A Spell to Die For

by Gretchen Galway

  Bright, beautiful images flashed before my eyes: platters of delicious food, smiling people in groups and in pairs, a sparkling view of white-capped sea, rolling hills, blue sky. It was pleasant, but I wanted to focus on the woman who had touched the napkin I’d pocketed, not see a slideshow of promotional images I could find on any travel website.

  Deepening my focus, I touched the edge of the napkin, inviting its secrets to unfold. Vera had seemed nice. Was she really? She’d told my father she loved him. Was that possible?

  Another vision of the panoramic San Francisco cityscape flashed before me, this time streaked with warm, inviting sunshine, a few fluffy white clouds, and only a distant blanket of fog outside the Golden Gate. Involuntarily I smiled, felt my shoulders relax, the tension in my neck release, my breath grow deeper.

  I opened my eyes and pulled my hand away, more suspicious than ever. My father was in deep trouble if he was marrying a witch with the power to hide her nature so effectively on an object she’d only touched once, days after the contact and under my most intense scrutiny.

  The copper wire around my arm grew warmer. Drawing upon it for strength and focus, I stopped scanning the napkin and moved my attention to my body and the thin layer of spirit in the air around me.

  I found a hint of Willy, who had brushed a fragment of his spirit against mine when he’d given me the cup of springwater. It felt playful, intelligent, and very, very old. No surprises there. Then I noticed how the copper wire around my arm bore no trace of Willy, repelling his spirit like water off a duck.

  But… maybe… there. I sensed a foreign magic on the metal, just a sparkle of something, like a single fragment of glitter on a woman’s cheek.

  I frowned, wondering at my analogy. What had made me imagine a woman’s cheek? I chased down the thought. Some lotion and makeup had tiny pieces of glitter in it. Samantha wore makeup. Had I seen glitter on her face? Likely. The contoured eye shadow had shimmered a bit. And the copper wire was from Cypress. I turned my full attention to the wire snaking around my arm, digging deeper into my well of power to see what was hidden.

  A thread. A trail of faint but connected sparkles that led from my arm, over the yard, the patio, along the driveway at the side of the house.

  Hopeful, I got to my feet and followed the trail. It sloped upward from my arm toward the sky. Holding my arm up above my shoulder, I walked around my house, watching the trail of magic extending upward. Could fae be living in the overhanging branches? I thought they’d all departed when I’d moved in, but dryads could be very small, and I was no expert on the fae. Perhaps it was time I worked on that.

  Or could it be one of the other demon-like creatures Seth had mentioned? I scowled at the dark shadows in the trees overhead, worried about the effectiveness of the sweep I’d done when I’d moved in. I had faith in the wards I’d set up that summer around the perimeter, but maybe I’d missed a spot. Witches often forgot the feet as a point of vulnerability on their bodies; maybe a house was vulnerable on the roof.

  I squinted helplessly—it was dark—at the old chimney. Sparing some of my strength for an illumination spell, I pointed my finger at the roof and watched intently as the trail of sparkles linked the copper wire around my arm to the brick chimney top.

  My stomach clenched. Was it worth getting a ladder? My house was small, but tall enough to dread climbing in the dark.

  Playing with my hair, I tried to think of other options.

  If only I weren’t allergic to cats. And if only my ability to transform myself into a cat—a rare gift but one that came with a price that was usually too high to pay—had included the ability to think like a human the entire time I was in my cat shape. Unfortunately, however, my human brain would fail me for hours after the shift, rendering investigation impossible, and then, adding insult to injury, my cat self might refuse to come down from the roof until somebody came to help me down, at which time I would be naked and in the throes of an allergic attack.

  And so tonight, as usual, shape-shifting into a cat had too many limitations to be practical.

  I’d have to do my investigation from inside the house. That’s where something had transported me on Friday, after all. With Random leading the way, I went back inside with my herbs—the napkin, which I didn’t trust, I left outside—and set up a probing spell around the hearth in my living room. Nobody should be coming through my chimney without permission, not even Santa, and it was weeks too early for him anyway.

  Staying on my feet, I spread out my fingers and felt the air above the mantel. When I detected nothing, I used the matches I’d made myself, stored in a walnut box, to light the candles. There were five candles around the room, each handmade with native Californian nettle leaves and a strand of my hair—at the bottom, where it wouldn’t burn and stink up the house. I wasn’t at Seth’s level, but I did have some domestic skills.

  The burning candles enhanced my probing spell, and I squatted down and opened the flue as I focused, alert for any sign of the sparkling lights I’d seen outside. A cold draft swept down, but other than dust and leaf fragments, I saw nothing.

  Stepping back for a broader view, I looked around the room for any sign of disturbance, anything at all. The candles flickered, but their brightness was steady. When I snuffed out the one on the mantel, the smoke that rose from the extinguished wick was pale white, nothing strange about it.

  I bent over and closed the flue.

  Nothing. I couldn’t feel anything.

  I sighed, and Random, next to me, sighed as well.

  Something or somebody had made it as far as the roof, but there was no trace of them inside, so I should’ve been relieved, but…

  It only raised more questions.

  Chapter Seven

  “Why aren’t you here yet?” demanded my father’s text on Wednesday night, the third I’d received in the past hour.

  Hiking up a hill in San Francisco with a priceless view of Alcatraz, I ignored his message and shoved my phone in my bra. The wedding invitation specified ten p.m., and it had just struck 10:01. The binding rites happened at midnight. I was taking my time, wanting to minimize the time spent mingling. I hated mingling.

  The wedding was at my father’s new house, a Pacific Heights mansion that used to belong to a now-disgraced tech bro. I’d never been there and was nervous about where Malcolm had found the millions to buy it. Seth had admitted to me that he’d bought the torc from my father before giving it to me for nothing—but could Seth have possibly paid him enough to buy real estate worth eight figures? And then just casually gifted me something worth that much?

  Short of breath from climbing up Broderick Street, where I’d parked at a lower altitude with quicker access to the freeway, I bent over to tie the laces in my stacked-heel, knee-high black boots. They were closer to witch cosplay than I usually liked to get, but a wedding called for something more upscale than the flat, scuffed pair I usually wore.

  I was procrastinating again. Parties were not my thing, even with people I liked. Malcolm Bellrose was an infamous criminal, but a popular, graceful, rich, fashionable, and connected one. There would be a lot of guests who would tell the Protectorate they hadn’t been there, then brag to their friends and enemies that they had. My father had a way about him.

  Or he had. Would marriage put an end to his exploits? The humble librarian from Denver didn’t seem like she’d be comfortable with my father’s dozens of illustrious acquaintances. I wondered how many of her friends were coming to the wedding. She hadn’t mentioned any family.

  Yes, I was definitely procrastinating. I pulled out my phone and checked the address again. Movie stars lived around here. Senators. Billionaires. My dress was new, but purchased online at a business probably founded by one of the guests. Would Malcolm tell them I was his daughter, or could I slink about and pretend I was somebody’s date? One of the caterers?

  I noticed a homeless man sitting beside a construction sign across the street. A blue tarp and a pile of dirty
blankets were spread out beneath him. He wasn’t watching me, but I could feel his attention.

  Without letting on that I’d noticed him, I continued my unenthusiastic meander up the street, but my heart was pounding.

  I should’ve been prepared for the Protectorate to assign agents to stakeout the event, but I’d been preoccupied with my own problems. Malcolm was popular, but several powerful witches would love to have him arrested. I imagined some would personally hex him into Shadow. If there was one agent I could see, there would be more I couldn’t.

  There was a woman in a green scarf, sitting on a scooter, pretending to take a selfie. I tapped into my focus string of redwood beads, lightly probed the messenger bag slung over her shoulder, sensed the sharp tang of a silver stake inside.

  Startled, I stumbled over an uneven crack in the sidewalk. They weren’t fooling around. I retracted my current of power and used it to build up the wards around my head and heart. If the agent wanted to know everything about me, she’d have to get permission from Raynor to force through my spells. An agent carrying silver probably wasn’t as good at subtle defensive magic as I was. She’d been trained to kill, not spy.

  When she was a block and a corner behind me, I let out the breath I was holding and released some of the power I was focusing on my defensive spells. Temporarily drained, a wave of dizziness overcame me. It took me several long moments to regain my senses enough to realize I was standing beside the side entrance of my father’s new house.

  The building took up half the block. I really, really hoped he was only renting, otherwise that torc was worth more than I thought and would attract thieves much worse than my dad. Maybe Malcolm had simply stolen ten or twenty million dollars in cash from some absentminded billionaire. The thought gave me some comfort.

  I walked around the corner to the main entrance, climbed the marble steps, and waited without bothering to ring the doorbell. His wards would be special today, allowing some witches to enter that he might not otherwise. He’d have erected a magic screen to feel for any arrival he would greet personally. In spite of his many acquaintances, he was solitary at heart and had always lived alone. Well, except for me. And maybe my mother.

  The door opened, and my father stood there in a tuxedo, dashing and gleaming. His new beard, dark without a single gray hair, was trimmed in a subtle point below his chin. Thick waves swept away from his forehead, his hazel eyes lined with dark eyeliner, just a touch of makeup to emphasize his best feature. He’d never been afraid to express himself.

  His jewelry was extensive, in honor of the occasion, his status, and his profession: diamond studs, gold chains, platinum cuff links, ruby and sapphire lapel pins, a stainless steel watch, silver belt buckle, and platinum tie bar. Those were just what I could see at first glance. Like most of the powerful players in our world, he was a metal witch.

  He welcomed me with a handshake. “Alma,” he said, holding my hand between both of his, scanning me as if I were a stranger, head to toe, just like he’d taught me.

  His gaze darted over my shoulder to the street, his eyes narrowing when they fixed on a distant object, probably one of the agents. Smiling, he pulled me inside. “No date?” he asked.

  “Did you really think I’d bring one?”

  “Ironic,” he said, glancing again at the street. “So many want to come who aren’t invited.”

  A young female servant in black and white stood in the foyer nearby, but he closed the door himself. I gave the woman a quick scan, discovered a poorly hidden Protectorate fingerprint, and looked curiously at my father.

  He shrugged. “I’ve made a deal with them. If I allow a select few inside, the others will respect the occasion.”

  A twinge of irritation went through me. What right did they have to harass him? If they had evidence of a crime, they could arrest him. Otherwise they should leave him alone.

  My sudden familial loyalty surprised me, and I shook it off. He’d chosen this life; he could take care of himself. I wouldn’t let my own well-being depend on his again.

  “Are you afraid they might try to arrest you again tonight?” I asked, taking off my jacket and handing it to the undercover agent, staring directly at her until she broke her gaze, dipped her head, and hurried away.

  I regretted giving it to her; if I needed to leave suddenly, I wouldn’t know where to find it. It was my favorite, a burgundy leather jacket that didn’t collect dog fur like my fleece or cotton.

  “They’re always prone to terrible misunderstandings. It’s in their nature.” He gestured at another servant with a tray of champagne flutes, this one an older man without any Protectorate aura, and rubbed his hands together. “Have a drink and celebrate my happiness, daughter! This is a wonderful day. A wonderful transition. A new life for both of us.”

  “Us?” I asked, taking a half step backward.

  “Vera has lived far below her merits for much too long. She deserves the finest things in life.” He took two glasses and handed me one. “She deserves me.” He smiled without a hint of irony and sipped the champagne without waiting for me to join him.

  I wondered if he was right about that. Did she know what she was getting into? Did he?

  “Where did the agent take my jacket, Dad? I don’t want to lose it.”

  “Have you forgotten everything already?” he asked, shooting me a disappointed look. “Can’t you track your own garment only moments after it was taken? And the individual who has it is hardly an Emerald. Surely your meager—”

  “Never mind. I’ll find it myself.” I gulped a mouthful of bubbly and turned away. “Good luck screening out your enemies,” I said, striding through an archway. I could feel the magical hum of a large number of other guests gathered somewhere deeper inside the house. A few witches walked quickly past, holding drinks, commenting on the decor.

  The place was in an overly classical style, reminding me of Golden-Age-of-Hollywood opulence: white marble floors, giant potted palms, indoor columns, twin curving staircases with gold-plated banisters, and a chandelier as big as a Prius, hanging from a vaulted ceiling painted with winged cherubs flying amid a baby-blue sky.

  I drained my drink. What in Shadow had attracted him to this monstrosity? His taste was usually more subtle. He coveted valuable objects, but had never been the type to flaunt his treasures. Wise. It would’ve been impossible for him to enjoy his freedom so long if he’d lived ostentatiously, so close to a Protectorate office, with a big wedding to showcase the fruits of his crimes.

  Using the tracking spell Malcolm had taught me as a toddler, I followed the agent/servant to a small room behind the left staircase, then waited behind a column until she’d hung it up and returned to the front door.

  The small room was lined with coatracks already laden with the outerwear of dozens of witch guests. The agent had hung mine with the other leather jackets, most of those heavy with silver and steel hardware and ornamentation, and I took a moment to scan each one for criminal intent, illegal magic, hidden identities, and—out of habit—demon sign.

  I found everything but the demon sign. The proliferation of Shadow didn’t worry me; I would’ve been more afraid if I hadn’t found any. Malcolm wasn’t a kindergarten teacher, after all.

  My jacket had a Protectorate tracking spell on the collar, which I removed with a snort. Did she think I was incompetent? Well, maybe she did. Everyone at the Protectorate knew I’d been fired for an Incurable Inability to do the job.

  I decided to wear the jacket all night. The marble monstrosity was cold, and my cheap black cocktail dress, from what I’d glimpsed of the elaborate formal wear on the other guests, would draw attention to my poverty. At least in my leather, I looked like I’d underdressed on purpose.

  The magical energy coming from the other witches was giving me a headache. I had no interest in joining them, wherever they were. I looked at my watch, disappointed to see it was only ten fifteen.

  Witch weddings happened in reverse order to a traditional nonmagical one
. First was the party, usually beginning at sunset or evening; then, at midnight, preferably at a full or new moon, depending on the mood of the couple, the rites were held outside. Standing inside a Circle with guests around them, the couple shared their vows. Most were unspoken, an enchantment. Only a dedicated few stayed all night to see if the couple lasted until dawn. That wouldn’t be me, I thought, sliding my arms into my jacket.

  Malcolm had taught me to always case out any unfamiliar place, and so instead of following the noise and magic to the heart of the party, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, casting a spell to make my outfit look like the black-and-white uniforms of the servants so nobody took any interest in me. I wanted to find the spot for the ceremony to see how they’d equipped the marriage Circle for their night under the stars. Traditions varied on if bedding was allowed. Soft green grass was popular, but some stayed on flagstone, earth, or—the very rich—in a pool of springwater. Cold, but prestigious.

  Would Malcolm go for status or comfort tonight?

  “Excuse me, Alma Bellrose?”

  An older woman appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore a dark pantsuit and a few simple pieces of gold jewelry. She had to be a witch, given her ease in seeing me, but an unthreatening one.

  “Yes?” I asked, dropping my attempt at magical shielding. Maybe my father had blocked any disguise spells under his roof.

  “The bride would love to see you,” the woman said, slightly bowing her head.

  Chapter Eight

  I hesitated, reluctant to get swept into Vera’s personal space. We’d only met once, and a lot of magic was gathering to enforce her union with my father. “I don’t know…,” I began.