No Chance in Spell Page 3

  “Oh, Pye, I had no idea!” Gran explained the general gist of how she and my mother had waged magical war against one another and landed them both on karma's naughty list.

  “I was in the same situation as you, and I had to watch Lexi grow up without a grandmother or a mother. I mean, of course, she had her godmothers,” Gran shot an apologetic look toward the faeries, “but it wasn’t exactly a picnic for me either. I’m so sorry!”

  Pye finally conceded, allowed herself to be hugged while she rubbed the top of her head against Gran’s chin. The rest of us retreated to the kitchen to afford the pair a bit of privacy. I had to drag Salem by the scruff of his neck. Judging by the look on his face, I’d say he was about as smitten as a kitten can be. And who could blame him?

  Chapter Three

  AN INCH AWAY FROM THE sturdy six-panel door, my loosely-clenched fist froze before I could knock. Doubts crept from hidden alcoves of my psyche, whispered dire predictions in my ears, and then slithered back into the shadows to seethe. In happy TV families, young women sought heart-to-heart talks with their mothers and grandmothers without fear or whatever nebulous dread was settling over me. Surely I could do the same.

  This would be easy. A piece of cake. What’s so easy about a piece of cake, anyway? I’ve tried baking, and there’s nothing easy about it. People say the weirdest things and standing in the hallway contemplating cake-related cliches smacked of escapism.

  I had questions. Clara had answers. All I had to do was knock.

  “Stop dithering around out there and come in.” No hint of displeasure tinted the command, but I blushed at being caught in a bout of fearful skulking.

  Summoning my courage, I did as my grandmother ordered. Her smile, warm and inviting, chased away most of the nerves. Her hug banished the rest. I relaxed into it for the first few seconds and rested my head on her shoulder before living out one of my childhood dreams and cuddling next to Clara on the bed.

  Missing pieces of my soul settled into the gaping holes my inner child had spent a lifetime skirting, and yet, I had trouble trusting the feeling of wholeness. After a shining moment at the base of a rainbow-hued waterfall with Sylvana—a moment that had, unfortunately, been rife with hidden betrayal—I had trust issues. Who wouldn't?

  Blood calls to blood. Clara certainly called to me. A siren’s song luring the shy waif who spent too much time alone and abandoned, even when in the presence of friends and a caring group of makeshift family.

  Droves of people in this world grew up with far less than I was blessed with, but self-pity is just as hard to banish as it is easy to let in.

  “Can I ask you something?” My breath hitched and caught in case the answer was no. Or yes. Either alternative might bring devastation.

  “Anything.” Such warmth, such gentleness. I basked.

  “Did my...Sylvana, did she mean to kill you?” I would not, could not, use the term mother out loud; and I hadn’t uttered it once since Sylvana proved for the second time in my life that my happiness and well-being fell below the bottom of her priorities list.

  Through the magic of...well, magic, a time traveling ring let me witness the fight that left me orphaned.

  Seeing it play out first hand answered a lifetime’s worth of questions while raising one more.

  With witches, intention during the casting of a spell is everything. Intention and the traits that come down through the blood. That fateful day, Sylvana’s ball of black witchfire crossed with Clara’s binding spell. The collision of wild magics resulted in a blended mess that backfired on both of them and turned me into a motherless child who would grow up wondering how much evil ran in her blood.

  Now was my chance to find out.

  As if searching for the right words, Clara paused briefly.

  “Anger clouds even the wisest woman’s judgment.” The memory of the worst time my temper raged out of control pinked my face with a shameful blush, and I nodded my understanding.

  “Too clever for her own good, Sylvana never aspired to wisdom—only power—and when she didn’t get what she wanted, she lashed out without thinking about the consequences. Trust my daughter to miss the obvious.” A trace of bitterness spiced the truth. “However, as selfish as she could be at times, I doubt Sylvana would have traded her own soul for the death of mine. Does that answer your question?”

  Did it? During the few weeks I’d known her, my mother had tried but failed to hide a mile-wide self-centered streak behind a set of blinders. Pushed to the brink, I wasn’t sure what she might be capable of doing, and she hadn’t spared a second thought for Kin when she chose the Bow of Destiny over saving the man I loved. My happiness never entered into the picture, and yet, I didn’t think she would chance an eternity in granite over a fit of pique unless she’d gone over the ragged edge of reason.

  “If she comes back...” Unlikely, since I’d laid out the unwelcome mat and booted her backside across it without ceremony.

  “We’ll remain cautious, but hopeful.”

  “Hopeful? Are you saying you could forgive her after everything she’s done?” I gave my grandmother the rundown on what happened during the bow-retrieval fiasco. “She would have let Kin die. I saw it in her eyes.” My throat swelled with a painful lump as I relived the moment he’d teetered on the edge of an ebony-shadowed abyss and my mother had done nothing to save him. Some people are redeemable while others carry a stain so deep it blackens their bones. Sylvana would have to move more than a mountain to prove herself to me—providing she cared enough to try.

  “Hate hardens the heart of the hater,” Clara chided gently. “A second chance is a blessing we can give to even the most undeserving souls—one that will come back to you a hundredfold. I’ll be asking for my own second chance should she decide to return, since I wasn’t an unwilling participant in what happened.” A sigh gusted from her lips and my grandmother’s shoulders rounded from the emotional burden she carried.

  “All you did was try to bind her powers temporarily. I saw the spell, and that’s what it looked like to me. Completely justified, in my opinion.”

  “Exactly how many binding spells have you witnessed?”

  “Er...One.”

  “And that makes you an expert?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “It’s easy to see people in black and white. Your mother hurt you, so she’s the bad guy. But you don’t know me, Lexi. Not yet. Are you so certain I’m the good guy?”

  Was I? Did fifteen minutes of observing her at one of the worst moments in her life really give me a perfect picture of my grandmother? Or did I need so badly to believe I came from good people?

  Leaning back against the headboard, I fell silent while I played the whole thing through my head for the hundredth time. Only this time I tried to judge the event without emotion and with a clear head.

  “You thought you killed her. That whole time.” Grannie was a stone cold witch—not literally. Well, not anymore.

  Clara’s face reddened.

  “My emotions clouded my intentions.” And that was the last she would say on the subject. We sat quietly for a few moments, then I hugged her and left the room.

  Clara

  What a mess I’d made of things.

  No, I hadn’t gotten here alone, but I certainly wasn’t an innocent bystander. I’d had an inordinate amount of time to think about what I’d long-considered my last moments of living, and I wouldn’t—couldn’t—pretend otherwise. Sylvana was what she was, but I’d played a role by allowing her too much freedom and offering too much information that would have been better kept under wraps.

  Much like my sister, my daughter was a force of nature. Unlike Mag, Sylvana carried a nasty streak. One she'd taken out on poor Endora, for instance. A more beleaguered familiar never existed, and I was just as guilty for not doing more to stop the abuse.

  Sylvana burned bridges with the children her age. Never seeming to regret being left out of everything. she spent most of her time studying the craft, sear
ching through dusty tomes for ways to build more power.

  I saw the darkness rising in her, but had I done anything about it, really? Besides curse the stars for blessing me with such a handful—the answer was a decided no.

  Now, Lexi had doubts about the moral rectitude of the Balefire women, and I couldn’t blame her. How many years had she huddled near my feet to fret and fuss over becoming a wicked witch? I’d witnessed the tug of war she’d been forced into; alternately wishing to gain her power and fearing what type of witch she’d become if she did.

  And I couldn’t move a muscle; much less do anything to soothe her weary nerves.

  Well, I’d make up for it now, with interest. I’d do whatever I could to make her feel happy and secure. Sure, now that she’s grown and can take care of herself, a little voice goaded me.

  Lexi has more power and prowess than any Balefire I’ve ever known, but she still doesn’t know how to fully use her gifts, I whispered back. I’m here now, to teach her.

  Shame, I could deal with. Self-pity was easy to cultivate, and anger could pull you into its undertow as easily as a summer breeze plucks petals from a flower. But regret? That was the worst kind of curse.

  I might not be able to change the past, but I certainly wasn’t going to allow myself to repeat it.

  I would be better for Lexi than I had been for Sylvana.

  I’d give her all the things she’d longed for, and all the things she’d never thought to want.

  I would.

  Chapter Four

  LEXI

  You know what they say about death and taxes, right? Well, the same adage applies to work, especially when you run your own business.

  Clients needed me back in the office, and didn’t care what I might miss while I was gone. Sure, things were hectic, considering how many people now lived in my house. Four elemental faeries and three witches made for seven of us crammed into the place.

  Two familiars brought the total to nine, and when I could talk him into staying, Kin rounded the count to ten. Until Mag's familiar finally toddled up to the door and then we were eleven.

  Salem happily indulged in a massive amount of shop talk with not one, but two full-fledged, highly-trained witches in the house. Add a hot familiar to the mix, and he could barely contain his glee.

  Or the constant snarky remarks on my lack of knowledge.

  “You’re not leaving. We have a full roster of witch training today.” He said when I passed him on my way to the coffee pot.

  “I have a few work-related things on the books for this morning. I’ll be home in the afternoon.”

  “Don’t be late,” he sing-songed.

  I matched his tone. “Don’t be annoying.”

  With my mind occupied elsewhere, my official training in the witchly arts ran at a pace that made a snail look like a sprinter. As my familiar, it was Salem’s job to teach and assist me. Not to clean up my messes or serve as an errand boy.

  To heap irritation on top of annoyance, Salem didn’t seem to think my street smarts held as much weight as a formal education, so he often treated me like a child.

  Coffee in hand, I snagged a still-warm pastry from the tray Soleil had left in the oven. Singeing my fingers was little enough to pay for the faerie version of a Pop Tart. Flaky crust filled with mixed berry preserves. Delicious.

  “Tansy Blankenship. Why does that name sound familiar?” Clara, I learned, liked to watch the morning news over breakfast. A habit none of the rest of us appreciated. The godmothers had little interest in current events, and I just wanted coffee and peace—not that I usually sampled both at the same time. Speaking of less-than-peaceful things, where were the godmothers? It wasn’t like them to cook and run.

  Having picked up on the new technology faster than I’d expected, My grandmother paused and reversed the live news feed.

  “...Identified as Tansy Blankenship, age twenty-six, who was last seen on Friday the 13th. Port Harbor police are asking anyone who might have seen or heard from Ms. Blankenship in the days before she went missing to come forward. The investigation is ongoing.” A photo of a woman with dark hair and pretty eyes flashed on the screen. When the announcer moved on to the next bit of news, Clara lowered the volume and turned to me.

  “You must have known her, she was about your age.”

  Rifling through my sleep-addled brain failed to produce anything more than the niggling sense I’d heard the name before, so she must be part of the witch community. “Sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why. I might have heard the name somewhere, but I’d need another cup of coffee to come up with the context.”

  “Where’s the phone book? I’ll look it up, maybe that will jog my memory.” Clara seemed a little uncomfortable asking where to find things in her own home. This must be a strange transition for her.

  “We stopped getting them a couple of years ago. Easier to look up numbers on my cell. “Here,” I handed her the device I carried practically everywhere. “You just touch the search box and type in her last name using the on-screen keyboard.” I showed her by typing the first couple letters and let her do the rest. “Add Port Harbor after Blankenship, press the go button, and that should bring up a list for you.”

  Clara had all but missed the onset of the computer age. Those twenty-five years ushered a lot of changes into the world, many for the better, but not all.

  Frowning with concentration, she tapped the name in slowly and grinned at me when the list popped up. I had a feeling Clara would enjoy certain aspects of being a modern witch. I should introduce her Flix. My best friend and business partner loved all things digital.

  “That’s it. Tansy is Letitia Blankenship’s little girl,” she mused. “Not so little now, I guess. I’ve missed so much. I wonder why Letitia never brought Tansy over to play when you girls were younger.”

  I had a theory about that, “Probably thought the wickedness would rub off. This wasn’t a popular hangout for the Port Harbor witchy crowd between one Beltane and the next.” I hadn’t been shunned outright, but neither had I been welcomed into the flock.

  “Me not having magic and all.” My eyes narrowed, and the corners of my lips curled into a scowl at the memory. “Something tells me things will be different with you in the house.”

  “My friends have a lot to answer for,” Clara said darkly.

  “Please don’t fight with anyone on my account. I made out just fine and other than losing so much of the time I could have spent with you, I had a happy life.”

  Terra chose that moment to walk through the door, and I caught the pride on her face, followed by a hint of sadness before she smoothed away the expression. Everything could change. As much as I wanted to simply add my grandmother into the household and go on as one big, happy family, there would be a lot of adjustments to make. Not all of them by me.

  Clara clicked the remote, and the TV went silent while Evian, who’d been just a few seconds behind her sister, glared at it in horror. I remembered that look from the day I’d brought the little flatscreen television home.

  I’d had the bright idea that if I had access to cooking shows in the kitchen, I might learn how to do more than boil water. Amid vociferous protest, I’d hung it on the wall and then taken so much flak for it being there, I’d never once turned it on. The faeries would cook, I would eat. That was the natural order of things, and there would be no further attempt to flout the status quo.

  “What’s wrong? You look like someone burned down the barn around your prize cow.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Evian’s choice of metaphors but answered anyway. “A young witch turned up dead last night, and grandmother knows the family.”

  “Someone’s dead? Who?” Mag walked faster than a woman her age ought to be able to move. She listened intently as Clara provided what little information she had learned from the news broadcast. “Letitia Blankenship’s girl. She’d be just a year or two older than Lexi. Reading between the lines, I’d say foul play is a distinct possibility.”
>
  A look passed between Clara and Mag that I assumed had to do with being glad someone else’s family had experienced tragedy and then feeling bad about feeling glad; a typical response to this kind of news.

  Resolving to push the sad event from my mind, I walked to work and thought of nothing else the entire way.

  I live on the outskirts of a quaint northeastern coastal city traditionally known for its lobster and fish trade, but which, in recent years, has become a mecca for modern-day hippies. Personally, I like it better this way.

  Parks and community gardens grace nearly every empty lot, flowers and vegetables flourish in the spaces between buildings, and on almost every street corner and rooftop in the city. Each weekend sees a festival winding its way through the already-cramped historic district, and nary a day passes where I don’t hear the sounds of street-side musicians wafting through my office windows.

  Port Harbor enjoys a reputation for being one of the safest cities in the country, and I hated to imagine a murderer haunting her streets.

  What if Tansy was a target because she was a witch? Did that make me a target, too? Scenes right out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer played through my head, each one with Tansy as the victim. Demons, and faeries, and shifters. Oh, My.

  While thoughts of murder ran through my head, I scanned faces for evidence it was time to pull out the Bow of Destiny and take a pot shot in the middle of the street. That I had no idea how to access the weapon, no clue who I was supposed to use it on, or how to hide my actions so I didn’t end up in jail were just details in the landscape.

  Love in the midst of death.

  I trudged the last few blocks and opened the door to my office. Long before I understood there was a reason for it, my innate power fueled my working life. Touched by Cupid in a very literal way, I’d managed just fine without any fancy tools or tricks.

  There were no bells and whistles at FootSwept—my partner, Flix, finally got me to agree to schedule appointments using a notebook computer, but I didn’t touch it unless I had to. We didn’t videotape our clients, and we didn’t set them up with dozens of potential matches or send them on cringe-worthy blind dates.