Bake or Die

by January Daphne

  Denali would always be there. I didn’t have to worry about waking up one morning and discovering it had crumbled overnight. Even when it was shrouded in wispy gray clouds, I could breathe easy knowing it was still standing, safe from human error or witch fire or whatever evil monsters lurked in the shadows.

  All my life, I’d lived in fear of what would happen if that oven fire went out. Even after Mom sent Sam and I to boarding school to live “normal lives,” not a day went by when I didn’t wonder if my mom was fulfilling her duty.

  She was a powerful witch, but she was human. Just because she’d managed to close the gateway to hell with her jerry-rigged kitchen magic spell didn’t mean it would stay closed forever.

  Sometimes I wished I didn’t know the things I knew about this world.

  But I did know.

  And I wasn’t going to cry into my Häagen-Dazs over it.

  The road narrowed to one lane going each way, and it was free of cars as far as the eye could see.

  It wasn’t the best of roads. Frost heaves from the permafrost created natural speed bumps all along the George Parks Highway, but that didn’t stop me from flooring the gas pedal.

  The good thing about a pixie cut was you could drive as fast as you wanted and all you had to do to fix your hair was give it a ten second comb-through like the Little Mermaid and her fork.

  I blew past a momma moose ambling through the brush with her calves. There were moose all over the place in Denali, but I still got a kick out of seeing those big, gnarly camel-like creatures.

  I cranked up Heat of the Moment on the stereo and sang along, treating the wildlife to the raucous off-key sound of my voice.

  Yeah, I loved classic rock, and I’d die on that hill.

  I sailed down the road, not a care in the world, hanging my arm over the side of my car.

  Suddenly, a siren cut through my musical bliss.

  I checked the rearview mirror and saw red and blue lights.

  I groaned, banging my hand on the steering wheel. Why were there cops out now? The tourist season didn’t start for another month. I had a feeling this cop wouldn’t cut me much slack. I still had my Georgia plates and license.

  I steered to the shoulder, and shifted into park. I found the insurance card in my glove compartment and cursed under my breath when I looked at the date. I’d forgotten to print out the new card when my insurance had auto-renewed.

  The car door slammed as a man got out of the cruiser and trudged along the gravel-lined shoulder. I sized him up in my sideview mirror—tall, broad chest, hard-edged face, and a shiny brass badge. He had on a brown leather jacket over his tan uniform, and, of course, big mirrored aviators.

  What a cliché.

  He planted his manly-man boots right outside my driver-side door. “Do you know what the speed limit is here, ma’am?” His voice was deep and rough. I almost wondered if he was making it a little deeper to sound extra imposing.

  Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, I wanted to say. We’re, like, the same age.

  I handed over my driver’s license and insurance card. “I was just going with the flow of traffic, officer.”

  “That’s the excuse you’re going with?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You were driving thirty-three over the limit and there are no other cars on the road.” His eyebrows dipped down over his nose as he studied my license.

  He inhaled sharply as he lifted off his aviators, staring hard at me.

  That was when I got a good look at his face.

  I felt like I’d just gotten smacked in the face with a flopping King Salmon.

  I would recognize those pine-green eyes anywhere.

  Connor-freaking-McGregor.

  You have got to be kidding me, Universe.

  I probably looked terrible. I’d barely slept at all during my road trip. Had I washed my eyeliner off from two days ago? Had I brushed my teeth? How many McDonald’s bags were wadded up under the passenger seat? I couldn’t remember.

  Not like I cared what I looked like in front of Connor McGregor.

  I didn’t, right?

  “Willa?” Surprise flickered over Connor’s face. “Hi. Wow, it’s you.” He looked from the card to my face, then back again.

  “It’s me,” I said awkwardly. My stomach flipped as a memory floated into my mind. Strong arms, soft kisses, the smile on his boyish face when he pointed out the dim glow of the northern lights. We’d watched the sky through the cracked windshield of his dad’s pickup like we were the only two people on the whole planet.

  I still remembered the way his green eyes sparkled when saw me in that mini skirt I’d borrowed from Sam. He’d told me I looked pretty—me, the gangly sophomore with pimples and braces.

  But that was a long time ago.

  I had absolutely no idea why my heart was pounding like it was trying to karate kick through my rib cage.

  I took a deep breath, pushing all of that away, and I did what I always did when going head-to-head with some terrifying creature like a vampire or poltergeist or a former jock turned sexy cop.

  I played it cool.

  “Are you going to give me that ticket?” I smoothed my hand over my hair, casually trying to tame it. “Because my sister’s waiting on me.”

  Connor didn’t answer my question. Instead he said, “You look different.”

  “From my ID or…?” I faced forward, adjusting the rear view mirror.

  “From high school,” he said. “You cut your hair.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got your nose pierced.”

  “Yup.”

  A long pause. “You look good.”

  Heat trickled through my body. Why, oh, why was Connor McGregor still able to do this to me?

  Connor handed my cards back, not even mentioning the expired insurance. “I wasn’t sure you were coming. You hung up when I called about Rebecca’s accident.”

  “My phone died. I listened to your voicemail,” I said. “I thought it was your dad calling.”

  Connor looked away. “It was me. I’m the sheriff now. You remember me, don’t you?” He paused, watching my expression. “I was two years ahead of you. We went out a couple times before you went off to boarding school.”

  Oh, I definitely remembered him.

  I gave him a sideways glance. Play it cool, Willa. “Connor, yes. You were on the track team.”

  “Basketball,” he corrected, pressing his hand on the side of my car as he leaned over. The weight of him tipped my car to the left slightly.

  “Right. Basketball.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

  He wet his lips. “I’m sorry about your mom. I’ve been in your shoes. It’s not fun. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m dealing,” I said.

  He rocked back on his heels. “I spoke with your sister when she got into town yesterday. I gave her the keys to the bakery and did a walk-through. I have a few more of Rebecca’s things to drop off later.”

  “OK, great. We can work that out later,” I said.

  “I assume you’re both staying in town,” he said. “For oven duty.”

  So he knew, I thought. I figured as much. The Craven witches had to play nice with local law enforcement. It was a tradition to let the current sheriff in on the paranormal happenings in the area. We had to have at least one ally among the locals.

  This totally sucks, I thought.

  Of all the jobs Connor McGregor could have possibly gotten after high school, he chose the one position that would require me to talk to him regularly. “Yes, my sister and I are taking over the bakery–and all the work that comes with it.”

  Connor hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and stepped back, eyeing my car. “You’re getting a different car?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You’re kidding, right?” He lumbered around to the back of my vehicle. “You’re going to have to.”

  My temper flared. “Not happening.”

  Connor looked genuinely confused. “We get snow drifts twic
e the size of this go-cart.”

  “I remember.” I shifted into drive.

  Connor’s confusion morphed into a frown. “I’m serious, Willa. This is an incredibly unsafe car to have up here.”

  “So is that a ‘no’ on the ticket?”

  He tapped his knuckle on the shiny black metal. “Just slow down, OK? You’re going to get yourself killed driving like that. Just last week, some guy hit a moose—totaled his truck.”

  “Of course,” I said. “My bad.”

  Gravel crunched under his boots as he made his way back up to the driver side door.

  “Was there something else?” I tipped my head back to meet his gaze.

  “It’s just— it’s good to see you.” His expression looked so earnest. “The last time I saw you was...” He dragged a hand through his thick brown hair as a slight flush crept up his cheeks. “ I guess that night in my truck.”

  Why did he have to go and say that?

  This golden-boy jock had been my first kiss and my first make-out session. Maybe even my first love.

  When I didn't respond, Connor cleared his throat and folded his arms. “Anyway, high school was a long time ago,” he said gruffly.

  “Ancient history.” I slid my hands onto the steering wheel, preparing to make my escape. “Hey, so when you drop off my mom’s stuff, can we talk about her death? I didn’t get all the details from my sister.”

  Connor nodded, sliding his sunglasses back over his face, all vulnerability vanishing. “If you and your sister are taking over Rebecca’s work, we have a lot to discuss.”

  5

  Pebbles from the gravel road showered the little trailer behind the bakery as I peeled onto the property. I cut the engine and stepped out.

  This place had changed some over the last twelve years, but not that much. There were a few more touristy stores lining the boardwalk—the area with all the hotels and t-shirt shops right outside Denali National Park.

  I noticed that Rosie had renovated the RV park bathrooms behind the bakery. The outhouses had been replaced with flushable toilets and multiple shower stalls.

  Very fancy.

  The bakery looked the same with its log cabin exterior and cute painted shutters. I walked up the steps to the back door and found it was locked. Rather than walking all the way around the strip of shops where the bakery entrance was, I cut through the couple feet of space between my mom’s shop and the fur shop. Then I climbed through the railing onto the creaky, lopsided boardwalk.

  The black metal patio furniture was locked up with chains. I was surprised Samantha hadn’t set up the additional seating yet. That was something my type A sister would want to check off her list.

  The sign on the door said closed, but I tried the handle anyway. It opened with a squeak.

  I smiled at the cutesy pink walls lining the dine-in area of the cafe. Framed paintings from local artists hung between the windows—all of it for sale if customers inquired.

  The pastry case had been wiped clean, not a single baked good on those glass shelves. Mom wasn’t here to bake anymore.

  That realization sent an unexpected pang of sadness stabbing through my chest.

  I made a fist and knocked on the counter. “Hey! Sammie, you here?”

  When no one answered, I stepped behind the register and headed for the kitchen.

  Pots and spoons hung from hooks over the counter. Steel carts stacked with trays stood near the dish pit. There was a stove and a couple ovens—normal ovens for baking cookies, cupcakes, and pies. On the left side of the room were two thick metal doors. One led to the walk-in fridge. The other opened into the freezer.

  I peeked in the round windows of each door. Both were well stocked with cartons of eggs, tall stacks of butter, milk, cream, chocolate—all those delicious things.

  To anyone else, this place would look like an adorable small-town bakery.

  I knew better.

  I reached the back of the kitchen and opened a red painted door. Magic buzzed through my body as I moved through my mom’s protective wards.

  Behind the bakery was a twelve square foot outdoor area with brick walls that stretched to the height of the bakery roof. Pretty white quartz stepping stones were arranged along the ground, surrounded by gravel. Half-burned candles, crystals, and mason jars of oils filled the cement shelves. Wooden clothespins clipped assorted herb bundles to a clothesline.

  This is where the magic happens, I thought.

  Right in the center of the space stood the wood fire oven. It was a huge dome-shaped structure made with red brick and cement. Smoke puffed out of the tall cylinder chimney. The front of the oven opened up in a half circle decorated with colorful bits of glass—protective sigils that had been passed down through the generations of Craven witches.

  I touched the sigils with my finger, once again feeling the warming tingle of magic.

  The cast-iron oven door was placed in front of the opening, keeping the heat in.

  It looked like Sam had done her duty.

  Sam hated fire, especially witch fire. She developed a terrible phobia of it after she’d lost control as a kid. She never talked about it, but I’d heard the things she yelled out in her sleep. I wondered if she still had nightmares.

  “Sammie! You around?” I called one last time before I slid on a pair of welder gloves and pulled back the oven door.

  Angry orange flames licked the top of the dome. I paused, enjoying that satisfying snap-crackle-pop sound that came from the dry Alaska birch wood. I found an infrared thermometer on a nearby shelf and checked the temperatures in the back, center, and front. It ranged from eight hundred to four hundred.

  “Good girl, Sam,” I muttered as I moved the door back into place.

  As long as it stayed above 111 degrees Fahrenheit, the gate stayed shut and the world kept spinning.

  I put the gloves back on the shelf and closed my eyes. The air in this part of the bakery was thick with magic. The Craven witches had a strong connection to fire. The oven wasn’t just a gateway, it was an energy source for our magic.

  Slowly, I lifted my hands above my head, inviting the energy in.

  It crackled through my body, throwing delicious heat into my fingers. I visualized my Doc Martens lifting an inch or two off the ground. Levitating had been one of the first ways my magic had manifested. What little kid didn’t want to fly?

  The screen door creaked open and shut with a WHAP. “Willa, what are you doing? Get down! Someone will see you!”

  My eyelids flew open and I found myself floating several feet above the ground, my head and shoulders higher than the brick walls that surrounded the oven.

  I flung my hands out for balance, but the blonde with the ridiculous boots had blown my concentration.

  I fell, landing hard on the gravel. I grimaced, slowly getting back to my feet. “Nice to see you, too, sis,” I said, rubbing my tailbone.

  She blinked, staring at me for an uncomfortably long moment. “Your magic’s back?”

  I brushed off the back of my jeans. “Some of it. You?”

  Samantha dropped an armload of birch wood on a nearby shelf. “No.”

  “Have you tried?” I asked.

  “I just got here yesterday. I hadn’t had time.” She folded her arms defensively. “I’ve been taking inventory of the bakery. We’re running really low on sourdough. I tried to bake some, but it’s literally impossible to get it to rise the right way.”

  “It can’t be that hard,” I said, kicking at the gravel with the steel toe of my combat boot.

  “You are more than welcome to try,” she said, swinging the door to the kitchen back open.

  “Nice job with the oven,” I said.

  “It doesn't take a genius to throw a few logs on a fire,” Sam said over her shoulder.

  She was putting on a brave face, but I knew what a big deal it was to her to even go near that oven.

  A lump rose in my throat as I took in this full-grown woman my little sister had transformed
into.

  Samantha Craven had long wavy hair that got blonder towards the ends, an hourglass body, and big blue eyes that sparkled.

  She’d always been pretty, and her slender feminine frame made her look fragile.

  She wasn’t. Underneath that polished Ann Taylor facade, Samantha was one of the most powerful witches in the area—maybe the world.

  I hadn’t seen her since I graduated boarding school. She’d been two years behind me, but I didn’t stick around. We’d taken different paths.

  “I’m starving. Have you eaten yet?” I asked.

  “Not really. The battery’s dead on Mom’s truck, so I haven’t gone to the store yet,” she said. “We had a bakery delivery this morning. I put the stuff in the fridge.” Sam shrugged, her hair spilling over her delicate collarbones. “The sheriff’s department has been keeping an eye on the property until we got up here. Connor’s been by here a couple times already.”

  I cleared my throat. “Um, did Connor say what happened to his dad?”

  “I didn’t ask him,” Sam said. “But I googled it. He died four years ago. I don’t know how.”

  “I figured as much.” I pushed past my sister to get back into the kitchen. “He pulled me over about ten miles out of town.”

  “Who—Connor?” She followed me through the kitchen and into the cafe area. “You saw him already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And you’re OK seeing him?”

  “Yes. It’s fine. He’s just some guy I went to school with,” I said. “I haven’t thought about him in years.”

  “He’s hot, and not just Denali-hot,” Sam commented, strolling over the checkered tile of the cafe.

  I lifted my shoulder in a half shrug. “I didn’t notice.”

  She gave me a knowing smile. “He met me here yesterday to give me the keys to the bakery and cabins. Then he spent the day chopping wood for the oven. I tried to get some info out of him about Mom’s death. Apparently she drowned in the lake near Indiana Jones’ place.”

  “There’s got to be more to it. Mom wouldn’t just drown,” I said briskly. “She knows these woods better than anyone.”

  “I agree,” she said. “But let’s not jump to conclusions.” She took a seat in one of the pink and white striped chairs. “So did Connor give you a ticket?”