Big Witch Energy

by Kelly Jamieson

  I insist on paying for the hand cream, some of the moon soap, and a candle while Magan wraps up my new print.

  “So what do you think?” She hands it to me. “You’ve seen our website. Do you think you can come up with something better?”

  “I do. Are you open to all new branding?”

  “Of course!”

  “Okay!” I’m kind of excited by this new project. “I’ll get to work on it right away.”

  “How did yesterday go? With Trace?” Felise lifts her eyebrows.

  “Oh.” I sigh. “It was awful.”

  “What? Why?” Both girls stare at me.

  “I felt like such an idiot.”

  “Well, you have to start somewhere,” Felise says tentatively.

  “I know, but I’m not used to feeling stupid. At my job, I’m the one everyone comes to with questions.”

  “Give yourself time.” Magan slides an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “We’re all still learning.”

  “Trace did some kind of testing and said I did ‘okay.’” I do air quotes. “I don’t want to do okay. I have to be good at what I do.” I purse my lips. “He gave me homework, and I keep looking at those old books and… honestly, I feel like giving up.”

  “Oh no.” Felise’s eyebrows pull together. “Don’t do that.”

  “It just seems…” I tilt my head back.

  “Say it.”

  I meet their eyes, biting my lip. “I still can’t quite believe this is real. Yet Trace was so serious. And he knows so much.”

  “It is real,” Magan replies solemnly.

  “Trace doesn’t know everything,” Felise says. “Nobody does. But yes, Trace is very smart. Was he… short with you?”

  “No, he was fine. I don’t think he appreciated some of my dumb questions, but he didn’t laugh at me or mock me.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Magan says confidently. “But…” She stops. “He hasn’t been very involved with the coven for a while now, and I don’t think he uses his magic much.”

  “Oh. Really?” My forehead pinches, the corners of my eyes tightening. “Why is that?”

  They trade glances. Despite Felise’s chattiness, I can see she’s reluctant to share personal details about Trace. I have to admire her loyalty and protectiveness of him.

  “Trace got very frustrated with the Board of Elders,” Magan says. “And I think with magic in general. After that, he pulled back from the coven.”

  Curiosity heats my insides. “Oh.” I chomp down on my bottom lip briefly. “Does it have anything to do with what happened to his family?”

  They exchange another look, then focus back on me. “Did he tell you about his family?” Felise asks.

  “He told me they died when he was sixteen. And that your family took him in.” I pause. “He also said he was a little rebellious when he was a teenager, which is understandable after going through something like that.”

  They nod slowly. “He told you that,” Magan says as if she wants to confirm it.

  “Yes. The night we first met.”

  “Ah.”

  I feel like they’re communicating silently with each other. “What?”

  “So what happened that night you met?” Felise asks.

  “That’s none of your business,” Magan answers for me.

  I laugh, then sober, remembering Trace’s rejection of my offer of dinner. I shouldn’t have said that; I already knew whatever happened between us is now dead as disco. “Nothing happened,” I say, trying not to sound sad. “Anyway. Will I see you when I come for dinner next week?”

  “Yes! Mom said she invited you.” Felise beams.

  “Perfect.”

  “Don’t give up, Romy,” Magan says. “We’re all here to help.”

  My heart squeezes. “Thank you.”

  I leave the shop and walk to my car. I had to park a couple of blocks away.

  I think about Trace… about his reluctance to tutor me, which I now understand more. I think. I thought it was me, but maybe it’s not. I really want to know more about why he doesn’t use his magic, after he went to all the trouble to convince me to accept it and learn. He obviously knows a lot about it and is very skilled.

  As I pass by another shop, I stop at the window. It’s a home decor store, and the display in the window is all in shades of pink that makes me think of the painting I’m holding in my hands.

  I step inside to get a closer look. Oh my gosh, I love everything—the cushions, the candles, the flowers.

  “Can I help you?” A saleswoman approaches with a smile.

  “I want all of this.” I wave a hand at the display.

  She laughs. “I can do that.”

  “Okay, maybe not all. But those cushions…”

  She leads me to the shelves of cushions and finds the three on display—pink, pink and gray and white, and a faux fur blush-colored one. I pick out a gold pillar and a pink candle to go on it, a vase and artificial peonies, and rose gold bookends. When I see a wall clock in shades of blush and gray, I have to have that too. I fall in love with a tall, pale pink floor vase, and the woman suggests a big fake palm leaf for it.

  My credit card is whimpering when I leave the store laden with all my purchases. Again, my mom would be aghast. But I can’t wait to get home and spread them all out and see how they look.

  Why have I never done this before? Why have I been happy living in an apartment that’s still decorated by the people who lived there before? Why didn’t I care enough to want to display things I think are beautiful? To display… myself?

  Maybe that’s exactly why. I’ve always tried to be someone I’m really not. Crazy art and pink furry pillows are not practical! All these changes in my life are surfacing parts of me in unexpected ways.

  * * *

  TRACE

  * * *

  I wait until Monday morning when Joe and I are both at the office. I always get to my office early and blast through a lot of work before other team members start arriving.

  Dream Homes’ offices have been located on West Armitage forever, but we recently did a renovation of our space, modernizing the old building. It’s actually a former residence—a classic two-story graystone house. The bright red front door and red awning stand out, the name of the company gleaming across the big front window. Now all the windows have been replaced and the stone facade cleaned up. Inside the door is a bright reception space with spotlights shining on framed prints of many of our jobs.

  I jog upstairs to the second floor where the renovation division offices are located. My office is at the front, with bay windows overlooking the street. I really like that we kept the original brick exterior wall. With white interior walls, a sleek black desk and chairs, and chrome accents, the office has a bright, modern feel with an industrial edge.

  Joe pokes his head into my office, as he does most days. “Morning, Trace.”

  “Morning. How are you?”

  “Good. How did things go with Romy on Saturday?”

  I lean back in my chair. “It was interesting.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Okay. Give me ten minutes.”

  “Sure. Your office?”

  “Yeah.”

  I take care of a few more emails, then stop in the small kitchen/break room to refill my coffee mug, and head to Joe’s office. I slide the glass door closed. Not everyone here is family, so we need some privacy.

  I sit on the couch in the corner of Joe’s larger main floor office.

  “So what’s the problem?” Joe sits across from me in an armchair, setting his coffee mug on the low table.

  “It’s not a problem.” I lean back and stretch an arm along the back of the couch. “More like something we need to be aware of.”

  “Okay.”

  “Romy’s only half witch, but I think she has potential to have supreme powers.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  I grima
ce. “It shouldn’t be. We all know there are lots of half witches out there. Relationships with Ruckers are discouraged, but they happen. The half witches have soft powers, but without proper training they can’t really use them. Romy’s are stronger than that.”

  “So…” Joe stares across the room. “Are you saying her mother was part witch?”

  “That would be my guess.” I pause. “You didn’t know that?”

  “Fuck, no.” Joe rubs his face. “I’m no good at picking up on that stuff.” He eyes me. “You often are.”

  “Yeah.”

  Lots of witches don’t believe in the ability to sense if someone else is a witch. My instincts are usually right, but others have no clue. Joe is one of those.

  “That would explain why I could never find her,” Joe says slowly. “With soft power, she could have blocked me out. She wouldn’t have even realized she was doing it.”

  I don’t say anything, letting him process this.

  “But then why did she freak out when I told her I was a witch?” He looks back at me.

  “I’d guess something bad happened in her past. If she was half witch, possibly things didn’t go well for her parents. I’ve heard stories about things that go wrong in those situations, like the Rucker telling someone about the witch and having to be punished.”

  He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

  “That would traumatize someone. If one of her parents turned into a potato, no wonder she wanted nothing to do with another witch.”

  “Huh.” He rubs his chin.

  “Anyway, I’m not sure I’m the best one to teach Romy.” I broach this with attempted casualness.

  He frowns. “Trace. We talked about this.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it would be a good chance for you and her to spend time together. Father-daughter time.”

  “True.” He purses his lips. “But we both know you can do a better job of teaching her what she needs to know. You’re the same generation. I went to the Academy years ago. And with all the work you’ve done…” He speaks cautiously. “Your knowledge is exceptional. Your powers as well.”

  He knows it’s a sore spot for me. Once I got over acting out my grief at losing my family, I spent a lot of time researching, trying to find a way to get them back. I haven’t succeeded, but I have learned a lot. “She makes me feel old.” I shove my hand into my hair. “Her grimoire is an iPad.”

  Joe barks out a laugh, then sobers when I don’t laugh too. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She can’t do that.”

  “I don’t think telling Romy that will go over well. Is there a good reason she can’t?”

  “It’s never been done.”

  “We both know that’s not a good reason.”

  He sits, nonplussed. “I suppose that’s true. Hell.”

  One corner of my mouth lifts. “Maybe we’ll learn something from her.”

  Joe grins, looking oddly proud. “Maybe we will. But I take your point about spending time with her. I’ll make sure I do that. I can reinforce your lessons, help her out with homework. And get to know her better.”

  I sigh inwardly. I tried. “Yeah. That’d be great. The other thing I want to mention is… if Romy passes her WED, she has two sisters. Together…” I swallow. “…they could have Triad Energy.”

  “Oh. Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. There are other families with three girls who don’t. They have to bond at a higher level to access the power.”

  “That would be…” He stops.

  Triad Energy is the most powerful form of magic. Together, three women witches with Triad Energy could solve all kinds of problems. Also create all kinds of problems.

  “Yeah. But let’s deal with that when we know.” I stand and pick up my empty mug. “I have to get out to a job site.”

  “Hang on.” Joe stands too. “Do we tell Romy what we suspect about her mom?”

  “You’re her father. That’s up to you.”

  “Right.” He drags a hand down his face. “I guess I should be the one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” He sighs. “And we’re meeting this afternoon, right? With Al and Dan about the Akako project.”

  “Yep. See you then.”

  I return to my office to grab my phone. As I pass through the reception area, I wave at Orva, who runs the office and acts as a secretary/assistant to Joe, Chuck, Tony, and me. She’s in her thirties, with pale blond hair, false eyelashes, and long, sharp nails. Every day she wears skirts and killer heels to a construction office. When Joe hired her, I was a little taken aback, but she’s unbelievably efficient, on top of every little thing, and customers love her. “I’m going out to the Dandridge site. I’ll be back after lunch.”

  “Okay!” She waves me off as she picks up the phone. “Dream Homes, how can I help you?”

  The Dandridge project is a reno of a single property home in Lincoln Park. They want the main floor opened up, and there are problems with load-bearing walls, so I’m going to take a look along with our engineer, Calvin. There are also some plumbing issues as we want to run plumbing up to the third floor for a wet bar.

  I walk up to the charming graystone. I love this house. I step into a huge foyer with the original oak staircase directly in front of me. That’s going to be refinished too. We also have the original oak flooring, which is gorgeous. It’ll be a bit of a challenge to patch in the places where we’ve removed walls, but our flooring guys are up for that. We’ve done it many times.

  “The homeowner doesn’t want the beam to show,” Eric tells me.

  “We can cut back the floor joists above,” I say, glancing at Calvin. “Any problem with that?”

  “We can do that.”

  “Then hang the ends of the joists from the sides of the beam, using joist hangers.”

  “Yep.”

  “Lots more work. Lots more money.”

  “I need to tell them how much more,” Eric says.

  “We could also use a smaller beam and a post.” I walk along the wall. “But they probably won’t like that either.”

  “We could make it a decorative post,” Eric says. “Work it into the design.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you both scenarios.”

  Calvin helps me calculate the sizes of the beams, which is tricky to figure out, taking into account deflection, shear, deadweight versus live weight, and roof loads. My degree is in construction management, and I readily admit to relying on an engineer for this stuff.

  “Want me to call the homeowner?” I ask Eric when we’re done.

  He grins. “Sure. They always take bad news better from you.”

  This house is worth several million dollars, but the homeowner has been freakishly tight with the reno budget, losing his mind over every change. It’s an old house. We warned him we were going to find unexpected things.

  I give him a call from my truck, explaining the problems and potential solutions, and the costs. “Those are your three options,” I finish. “Do you want to think about it?”

  Please, no. We’re running behind schedule and sure as hell don’t need more delays.

  “I’ll get back to you tomorrow,” he tells me in a grouchy tone.

  “Okay, great.”

  I’m meeting Garrett for lunch, and it’s just about that time, so I drive to a sports bar on West Wrightwood. I freakin’ love their pulled pork sandwich. I have managed to almost exactly duplicate it at home without even using magic.

  Garrett’s already there at a high table against the wall. I head over and slide onto the bright red metal stool. I set my phone on the table.

  “Hey. How’s it going?”

  “Good. New haircut?”

  He runs a hand over the shorter style of his dark blond hair. “Yeah.”

  “You look like you’re twelve.”

  “Thanks, asshole. How are you doing?”

  “Eh.”

  “That doesn’t sound positive.”

  “I’m distracted.”


  “By a cute new witch?”

  “Ha.” Then I grimace. “Yeah.”

  “I can’t believe she turned out to be Joe’s daughter.”

  I’ve told him the whole nutty story. “Same. I started tutoring her for her WED.”

  “Convenient. You get to spend more time with her.”

  “I don’t want to spend more time with her.” It’s a lie. “I also don’t want to spend a bunch of time teaching magic. Magic’s been useless to me.” I hear the bitter tone in my own voice.

  “Sure.” Garrett knows me too well. “She’s only half witch though, right? Is she going to be able to pass the WED?”

  “I don’t know.” I see the waitress approaching, so I stop talking. We order sandwiches and Cokes. “I think her powers are strong. But she’s not committing to it.”

  “I guess that’ll be part of your mentoring. Convincing her that it’s real.”

  “It’s not so much that. I feel like she’s holding back. Maybe it’s a lack of confidence.”

  “Maybe you need to show her some sexual magic.”

  “Ha. Getting involved with Joe’s daughter? Not a good idea.” Except I can’t stop thinking about it.

  “Hmmm. I know you see Felise and Magan as sisters, but somehow I don’t think you see Romy that way.”

  He’s right. I moved in with Joe and Cassie when I was sixteen, a hormonal teenager with a huge chip on my shoulder. But never did I think of Felise and Magan as anything but kid sisters. Never would I have betrayed Joe and Cassie’s care of me. Romy, on the other hand… Well, those kisses were definitely not sisterly. But that would just make things complicated, and I’ve already made things complicated enough for that family. I owe them better than that.

  “It can’t happen.” I wave a hand.

  “Okay.” He still seems unconvinced but disinclined to argue with me. “How’s business?”

  Garrett is an architect. He designs big buildings, not houses, so we don’t work together, but we understand each other’s professions. We talk business as we eat our lunch, and he tells me about Julie’s sister’s new baby and how now Julie is getting antsy about having kids.

  “You’re not ready?” I ask. “You’re thirty years old. You may look twelve, but you’re not getting any younger.”