Spell Hath No Fury Page 3

  “Come on, Sis, I thought you’d be happy to see me safe and sound. I’d think you would want to find our father just as much as I do, we’re family after all.” Jett puffed out his chest in an attempt to look intimidating, but there was tension in his shoulders, a stiffness to his stance. He rolled the word family around on his tongue, then spit it out as though it tasted like a bitter pill.

  Jett and I shared a father, plenty of bad blood, and nothing else that resembled what I considered to be a proper family tie. Cupid loved the ladies, given his reputation for spreading himself over a wide area. How many half-siblings might be waiting to pop out of the woodwork was a question I dared not take a guess at answering. So far, Jett had been the only one to come forward. Maybe they all blamed me for our father’s love-‘em-and-leave-‘em philosophy. Cheerful thought.

  Still, I could have cheered when Serena put him in his place.

  “Go take your daddy issues out on someone who cares—a good therapist, maybe. Better yet, try that psychiatrist with the TV show. You’d probably get a discount rate for airing your angst to the world, and if you’re lucky, you’ll find some other fool gullible enough to take up with you, because I’m done.”

  Jett gaped at Serena in disbelief and shook his head, “You’re going to regret getting involved with her, mark my words.” It might have been the first time she had ever stood up to him, and the sadistic control freak had no idea how to take it.

  “I could say the same about you,” I answered for Serena, who leaned back in her chair, rested one arm nonchalantly on the table, and fixed her ex with a smirk. “Oh, wait, she already did. I believe my friend asked you to leave, big brother. Why don’t you do as she says before we decide to hex you six ways to Sunday.”

  Mouth rounded like a fish at feeding time, Jett glanced back and forth between us for a few seconds. I figure he was trying to remember if he’d said anything I could use against him, but got caught up in the attempt to form words around the shock of seeing me with Serena.

  “You wouldn’t...”

  “Try me.” I rose and pulled out my wand, heard the rustle of clothing as Serena did the same. “No, really. I mean it.”

  “I’m...” Jett couldn’t seem to find words and, rightly so, decided he was outnumbered. He pushed back his chair and headed toward the door.

  “And don’t come back,” Serena called out with finality.

  When the door closed behind him, she swallowed hard and burst into tears.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying like this. It must be hormones or something.”

  I sighed and asked a question I wasn’t sure I wanted to be answered. “Do you love him?”

  “No. Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. I loved the way he made me feel important and needed. He told me I was powerful. Now I think he just played on those emotions to keep me in line. But I am going to have his baby, and he doesn’t even know it. I should have told him, right?”

  That was the million dollar question. What would Jett do if he found out Serena was carrying his child? Probably nothing good.

  “If you really believed that, you would have already told him about the pregnancy. Trust your instincts, Serena. It’s usually the best course of action.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  If my calculations were correct, their baby would be one-quarter god and half witch—witch blood trumps human when it comes down through the mother's side—enough of both, I was almost certain, to create a Fate Weaver. Jett knowing that piece of information would be like Pandora’s box and a can of worms opening at roughly the same time and with explosive force.

  “How much did Jett tell you about me and our—parental situation? Besides us being half-siblings, I mean.” I didn’t want to mention the term Fate Weaver to her in case she knew something and hadn’t yet put the pieces together, or worse, had no idea and wanted me to explain it to her. I didn’t know enough about Fate Weavers to be a credible source of information, even though I was one. How ridiculous is that?

  Serena opened her mouth to speak, and then the implications set in, and she looked like someone hit her with a stick. The tears started up again.

  “I never thought...I’ve been so stupid. My baby will be the granddaughter or grandson of Cupid, and I’m a witch. That means I’m carrying a potential Fate Weaver. No wonder Clara’s been looking at me like I have two heads and only half a brain sometimes. Some of the stuff she said makes more sense to me now.”

  Ah, so Serena had been paying attention, though apparently she’d only focused on the demigod aspect and ignored the bigger picture. “I wish I had an inkling of what that means under normal circumstances, but unfortunately, I don’t. I’m guessing my experience would have been entirely different had I Awakened my witch powers at the normal time. What I do know is that both sides of my heritage work together in a unique way—and it’s heightened for me due to the Balefire bloodline.”

  Pointing out the differences in our heritage sounded like a slur, but I didn’t mean it that way.

  “Too bad they don’t make a What To Expect When You’re Expecting - Fate Weaver Edition.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Bottom line, Serena, is that you have the support of the entire Balefire clan, faerie godmothers and all. Besides, I’m a Fate Weaver, and I turned out okay. Don’t laugh.”

  Serena grinned from ear to ear, “Yeah, you’re not so bad. Sometimes.”

  Chapter Three

  THEY SAY HOME IS WHERE your heart is, and while so cliché it makes me cringe, the phrase is one hundred percent truth. My house on the outskirts of the quaint coastal city of Port Harbor had been crowded when it was just me and my four faerie godmothers living there.

  Now, the place was packed to the gills with the addition of my returned-from-the-dead grandmother, Clara; her Raythe-hunter-extraordinaire sister, Mag; and three familiars who shapeshifted between human and cat form, requesting large amounts of salmon at the drop of a hat.

  Still, as I approached the driveway and tuned up my witch senses to pierce the veil of magic that—in theory— kept the neighbors’ prying eyes and ears from taking note of all the weird goings-on, a gentle hum of activity from inside helped calm my jangled nerves. For once, I wasn’t dreading an impending disaster on the other side of the front door. Mainly because my grandmother had a firm hand on the chaos and would not hesitate to put the faeries into her patented brand of time-out if they started a fracas about nothing. Their favorite kind.

  The household had begun to find its natural rhythm and at least a temporary sense of harmony. It helps when everyone has played a role in saving everyone else’s lives a time or two. And when my fourth godmother was spending most of her time with her demon boyfriend. Don't get me started on that one, though.

  Peace and tranquility. Two things I didn’t trust to last but, I planned to enjoy the precarious balance for as long as possible.

  “Rat bastard completely stomped what was left of my cottage right into the ground!” Mag thundered around the kitchen table with her fists in the air, the hem of her mustard yellow batik skirt rustling at her feet. I wondered if the offending garment was a relic from the 1970’s, stowed away in some buried trunk full of fashion faux-pas from years past.

  Dropping my bag on the table, I plunked down a stool at the breakfast bar and prepared to get the scoop. “Who did?”

  “Stupid giant. Goes by the name of Bert. He’s supposed to stay on his side of the mountain, but since I haven’t been around to keep him at bay, he decided to squat in my house. Literally. On my house.”

  “Can’t you guys help with that?” I turned my attention to four unusually silent faeries who avoided my gaze. “Well?”

  “It’s not that simple in the Fringe. Technically, we’re not allowed to perform magic there.” Terra replied.

  “It’s fine for everybody else, though. Seers and readers and witches make mistakes, too, but they all get a pass.” Vaeta snapped. Her temper, though, showed itself in the extra force she used on the bowl of w
hatever she was whipping up. Froth arced up out of the stainless steel and threatened to plaster itself all over the counter, but she whiffed it back into the bowl with a flick of a finger.

  There was a story there, but I didn't want to distract from Mag's problem, so I'd ask for details later. “There’s a difference between turning cards and rearranging the elements whenever it strikes your fancy. And you do have a reputation for being cantankerous.”

  “We’d get ejected and banned for the next ten years. But we’ll take the hit if you want us to.” Fire faerie, Soleil, turned from the stove and offered with more excitement than I felt necessary. Raising a ruckus seemed to appeal to her, but why not? Soleil’s temperament matched her element.

  “No, that’s not the answer,” Mag said loudly. “And I won’t have you getting into hot water on my account. I’ll just find another place.” She patted fuzzy strands of age-whitened hair back into place but kept the sour look on her wrinkled face. Battling Raythes had cost aunt Mag her youthful appearance. One of the perks of being a witch is that we age slowly and live extraordinarily long lives. While my grandmother, Clara, counted her years in centuries, she could have been mistaken for my older sister. In reality, Margaret and Clara were less than a decade apart, but you would never know it to look at them.

  I could sense the frustration in her tone and theorized that although she loved being part of the family, solitude was Mag’s default and she liked it that way. But there’s always a third option.

  “Why don’t we just build another addition on the house?” I looked to Gran, who had maintained her silence up till now, for confirmation.

  “Unless we decide to take up that...” Mag began a sentence.

  “It’s one option. I like us all being together, but I do agree we can’t continue living like sardines in a can.” Gran quelled her sister with a look, and I wondered what was going on with them.

  But since they were offering me their best innocent faces, I let that go as well. "You keep talking about stinky little fish, and the familiars will demand a case of them. I can’t stand sardine breath.”

  Gran smiled, but I could see doubt lurking behind her eyes. I guessed it had more to do with whether the faeries could make it through another remodel without scratching one another’s eyes out. She had laughed like a lunatic when I regaled her with tales from the last time, but it’s easy to find humor in someone else’s miserable experiences and less simple when you’re the one who has to deal with the fallout.

  The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of an expansion. There was plenty of room in the backyard what with Terra's influence turning a postage stamp sized lot into acreage. “This is going to require a family meeting. Salem, go summon Pye and Jinx, and we’ll get started making a list of everyone’s suggestions.”

  “It’s going to take more than a family meeting.” My familiar’s dark words matched his ebony skin. He raised the eyebrow over his green eye and scowled with the blue one. “And why bother with Jinx? Lazy so-and-so never comes out of cat form, and does nothing but hog my favorite sunny spot all day.”

  “Be nice, and stop being such a worrywart. We survived the last remodel.” My mind tacked a barely onto the end of the sentence, but I managed not to let it slip out. Salem was winning our ongoing game of “I told you so” by about 2-1, and if I didn’t engage at least I could cite plausible deniability later. Truth be told, he was probably right.

  I rolled my eyes and raced up to my bedroom to change in case things got messy. On the way, I checked my phone for about the millionth time. No new messages from Kin. I punched in his number and hit “send,” not quite sure what I’d actually say when he answered. Two and a half rings and I got shuffled off to voicemail. Did my boyfriend just ignore my call?

  I declined to leave a message, and instead jabbed at the “end” button and threw the offending device onto my bed.

  Probably working and couldn't pick up—sounded like an excuse rather than a reason, but my philosophy of letting things go today would not be derailed. Changed, I headed back downstairs.

  “Twinkleberry wine or coffee?” Terra raised a perfectly-groomed eyebrow and tossed me a sly grin. Eyes the color and texture of pink granite sparked with mischief. As much as she liked to consider herself a mother figure—or would that be an earth mother figure since that is her element?—she enjoyed jumping into the fray just as much as the rest of them. The same soil that she could coax into producing a tropical plant in the dead of winter could become a powerful weapon in her hands. Still, she made the best wine. Magically potent wine. Best taken in small doses if one preferred to retain any sense of decorum.

  “Both would be wise.” If I didn’t want to end up dancing naked in the backyard and blacking out for an entire day, that is. “Maybe half a glass of wine for me.”

  Carrying a large book under her arm, Soleil bustled back into the kitchen just in time to nod in agreement.

  “This is my favorite book of house designs. It has some great ideas in it, and the pictures are simply marvelous.”

  We all settled around the dining room table with glasses of wine. I took a swig for fortitude and sat back to watch the fireworks show. Bottoms up.

  Elemental and temperamental are more than just rhyming words in my house. They’re descriptions for the four faerie godmothers who stepped in to care for me when a magical mishap during an epic feud landed my mother in a portal prison cage, and my grandmother in the clearing across the street—turned to stone for nearly a quarter of a century. Now that I thought about it, there were plenty of volatile tempers to go around.

  I'd lost track of the number of faerie fights I’d been called on to referee over the years, but I know the signs like the back of my hand. First, the opening insult, followed by great offense being taken, then the name calling phase. If you catch them at that point, it’s easier to diffuse a fight. Once the opening volley of magic gets thrown, it’s better to let them go at it for a little while—releases the pressure—and then you can come in and lower the heat.

  Faerie godmothers are to witches what guardian angels are to humans. Under normal conditions, a witch never gets the opportunity to meet his or her godmother—or godfather if those exist, I’ve never asked—but my conditions had never been normal. Terra, the Fae assigned to me, took over my care when I was left a virtual orphan. She had drawn in two of her sisters, Evian and Soleil, to help with the task.

  The fourth sister, Vaeta, had only joined us recently. Before that she’d committed the grave sin of following her boyfriend, Rhys, to the underworld where she was trapped—or chose to stay, we're all a little fuzzy on the details—for a hundred years.

  I’d grown up with three women of such rare beauty that it fairly swept the breath away to look at them—until they were fighting, and then the pretty took a turn for the scary sometimes. Like now.

  Something Soleil, faerie of fire, said caused great offense to water faerie Evian, which proved correct the adage about fire and water not mixing. Within seconds, they were in stand-off position. Soleil’s short cap of flame-colored hair flicking around perfectly pale skin and her eyes kindling to embers, she rose fast enough to knock over her chair. A sheen of flame encased her body as she prepared to wield her element.

  Polar opposite to her fiery sister, Evian juggled a ball of water between fingers tipped with mirrored nails, and surveyed her opponent with eyes the color of a whitecap wave. Evian’s hair undulated as though floating on a gentle current—until she got riled up and the frenzy turned the current to a whirlpool.

  “Ladies, please. There’s no need for...” Terra’s attempt at an intervention only served to turn the fury on her. Water and fire met earth in a scalding blaze of mist and mud. Vaeta, faerie of air, refused to be left out, and sent a strong breeze—okay, more like a mini tornado—toward Terra. I think her intention was to help, but all she managed to do was fling mud over most of the kitchen.

  I saw the whole thing coming—this was not my first or hundr
edth time—grabbed my glass, and ducked under the table. From my position, I didn’t get to see what happened next, but I heard my grandmother utter a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh before a pregnant silence fell.

  With nothing more than a few droplets of mud clinging to my clothes, and my wine glass relatively clean, I took a sip and waited. Patience can be a virtue in these situations, and Gran was certainly capable of diffusing the fight.

  Frankly, it was a relief to have someone else play referee for a change.

  Curiosity trumps patience, though, and after a final, fortifying sip, I poked my head out to see what was going on.

  Four muddy faeries and two equally muddy witches engaged in a staring contest. Salem and the other familiars had been smart enough to revert to cat forms and scamper upstairs long before it got ugly.

  If I’d been fully sober, I might have kept my mouth shut. “Mudslinging. The true sport of champions.” It slipped out before I could stop myself.

  Mud is good for the complexion, so at least I had that going for me, and for an hour or so, there'd been no time to obsess over the silence coming from my cell phone.

  Chapter Four

  WHERE WAS VAETA AND her magical hangover cure when I needed her? Not that I'd had enough wine to generate much of a buzz.

  Between the upheaval at home, my encounter with Jett, and the Bow of Destiny conducting a never-ending symphony between my ears, I could actually see my temple throb with each beat of my heart. Pain led to tension, and now my neck and shoulder muscles boasted more knots than a sailboat.

  Okay, maybe I did take one or two sips more wine than I should have, but Twinkleberry only bestows hangovers if you’re already tense.

  Gran said the rules aren’t quite so stringent when it comes to casting healing spells on yourself, but I’d yet to achieve even the mending of a hangnail, had no patience for the mixing of herbs at the moment, and the crisp late autumn night air was calling to me anyway.