Hex at a House Party

by Gretchen Galway

  But Darius had been humiliated by the conflict, and I wasn’t surprised his ego hadn’t recovered. After the incident, other agents had begun leaving swim goggles and life jackets on Darius’s desk at Diamond Street. For all I knew, they still did.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I don’t want to be an agent either.” Let him scan me with verity spells all week long, and he’d find I was telling the truth.

  “You’d rather live in poverty in the middle of nowhere, making necklaces out of yard trimmings?”

  I lifted the stone between us to light my face. “Yes.”

  Meeting my gaze, he took my invitation to scan me. I felt his spell glance over my head, my heart, my toes. He was older, stronger, colder than he had been a few years ago, more man than boy. I saw now how faint frown lines were beginning to develop, and I actually felt a pang of guilt, as if my failure as an agent had contributed to his stress level.

  He dropped the scan and shook his head. “You always were a good liar.”

  “And you’re not,” I said. “You believe me. Raynor must’ve said something to convince you to work with me again.”

  “He said you killed the witch who killed Tristan, saving the life of a wounded agent.” He put his hand under mine and fed the light between us. It blazed brighter, making me squint. “But that’s not possible. You have an Incurable Inability. Or is that only for killing demons you find attractive?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly. I can only kill ugly things. You better be careful.” I sighed and made a point of looking at the house. “Too bad there are so many good-looking witches here this week. I’ll be helpless to defend myself.”

  Darius jerked his hand away. The light faded again, and I extinguished it completely and returned it into my pocket.

  “I hoped you’d learned to take things more seriously,” he said.

  “I’d hoped you’d learned not to.”

  “If you get hurt, it’ll be on me. You’re my responsibility.”

  “And you’re mine,” I said. “Just like old times.”

  “Listen to me. I don’t want to have to protect you. You’re a distraction. I need to neutralize the threat here and return to San Francisco without offending the high-and-mighty who are watching my every move. You stumbling around with nothing to lose is the last thing I need.”

  “I have no interest in getting in your way,” I said. “I’m as eager for you to accomplish your mission and go home as you are. I’m only here…”

  I trailed off, regretting my words. Darius wouldn’t appreciate the heroism of my effort to protect Seth’s life.

  “Yes?” he prompted. “If not to get your job back, then why?”

  “To… to… to make it up to you. I feel guilty the Flints keep putting goggles on your desk.”

  “One of those presents came from you,” he said. “I tracked the package.”

  The first life jacket had indeed come from me. I’d meant it as a friendly apology, but unfortunately things had gotten out of hand. “That’s why I feel guilty. We both know I owe you. So here I am.”

  “I might not be as skilled at lying as you are, but I know demonspit when I hear it.” He took out a small notebook with spelled, glowing pages and began to write. When we’d worked together, he’d been obsessive about that notebook, always jotting down shorthand notes on conversations, observations, sketches, plans. Later, when questioned by the director or an Emerald witch, he would have evidence of every word.

  I wondered what the pages illustrated about his meeting with Raynor. His briefing would’ve been different than mine—but would it be more detailed? Or just incomplete in a different way? If we could compare notes…

  “What did Raynor tell you about Crystal?” I asked. “What was so bad that he sent you here in full silver to scare her? She’s powerful, married to a Hawk. What did he tell you she did?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “He said it was a financial crime.”

  Darius scowled. “He said he gave you a briefing.”

  “It was cut short.”

  He was silent for a moment. His glowing pages reflected in his eyes as he regarded me. “I’ll tell you for your own safety. The crime did involve money,” he said slowly. “Specifically, the threat of public disclosure to attain it.”

  I let out a slow breath. “Blackmail?” Of course. “Why didn’t Raynor just tell me?”

  “He didn’t want you to be scanned when you arrived, sounding an alarm before it was time.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of hiding my thoughts,” I said, indignant. Hadn’t he chosen me to be a spy, after all?

  “He was just being cautious. I would be here to fill you in. As I am now.” Darius didn’t sound like he approved of that plan either.

  Well, then. Blackmail. So far, the most resource-heavy potential victim I’d met was the tech billionaire. “Was it a tip from Phil Thornton?”

  “Why do you think it has anything to do with him?”

  “He hates her,” I said. “And it seems natural that a rich, famous guy would be a target.”

  “One of the richest men in the world doesn’t spend vacations with his blackmailer.”

  He might if she had something on him. “He hates her,” I repeated.

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw the way he looked at her.”

  Darius fell silent. He was rigid, but he was fair. He wouldn’t dismiss my observation just because he hadn’t seen it himself. “That might be important,” he admitted.

  “And did you notice that opal ring she wears on her right hand? It’s putting out some kind of power I don’t recognize.” I thought back to the feel of it snaking over my fingers, up my arm, into my bones. “It was like a probing spell, but not like any I’d ever felt before.” A shiver ran through me.

  “Whatever Crystal wears on her right hand is none of your concern,” he said. “Stay away from her. This is the biggest assignment I’ve had in months, and I’m not going to let you screw it up.”

  “So you didn’t notice it,” I said, smiling. “You might want to check it out. And don’t worry. I’ll be sure to tell you about anything else I see.”

  I could imagine him glaring at me in the darkness, struggling to control the temper he denied he had.

  “I’ll leave you to your hike. But be careful—you’re getting awfully close to the edge.” He turned toward the house. “There’s nothing to stop you from falling twenty or thirty feet into a pile of sharp rocks,” he muttered, walking away.

  It sounded like a threat, but it was probably just wishful thinking.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Instead of returning to the house, I wandered over to the converted barn where Warren had his art studio. At dinner, after his monologue about birds, he’d invited me to see his work. It was late, but the wall of windows on one side were brightly lit from within, although curtains along the bottom were drawn. There was a brick walkway, lined with shimmering lanterns, linking the barn to the other buildings. I went up to the door.

  Before I could knock, Warren opened it. “You didn’t tell me you were one of the Bellroses,” he said.

  “I suppose any Bellrose is a Bellrose,” I said. No witch I’d ever known had claimed ownership of the name without being born to it.

  “The Hawks and the Bellroses go way back,” he said, inviting me in. He closed the door behind me and flipped the lock. “I believe my great-great-aunt married a Bellrose in Maine. Or was it New Hampshire? Somewhere back there.”

  “I don’t know much about the family,” I said. “My father was an only child, and so far as I know, it’s only us now.”

  But Warren had apparently lost interest in my family and was now rolling a cart holding a large plaster cast toward one of the large worktables. The barn had been split in half; a wall ran down the middle, separating the studio side from the space used as a garage. The studio was an artist’s dream, remodeled with floor-to-ceiling windows, white walls filled with cabinets and shelves, mas
sive tables, a leather recliner, and plenty of light.

  A sculptor, Warren had filled the shelves with figures, mostly human, some abstract. He worked in clay, metal, stone, fabric—apparently anything. A papier-mâché snowy egret about three feet tall stood on one table, looking as if only magic kept it from falling over—which it probably did. I recognized a flattering terracotta bust of Tierra. The hum of spells was obvious in the room, and I felt a rush of familiarity with the old witch because it was so much like my own garage studio. I didn’t have wall-to-ceiling windows or built-in custom cabinets, but I did have the compelling urge to use my hands and magic to make art.

  “This is a fantastic space,” I said.

  “Help me lift this?” Warren patted the plaster cast, jerking his head toward the table.

  I got on the other side and grabbed one end. “What is it?”

  “Watch your fingers.” It landed on the table with a thud. “It’s just an old mold. What I need is the cart. I’ve got my show tomorrow. Why Crystal had to throw another party when she just had one a few weeks ago, I’ll never understand.” He pushed the cart to the shelves and began moving items onto it.

  He was an old man, much older than Crystal, and had trouble moving one of the larger pieces—a fern three feet across made of twisting wire—so I hurried over to help.

  “How will you get the pieces to Mendocino by yourself?” I asked. “I’ve got my Jeep if you think it might be useful.”

  “One of the interns is coming in the morning to get these,” he said. “I just have to get them together in one place. Most of the pieces are already there. A show like this doesn’t get set up overnight. I’ve been planning it for almost a year. At my age, that’s a dangerous thing.”

  I helped him move the fern to the cart. At the last second the wheels turned, pulling the sculpture out from under me; a wire scraped across the back of my hand and drew blood.

  “Oh! You’re hurt,” he said, staring at my hand. His lower lip quivered.

  “It’s nothing.” I pulled my sleeve down to absorb the blood. It was just a drop, but I didn’t want to stain the worktable.

  “I’ll get you something to wipe that up.”

  While he turned and tore a paper towel off a roll behind him, I cast a silent spell to eliminate the tiny fragments of my body that were clinging to the wire sculpture. All kinds of witches—or worse—might go to his art show tomorrow night. I didn’t want any of them to get my scent. Darius would say I was being a superstitious hearth witch, but I feared what old magic might be able to do with the flesh of a wounded witch. Even if it was only a small fleck of skin.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I hexed chaos in that one, twisted into each piece.” He handed me the towel. “I should’ve warned you.”

  I regarded the fern with renewed respect. “I don’t feel any magic.”

  He grinned, and his eyes sparkled behind his glasses. “That took years to master. Look closer.”

  I glanced at him warily, then bent down to inspect the wire with my magical senses. Only when I held my breath and brought my sight into a very narrow focus did I glimpse the magic he’d spun into the wire. It was as subtle as the natural shine on the metal.

  I drew back. “That’s amazing. What’s your trick?”

  He chuckled and wagged a finger at me. “Oh no. I never tell. An old witch like me enjoys his little secrets.”

  “Do you dip it in something?” I bent over to look at it again, this time holding one hand over my beads.

  “I’ll make us some tea.” He pushed his glasses back onto his head and shuffled away to a kitchenette on the other side of the room.

  A minute later, I thought I’d figured out his secret. Joining him next to the kettle, I asked, “Warren Hawk, do you pee on your sculptures?”

  He turned to me, his fluffy white eyebrows rising up on his forehead, his skin flushing a dark pink.

  For a moment I was afraid I’d offended him. Most Protectorate witches would’ve been. They believed in the power of cold, beautiful metal, like the sculpture, and stones or minerals. To suggest old wives’ magic as nasty as urine might intentionally be used to contaminate it…

  But Warren smiled. “Now how did you figure that out?”

  “It’s what I might try. But when I make focus strings, I don’t want anything that might suppress magic on them, so I’ve never tried—dampening techniques.”

  “Ah, but it doesn’t dampen anything. It hides it. For a time. And then… it doesn’t.” His eyes twinkled.

  I smiled back at him. “Good to know. I’ll have to play around with that.”

  “Make sure it’s your own pee,” he said. “Otherwise you can’t control what happens.”

  “Can you control this fern?”

  “Not in the slightest. That’s why I’m selling it.” He laughed. “No, I joke. It can’t do much damage. Fall off a shelf, catch on clothing, rip a book. Scratch a hand. Ultimately, though, it’s only a fern. What can a fern do? So little, really.” He picked up a mug and became preoccupied with the string of a tea bag bobbing inside.

  I was beginning to see how Warren would come in and out of focus like my own awareness on his sculpture. One moment he was there, the next he was drifting off into his own thoughts. Whether this was age or his underlying personality, I didn’t know.

  “Thanks for showing me your studio,” I said. “I’ll leave you—”

  “Don’t forget your tea.” He held out the mug.

  “That’s all right—” But then I noticed how appealing the mug was, warm and comforting, and I let him push it into my hands.

  It wasn’t an ordinary tea. I brought it to my nose and inhaled, closing my eyes. “Is the wellspring water from Silverpool?”

  “You can feel it?” He tapped a tiny black bottle near the teakettle. “It’s just a drop. Don’t worry.”

  I regarded him over the rim of the mug, already feeling the touch of magic as the steam tickled my lips. “It doesn’t affect me as much as some, but I’ve had a little experience with it.”

  “Living so close to a wellspring, you must have.”

  Even with springwater in it, a beverage from a witch could be dangerous. But by agreeing to stay in the Hawks’ home, I’d already put myself in their hands, so I sipped the tea and let the magic and chamomile warm me from my heart outward.

  “Thank you,” I said with a sigh. Muscle tension I hadn’t noticed I was carrying eased and melted away. There had to be more than a drop to affect me so strongly. He reminded me of the grandmother of a school friend who’d spiked her eggnog with “just a drop” of bourbon. We’d gotten buzzed just smelling it.

  Before I could leave, he showed me a few more of his pieces, these in unglazed terracotta. There was a bust of his wife, a family of quail, and a small figure with a pointy cap—a gnome.

  When my tea was done and the healing liquid spread throughout my body, I left him to his work and went outside to return to my room. The walkway between the barn and farmhouse skirted the garden where I’d met Crystal.

  I thought of the gnome sculpture and suddenly realized what was missing at Hawk Ranch.

  The fae. With so many witches, especially unfamiliar ones, gathering at the house, I hadn’t expected a large group of fairies like we had in Silverpool. But I hadn’t seen any. I hadn’t heard one song last night when I went to bed.

  With directed effort, I should’ve been able to find one or two hiding in the shadows. I stepped into the dark garden, letting a leafy branch heavy with condensation brush against my cheek. I wiped the dew with my fingertips and brought it to my lips. A gnome would savor it like fine wine. Warren had sculpted a gnome in his studio, and I didn’t think it was an abstract work but the representation of an actual, particular being.

  So where was it now?

  I cast out my senses, inviting him or her to greet me. At home, I gave Willy gifts of four-leafed sorrel, a precious gift, he said.

  I waited, I listened, I looked. I let several quiet minutes go by
, my senses heightened to experience the moment.

  After five minutes, I concluded there was no gnome in the garden. And the windswept grassland in front the house, where it met with the sudden drop to the wild, white-capped sea, was empty of fae who should be gathering to witness the moonrise.

  There was only one thing that could drive away all the supernatural inhabitants, even domesticated gnomes, from this magical, powerful place.

  But why would a demon be at a witches’ house party?

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was nobody downstairs in the farmhouse when I went in, but upstairs I found Tierra and Birdie in the empty room across the hall, the one with the balcony where I’d eavesdropped on Darius’s arrival.

  Tierra was pointing at a bookcase that seemed to contain the usual B & B reading material—coffee table books, ten-year-old thrillers, hiking guides. Birdie was sitting in a chair facing the books, holding both hands outstretched in a spell posture. Her face was screwed up in concentration, shiny with sweat.

  “Again,” Tierra said. “Imagine the feel of it in your hand. The intent is all you need.”

  Instinctively protective of my friend, I had to bite my lip to stop myself from interfering. Birdie should learn from witches other than just me. Tierra was skilled, and the lesson was a popular one.

  And it would give me an opportunity to scan Tierra more closely. I’d heard rumors about demons who could avoid detection for centuries, even pretend to be witches, but I had a hard time believing one could be casting spells right next to me and I wouldn’t be able to tell. If a demon was near Hawk Ranch, it was probably in the woods, a cove on the beach, a neighbor’s vacation house, an abandoned barn—somewhere it could prowl freely.

  Then again, I didn’t have much confidence in what I’d been taught about demons, and my on-the-job experience was limited. When Seth had reentered my life that summer, he’d told me I had a pathetic understanding of supernatural creatures, demons in particular, but that sharing his knowledge with me was too dangerous. All I was certain of was that the Protectorate didn’t know as much about demons as it thought it did—and that eventually I would get Seth Dumont to tell me more.