A Spell to Die For

by Gretchen Galway

  “I’m sorry I dropped off the face of the Bright green earth,” Flor said. “I got so stressed out in school that I had to spend a year in a Swedish health facility. The witches there were really good at healing my spirit. I was really a mess back then.”

  Compassion reluctantly stirred inside me. “You spent a year in the hospital?”

  “Lots of saunas, lots of coffee, lots of candy,” she said. “The fae were amazing, and the spells were fine, mostly old hearth magic you’d probably appreciate, but it was the nonmagical culture that did the trick.”

  “I had no idea,” I said. “I thought…”

  “Thought I was jealous?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You weren’t the only one. It wasn’t fair, and I knew it too. Merit should be all that matters.”

  “But you’re out of the Protectorate now, aren’t you?” she asked with a smile, as if she didn’t judge me at all for my failings. In fact, they seemed to make me more appealing.

  “I’m out,” I said. “You must’ve heard. Incurable Inability.”

  “And you’d had no idea?” she went on. “You went up against the demon, thinking you could drive the stake through his heart, but then… Pfft? Just couldn’t do it?”

  I didn’t want to talk about it, but I felt an obligation to say something since she’d told me about her breakdown. Maybe the experience had mellowed her. “Turns out I’m not cut out to be an assassin,” I said. “I don’t know why that came as a surprise, but it did.”

  She frowned and gave me a puzzled smile. “It’s not assassination. We’re acting in self-defense for all of humankind.”

  The harp player began to strum another tune, and I gestured at the piano, eager for a distraction. “Don’t let me interrupt your playing. I had no idea you were so good.”

  She shook her head. Her blunt-cut bangs barely moved. “Now I know why they called you Incurable. You’re actually squeamish about killing demons.”

  “That’s basically it,” I said, forcing a smile. Unless a witch had met the supernatural beings I had, who were not all bloodthirsty monsters, she was unlikely to agree with my radical ideas about supernatural justice. “How about you? What are you doing with yourself?”

  There. Safer topic. Anything other than me.

  “I’m working toward my doctorate in Fae Studies, looking for a mentor,” she said. “I need to apprentice for two years to get my degree. I don’t suppose you know any mages looking for an app?”

  This was the Flor I knew. Fae Studies was a popular degree, like Political Science for nonmagical people, very common among witches wanting to get ahead in the Protectorate. “No, sorry. I live up in Sonoma County now, middle of nowhere. I don’t know any powerful mages.”

  Her dark eyebrows rose. “Middle of nowhere?” She glanced around, a smile curving one corner of her lips, and lowered her voice. “Right. It’s supposed to be a secret. Don’t worry, I’ve known for years.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Fae Studies. My year in Sweden sparked my childhood interest in the fae into a lifelong passion.” She put her lips near my ear. “You’re so incredibly lucky to be living near a wellspring.”

  Her warm breath on my neck sent a shiver through me. I stiffened. “Why?”

  She regarded me unblinking through the round lenses of her glasses. The floppy bow rested just above her right ear in the smooth perfection of her auburn bob. As much as when she was younger, she reminded me of a doll. “For the fairies, of course,” she said.

  “To study?”

  “Of course! I live in San Francisco. Look around! There are simply not enough fae in a big city to get the data I need to make a dissertation.”

  “Not even in the park? Or at the beach?” Although I could see the fae who didn’t want to be seen, plenty did make themselves visible, especially in the city.

  “Everyone studies them. The same dryad, the same troll, putting on a show for students year after year to get their vial of springwater—it’s an industry. Nobody will be impressed with that.”

  She had a point. “But you’ll get the degree,” I said, “and it’s what you do with it that matters. The Protectorate will hire you—”

  “Oh, I’m already hired. I’m an archivist’s assistant at Diamond Street. That’s how I got the invitation to the party, that and my connection to you.” She smiled. “I am glad to see you, though. It’s not just for the networking opportunities. I’ve wanted you to know for years that I didn’t hold a grudge about your advantages. They helped me work through that in Sweden.”

  I shifted my weight from foot to foot, unsure how to reply. “Uh, well, good—”

  “If I could find a mage who lives near a protected forest or wilderness, I’d be able to find enough authentic, unusual, wild fairies to use in my research. I need to write something that makes an impact. I need to stand out.”

  “Why?” I asked, honestly confused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you need to stand out? If they’ll hire you anyway, why not just take the job and… live?” I asked.

  We stared at each other. The harpist continued playing without her piano accompaniment.

  “Because I don’t want to just do what’s easy,” she said. “I want to look back on my life and know I did my best. I want to know I took advantage of the one gift I do have—life itself.”

  The little stabbing feeling in my gut was probably my ego taking a direct hit. Since I’d left—er, been fired from—the Protectorate, I’d felt defensive about my more humble, low-status path.

  For as much as Flor had always annoyed me, I had to admire her too for the strength of her spirit. She was a fighter. She was the type of witch the Protectorate should be recruiting, inviting, nurturing, promoting. “Good for you,” I said. “I wish you the best.”

  “Thanks.” She looked around the room, scanning faces and power with a probing spell. “If you run into anybody tonight who’s looking for an app—”

  “I’ll be sure to tell them about you.”

  She flashed her perfect teeth in thanks and went back to the piano.

  The two drinks on an empty stomach had gone to my head, so I went to look for some food. I should’ve brought snacks. Eating the food here would be risky, if the rooftop was a clue of the magic pressed into service for the evening. Brightness only knew what would be in the clam dip. Modern witches scorned hearth magic, but they weren’t above putting sorcerer’s violet or juniper berries in the refreshments as a way of putting their finger on the scale. Love was a subtle thing, perfect for the old magics.

  I found the buffet in another room, wiggled past a trio of Emerald mages wearing enough silver to kill a city of demons, enough platinum to guarantee their invitation to a party like this one, and enough gems for Malcolm to figure they wouldn’t notice if he stole one or two while they were in his home.

  The dip seemed to be infused with nothing worse than dill and garlic, so I scooped a puddle of it on my plate with a crust of sourdough bread and ate it standing near the window, admiring the view of Alcatraz. What fae lived there? I wondered. Sad rock fairies, still feeding off the misery of the imprisoned men, or gleeful trolls, enjoying the daily influx of tourists with their germs, voices, and smells from all over the world?

  “This property is exorbitant, but no replacement for the exceptional item your father stole from us,” a man’s low voice said behind me.

  Belatedly, my defensive spells sent a cloud of protection to the back of my body, enveloping me from head to toe. I held myself still, glaring at Bosko’s angular face in the window’s reflection.

  The Protectorate knew Malcolm had stolen the torc from them, but had been unable to prove it. Now, unknown to them, it belonged to me. They had given up on believing I might have it, the only reason I still did.

  “Don’t pretend the Protectorate is any better,” I said, giving no demon’s balls, as it were, for whatever he thought of me. I didn’t work for anyone; I didn’t have to suck up
like Flor. My hands shook with the risk I was taking, but I was stressed and kept going. “I doubt the agents who found that torc paid its owner a fraction of what it was worth before they confiscated it.”

  “You aren’t even going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said with a snort. “Raynor told me you were better than your father. I didn’t believe him. Time always proves me right.”

  I turned around and looked up at him, noticing he still wore his heavy coat and that the drink in his hand was tap water, not springwater, not wine, not champagne. He wasn’t here to have a good time. He was on duty.

  “Men like you only see what you want to see,” I said. “You’re an ignorant bully.” I braced my knees to stop them from buckling.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, failed little Flint.” He turned and walked away before I could hex a pair of horns onto his head, which was really for the best, but I did regret my slowness.

  So Bosko hadn’t forgiven Malcolm for stealing the torc. The house was filled with undercover agents. The fairies were missing. And a call was going out, inviting everyone upstairs to the rooftop.

  The ceremony was about to start.

  Chapter Ten

  I broke into a jog to find my father and warn him about Bosko before the ceremony. He probably didn’t need me to tell him the agent was on the hunt, but I knew how he would discount danger, especially when his blood was rich with dopamine. One of these days his love of thrills was going to kill him—but I wasn’t going to stand by and let it happen without a brief word.

  It was eleven thirty-three, a powerful number. He wasn’t at the front door anymore; it was locked to all passage now, with a handsome South Asian man wearing a five-strand gold-and-emerald necklace standing guard. I remembered his face from my teenage years, but not his name. My father had trusted him enough to introduce him to me.

  “Brightness be upon you. Where’s my father?” I asked him, hearing the urgency in my own voice.

  He scanned me for a moment with a probing spell. “Upstairs with his bride,” he said. “But you shouldn’t—”

  I broke away before he finished and took the stairs two at a time, pushing past guests making their way up to the rooftop. I took a left turn at the top and strode down the hallway to the master bedroom. When I reached out to knock on the door, a blast of energy sent my fist back, jerking my arm backward at a painful angle. Rubbing my shoulder, I paused and drew from my necklace for focus, then reached my senses through the door to see if anyone was hurt.

  Two people. A significant amount of movement. And moaning, but not the kind that comes from pain.

  Ew.

  I sighed, dropping my hand from my throbbing shoulder. The pain had cleared my head. I wasn’t his guardian. He could obviously protect himself. Maybe Bosko had left his coat on because he had the body temperature of a kingsnake.

  I left and joined the flow of people walking up the main stairs to the roof. I caught sight of Flor, who waved and pushed through the throng to reach me.

  “You should wait a few minutes,” she said. “Your seat’s reserved. No need to hurry for a good view.”

  “I don’t have a reserved seat,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course you do. That’s protocol.”

  We reached the top and walked slowly with the others out onto the deck. The candles around the Circle were blazing, and many seats were already filled with witches sitting with hands clasped around small copper bowls filled with dried flower petals: rose, gardenia, hibiscus, chamomile.

  “Come on,” Flor said, hooking her arm through mine. More of my boundary spells were up now, and I barely felt her. “Facing east in the front row is the best spot.”

  The best spot for me would’ve been in my Jeep heading home, but that wouldn’t be possible for another hour, so I let her drag me along. When we reached the front row of chairs only inches from the glowing edge of the Circle, she tapped a young couple on the shoulder and told them to move.

  “These seats are reserved,” she said, jerking her head in my direction. “Daughter of the groom.”

  They frowned but got up without a word and took seats behind us.

  “See?” Flor asked, sitting down.

  I scanned the crowd for Bosko or the other agents before I took the seat next to her. Suddenly she slapped my knee, laughing, and I decided she was drunk. My own head wasn’t as clear as I would like, so I reached below my chair for one of the copper bowls and pinched some of the mixed flower petals and dropped them on my tongue. The world around me became sharp, clear, exceptionally real. The past and future dropped away—no, it was never here, time was an illusion, there was only now.

  Flor lifted the bowl under her chair, sniffed it, made a face, and put it back. “The old magic doesn’t do anything for me.”

  “It’s not for you. It’s for the couple,” I said.

  She took a flask out of her skirt pocket. I knew it was springwater even inside the spell-blocking stainless steel. “Now this will clear our heads nicely for the big moment.” She offered it to me.

  I shook my head. “No, thanks.”

  “I don’t get why some witches get so addicted to it”—she took a long swig, wiped her lips, then drank again—“but it does help me sober up.”

  When she put the flask away, her demeanor became serious, the springwater having boosted her metabolism. She adjusted the bow over her ear, smoothed her hair, and sat up straight in her chair, one hand idly caressing her bare wrists.

  I looked up at the sky, at the stars I couldn’t see through the city lights, wondering about my mother. Would she be jealous? Maybe she’d loved my father so much, she’d put a spell on him to forget her. That was the sort of romantic, foolish explanation I’d come up with as a child.

  The couple suddenly appeared at the edge of the circle. My father had the rare skill of apparating over short distances, advantageous for a thief. Vera was smiling, hugging his arm, the fabric of her dress sliding off one shoulder. The witches around us began throwing the flower petals overhead into the Circle, casting Bright spells of happiness, fortune, beauty, health, and power. Some of the petals landed in my hair—one of the perks of sitting in the front row—and I didn’t brush it away. It had been a rough year. I welcomed all the good luck I could get.

  Malcolm and Vera kissed each other on the lips, then broke apart. At the same moment, every guest silently stood; the harpist rested her hands over her strings; and the scent of orange blossoms and baked bread wafted over the crowd, filling our minds with images of pleasure, love, and domestic bliss.

  As part of the tradition of entering from opposite directions, Malcolm walked to one side of the Circle, Vera to the side near me. Right and left, up and down, yin and yang, two parts of a whole.

  As they stepped over the candles to enter the outer perimeter of the Circle, I looked for Bosko again. Surely he was here to watch the critical moment when they joined in the middle.

  There. I saw his pointy nose six or seven rows back to the left. Then he dropped out of sight. Malcolm and Vera took their first step into the bed of flower petals, and suddenly Bosko appeared closer, only three rows back, his gaze, bright with malice, locked on the Circle. Surely he wouldn’t interfere now. Why take a man into custody in the midst of a wedding ceremony, in front of so many witches, with so much magic woven into the air we were breathing?

  I stopped doubting myself and stood up. He was going to interfere. I could feel it. I didn’t know why, but my body was sure of it.

  I moved to get around Flor, but she put a hand out to block me. “Hey, don’t go. I worked hard to get you that spot.”

  Her interruption broke my focus, and I lost sight of Bosko. Vera, only a few paces in front of me, lifted the hem of her dress and took a big step into the petals. A sigh of pleasure went through the rows of observing witches. As Flor sighed with the others, she lowered her arm. I pushed past her, searching the crowd for Bosko’s pointy nose.

  There were too
many faces, too many witches, and too many shadows. The candles were low around the Circle, and the fairy lights bobbing overhead had dimmed for the ceremony. A violin began to play a nameless, unearthly tune, sending a shiver through me.

  I spun and looked to my right, then behind me. Bosko was going to grab my father. Some sick revenge fantasy had inspired him to humiliate my father at his happiest, proudest moment.

  There! He was on the opposite side of the Circle, approaching my father. The large candles around the base of Circle cast hard shadows upward across his face, making him look like the Grim Reaper.

  No, surely not Death—

  Again, I shoved my doubt aside and acted on instinct. When your guts told you something, you should listen. When they shouted, you had to act. Quickly.

  Bosko wasn’t here to arrest; he was here to kill.

  I held my breath, pausing just a moment to touch my sixth sense again. I had to make sure I was right.

  Yes, it was Death. I felt Death.

  Fewer than five feet from my father, Bosko lifted his arm and pointed at the Circle, muttering a spell as he crossed the blazing perimeter. The light reflected off a large, pale stone he wore on his right hand.

  An opal ring.

  My breath caught. It was supposed to be locked up at the Protectorate. How could they have trusted such a dangerous object with a witch like Kurt Bosko?

  The ring was the same one that had caused so much trouble at the house party in Mendocino. The opal exposed demonic possession in an otherwise innocent-seeming witch. But, as I’d learned the hard way, it also exposed demon print—the long-ago possession in a human’s background, suggesting he or she was demonic in some way. The Protectorate didn’t care that it was an inherited trait that might mean nothing—maybe the possession had occurred centuries ago and today’s humans knew nothing of it. There was nuance to consider, but the ring didn’t explain what it saw, just responded or did not. It was just the sort of magical object that would be used for evil by a ruthless hunter like Kurt Bosko.