The Graveyard stretched from north to south, from 25th street down to First Street, a neighborhood where only the foolish ventured out at night without magical or hired protection, where murder was a daily event, where hope came to die. And not in its sleep.
Fiona’s store was in a business district on the northernmost block of The Graveyard, just south of a long stretch of tired, blue-collar homes where the residents still struggled to keep up appearances.
“See? So I’m right!” Rosalind beamed happily.
“Oh, bite me,” Maizie grumbled, turning her attention back to her coffee.
“I’m not even turning for two more days,” Rosalind said, puzzled. “And why would you want me to bite you? Werewolf-witches aren’t a good combination.”
Maizie’s irises flared red, and her coffee began bubbling so hard it slopped over the edge of the coffee cup. Fiona leaped in hastily.
“Rosalind, there are customers coming in right now.”
It was true; a cluster of debs and their mothers were inside the coffee shop, reading the day’s specials off the chalkboard wall and giggling excitedly. Dragon’s blood smoothies? Horn of unicorn tea? The drinks didn’t really contain those illegal ingredients, but the tourists who bought them would never know that, and the owners charged a premium for the cheap thrill.
Rosalind rushed off to serve them. “Bless her empty little head,” Fiona said.
“Moron,” Maizie grumbled. “She exceeded my recommended daily allowance of stupid. And now my coffee’s too hot.”
“Take some ice from my icewater.”
“Then it will be watered down.”
“Someone’s thong is on too tight. Is it that time of the month?”
A puff of smoke sizzled up from Maizie’s coffee. “I’m a fire elemental! We’re naturally hot tempered! And yes, I’m PMSing. I know, I know, you’ve got herbs for that.”
“I’ve got herbs for lots of things,” Fiona said, unruffled.
“Some of them are even legal,” Maizie smirked. Fiona shrugged. She’d never deal in addictive drugs or poison, but there were certain substances which were not approved by the FDA and which fetched a high price. Sometimes she knew how to grow or find those certain substances. A girl had to pay her rent and keep her protection runes charged up.
“I must say, you seem a little more out of sorts than usual,” Fiona observed, stirring her coffee. “Is it that vampire you’ve been bodyguarding?”
Maizie flashed her a dirty look.
“This bodyguard gig has gone on for an unusually long time,” Fiona continued, unperturbed. “In fact, I heard that you fried the rival vampire who was threatening Stasik’s house, but you’re still working for him. Also, you’ve bought herbs for anemia twice in the past month. Obviously you’re providing him with more than protection. What else is going on there?”
“You know, you’re the only person who could get away with interrogating me and not suffer third degree burns as a consequence,” Maizie muttered, but the expression on her face was more pouty than dangerous.
Fiona snorted. “Then where would you come for treatment when you’ve barely survived a fight?” Then she turned to look at the fashionable women crowding into the Witches Brew. “Good heavens, look at those women. I grew up in that crowd. It’s a wonder I’m still sane. ish.”
She and Maizie surveyed the women in the coffee shop with a critical eye. The fashions among the magical crew this season tended towards the bright and showy, with neon-hued flowers bursting into bloom over and over on the enchanted fabric of their a-line frocks. At the end of the season they’d discard the dresses that cost as much as a year’s salary for people in the Graveyard, and they’d stuff their closets full of the newest lines.
And the clothing never came in extra large. Fiona remembered her mother’s bitter remonstrances every season as she brought in seamstresses to dress Fiona and Fiona’s younger sister Delphine, with muttered words like “tent” and “caftan” nettling the girls like the barbed stingers of bees.
Fiona winced at the memory. She knew Delphine could hardly wait for two more years to pass so she could turn 21, and escape from their mother’s suffocating clutches as Fiona had.
She turned her attention back to the women she’d grown up with, and who she’d been glad to flee. Coming to the edge of the Graveyard district to buy herbs was a major adventure for these women, the ultimate in slumming it. That was part of the appeal of buying herbs from Fiona; the women felt dangerous and naughty.
Of course, they only came in broad daylight, frequently chauffeured by bodyguards who idled in limousines outside the shop as they waited, and they were only on 25th street. None of them would have dared venture so much as another block south, and they were right not to.
Fiona’s neighborhood gave new meaning to the phrase “…and then everything went south.”
But now it was near the end of the day, and the blood red orb of the sun was sinking low, ready to plunge into the lake of fiery orange and yellow clouds that flared up from the horizon. Decaying buildings stood out like black paper cutouts against the flame-hued sky. Their high end clientele was done shopping for the day.
“Who’s the cub?” Maizie glanced at the small werewolf child making her way towards the front door of the herb shop.
Fiona stood up with a sigh. “I’ve got a good idea who. Break’s over.” She and Mazie grabbed their drinks and headed back to the shop.
Her storefront was painted green, and ivy carpeted the outside of the shop. To the left of the shop was a metal stairway leading up to the apartment she rented; behind the shop was her herb garden, where she grew most of the herbs that she sold.
Fiona paused in the doorway to take a deep breath. The scent of a thousand herbs and flowers and roots swirled through the air, comforting, like the smell of family. She could distinguish every smell like a bloodhound, and knew the story of every plant in the little shop.
Inside was comfortable clutter, with shelves full of jars and paper bags and little bins, from floor to ceiling. The store was empty of debutantes now; Renoir, her faerie clerk, was nibbling a cupcake while restocking empty cubbies. He was reed thin and delicate of feature, and he had spiky blond hair tipped with pink; today he wore shiny striped pink and blue leggings and a matching shiny pink t-shirt.
They found the werewolf child in the back, eyes on the floor, hands stuffed in her pockets, shuffling quickly towards the door. Fiona recognized her. Her name was Mala; she was the daughter of a local prostitute.
Maizie stepped in front of her. “Hand it over,” she said sternly. The girl tried to dodge past her; Maizie reached out, grabbed her by the collar, and held her up dangling in the air.
“Let me go! Let me go!” she howled, legs kicking.
“Why, I never!” Renoir glared disapprovingly. “Girl, I am so sorry,” he added to Fiona. “My back was turned.”
“Hand it over!” Maizie snapped. Reluctantly, the girl pulled her hands out her pockets, with a gnarled brown root in one of them. Fiona grabbed it from her, and Maizie put her down. She slunk towards the front door, face bunched up hard as she struggled not to cry. Renoir stood with his hands on his slim hips, tapping his foot and scowling at Mala like a disapproving schoolmarm.
“Get back here,” Fiona yelled. The girl froze in place, hopelessness washing over her little puckered face.
Fiona held up the root. “This causes hairlessness. Is that what you were looking for?”
The cub gasped. “No! My mother has mange! She has it bad. She said I needed to get Capillo Rememdum.”
“Well, you got Levis Rememdum. It cures excessive hairiness. Can’t you read? Oh,” she added as the child scraped her foot on the floor and bit her lower lip. Of course not. Mala’s mother was too busy entertaining clients to pay attention to her child’s education. It was highly unlikely that Mala had ever set foot in a classroom.
Fiona dropped the root back in its bin, then pulled out a root from the bin next to it and handed i
t to the child. “This is what you need. It must be chopped up into little bits and then boiled in a gallon of water for one hour. Then she needs to use let the water cool, then drink one cup of it, morning and night, for the next three days. Got it?”
“I can’t pay,” the cub said sullenly.
“Obviously, or you wouldn’t be stealing from me. You owe me one. And next time just ask me, before you end up stealing herbs that cause giant boils to pop up all over your body.” With a look of alarm, the cub dashed out of the store, herb clutched in her grubby little fist.
“Aaand, that’s why you’re always broke,” Renoir chided, watching the cub go.
“Eh.” Fiona shrugged. “Filthy lucre. Money’s over-rated.”
“Trollballs. You’re just a sucker, is all,” Maizie joined in the scolding. Then she perked up. “Do you really have herbs that can cause boils to pop up all over your body?”
“Of course not. Who would buy that?”
“I totally would. There’s this stuck up bitch receptionist at the Bodyguard’s Guild who – oh, shiznit. Rosalind was right. I hate it when that little twit is right.”
Fiona swung around, alarmed. “What? Oh, my God.”
Bustling through the door, with an expression of disdain pinching her face, was the last person on earth she’d expect to see in this neighborhood – her mother, the Lady Desdemona Rosewood.
Chapter Three
Desdemona hadn’t come alone; she’d brought a beanpole of a man, handsome except for his weak chin. He wore a black silk suit with a blue bowtie, and had wavy Byronic hair. Fiona recognized him as Aelfwerd Tremaine, a wealthy young warlock from a family of lawyers and judges.
Desdemona looked as intimidatingly lovely as she always did. She was as slender as a reed, but her slimness was hard-won. Expensive spells and charms which made her dizzy and nauseous, which doubled her over with agonizing stomach cramps for hours at a time, were the price she paid daily for fighting the body that nature gave her.
“You can leave,” Fiona said to Maizie. “I’ll deal with this while I’m locking up. I don’t want you to end up spontaneously combusting her.”
“You sure? I can be here for moral support.”
“I think you need morals for that. Just go! Be here tomorrow early, those crazy debs show up right after sunrise when it’s this close to the Crystal Ball.”
Desdemona swept into the store, holding up the hem of her fashionably long robin’s egg blue silk gown to avoid contact with the floor, and completely ignoring Maizie. Aelfwerd shot Maizie a look of mingled disgust and alarm, taking in her black leather jacket, black jeans, and spike heeled boots with a curl of his aristocratic upper lip.
Fiona breathed a sigh of relief when Maizie left the store without a backward glance, and without setting Aelfwerd’s hair on fire.
She turned to her mother and forced a smile which she hoped didn’t look too pained. “Mother, what a surprise. I was just locking up. You should have called to let me know that you were coming.”
“Nonsense. Aelfwerd insisted on coming here to meet you, and it would be terribly rude of you not to chat with him after he’s come all this way, wouldn’t it?”
“Ahhh….”
Desdemona shot Renoir a look, the same look that she reserved for pockmarked beggars and unswept dragon manure. “I’m sure you were just leaving.”
“And miss the fireworks? Not a chance.” He leaned back on the counter and took another delicate little bite of cupcake. Desdemona fixed him with a steady glare; he met her gaze with a wide-eyed smile, and batted his beautiful blue eyes, which were fringed with lashes any woman would envy.
Fiona had herbs for that.
Irritated, Desdemona turned away; Fiona looked longingly at the doorway, but Desdemona was blocking her exit.
“Now,” she said beaming at Aelfwerd, “Isn’t she just as lovely as I told you? And just think – you’ve got almost three weeks to get to know each other before the Crystal Ball. I’ll leave you two to chat. My, I love what you’ve done with the place, Fiona. It’s so quaint.” And she quickly walked away, headed to the back of the shop, and pretended to root through some bins.
The true horror of the situation dawned on Fiona. Desdemona was trying to fix the two of them up – and trying to rush Aelfwerd into proposing to her at the Crystal Ball. What a nightmare THAT would be.
And worse, Aelfwerd was looking down his long, perfectly formed nose at her, clearly not thrilled with what he saw.
“Sooo…” he said unhappily. “Have you picked out your gown for the Crystal Ball yet?”
“Of course she has! It’s being tailored for her as we speak,” her mother called from the back of the store.
The Crystal Ball. Fiona’s heart throbbed dully in her chest. She’d moved out of her mother’s house four years ago, when she was 21, and hadn’t attended the Crystal Ball since. What was the point? There was no beau for her, no warlock to dazzle her with a grand and magical proposal.
She’d accepted her fate early in her teens; no warlock would notice her among all the slender witches who graced the social scene with their beauty. It didn’t mean that her life was over; she had friends, she had talents which healed, she had a purpose in life. She just wasn’t meant for love.
Especially from the one warlock she yearned for the most.
She mentally shook herself, annoyed; there was no point in bathing in self-pity. There were many worse off than her.
“Actually, I’m working at the Crystal Ball this year, not technically attending it, so there’s no point in wearing a gown,” Fiona said with a shrug.
“Working?” Aelfwerd’s eyebrows flew up like the wings of startled birds.
“Oh, that Fiona! Such a marvelous sense of humor she has!” Desdemona rushed back to stand next to Fiona, with a huge smile plastered on her face that didn’t reach her bright, angry eyes. “Of course she’s not working!”
Renoir was leaning on the glass counter, eyes darting merrily between the three of them, enjoying the show.
“I’m going to be working with the Florists Guild for some live flower displays,” Fiona added, ignoring her mother as hard as she could. “Neverending rose bushes, that sort of things.”
Aelfwerd scowled at Fiona, then turned back to her mother. “Well, she is a Rosewood,” he said grudgingly, as if Fiona were a cow that he was contemplating buying. As if she weren’t three feet away from him.
“Exactly! Her father’s been knighted for contributions to the Realm! She’s a Lady! Technically,” Desdomona added, shooting Fiona a severe look of disapproval.
“That will definitely help me when I run for the Council seat.” He looked her up and down again, then turned back to Desdemona. “And you promise she can lose 50 pounds by the wedding?”
Fiona couldn’t help herself; she gasped in horror, at the exact same moment as Renoir, who added a muttered, “Bitch, please,” with a lip curl of disgust at Aelfwerd.
Furious, Fiona turned to Renoir, grabbed the remaining half cupcake from his hand, and stuffed it into her mouth, turning to shoot Aelfwerd a challenging glare. Crumbs spilled from her mouth onto her generous bosom. He took a step back, glancing at Desdemona questioningly.
“Hey! You owe me!” Renoir squealed indignantly, then turned to Aelfwerd with a malicious gleam in his eye. “That is the sixth cupcake that girl stole from me today. My Goddess, what an appetite. And if I have to let out her dress again this week! I swear, she’s gained like four sizes.”
Aelfwerd gasped audibly, and began backing towards the door, while Desdemona made frantic shushing motions at Renoir.
“Just remember,” Renoir called out to Aelfwerd’s retreating form, “You’re going to need an extra wide doorway on the wedding carriage. She’ll probably be up 30, 40 pounds by then. And I’d go for reinforced wheels and four extra horses. And in the wedding suite – hey, where you going?” the door banged shut, and Fiona swallowed her cupcake and flashed Renoir a grateful look.
“What are
you doing?” her mother practically hissed with rage. “He is a Tremaine! He was willing to propose to you! He could have proposed to you at the Crystal Ball, in front of everyone! Do you have any idea the humiliation that I’ve suffered year after year, listening to the other mothers talk about the matches their daughters made? How will I marry off your younger sister when you’re practically an old maid?”
“I’m sure it’s been terrible for you,” Fiona said between clenched teeth.
“It has. It has.” Good sarcasm was always wasted on Desdemona. At best, she misunderstood completely, and at worst, it infuriated her.
Desdemona dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, overwrought. “He is very interested in making a good political match. You can still turn this around. Now I demand that you go after him immediately, apologize profusely, tell him you were joking, and – “ Fiona moved around her mother so that she was standing by the doorway.
“You can’t demand a thing, mother. I am over 21, no longer under your control, and I have no intention of marrying that humorless dishrag. You realize the only reason he’d want to propose to me is because he’s so socially repellent that no decent witch will have him?”
“Well, of course! That’s why he’s a perfect choice! After all, no decent warlock would have you when you insist on looking like – like this!” She waved her hand at Fiona’s size eighteen frame. “But he’ll take you, because everyone else has turned him down, and he’s desperate!”
Renoir sucked in a sharp intake of breath.
A wave of anger and humiliation and sorrow washed over Desdemona, and blinking back tears, she turned and ran out of the store, rushing south down Grimoire Boulevard. “Fiona, get back here! I’m not done with you!” her mother called out.
But Fiona was done with her mother. And she knew that Desdemona wouldn’t follow her south, so even though the sun was melting into the horizon now and drawing the cloak of night behind it, she kept moving, plunging into the depths of the Graveyard, blinded by tears.
Big Beautiful Witches: I Married A Warlock Page 2
