WishCraft

by Savannah Kade

  Her mouth watered just thinking about it.

  With nimble fingers, she closed up the front of her jacket and got to work. Finally pushing the green eyes and quick, wide smile all the way to the back of her mind. She had blackberries to tend.

  Chapter 5

  Brandon fought his way through the week. He’d felt out of whack since that night he’d gone out with Dan and Richard Cain. He hoped that a good lunch would put him back on the right track. Although why he thought that was unclear, it wasn’t like anything else this week had straightened him out.

  Dan still swore Brandon left the bar with some hot blonde, and Brandon believed him. It wasn’t like Dan would lie about that, nor did Brandon have any memories to contradict his friend. Still . . .

  He looked up at the server, “I’ll take whatever you have on draft.”

  While Dan’s eyebrows shot up, the server merely nodded and walked off to fill the drink order.

  Dan leaned across the table. “What’s that about?”

  Shrugging was the best he could do. “Hell if I know. Maybe it is a tumor. I just figure that drinking got me into this, maybe another beer will snap me out of it.”

  After a moment of silence between the two friends, the server showed up again placing a pilsner with a perfect head on it in front of Brandon. The perfect lunch beer. Even though he’d decided that drinking during work hours was a no-no when he’d discovered his first shred of responsibility in his early twenties, he took a sip.

  It didn’t solve anything.

  He didn’t really want the beer. He didn’t want the fish he’d ordered. He shouldn’t have been out drinking during the week last Thursday either, but slick old Richard had talked them into it, and he’d gone right along.

  He hadn’t been sleeping well either. Not that he could make out what was bothering him. The dreams were all vague and lingered only at the fuzzy edges of his consciousness when he woke. He figured they were about his missing night, but figuring that part out didn’t seem to help him find any clarity or get beyond the nagging sense that he was missing something important.

  “If I don’t get over this by next week, I’m going to go see a doctor.”

  Dan shook his head. “Not that it makes me any expert, but I tried to find your symptoms online and I got jack squat.”

  Brandon picked at his fish. How in the hell had Dan quantified what was going through him? “What’d you search?”

  “Memory loss. Cravings for pumpkin pie and pastries. Not eating them.”

  That was accurate if not complete. “So, no miracle internet diagnosis, huh?”

  “Oh, the net diagnosed you, all right.”

  Brandon leaned forward, wondering what his friend was withholding. Dan rocked back in his seat and stared his partner right in the eye. “You’re pregnant.”

  If it wouldn’t have landed him face down in his fish, Brandon would have collapsed right there. He wasn’t sure of he should laugh it off or seriously consider a good momentary mental breakdown.

  Not that most of what he was suffering was that bad, it just wasn’t him. He wanted sweets—constantly. He rarely ate desserts, but he’d bought no less than ten in the past four days and hadn’t finished a single one. None of them was ‘right.’

  He stayed silent and sipped the beer while Dan scarfed down the burger he’d ordered. There was nothing with pumpkin on the dessert menu, so Brandon pushed the pretty laminated pictures away and forced himself to not order anything, even though the crème brulee looked really good. He never ate crème brulee.

  They walked back to the office, just like they had once or twice a week since they’d moved in a year ago. But Brandon still wanted . . . something. They passed a coffee place he’d been in only once, but some odd fact about it pecked at his memory.

  “What?” Dan called out as Brandon disappeared from the sidewalk, ducking into the shop and scanning the rows of bagels and sandwiches until he found the cakes. It didn’t take him long to find the desserts perched under their glass domes. He didn’t question why that seemed right to him.

  There it was, a pumpkin cupcake with cream cheese filling and a cute little fluff of white on the top.

  He ordered it.

  Smiling and waiting until they hit the sidewalk, Brandon shook the pristine little cake at his friend before he took the first bite. “This is it.”

  Dan stayed stable. Far more stable than he felt. “This is what?”

  “The right cake.”

  Dan eyed him, but he didn’t care. Brandon peeled back the wrapper and bit off half of it in one bite. He grinned.

  Then grimaced. “Ohmph.”

  He couldn’t chew. “Eehch.”

  He tossed the remaining half in a trash can as they passed. Then went back to spit out the other half as politely as he could at two in the afternoon on the Sunset strip with people pressing by all around him. “Blech.”

  Dan waited patiently. “Still not the right cake?”

  Brandon gave him a dirty stare. The cake had been way too dry, but he didn’t voice that. He shook his head.

  Dan spoke straight ahead as they continued down the street. The words were dryer than the cake had been and did nothing to erase the bad taste in his mouth. “Call a doctor when we get back in, okay?”

  Brandon nodded and stayed silent the rest of the way back.

  But when they got in, he started puttering around his desk, doing things to occupy his brain and he didn’t make the call.

  He let himself get busy with work, and Dan didn’t nag him, so he just let it slip. He finished very late in the day, not going home until well after everyone else had left the building. He ate noodles for dinner over his sink and decided he was doing better.

  Until he’d woken up in the dead dark of night and hauled his sorry ass down the block to the 24-hour grocery store to buy an individual pumpkin pie from the bakery case.

  He microwaved it when he got back in the door, then ate it with a fork right out of the plastic container as he stood at his counter and watched the sky start to lighten in a premonition of dawn.

  He forced himself to finish the whole thing this time, but he could only wonder what had happened to him in his missing hours, and why the hell it still wasn’t the right pie.

  Chapter 6

  Delilah was in the kitchen when she felt her brother’s presence on the other side of the door. It was more Tristan’s gift of getting her attention than any psychic bent on her part. She’d honed what little gift she had in that department over the years, mostly by casting ‘sight’ spells on herself. She made a mental note to work another of those when she cast her circle on Saturday night. Lately, she had let the spellwork slide in that area, and her skills had dwindled to only the odd glimpse of trivia here and there.

  Except for Tristan, who came in loud and clear in her head. She not only knew he was there, but she could hear his thoughts from beyond the apartment wall.

  Are you serious, Delilah?

  Since she had no idea what he was asking about, she sighed and walked across the lush carpet to her door. He stood on the other side, a large white box held easily in his thick arms.

  Holding the door wide for him, she asked, “How the hell do I know what that is?”

  “Ah-hem.” He gave her a questioning look as he stepped by and set the box carefully on her dining table before turning it to face her.

  The Ronco Showtime Rotisserie stared back at her in all its glory.

  Truly, she had no response. So, whisk still in hand, she ignored the rotisserie and her older brother and went back to the eggs she was scrambling. With her back to him, she managed to add the half-and-half and a small glob of homemade mayonnaise before he spoke.

  His voice was deep and serious, fairly unusual for him. “Li, have you been hitting the cooking sherry again?”

  “Uh!” Outraged, she spun to face him, the eggs running off the whisk and onto her hand. “That only happened twice! And both times were with good cause!”

 
“No argument there. But this worries me.” He sat back in one of her stiff wooden chairs, long arms and legs taking up space, and he fixed her with one of those big-brother stares.

  She would have been mad, except he’d always been there for her. Even against Jules. So she rinsed the whisk, and went back to fluffing the eggs. “It’s only a rotisserie. I couldn’t sleep and the infomercial was on. No big deal.”

  He didn’t respond, not even just inside her head, and the silence was too loud for her. She had to finally speak the words. “I swear, I wasn’t drinking anything but water.”

  “But this is weird.” He chuckled, then frowned at her mockingly. “Are you really my sister? When’s the next new moon?”

  “Friday.”

  “What’s your star sign?”

  She rolled her eyes at him before turning on the gas burner under the eggs. “Virgo on the cusp of Libra. Seriously, it’s just a roaster.”

  Tristan came up behind her, towering over her like always. He sniffed at the egg mixture, taking in the diced tomatoes and spinach, sautéed mushrooms, and shredded cheese. He closed his eyes, inhaled, and smiled. But then he spoke. “How much did that whisk cost?”

  Agh! He was after something and she didn’t know what. But she was certain that she didn’t want to give anything away. She hedged. “I don’t know. It was part of a set.”

  “How much was the set?”

  “One hundred and thirty dollars.” She watched as the eggs fluffed, wondering why she cooked for him.

  “For . . .?”

  “Three whisks! What is your point!?” She turned to face him, more pissed to find that he looked like he was concerned rather than messing with her.

  “The point is: you are a kitchen snob. You wouldn’t have cable if it wasn’t for the cooking channel. That . . . thingy” he pointed to the omelet pan, “costs more than your rent, and there’s an infomercial rotisserie on your table. I’d be stupid not to worry.”

  She turned the eggs, letting the raw yolks run under the cooked part. “I hear it makes perfect chicken.”

  “What’s going on, Li?”

  She deftly ignored him. Grabbing a long serrated knife, that did in fact cost more than her rent, she pulled out the loaf of fresh French bread. Over the ready cutting board, she sliced it on the bias, popping the neat pieces into a waiting basket lined with a cloth napkin. Delilah turned the eggs again and reached into the fridge. She pulled out a small ceramic pot filled with boursin that she had made up from some cream cheese and butter and spices the night before and a bottle of frizzante champagne.

  She held the bottle up to him, her mild irritation plain across her face. “Would you like to open this? Or would you rather I not drink at all?”

  “Li.” He took the bottle and thankfully went after the cork. He popped it, then set it on the table before picking up the rotisserie box and asking her where she wanted it.

  “Over there.” She pointed to the corner of the kitchen with her spatula. Of course, she didn’t want the thing at all now that she’d been raked over the coals for it. She’d bought it on a whim, nothing more. It cost her some of her savings and now the third degree. It better make some damn good chicken.

  He watched her while she added the mushrooms and tomatoes, cooking them into the fluff. But he just poured himself some of the champagne and didn’t let up. Not yet.

  “You still sleeping around?”

  “Christ, Tristan.” She almost burned herself on the edge of the pan, although she didn’t know why. It wasn’t unusual for him to be that forward. “Do you want all the details?”

  “Lord, no.” He held up his hands as though he could ward her off.

  After a moment, she took pity on him. “The answer is ‘yes’.”

  “Li.” The sigh in his voice was too much to bear.

  “Come on, Tristan. You really want me to meet a nice man and get married. But why in hell would I want to do that? Do you really want that for me again?”

  “No.” He didn’t say it out loud but it was there: not after what you went through.

  “If it’s any consolation, it’s way less than last year. I’ve lost some of my angry edge.”

  He nodded. “That’s good news, at least.” Then he let the subject drop, and only occasionally eyed her as though he was worried. They sat down to eat, talking about Blessed Be and how he was handling it. Their mother had willed the magicks shop to all three kids, but after her death Tristan had been the only one around to run it. With his instinct and business sense, he’d changed it from their mother’s break-even hobby into a real thriving store. But then again, a quality shop catering to those in all levels of the craft was a good bet. It didn’t hurt that he could cast spells to see what should and shouldn’t be stocked, what should be added or removed. Or that the store was in the heart of Hollywood.

  And he was close enough to Delilah that he often turned up on her doorstep for lunch. Although, he usually didn’t find infomercial kitchen products waiting for him.

  “You should come back tomorrow. I’ll make you chicken in that thing.” Delilah pointed her fork toward the unassuming white box in the corner.

  Tristan just laughed, the last of his concern for her finally slipping behind the gold flecks in his observant hazel eyes. He ran a masculine hand through his chocolate colored hair and looked at his watch. “Crap. Yasmin’s going to start her class in twenty minutes.”

  “The beginners’ class?”

  He nodded, quickly standing to clear his plates and pop them into her dishwasher. He had to get back with enough time to cast his own protection spells to keep the shop safe before Yasmin set the beginners to their candles and incense. Yasmin had come late to the craft, she hadn’t grown up with it the way they had. She was also blessed with a gift for the magick, and another for real common sense. What she lacked was the knowledge that not everyone had common sense. So Tristan was in constant battles with her about what she could teach the beginners and what was safe.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow for that chicken. About one o-clock again?”

  Still seated at the table, she nodded to him and accepted the kiss he dropped on her head.

  “Good Luck!” She spoke it to the air after he left. Then she decided that he could use some real help. Standing, she took her dishes to the sink before pulling out her candles and lining them up along her altar. She lit an assortment of colors, the tall tapers looking like a haphazard rainbow across the wooden surface.

  She blew short and hard on the end of a thin maple stick, starting a small blue flame that quickly took hold and turned orange. One by one she used it to light each candle, wished Tristan luck, and then snuffed the twig lighter with two well placed fingers. She left the remaining candles to burn and work their magic.

  Tristan was a good brother. He had every right to be concerned, there had been some tough times. And the two of them were all that was left of a once thriving family.

  Later, as she snuffed the last candle, his voice popped into her head. Thank you!

  Chapter 7

  Delilah hugged Tristan and kissed him good-bye. Sitting on the barstool, she watched him weave his way out Gin’s front door, leaving her alone in the crowd.

  Gin’s was a good place. They had good margaritas and martinis. The bartenders were friendly, and most knew her face if not her name. Usually it wasn’t too loud to hear yourself think, and tonight it was even relatively quiet. Still Tristan had wanted to get up and check his books before the store opened in the morning.

  She looked up at the glass coming her way and frowned. The new bartender was hot and most of the girls at the bar were throwing themselves at him. Just not Delilah. She looked around but didn’t spot anyone who would be the likely source of the drink.

  The bartender cleared it up. “It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice must have conveyed that she was confused.

  “Your boyfriend just got up and walked out. And it really isn’t my place, but he was seriously
eyeing other women while you were here.”

  Her smile grew, but he kept going. “You shouldn’t let him get away with that. Pretty girl like yourself, you could do a lot better.” His blue eyes held sympathy and maybe something else, but she wasn’t going to think about that. She wasn’t out trolling for men tonight. Just thinking.

  “No, I can’t do any better than him.” She held her hand up when the bartender started to protest, even while he poured a round of beers for the waitress standing next to her. “Tristan is the very best brother in the whole world.” She pushed the unidentified concoction across the bar toward him. “Do you want your pity drink back?”

  “No.” He pushed the tall glass back at her and smiled. That smile. The one that said he was glad the other man wasn’t her boyfriend. The smile that let you know he scented available female.

  “Then you must tell me what it is.” She frowned at the suspicious looking drink. Crushed green strips of what looked to be chopped leaves floated up and down in the clear liquid. Gin’s always squeezed the lime into the drinks before they served them, and the crushed fruit slice added to her overall concern for the beverage. It looked like a spell gone horribly awry.

  “You’ve never had a mojito before?”

  “That’s what it is? I’ve heard of those. What’s in them?”

  He smiled. “I’ll tell you later.”

  With that, he disappeared to perform some necessary bartender task, and she was alone with the mojito, which turned out to be wonderful, despite lacking an olive for spellwork.

  Tristan hadn’t made it back for the chicken until dinner tonight. He always left work when the shop got too busy—said he couldn’t get anything done. He had missed his rotisserie appointment from arguing with Yasmin about the beginner spells, which he said had taken the better part of two days to repair. Yasmin countered by pointing out that they had at least six new, dedicated customers.