by Cate Lawley
“Candid Camera?” I asked in a helpful but not quite cheerful tone. I didn’t think I could manage cheerful. The situation was too bizarre.
“Hm. Maybe. Who are you?” I did not get either the head tilt or the hair flip. “That’s it! The cameras are hidden!”
I knew my eyes were getting bigger and bigger, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. “Jackson and I are here to drive you home. I’m Livy.”
Caitlin’s demeanor instantly changed. In a less enthusiastic tone, she said, “Oh, you’re the girlfriend.”
Jackson sidestepped so that he was standing only a few inches from me. “Yes.” Then he gave me an innocent look.
“Yes, I’m the girlfriend.” That sneaky turkey had been using me to dodge butt-grabbing Caitlin. I bit back a smile. “So…our car is out front. Let’s get you home.”
Caitlin headed for the door, and for an instant I thought we’d done it. “So what’s the trick?” She paused at the door, poised to step outside. “A secret tunnel?” She looked at me expectantly. “And where are the cameras?”
I’d swear she sucked in her stomach and put her shoulders back when she said “cameras.” Was she as dense as she appeared, or was she in shock? Magic did have very different effects on people.
I pasted an over-bright smile on my face and said, “We can chat about it on the way home.” I opened the door for her.
She walked out, saw the car, and, with her face scrunched up in confusion, said, “Wait, we have to take a car? I didn’t get here by car. How far is it?”
I debated avoiding the question or lying.
Jackson made the decision for me…with the truth. Thankfully he was light on his feet, otherwise the swooning darling Caitlin would have thwacked her head on the porch.
As he held Caitlin in his arms, my gut—maybe my heart?—protested. I could hardly begrudge the woman being saved from a fall. I didn’t want her to have a head injury—Jackson shifted her in his arms, getting a better hold of her limp form—except maybe a small thump on the noggin would have cured her of her butt-grabbing.
I headed to the car before my thoughts escaped into the world as words I couldn’t take back. Things like “we could just leave her here” or “do we really need to sort this out? The loony bin would probably be happy to have her” should most certainly stay inside my head.
As I opened the rear door for him, Jackson shot me an apologetic look. “She seemed to be handling everything just fine. I didn’t think…well, I just didn’t think. What are the chances she’ll wake up and not remember any of this?”
“Exceptional,” I said grimly, reaching for my phone. As Jackson stashed the still-unconscious Catlin in the rear seat, I dialed.
After a few rings, Dad picked up. “Now see, darling, I could have saved you all this trouble. If only”—the volume of his voice suddenly changed as my father appeared in the back seat of my car—“you’d have let me handle this from the beginning.”
I let my head fall back against the headrest. Eyes closed, I said, “So what do you want in return, Dad?”
“Oh, just a little thing. A tiny thing. Practically nothing at all. Dinner. You, me, and your friend Jackson tonight.”
That was all? Dinner with my dad and Jackson was hardly in line with Dad’s typically extortionate demands. There was a catch here—but I didn’t have much choice. “Done.”
I cracked an eye to check the rearview mirror. He was gone, as was the fainting butt-grabber.
I opened both my eyes when I heard the front passenger door open. “See, isn’t this one of those times you wished you had your magic back? Because it sure is one of those times I wish I had a little more juice and the know-how to use it.”
Jackson leaned into the car and asked, “Can I drive?”
I considered for about a second and then handed him the keys. “Please.”
Once we’d switched seats and Jackson had quickly familiarized himself with my car, he said, “What’s so bad about dinner?”
“Dinner is never just a meal when it comes to my dad. He could have asked for just about anything, because he knows how much I hate a magical mess. But he didn’t. He asked for dinner. No telling what’s going on in his head.”
“You make him sound pretty shady. Should I be concerned for Caitlin? Should I have used a wish to fix her memory?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to use wish magic for something delicate like manipulating memory. And she’ll be fine with Dad. Layering in sufficient confusion to muddle her memories without altering or stealing them is a tricky task. He’s probably thrilled by the challenge.”
“But he can definitely do it?”
“Hopefully. With any luck—which Dad usually has in spades—she’ll come back thinking she’s had a bad trip. Of the mushroom, not magical, variety. And meeting me, seeing you, will all be a part of the hallucination.”
Jackson gave me a concerned look. “I’m almost certain Caitlin doesn’t do drugs. Mushroom or otherwise.”
Maybe I should feel bad for her? Maybe I did…a very little bit. “She grabbed your butt—at a work event, with her boyfriend hovering around the corner. She can feel a little guilty about her fictional overindulgence.”
“Good point. I’ll stop feeling bad for her.” But he still looked uncomfortable. Not at all warlock-like.
My phone dinged with a text message. “Wow, that was record fast. Caitlin’s safe at home, asleep in her bed, recovering from an apparent bout of severe food poisoning that led to hallucinations.” I frowned at the second message that followed. “He even texted her boyfriend from her phone to let him know she’d made it home.”
“That’s tidy.” Jackson glanced at me with a concerned look. “What’s the problem?”
“Have you heard anything I’ve said about my dad?”
“Ah, I see your point. And dinner?”
“Should be terrifying. Or revealing.” I bit my lip. “Oh, you mean are we still on for dinner? That’s a yes.”
Now if only I could figure out why the sudden interest in meeting Jackson.
CHAPTER TWELVE: In Which our Hero Dines with Dad
“What exactly are your intentions toward my daughter?”
“Dad!” I whispered frantically. Then I turned to eye the only other patrons of the small sandwich shop. The elderly couple sitting on the other side of the shop either couldn’t hear us, or they were doing a bang-up job of ignoring the family drama. I turned back to Dad. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I want to know more about the man who managed to finagle three wishes out of my ever-so-practical, cautious daughter.” The words were innocent enough, but there was a hard glint in his eyes.
I ignored the tantalizing smell of melted cheese and pepperoni that was emanating from my hot Italian sub, crossed my arms, and gave him a miffed look.
“Your food’s going to get cold.” Dad barely glanced at my sandwich before turning his attention back to Jackson. “You were saying?”
“Dad, really? He wasn’t saying. He isn’t saying. He’s not talking, because there’s nothing to say. What is wrong with you?”
“Me? I did a little poking around. I think the questions is: what is wrong with him?” Dad jabbed a finger in Jackson’s direction.
Absolutely nothing—but I could hardly say that. That would be like throwing gas on the flames of my dad’s indignation. But where was it all coming from? Jackson and I weren’t even an item. And Dad was hardly so prejudiced that he’d object to me mingling with a warlock. A de-magicked warlock…still serving his sentence…for a serious crime.
Hm. If I didn’t know him, I wouldn’t want me mingling with Jackson.
I tried to look innocent as I asked, “What exactly do you mean?”
Thankfully, Jackson had kept silent so far. Actually, he’d been steadily shoveling food in his mouth. Either the poor guy was a stress eater or that was the best way he could manage to politely not respond to my increasingly agitated father.
“I mean, he’s
not what he says he is.” Dad raised his eyebrows at me. “He’s keeping secrets from you.”
“I know he’s a warlock. He told me.”
Dad’s eyebrows lowered. “And you’re still keeping company with him? You know what their kind is like. Better to stay away.”
Jackson choked on a bite of Philly cheesesteak when Dad said “keeping company.”
I put my hand on his upper arm. “You okay?” When he nodded—looking disturbingly unconcerned—I turned back to the most irritating parent on the face of the planet. Because what guy would want to have anything to do with me after this? Jackson and I had barely even dipped a toe in the romance pool. What was one kiss? That we hadn’t mentioned since. And that hadn’t changed his behavior toward me one iota. No way our not-quite-romance would survive my father.
My life was so depressing.
Dad looked from me to Jackson and back again, and his color started to rise. “You didn’t.” He glanced between us again and then stared hard at me—which made me blush. He went from pale to pink to ruddy in about half a second. “I’ll be gobsmacked. You did. And that’s what happens to pure, innocent women when they cavort with the likes of warlocks.”
To Jackson, I said, “Hum a tune, plug your ears, whatever.” Then I proceeded to pretend he wasn’t present and read my dad the riot act. “Bulletin, Dad: I’m twenty-eight. Chances are pretty good that I’ve had sex before now. Not saying I have; not saying I haven’t—just that the odds are in favor. And I cannot believe you are making me say this in front of him”—I hitched a thumb in Jackson’s direction while avoiding eye contact—“and in front of you. I never ever want to say the S-word in your presence. Not ever again.”
“Sex is a natural thing, but not when it’s with warlocks, it isn’t.” Dad glared at Jackson.
“Am I allowed to answer?” Jackson asked.
“No!” Dad and I hollered at the same time.
Jackson didn’t blink, just went back to eating his sandwich. Remarkably, without even the hint of a blush. What little faith I’d had that he might be interested was rapidly fading.
“Why are you so concerned with what’s going on between me and Jackson?”
“Because that woman is involved up to her blue-eye-shadow-covered eyelids.” Dad’s nostrils pinched in disapproval, just like they always did when he talked about Mom. But Mom wouldn’t be caught dead wearing blue eye shadow.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“That’s because she’s a sneaky, nasty witch of a woman.”
“Dad!”
Jackson leaned close to me. “I think he means witch literally. Baba Yaga has a certain fondness for dated makeup and attire.”
“Baba Yaga doesn’t have anything to do with whatever Jackson and I may or may not be up to. You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Pops.”
I wouldn’t have believed it was possible if I hadn’t seen it, but his nostrils pinched even more. If he wasn’t a leprechaun, I’d be worried about a brain aneurism. He started to speak, then stopped himself. Dad speechless was never a good sign. And he was starting to turn even funnier shades. I cocked my head. It was a purple-red shade I was certain I’d never seen before.
“You and Baba Yaga have some kind of history?” I asked in my polite-daughter voice.
Dad leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “For one, she’s a witch.”
“Dad. Shame on you. I never knew you were so prejudiced.”
He shook a finger at me. “That’s not all. She’s an unforgiving, heartless woman.”
“Oh, no. You didn’t. Dad, did you play a prank on Baba Yaga?”
Dad pursed his lips. “I might have played a wee one on her, more years ago than I can remember.” He frowned. “That woman hasn’t an ounce of humor, compassion, or sense in her body. Not an ounce.”
“What did you do? Did you blow up something important?” I didn’t understand it, but fireworks and farts still topped my dad’s list of “just plain, old-fashioned fun.”
“No, I did not.” He looked offended, which was just ridiculous; he’d blown up at least a few outhouses in his time. “It was a piece of junk, not even vintage. It barely ran. And she was a terrible driver.”
“Ugh. You blew up Baba Yaga’s car? Dad…”
“Now, wait a minute. Blow up, eh, explosion is such a harsh word. I incapacitated her 1984 Ferrari 288…perhaps on a permanent basis.” He sat up straighter in his chair when I leveled him with an accusatory look. “But wait, wait, wait a minute. It had this shiny ball hanging from the rearview mirror. It blinded me, the little ball did. Made me almost run down a little old lady in the crosswalk. And your mother, she never let me forget it.”
Jackson closed his eyes. “A little mirrored ball, maybe a disco ball?”
“Sure, a little mirrored disco ball. The sun came down, hit it just right—and wham, I was blinded.” Dad’s nostrils pinched. “And your mother—”
“I know. She never let you forget that you’re a menace on the road.” And she hadn’t. I’d heard her complain that even little old ladies weren’t safe from Dad and his dastardly driving. Mom could be a little dramatic.
She and Dad were on a little vacation from one another at the moment. Something they did every hundred years or so, to keep their sanity. This particular stint was stretching a little longer than the historical norm, but I was sure Mom would come around to seeing my dad as the charming ne’er-do-well she’d fallen in love with…eventually. My parents were an odd, but surprisingly long-lived pairing. “When exactly did that happen?”
Dad shrugged.
“Come on, spit it out. I know you know.”
“Ten years, give or take.”
Well, that was unfortunate timing. Was I some pawn in a grander scheme to wreak vengeance of my dad?
I glanced at Jackson to see what he thought about such a whopper of a coincidence. But Jackson didn’t have any response. He was diligently making his way through his sandwich. That must be one excellent Philly cheesesteak.
“I don’t even know what to say, Dad. A shiny ball blinds you, so you—irrationally—take revenge on a powerful witch, and think, as a result, that she’s…what? What do you think she’s doing?”
He rolled his eyes. “Can’t you see it? You two, that’s what she’s done.”
I could feel the tips of my ears tingling with rabid embarrassment. If Dad’s face was bright, mine had to be neon. I couldn’t even begin to think of a response.
Jackson put his arm around the back of my chair. “And your problem with the two of us would be what, exactly?”
Dad looked completely stumped by Jackson’s question. After a lengthy pause, during which my embarrassment reached frightening heights, he said, “You’re a warlock.”
“And that makes me unsuitable as a suitor for your daughter?”
I had to swallow a hysterical giggle when Jackson said “suitor.” I was clearly from a younger generation than him, or he had been reading historical romances in his spare time.
“Yes. Warlocks are—”
“Not all the same.” Jackson’s voice had gone very quiet.
I sneaked a glance. He looked deadly serious. Weird. Two seconds ago he’d been happily eating. He really didn’t like that warlock stereotype.
Dad cleared his throat. “You’re not a leprechaun.”
“I am not. But your daughter can date whomever she likes. Be whoever she likes.”
“I keep trying to tell him that—but he won’t listen.”
“I listen. I hear every word; I just know you’re wrong.” Dad glowered at me. “You’re going through a phase.”
“That’s lasted my entire life. Sure, Pops.”
“I do not approve.” Dad’s words twanged with tension.
I struggled to come up with some sort of reasonable response to a completely unreasonable man, and watched both my romantic chances and my lengthy friendship with Jackson dissolve like ash in the rain.
And while I wobbl
ed between anger and mortification, Jackson asked me, “Are you finished?”
My sandwich lay half-eaten but long abandoned on my plate. He was just asking to be polite—or maybe he didn’t mean the sandwich. “Yep. Completely done.”
He stood up and pulled my chair out for me. And then I watched him tell my dad where he could go. Okay, not exactly. He was actually really polite—but it was there in the subtext.
“It’s unfortunate you believe my feelings for your daughter have been influenced in some way by Baba Yaga. They haven’t. They remain unchanged by any force other than your daughter herself, who is—frankly—a saint, as is demonstrated by her behavior today. Thank you for lunch.”
And without waiting for a reply, he took my arm and we left.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: In Which Hot Chocolate is Liberally Administered
I walked in a daze to the car. Exactly how pissed off was Dad right now? Would he do something ridiculous? Maybe blow up Baba Yaga’s new ride? Send Jackson over the rainbow? Or, in more modern parlance, to some other dimension?
His arm felt real enough, so I could only assume he was still here. Oh, and his arm was around my shoulders. And he’d called me a saint. My insides melted.
“He’ll get over it. Keys?”
“Hm?”
“Can I have your keys? You can’t walk a straight line, so I don’t think you should drive.”
I handed over my keys then climbed into the passenger seat. “I’m not so sure he will get over it.” But the door had thudded shut, and I was talking to myself.
Ten seconds later, when Jackson was sitting in the driver’s seat, I laughed.
Jackson got very still. He turned to look at me with a concerned expression. “Everything is going to be fine. He loves you; he’ll get over it”
“Hm.”
“Would a hot chocolate help?” When I gave him a curious look, he said, “You always say hot chocolate makes everything better.”
He pulled out his wallet and grabbed a five-dollar bill. Holding it between two fingers, he said, “Can I exchange a five for a hot chocolate?”
