he’d first arrived, however, she’d suspected he at least had a significant nest egg of some sort. Lately she’d begun to wonder if he wasn’t independently wealthy. It wasn’t that Aiden was every showy, so much as that he never had a reason to talk about money. She didn’t know anyone who was never concerned, at least a little bit, about money from time to time.

  “Poppy would normally go on vacation about this time,” Bailey said. “Somewhere tropical where she could avoid the cold weather.”

  Aiden snorted quietly. “I imagine she did.”

  When Bailey was quiet for a moment, slowly eating her breakfast, Aiden glanced sideways at her. “When is the last time you left Coven Grove?” He asked.

  It took her a moment. “I was twelve. We went to Seattle for three days.”

  “On vacation?”

  She sighed, and shook her head. “There was a big conference between a bunch of different news organizations. Dad went for work, and Mom—Wendy—talked him into taking us. We didn’t see much of him while we were there. But Mom and I had fun. We went up on the needle. I remember that I imagined what it would be like if I could fly.”

  “I hope you didn’t attempt it,” Aiden chuckled.

  Bailey gave him a rueful smile and shook her head. “No. I didn’t have my broom back then..”

  He gave her a serious look, one eyebrow raised. “Has your coven rediscovered flight by broom?” he asked.

  Bailey’s mouth hung open for a long moment. Rediscovered?

  Aiden’s lips stretched into a wide smile that he struggled to control before he began to laugh.

  In another moment, Bailey was laughing as well. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  Aiden shook his head as his laughter died by degrees, and waved a fork at history. “It may not be. Once upon a time, all manner of things were possible. Where do you think all the stories come from?”

  “There’s no inherent symbolism for flight in brooms,” Bailey said. “It would have to be… feathers or something. A symbol connected to the wind. Even then, the kind of magic it would take… I think some stories are probably just stories.”

  “Symbols,” Aiden groaned. “So imprecise. I’ve always wondered why witches’ magic works so differently from wizards’.”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing,” Bailey admitted. “I always assumed it was the sort of thing you would know.”

  He shrugged. “In theory… all magic comes from the same place. The energy of it, I mean. But the way in which individual people access it is different. It’s also inherent. I couldn’t pull off a witch’s spell even if you walked me through it. You couldn’t perform a wizard spell either.”

  Thoughtful, Bailey drummed her fingers on the counter as she chewed a piece of bacon. “But that doesn’t make any sense,” she said finally, after she’d swallowed. She pointed the other half of her piece of bacon at him. “You just said magic all comes from the same place. That just doesn’t seem… I don’t know… fair?”

  “I don’t recall fairness being a known law of magic.” He leaned in quickly and bit some of her bacon off, and grinned as he chewed it.

  Bailey paid him back by stealing one of his—a whole piece. “It’s not a law of life, either. Or breakfast.”

  For a moment he smiled at her. Bailey saw a change in his eyes, though—the smile faded from them, though it was still on his lips before he returned to his breakfast.

  It wasn’t the first time that had happened, and Bailey hadn’t bothered him about it. There was something about them that Aiden wasn’t entirely… satisfied with.

  Maybe that wasn’t it, of course. He was waiting for the first of who-knew-how-many shoes to drop, possibly. But somehow asking him was like opening the box and seeing whether the cat was still alive or not. As long as she didn’t, it could be anything.

  Two weeks, though, was longer than Bailey had been with anyone. Once, she’d kissed a boy, and they’d said they were together. Three days later, she’d seen him kissing some other girl. Not that she should have expected much fidelity from a seven year old. In first grade, though, a second grader had seemed somehow infinitely more mature than her peers. Live and learn.

  The longer she and Aiden were together the worse it would hurt when or if it didn’t work out between them.

  “Can I ask you something?” She asked.

  Aiden’s eyes flickered toward her briefly, and he nodded. His chewing slowed.

  Bailey laid her fork down on her plate, and tried to think of how to say it without making him feel judged, or making herself seem suspicious. “Sometimes, you look at me… and it’s like you’re realizing something. Or remembering something.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her morning hair as he stared at his plate. “Or… I’m just nervous maybe. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—
”

  “No,” Aiden said softly. “No, you’re right.”

  Bailey’s stomach sank, and she braced herself. So, she was right. He was going to call it off. And why not? Already she was hiding it from the Coven ladies and how long was that going to last? Aiden didn’t have anyone to hide from, but he might eventually. This whole idea was—

  “Six months before I came here,” Aiden said, “I had a… a kind of premonition about us. About our relationship.”

  “You… wait, what do you mean?”

  Aiden straightened, and turned to face her. He looked worried, which in turn worried Bailey further. It took him several tries to start talking again. “I have visions of the future. Sometimes. They’re unpredictable, and they don’t always make sense. I have the same one several times, when I’m asleep. I didn’t believe them at first, and I don’t have them often. The first… I dreamed about my parents’ deaths.”

  Bailey sucked in a breath and winced for him. “Oh… Aiden, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine… but you couldn’t… you know…”

  “Change it?” He offered.

  Though she knew it was the worst thing to suggest—that he might have prevented it, if he’d known—she nodded once.

  Aiden didn’t seem offended. He only shook his head. “I didn’t know that’s what the dreams meant at the time. And I was only able to remember them briefly. I understand it’s a gift that sometimes afflicts witches—the gift of prophecy—but wizards don’t typically have these kinds of abilities. Our magic is less intuitive.”