Sugar Spells

by Dodge, Lola

  When she cracked the lid, a subtle purr vibrated from her chest. “Cream puffs?”

  “Agatha said they were your favorite.”

  “Indeed. Now come in. Girrar’s already here.” She said his name with a subtle lift in her flat nose and I was positive she liked him as little as I did.

  Fiona led us past the stairs through a cozy sitting room with catnip in its window boxes. I was unzipping my jacket before we hit the next doorway. We passed her thermostat, and if I wasn’t hallucinating, she had it set to ninety-five.

  Not all my flop-sweat was from the temperature spike.

  Girrar sat on one side of the dining room table, still in his trench coat. In this light, his skin had a weird gray tinge that still didn’t strike me as vampire, but what did I know? His energy was gray, too.

  A creepy, cold energy that resonated way too much with my death magic. I gritted my teeth through the shiver that wormed its way around my backbone.

  I’m in control.

  “Have a seat.” Fiona took the head of the table and waved for me to sit directly across from Girrar. I reached for the heavy dining room chair, but my fingers flubbed.

  Nope. Not nervous at all.

  Wynn pulled the chair out for me and then pushed it in when I sat. He stood at my back, and his comforting presence helped me sit up a little straighter. I couldn’t see Wynn’s death glare, but Girrar wilted enough that I knew it was dialed up to eleven.

  And for once, it was working in my favor.

  “It seems no introductions are necessary.” Fiona grabbed a pen and a legal pad from her side table. “As you’ve called this meeting, it’s yours to make the offer, Anise.”

  I cleared my throat and tried to channel some of Wynn’s confidence. “I’m offering death magic for your consumption—and only your consumption.” I wanted that clear up front.

  “I’d never share such a treat.” Girrar tapped long fingers against the tabletop, drumming with glee.

  “State your terms.” Fiona had already started scrawling down notes. “Once you’ve agreed, we can discuss price.”

  “My recipe is for macarons.” I recited the list I’d prepared. “They can’t be shared or stored. You have to eat them in front of me so I can be sure my power isn’t being misused. You’ll pay every time I deliver a successful batch. Our deal ends when the necromancy leaves my system or when I say the deal is over. Whichever comes first. You break the contract, you pay the Syndicate’s consequences.” I peeked over my shoulder at Wynn. “Anything else?”

  Wynn leaned forward and I had to duck away to avoid his chest, but he was shooting his razor-tipped icicles straight at Girrar. “If you harm her, I kill you.”

  Really?

  Who’d agree to a murder clause?

  Fiona paused note-taking. “If it comes to that, you’ll have to stand before the Syndicate to prove you were justified.”

  “I’ll be justified.” Wynn’s voice dropped deadly low.

  I would’ve turned pale as whipped cream if he said that to me.

  Girrar just grinned. “These terms are favorable. What of payment?”

  “You don’t have any terms to add?” Wasn’t he making this too easy?

  Or was that desperate for a piece of my power?

  “I want to sample your wares before we sign the deal. A taste. To be sure your power is real.”

  I nodded. That was reasonable, and I’d brought yesterday’s test bakes assuming I’d have to prove my skills. They were locked in a cooler in the trunk, which I figured was safer than bringing them straight in front of Girrar.

  “And regarding payment?” Fiona started a new line of what I assumed was about to become our contract.

  I tapped my toes against the Persian rug. This was the hard part. I wanted however much money I could squeeze out of Girrar—and it seemed like he had a lot. “You have to know, I’m one of maybe two or three witches in the world who can cast this kind of magic. And I’m definitely the only one willing to sell to you.” Probably? I was guesstimating but not exaggerating.

  “Name your price.” Girrar’s eyes glittered greedily.

  “In dollars, or…?” I’d never seen Girrar offer paper money and I wasn’t sure the actual value of the heaps of gold and gems he kept conjuring.

  “Dollars? I don’t have.”

  “What do you have?”

  Girrar pushed his palms across the table. Wynn tensed, gripping my chair back, but he didn’t have to worry. Girrar’s hands shimmered and one after the other, glittering gold coins, piles of platinum nuggets, and rubies and rings appeared, tumbling onto the table.

  The pile had to be enough to buy my old apartment. Maybe the whole building.

  Or the whole complex?

  I pushed back against the chair, not caring if that brought me closer to Wynn. Looking at the glittering gold made my shirt cling to my back with sweat.

  “This much?” Girrar gathered the offering into a mound.

  “Per batch.” Wynn’s wasn’t negotiating.

  But that was asking too much. Girrar wouldn’t—

  “Yes. Per batch.” Girrar pushed the mound across to me.

  My gaze locked on the sparkly treasure and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “It’s a deal?”

  “If both parties are agreed?” Fiona glanced up from her legal pad.

  “Agreed.” Girrar made the treasure pile disappear before I could count nuggets.

  Was he really making this so easy?

  I’d expected him to negotiate harder.

  Then again, he was the one who’d approached me. He was desperate for death magic and I was the only one offering.

  Relax.

  The terms I’d asked for were locked down for safety. I took a breath, banishing the foggy unease that simmered in my chest. “Agreed.”

  “I’ll prepare the formal contract.” Fiona knocked back her chair. “We’ll sign assuming Girrar finds the test bake acceptable.”

  “Yes. After the sampling,” Girrar said.

  Fiona toted the legal pad with her into the next room. Girrar kept staring straight across the table and I couldn’t figure out how he wasn’t sweating to death in his trench. My whole back was sticky.

  Wynn pulled out my chair and grabbed my sleeve, tugging me to my feet. I let him lead the way to the door. I had zero intention of staying in the room with the kind of creature who ate death for kicks.

  Outside, I gasped in the cold air. It was too much like a furnace in there and I could feel how red my cheeks must be. The line of sweat at my hairline quickly cooled and made me shiver, but I was enjoying the break while it lasted.

  Too soon, we’d have to go back in.

  I popped the car’s trunk and unlocked the cooler to grab the pan of macarons I’d pretty much entombed in tinfoil. Maybe lead would’ve blocked out the death energy.

  I felt the magic through the layers and layers of wrapping. A gentle and disturbingly comforting pressure against my fingertips. Like I was carrying my favorite blanket—the cuddly, perfectly worn out one I kept at the foot of my bed at home.

  Cringing, I set the pan on the back of the car. “We made the right deal. Didn’t we?”

  “Far as I can tell.” Wynn leaned against the car, keeping his wary gaze fixed on the house’s windows. “Doesn’t mean I trust Girrar.”

  “I trust Fondant more than I trust Girrar.”

  “We can still back out.”

  “Back out?” Shock hit me like lightning. I’d expected Wynn to push me into this deal no matter what—Girrar’s treasure was the only way he’d ever be free.

  “Back out.” Wynn tilted his head like I was stupid. “Nothing’s signed.”

  “No. We have to make this deal. For both of us.” For Wynn’s freedom and my magic. Probably the things both of us treasured the most.

  The only things we couldn’t live without.

  “We don’t have to.”

  He was technically right. We could wait.

  Wait for my m
agic to right itself. Wait for Wynn to earn himself out of his contract. Wait for weeks, months, and maybe even years with no promise we’d ever get what we wanted.

  If I kept waiting, I might be stuck with death magic forever.

  Zed wouldn’t wait that long before he called in Wynn’s debt.

  “I feel better signing with Girrar than signing up for who knows how much waiting and no guarantees. At least this way we’re doing something.” I was going to be baking the stupid macarons anyway. If I had to keep pricking my fingers with that elephant needle, I might as well get paid.

  Wynn considered me for a long few seconds. “Agreed.”

  “You’ll have my back if this goes wrong?” I knew he would—I just needed to hear him say it before I could make my feet drag me back into the house.

  “Always.”

  I let out a breath of relief. “I’ll keep my eye on you too.”

  “Why?” He asked like I’d declared I was quitting baking to turn astronaut, but I was getting immune to most of his tones.

  “Because. I think we’ll be safer with Girrar if he sees us working together. A united front.”

  “It can look like we’re united.” Wynn gave the most grudging of nods—like he had to order each individual neck muscle to make his head give its curt bob. “But if you’re in danger, I take over.”

  “Fine.” I shivered, half from his look and half because the wind had kicked up and my jacket was still in the house. “Let’s do this.”

  Fiona’s heating blasted us as soon as we walked back inside. We padded across the fancy rug to the dining room where Girrar sat balancing his chin over his knit-together fingers.

  He tilted his stub nose in the air and closed his eyes. “The aroma…” When he opened his eyes again, he leaned greedily over the table. “I’ll have my sampling now.”

  “We should wait for Fiona.” I peered through the open door where she’d disappeared. I wanted her to witness this, and I was guessing she needed to if she was going to authorize our contract. I didn’t want to land on the Syndicate’s naughty list.

  “Just a taste.” Girrar’s long fingers crept closer to the middle of the table.

  I clutched the pan to my chest. Girrar couldn’t reach me unless he stood up or moved around the table.

  His weight shifted—thinking about it?—but Wynn shifted too. Motion flashed. Before I could figure out what he was doing, a knife longer than my forearm vibrated point-first in Fiona’s table. Little cracks spiderwebbed the wood.

  I pressed back against my chair, edging away from the knife. “Wynn.”

  He shrugged.

  Girrar yanked back his creeping fingers. He stared at Wynn, considering.

  I wasn’t sure if it was bad or good for Wynn to warn Girrar off, but it was disastrous for him to damage Fiona’s dining room table. Everything in the house was just so from the perfectly gathered curtains to the china cabinets displaying fancy plates and figurines that had never known a speck of dust. The table had that slightly greasy gloss to it that said it was freshly polished.

  When Fiona’s footsteps sounded, I yanked the dagger out and shoved it back at Wynn. He caught it just in time for me to clap a hand over the hole in the table.

  “Something the matter?” Fiona’s gaze moved between us.

  “Nothing.” My voice was an octave too high and more-than-suspicious, especially for something so little, but I wasn’t letting damaged furniture stop Fiona from authorizing this contract.

  My chair rumbled and I didn’t dare turn around, but I was pretty sure Wynn was holding back a chuckle.

  I would’ve kicked him if I could reach.

  “I’ve prepared the contracts in triplicate. One copy for each of you and one for the Syndicate.” Fiona set down three stacks of thick yellowy paper covered with intricate calligraphy she must’ve magicked because no one could write that prettily that fast. “Assuming Girrar finds the test bakes acceptable, both parties can sign. In blood, of course.”

  Blood. My stomach clenched. Of course.

  I peeled back the foil and slid the pan across the table. Without the cover, the death magic was that much stronger—calm and cold and enticing.

  Girrar snatched the pan and shoved a whole macaron into his wide mouth.

  His eyes rolled back. “Grrd.” He chewed. Swallowed. “Good.”

  His tone made my stomach churn worse than it did at the promise of a blood oath. One crumb would be enough to kill a human, but he munched murder macarons like they were potato chips.

  “You find Anise’s magic acceptable?” Fiona asked.

  “Very acceptable.” He cradled the pan in the crook of his arm.

  Fiona arched a brow. “You’ve had your sample. If you intend to finish the batch, you’ll owe Anise payment.”

  “I intend.” Girrar waved a hand, carelessly spilling treasure onto the table.

  If I’d thought we were getting paid today, I would’ve brought a sack. Or rented an armored car.

  Girrar savored the second macaron, taking tiny bites and groaning in bliss. I flattened out my leftover foil and scooped gold and gemstones to drown out his disturbing noises. The clinking, clanking treasure held my attention fine.

  I folded the foil into a makeshift foil pouch and then shifted the treasure bundle to hide the nick in Fiona’s table. She didn’t seem to have noticed.

  She was busy watching Girrar with a pinch to her nostrils, obviously ready to kick the mannikin out of her dining room if he did anything vile like dropping crumbs.

  When Girrar had gobbled up every macron and licked his fingers, Fiona slid the stack of contracts to him. She pulled a knife, quill, and tiny bowl from the gold box on her side table.

  Her supernatural notary gear? A fancy stamp would’ve been better than the sharp-edged blade.

  Girrar took the knife and sliced the top of his forearm without a flinch. He pinched the wound and let blood dribble over the bowl. Every pit, pat, plop made my head spin.

  I could handle a blood spell in the heat of danger, but cutting myself cold always made it hard to see straight.

  With blood glistening on the tip of his pen, Girrar signed each copy of the contract. Fiona inspected the pages, sprinkled on some drying powder, then passed the contract to me with a fresh set of knife, bowl, and pen.

  That was nice. I’d read that at certain ceremonies, witches wiped the blade with a towel and passed it along. Which was way stupid and unhygienic.

  Hello, hepatitis?

  “The blade is sterile.” Fiona plucked an alcohol wipe from her writing kit and nudged it across to me. “If you’d like to make sure?”

  The smell of rubbing alcohol always made me as queasy as the blood. I ripped the corner off the packet and swabbed my arm. Then the blade once more, just to be sure.

  And I couldn’t avoid the blood pact any longer.

  I gritted my teeth before slicing the top of my arm. Shallow. But just deep enough to spark another wave of nausea.

  Keep it together.

  I pinched blood into the bowl, feeling my pulse through the knife wound.

  Pit. Pat. Plop.

  I dipped my pen.

  Dipped my pen and prayed I was doing the right thing.

  I signed my name one, two, three times.

  Anise Wise glistened in red.

  Twelve

  I left Fiona’s with a bandage on my arm and a weight in my heart. We were doing the right thing with this contract but the finality of it set me on edge.

  Even though I could opt out of my deal at any time, I’d still signed my name in blood.

  The death magic trade was happening.

  Luckily, I had a big foil ball full of gold and gems to make the risk worthwhile. I clutched the bundle to my chest the whole ride to Agatha’s and kept clutching it all the way up the back walkway to the house.

  We should probably go to Zed and make sure he took treasure as payment. If not, we’d have to find a mystical moneychanger. Maybe—

  “An
ise?” Wynn’s voice was always a surprise, and more so when he called out my name, half a measure too high.

  I froze mid-step. “Wynn?”

  “The bushes.”

  “Bushes?” I turned in a circle. “What are you talking a—?” The words died, smothered in my throat.

  A row of sage bushes mirrored either side of the path from the garage to the house’s back door.

  Or a row of sage bushes used to mirror the path.

  Every bush behind me was blackened, cracked, and dry. I would’ve thought a fire had rolled through—maybe even a fire I’d started—but there was no hint of smoke in the air.

  The bushes weren’t charred.

  They were dead.

  The ones on either side of where I’d frozen were only half dead.

  They glowed with the green light of death magic.

  Death magic I hadn’t called to or felt leaving my body. I tried to pull it back, but the bushes kept burning. No matter how I tugged or strained, the death march wouldn’t stop. I fought the shiver making my knees knock.

  Wynn had taken a few cautious steps back, but I waved him to go farther. “I’m not in control.”

  “Get control.” His voice was calm but not demanding. Like he was asking me to do something as easy as passing the salt and pepper.

  I took a breath. “How?”

  He crouched on the path and cracked a branch off one of the dried-out bushes. “It’s not your magic, but it’s still magic. That’s not new.” He rolled the branch in his fingers before flicking it to the ground. “Reign it in.”

  That easy?

  No.

  Not easy.

  But my only option.

  I breathed until the air didn’t hitch in my throat. No new bushes were withering—just the two I’d half killed—so I didn’t think the death-blight would spread any more if I didn’t move.

  Just reign it in.

  Blair made necromancy seem easy. I concentrated on what her magic felt like. The cool sparkles she’d held in place and bent to her will.

  Flames were easier to call home. They wanted to return to me. To the warmth inside me.

  Was that the catch? Like wanted to return to like?

  If that was the key, then I was still screwed because all I had was hitchhiking death magic. It wanted to spill out more than it wanted to stay locked inside me.