by K. F. Breene
“May we bask in the light, blessed is this night.”
Protect. Heal. Safety.
They were doing an utterly simple protective spell intended to keep one of the members safe. Narrowing in on their magic, on their connection, I got a more complicated read on what was happening.
It seemed one of the lovely ladies was having issues with abuse.
As the magical currents ran through me, fire kindled deep inside my gut, forcing out ideas of what I would do to someone who was physically or emotionally abusing me. Amazingly, they weren’t all magic spells. Not at all. The first, out of the blue, was a head butt.
No one would expect a random head butt.
Well, except for me. I’d learned the hard way.
I’d dug into their efforts before I could stop myself, weaving a rich, complex spell within and around theirs, mindful of the necessary elements for healing and recovery.
“They seem confused,” Smokey whispered, looking over my shoulder. “Are you participating with them or something?”
Magic wove in and out of my fingers, and I wanted to laugh with the joy of it. I felt buoyant, strong, beautiful, sexy, and powerful. I felt how glorious it was to have my finger on the pulse of nature.
This was what I had been missing. Emery had been right those many months ago. He’d said I was more like a witch. A deep connection with others and the world around me was necessary to my magic working. I did think like a witch. The joy and love of this community buffeted me. It made me long for deep roots of my own.
But something was missing from the Ladies of the Light: the male half. Nature existed in both. Kooky though she was, Mary Bell was right about one thing: nature was the light and the dark, and everything in between. The magical world was rough. Wild. The calm and the storm. It required balance. These ladies did themselves a disservice by calling only to the feminine. And only to the light.
I missed Emery. I missed the balance we had found together. It had been so natural with him. So light and easy. We belonged together, whether he was ready to admit it or not.
I shook it off and shoved the spell toward the group, watching it swirl around until it sank into one of the ladies, a short-haired girl with black glasses and a pug nose.
May you kick his ass, lady.
“The witches are good people,” Smokey said. “Just wait until you meet one of the foul creatures that inhabit this world. That’ll ruin anyone’s mood.”
“I’ve already met plenty.”
Smokey’s laugh was low and rough. “You’re probably talking about vampires, right? Since you’re hanging out with Reagan. Maybe a shifter or two? All nice folk compared to some of the other things that exist out there, believe you me. I’ve thought about leaving this place a million times. Going out to Florida and retiring. But there is one thing this place has that Florida doesn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“Reagan.”
“Right.” I’d heard something like that a time or two.
I headed back, passing him. He wasn’t long in following.
“You’ll follow her lead, if you know what’s good for you,” he whispered.
I wasn’t sure if that was true, but these days, I wasn’t sure about much of anything. Except that if you placated someone, they were likely to go away.
“Got it,” I said.
“She has her finger on the magical pulse of this town. Of any town.”
“Totally. I sensed that.”
“You’ll see. If you get in a bind, she’ll help you out of it.”
I turned back toward the house, slowing when I saw a man standing in the entrance of the cemetery. Thick shoulders reduced down, making his upper body a V. He dominated the space by virtue of both size and presence, seething a sort of malice that had me plucking ingredients out of my magical cloud for a painful sort of cocktail.
He took a step forward, and the weave easily rolled through my hands, similar to a spell from one of Reagan’s books. I found myself incorporating strands and strings of the bright, sweet feeling I’d been reintroduced to through the witches, much like I’d pulled happy thoughts into my spell in Darius’s house right before slamming it into Ja.
“Ohhhh!” I shifted as an explosion of understanding hit me. The happier strands added balance, which actually made the spells stronger.
During my blast of awareness, the spell I’d been weaving fizzled out and I was left standing unprotected in a darkened cemetery with a creep and a possible thug.
“Blooming bollocks,” I muttered, starting the weave again.
“What’s she doing out of the house?” the man asked, his stance wide and arms pushed just slightly away from his body. The posture screamed, “Flee before I bust your head.”
I nearly tap-danced backward, having no problem with following unspoken orders. This wasn’t a confidence issue, it was a keeping-the-peace issue.
“I couldn’t stop her,” Smokey said, tensing. “I tried to talk reason, but she was hellbent on coming in here. She wanted to see the”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“witches.”
The newcomer’s exhale was loud. “Did you chase them out?”
“No, these are the quiet ones. They’re not hurting anyone,” Smokey replied, and I relaxed a little, realizing they knew each other. Given Smokey’s fierce loyalty to Reagan, I figured I was in the clear.
“I don’t care if they’re the mute ones. I don’t need no quacks rolling up in my neighborhood, messing with things they don’t understand.”
“In fairness…” I raised my hand like a kid in a classroom. Silence descended and I flinched a little, knowing I had the big guy’s undivided attention—something I’d bet most people tried to avoid. “They were totally harmless. They didn’t have enough power to do much, and even if they did, they only have light and love in their hearts.”
The man shifted. The silence stretched.
I got the feeling he wasn’t pleased with my answer.
“But I support keeping all witch and mage folk out of this cemetery,” I went on quickly, half to keep the peace, and half because it was a good idea. “At least until I’m gone.”
“A mage has more power than a witch,” Smokey said.
“I don’t care.” That was what the man said, but what he clearly meant was: “Do not mention anything magical to me again. Ever. Or else.”
“Reagan said you had trouble following you around,” the man said, jerking his head and turning toward Reagan’s house. Smokey and I hurried after him. “I ain’t seen nothing out of the ordinary.”
“The people who are after me will likely be carrying satchels.” I mimed the outline of a satchel across my side even though I was behind him. “Or maybe a belt with compartments. That’s how you’ll know they’re dangerous.”
“Guns aren’t so easy to spot,” the man said, looking both ways before crossing the street.
“I don’t think they use guns. I’ve never seen them use guns, at least. Or even knives. In the past, they’ve relied solely on their ma—” I abruptly stopped when he turned to scowl at me.
“I’ve got my eye out,” Smokey said, drifting to the side and stopping in front of Reagan’s house. The newcomer stopped just off to the side, in the area between Reagan’s house and the neighbor’s place.
“I saw one strange face, but that was when Reagan’s new car was parked here.” Smokey crossed his arms over his chest. “You need to talk to her about that, Mikey. She can’t keep parking that thing here. It draws all kinds of notice. Cops think it belongs to a drug dealer or is stolen, drug dealers want to steal it, preppy tourists want to cross over for a gawk—dent or no dent, it is a fine piece of machinery, and everyone is stopping what they’re doing to take notice.”
The man—Mikey—nodded slowly and turned so he was looking out onto the street. “Yeah, I hear ya. She said it was temporary. I’ll talk to her.”
“Or…and this is just spitballing.” Tingles of fire scuttled up my spine, though I had no idea w
hy. “Let’s steal it and teach her a lesson. I can get the keys, easy.”
Mikey turned slowly and looked at me, his expression blank. In precise movements, he raised his arm until it was perpendicular to the ground and then pulled up his sleeve. His gaze shifted from me to his arm before landing back on me as he dropped his arm back to his side.
Smokey edged away slightly. I backed up until my heels touched the stairs, not sure what was happening, but ready to run just in case.
“Keep that shit to yourself,” Mikey growled.
“Oh, we wouldn’t really be stealing it. I’d get the keys, we’d move it—I mean, I would do it on my own, but I don’t know how to drive a stick—and then I’d put the keys back,” I babbled. “She wouldn’t kill us, promise. And I’m pretty good at anticipating when she’s going to throw a punch. I very rarely get it right to the face anymore. So I can just warn you. Then we can tell her what we did and laugh and laugh.”
“I don’t mean that shit,” Mikey said, his voice rising. “I mean the supernatural shit. I don’t want none of that. I’ve told Reagan before and I’ll tell you now. Keep that shit away from me. I got a simple life and I’m not trying to mess it up with the likes of you fuckers.”
“Wow.” I grimaced and looked at my feet. “If you’re friends with Reagan, I can certainly see why the absence of swearing seems abnormal to her.”
“Reagan said she was untrained,” Smokey murmured. “And Penny mentioned that she was largely naive—”
“I said people call me naive, not that I actually was—”
“—so she might not know what it is she’s doing,” Smokey finished.
“Oh, I’m not doing anything.” I gestured at the magic-less air around us. “There’s nothing going on here. This is all above board.”
“Fucking hell.” Mikey spat on the street, shook his head, and turned. In a moment, he was walking up the stairs of the neighboring porch, his steps much quieter than I would’ve thought for a man of his size.
“It’s nice to meet a neighbor—” The door shut behind Mikey without him acknowledging my attempt at further conversation, and I was left staring with my mouth open.
“They call him No Good Mikey for a reason,” Smokey said, back to watching the street. “He’s rough by nature. Don’t let it get to you.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “It’s fine. He’s more normal than the other people I’ve met these past few months.”
Smokey glanced at me. “Pardon me for saying so, Penny, but that tells me you should really meet some new friends.” With that, he was drifting across the street, slightly hunched, before slipping back into the cemetery.
22
Boom!
The door burst open and swung inward, slamming against the wall. I always left it cracked for just this reason.
I startled, but I’d gotten accustomed to Reagan’s theatrics. She wouldn’t really hurt me.
Not until later.
“Rise and shine, buttercup. Time to get cracking!” Reagan sauntered in wearing her usual getup of leather pants and a tank top.
I rolled over and pulled the comforter over my head.
“Come on.” She shoved me with something hard. It felt like a boot. “We have to get going. I’ve got things to do.”
“My life is the worst.” I groaned and curled up a little tighter. I hated getting up. I didn’t care what time of the day or night—I did not like leaving the warm, snuggly comfort of my bed.
“Your life is the worst, yes. Blame your mom. Come on.”
The covers were ripped away, exposing me to the chilled air. “Why?” I whined.
“Sexy nightie. Who are you hoping to see?” She laughed and crossed to my dresser. “Get your leathers on. I want to play with fire today.” She opened my drawer and pulled out clothes. Strangely, it didn’t bother me as much as it had when my mother used to do it.
I pulled myself to sitting and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My green silk negligee didn’t do much to keep out the cold, so I wrapped my arms around my body while Reagan pulled out stuff for me to wear. “Marie bought this nightie, like everything else in there.”
Based on the “hideous” dress I’d worn to Darius’s house the night of the…um, incident, Marie had decided I needed a fashion overhaul. She’d taken it upon herself to supply it. I’d politely tried to refuse, but she’d just shoved me out of the way and put everything away herself.
“And before you ask,” I went on, shivering but hating the idea of getting the day started, “I wear it because it’s silky and soft against my skin—”
“Hey, I get it.” Reagan dumped a leather vest onto the leather pants on the edge of the bed. “When she decided I needed better clothes, she bought me a bunch of them, too. That was before I was banging Darius, but I still wore them. C’mon, let’s go. I got a date with the MLE office later.”
She stalked out of the room.
Once dressed in material much less comfortable than the jeans I was used to, I trudged to the kitchen for coffee. As I was taking my first sip, I heard, “I know your secret!”
I jumped. Hot coffee splashed over my mouth and dripped down my cheeks.
“Hot, hot.” I banged the cup down and snatched up the nearest towel, folded neatly near the microwave.
Reagan’s shining eyes watched me from beside the kitchen entrance and her finger made circles in the air. “I know all about it.”
I wiped my face. “Know all about what?”
“Your trip into the cemetery to spy on a group of witches. The Ladies of the Light, right? They’re harmless. I never chase them out.”
I thought about picking up my coffee cup again, but while I was decidedly less jumpy than when I’d first arrived in New Orleans—even than a couple days ago—I clearly wasn’t ready to drink a hot beverage within the confines of a kitchen with Reagan. I grabbed some water instead.
“That wasn’t a secret,” I said, then stopped myself. “Should that have been a secret?”
Her expression fell and she stopped circling the air with her finger. “You are much too honest, do you know that? No wonder your mother was able to keep you in line.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the archway. “And yes, that should’ve been a secret. Leaving the protection of the ward for a wide-open, dark, deserted cemetery was an incredibly stupid thing to do. It was basically an attacker’s wet dream.”
I eyed the coffee again. Water wasn’t doing the trick. “Smokey said as much, but…” I shrugged. “Their magic called to me.”
“Hey”—she held up her hands—“I live in a glass house. I’m not trying to throw stones. Tonight I’ll be doing something fairly stupid myself. I’m not judging. Did you get your rocks off?”
I sidled over to my cup of coffee and filled it back up. There were some things I just couldn’t do without. And unlike Reagan, whiskey wasn’t one of them.
“You’re right. You and Darius…and Emery. I’ve been trying to acclimate to the mages’ way of doing things,” I said after taking a much-needed sip, “but it’s closed me off. When I came across the witches doing magic, it felt so natural. I remembered how to find balance.”
“Ordinarily, I’d ask you not to tell him because it would inflate his already massive ego, but after the other night, I think we’re good on that score. Hurry up. Let’s get to burning some shit. Maybe your new balance will make you less terrible at it.”
It didn’t. While my reinstated balance made it easier for me to put together spells—including setting fire to my poor, defenseless practice dummy and creating mini explosions—Reagan’s ability to control fire was still beyond me. Probably always would be.
“Are you an elemental?” I asked at one point, panting with my hands braced on my knees. “They can do fire, right? Because the weather one can do weather. I’d imagine there’s a fire one.”
“From what I’ve heard, some of them can do fire. One of them really well, I think. I don’t know any more than that.”
“So you’re
not an elemental?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you were?”
“Probably not, since I’d probably be a rogue elemental on the run from my family’s crushing pressure to become what they want me to be.”
I blinked and shook my head. “Uh-huh. So what are you?”
“An asshole, remember? Come on, one more spell, and then I got to go.”
An hour later, we were both in the kitchen, me tired but not drained—I thought that was an improvement—and her bright as a spring day.
“What is it you’re doing again?” I asked between gulps of water.
“I’m going to take a contract with the Magical Law Enforcement office.” She bent to wipe off the thighs of her leather pants before twisting so she could see the backs. “These are fine, aren’t they? Not too dirty?”
A few scuffs and a couple smudges of dirt marred the surface. “They’re a little dirty.”
“But, like…too dirty?”
I paused. “I don’t know what your definition of too dirty is.”
“Too dirty to wear in public to a job where I want to show how awesome I am?”
“Oh.” I chewed my lip, wondering how to be tactful. “I mean…” I cocked my head. “They’re a bit dirty.”
“A bit.” She squinted at me. “I hear what you’re saying.” She stalked out of the room, only to return wearing the same dirty leather pants. She clipped her fanny pack onto her hips. “Okay. Ready for action.”
A wave of anxiety washed over me and my body tingled, my temperamental third eye telling me of danger ahead.
“Wait…” I put down my water and stepped forward. The danger didn’t feel like mine. It…strangely felt like hers. “Aren’t you supposed to lie low…or something?”
She waved the thought away. “Not for this. This’ll be fine.”
Butterflies filled my stomach and I stepped forward again, not sure what this feeling was. “Um…”
She cupped her breasts. “I should get a sports bra. I’ll probably need to run.” She left the room again.
Grateful for the break from her keen gaze, I closed my eyes and opened up, letting my intuition feelers guide me. A strong sense that something was coming hit me first, tickling my premonition centers, as vague as ever. I was nothing like my mother when it came to that particular talent. It felt good, whatever it was, like I would enjoy it.
