Dead Witch on a Bridge

by Gretchen Galway

  “I needed to put it somewhere I’d be sure to notice if it went missing. You’ve got a reputation for lifting things that don’t belong to you.”

  “Says the daughter of the most infamous magic bandit of our age.” Eyes shining, she swept the vial into her palm and held it to her forehead for a moment before tucking it into her own bra. “Don’t get fresh,” she said, patting her breasts with a chuckle.

  “Five items, you said.”

  “You’re going to feel cheated, but that’s not my fault. These are everyday items you probably already have or could easily get, but like your Protectorate overlords—”

  “Please. Just give me the goods.”

  She flung up her hands. “Fine. You’re missing out on so much of the fun though when you give up on the drama. It’s really part of the magic.” She went over to a cupboard and took out an enormous black cast-iron frying pan, an object so heavy she used both hands and held it unsteadily.

  She set it on a padded cushion in the window seat overlooking the garden. “First item,” she said. “Iron.”

  “What do I do with it?”

  “Didn’t they teach you anything at that fancy school your father sent you to?”

  I’d spent most of my adolescence parked in boarding schools up and down the West Coast. Some were for witches, most weren’t. “The culinary arts teacher used nonstick.”

  “Iron. You need iron. Malevolent spirits can’t stand it.”

  “I hope I don’t have to hit them with it, because it looks hard to lift.”

  “You’ll use it as a cauldron. With a few other things.” She went over to an antique cabinet painted bright blue and opened the pair of the doors over a shelf of decorative plates. Inside was a row of ceramic canisters, each marked with runes I didn’t recognize. “I assume you already have lavender and rosemary in your garden.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yarrow?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “How can you not know if you have yarrow?”

  “I may have deadheaded all the flowers when they got messy. Will the roots do?”

  “Not in this case,” she said, popping the cork from a canister and reaching inside. “I’ll give you a palmful of the dried petals. Next year you should save your own. You’ve got a garden. Why aren’t you storing the harvest? I thought you liked botanicals.”

  “I do.” Trees were botanical, and wood came from trees.

  “Other than trees.”

  I didn’t want to offend her, but modern witches weren’t as fond of plant and animal magic as they’d been in the past. There was more emphasis now on using metal and stone to amplify the mysterious and unpredictable magic that came from inside one’s own body. Relying on a cornucopia of dried herbs, bodily fluids, lucky coins, seashells, black velvet bags, fingernails, colored ribbons, moon-shaped stones, whatever—was old school, old-fashioned, old wife.

  When I told my former coworkers at the Protectorate that I now made my living selling wood bead necklaces, carved and threaded by hand, they gave me pitying looks or rolled their eyes or laughed in my face. It was the witch equivalent of announcing I was living on a commune without electricity and making my own granola out of oats and raisins I’d harvested myself.

  “I also have cedar, buckeye, oak, pine, and manzanita,” I said.

  “You like trees,” she said.

  “I like trees. And so do my customers. Wood has a wider market than yarrow petals or burnt acacia leaves, and it makes better jewelry.”

  “You’re responding to the market,” she said.

  “I have to make a living.”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose I can relate to that. You need to make a living.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  She leaned closer to me, pointing one stained index finger into my face. “But this is more than making a living. This is about being a witch, the best you can be.” Her voice dropped, and she held my gaze with hard eyes. “This is about your ultimate purpose. The gathering, the acquisition, the storing, protecting, and categorizing of the one most important thing of all.”

  I glanced at her canisters. “Herbs?”

  She slammed her hands on the counter. “Knowledge. Your purpose, every witch’s purpose, is to acquire knowledge.”

  “Yes, yes, I know—”

  “You don’t know. You’re taking magic for granted. It revealed itself to you, and you have a duty to learn as much as you can. Most of humanity is blind. Most witches today are myopic, hoarding their amulets and wands and chalices and pendants as if those objects were the treasure. No. Knowledge is the treasure.”

  I’d heard her complaints about the Protectorate many times before—she shared them with all the novices sleeping in her basement—but I’d never heard her talk like this before. Her tone was personal, intense, sincere.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You have brains,” Helen said. “So many don’t. You need to use it. Really use it.”

  “I just want to stay out of trouble. Tristan is dead. The Protectorate wants to blame me for whatever my father has done—”

  “You don’t have the luxury of staying out of trouble. You need to seek it out. You must be brave, unearth secrets, find answers. You can’t just draw a protective circle around yourself and hide like a gnome.”

  I cleared my throat. “Why not?”

  She turned aside, snorting in disgust. No. Anger. Her hands were clenched at her sides, her entire body tensed and shaking.

  Suddenly she shoved her hand down her shirt, pulled out the vial, and came at me, forcing it into my hands, closing my fingers around it so tightly I cried out.

  “Keep it,” she said.

  “No, please—”

  “You want to be safe? With enough vials of this you could pay a dozen highway goblins or an army of bridge trolls to stand guard around your house for as long as your mortal form walks this earth,” she said. “Nobody will be able to hurt you. You won’t be able to leave, of course, but no matter—you’re not interested in freedom.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  She picked up her mug of ginger tea and dumped it into the sink. Random got off my foot and walked over to a colorful rag rug near a heating vent, then slumped down again with his back to me.

  I felt very unpopular.

  “What can I do, Helen? I got kicked out of the Protectorate because I don’t have what it takes to fight Shadow. I keep to myself and don’t hurt anybody. Why isn’t that enough?”

  “You slept with that man, did you not?”

  “Who didn’t?” At the time I’d been flattered, only later learning Tristan had had a reputation for flattering every woman he’d met.

  “His sleeping around isn’t the point. You liked him enough to share yourself with him, and now he’s dead, probably at the hand of somebody you know, witch or fae or demon, maybe even nonmag human. If I were you—”

  “You’re not. You’ve got herbs and money and a house and a lot more experience than I do.”

  “I’ll give you the herbs. And a few other things, including the benefit of my experience, to protect yourself,” she said. “But you have to put your own desires into the spells, or they aren’t going to work any better than a love potion would work on a corpse.”

  I looked at the vial of springwater in my hands. I knew she was right. I had to know what had happened to Tristan, not only for my own safety but for his hurt, lingering soul.

  I set the vial on the counter and stepped back, acknowledging I’d lost. She’d been right all along. I had no choice. I had to know; the compulsion to know had gotten me out of bed that night and had propelled me to her door.

  “All right,” I said. “Teach me everything. I’ll be ready to fight if I have to.”

  She clapped her hands together and laughed. “Hah! Ginger tea. Works every time.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was dark when I got home. Random was curled up on the seat next to me, his rear legs hangin
g off the edge and bouncing with each bump in the road. I parked and put my hand on his soft, warm fur, invisible in the darkness, and stroked his ears. Now his collar held a jade disk with a square hole in the center. Also a cheap aluminum tag from a pet store off the freeway in Petaluma, engraved with Random in block letters and my phone number. The jade was to protect him from malevolent spirits, but when I’d strung it around his neck, I’d watched carefully to see if he recoiled, even slightly, but he’d seemed to take the collar and its charm in stride.

  Helen had given me a Trader Joe’s shopping bag filled with the objects she promised would help me repel evil and pursue truth. I hoped she was right. The Protectorate favored the hard magic of metal and stone for a reason: it was consistently more powerful, more reliable, more measurable. The old herbal concoctions were like supplements from the vitamin aisle of a grocery store, mostly likely to work if I believed in them and just as likely to cause unpleasant side effects.

  But I’d gone to Helen because I’d used up the limits of my own magic and knowledge. I had no regrets and was eager to get started.

  On my way into the backyard, I picked the tiny dried leaves off my blueberry plant at the side of the house, a pitiful skeleton of twigs that had given me about seven blueberries all summer, and shoved the harvest in my jacket pocket—she’d said I’d only need a few because they were powerful—before I stopped by Willy’s tree.

  “Good evening to you, fine gnome,” I said.

  He appeared the way spirits can if they’re in the mood, immediately, without following the rules of physics, flashing into view like a lamp turning on. “Welcome home, Alma Bellrose. Were your travels arduous?” In one hand he held the acorn cap he used as a cocktail glass; in the other was an old-fashioned lantern that shone with fairy light.

  “Can’t complain,” I said. “Have you seen any activity around the house while I was gone?”

  He ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’ve been drinking the springwater,” he said, holding up his acorn cap. “The solstice approaches soon enough. I no longer have to be so stingy with it.”

  He journeyed to the wellspring in December and collected a tiny bottle that he made last all year.

  “Enjoy yourself,” I said. “Glad nobody’s bothered you.”

  He saluted me with the cap eyes twinkling and faded into the hole at the bottom of the tree trunk.

  Random was relieving himself in the grass, and as soon as I opened the kitchen door, he galloped inside to his food and water bowls. He stared at me until I filled them both.

  I liked having a dog. I did wonder how he got along with cats.

  The house was dark and quiet for once. I’d left the goods inside the Jeep so I’d have my hands free to defend myself and Willy if necessary, but after assuring myself it was safe, I went back to get the bag and heavy cast-iron skillet.

  Now the fun could begin.

  In spite of the circumstances, I was smiling. I loved learning new things. Helen was right about that—knowledge fulfilled me more than anything else ever had. The Phoebe Days of the world wanted wealth, power, and prestige, but I was happy with knowing more than was necessary. In fact, I was miserable if I didn’t know. When the Protectorate had refused to give me a good reason to kill Seth, it had begun the unraveling of my career.

  “All right, let’s do this.” I set the heavy skillet on the stove and cranked the electric burner to high. A gas stove would’ve been better, but I got what the landlord provided and couldn’t afford more. When the burner ring was glowing red, I sprinkled the blueberry bush leaves into the iron frying pan and watched them curl, brown, and then smoke. When the first tendril reached my nostrils, I spat into the pan and jumped back as it sizzled.

  I took a gulp of water from the bottle Helen had given me and spit into the pan again. More sizzling and a stink I couldn’t describe in words, like burning hair and fried chicken and orange juice. When the bottom of the pan was covered with the simmering liquid, I turned the heat off and sent out my first spell.

  My own spells are usually silent. I don’t chant or sing anything. I just, as Helen accused, use my beads to focus my thoughts. Like praying. I visualized my desire for safety and protection and sent it into the liquid with a push of my mind—although technically its center was near my throat, halfway between head and heart.

  Now I’d have to wait for it to cool.

  “Random, how about a nice brushing?” I asked him.

  He was asleep on the floor and didn’t respond. I took out the dog brush I’d gotten at the pet store and squatted near him, hoping he was the type of dog to like grooming. I hoped there was such a dog, because I needed a lot of his fur for this spell to work.

  “Dogs are protective,” Helen had said. “But they can’t be everywhere you need them to be, so you’ve got to spread them around.”

  After I’d freaked out a little, telling her that I wasn’t going to be doing anything violent or nasty to my volunteer companion animal, no matter what he was or who had sent him, she comforted me with the news I’d only need his fur.

  And he had a lot of that. In just the brief period he’d been at my house, he’d shed tumbleweeds of black fluff that were now bouncing around the floors. I would collect those too, but I needed more.

  With the first touch of the brush on his back, Random jumped off the floor like a rocket and began licking me furiously. I tried to brush him while he moved around, lunging and chasing after him, but he was too fast. I tried again and again. I offered him turkey and peanut butter, but he wouldn’t allow it. I was able to yank one large matted chunk of black fur out of his tail as he danced around, but it wasn’t enough.

  I didn’t want to use a sleep spell on him because it would reflect back on me, and I needed as much alertness as possible to stay up doing the rest of my spells.

  It was almost a half hour before he finally settled down and fell asleep again. With a quiet spell, I crept up on him with a pair of scissors and hacked the hair off his tail in three quick snips. There hadn’t been much fluff to begin with and now even less. I regretted the visible dent, as did he, but it would grow back eventually.

  “Sorry, friend,” I said.

  He ran to the other side of the kitchen and curled up in a corner, one eye cracked open to watch for further assaults.

  The black dog hair went into the black frying pan until it was a soggy wad, which I then scooped into a black velvet bag and tied with a black drawstring. As it dripped on the floor, which was the point, I strode across the kitchen to the back door, sprinkled it along the threshold, and continued outside.

  Willy stood on my deck, watching me, as far from his tree as I’d ever seen him. I knew he traveled but hadn’t witnessed it myself.

  “Strong magic you’re brewing, Alma Bellrose,” he said, hands clasped in front of him.

  “I’m afraid of trouble coming to town with the Protector dead,” I told him, a little spooked by his closeness. “A witch in San Francisco is guiding me. Have I offended you?”

  “I must ask you the same thing, for the magic you use is aimed at the fae and would be useless on the man who calls himself your father or the unspeakable one who visits and makes you forget your love for your recently departed.”

  Willy seemed to have a particular antipathy for Seth Dumont. “I am using many spells the other witch gave me,” I said, “in case the enemy is a malevolent spirit.”

  “So you do not fear me then?”

  “Of course not, Willy. In fact, I hope these spells will help protect you as well.”

  He pulled his lips into a grimace. “That one will only do so because its odor is so offensive to me I must move myself deep into the ground to escape it, where none but the gophers and earthworms will find me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, but I was more hopeful now that its nastiness would work even better on evil spirits.

  He vanished, and I continued my march around the outside of the house, dodging the overgrown shrubs and weeds as I sp
rinkled drops of wet dog fur and toasted blueberry leaves around the perimeter.

  Willy’s behavior had supported Helen’s claim that the first spell would repel the fae. Now I needed to block the other dangers.

  I got to work collecting twigs from my acacia tree.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I was on my hands and knees in the kitchen when I was startled by a knock on my back door. It was past midnight—who would be visiting this late?

  And how disappointing that all the spells I’d enacted so far were obviously ineffective. I squeezed out my sponge, got to my feet, shrugging off the idea of washing my hands, and went to the door. Instead of opening it, I waited, listening and feeling for danger.

  “Alma? It’s Birdie,” said the voice on the other side. “Are you there? I’m sorry if you’re not. I’ll come back tomorrow. It’s just I saw your light and I know you can be a night owl like me, but maybe you don’t want company, totally understand that’s—”

  I opened the door. “Birdie.”

  She waved a few fingers at me. Wedged beneath her arm was a golden-orange shipping envelope. “I know it’s late. I’m so sorry, but I saw your light and I know you can be a night owl like me, but maybe you don’t—”

  “It’s fine, no problem. Is anything wrong?” I didn’t invite her in because—well. Because.

  “What’s that smell?” she asked. “Oh no, did your puppy have an accident?”

  Realizing that was a perfect excuse for why the kitchen floor reeked of urine and why I was on my knees with wet rags, I stepped aside and invited her in. “You know how it is,” I said with a shrug.

  Birdie cupped her hand over her nose and mouth. “Wow, I didn’t realize dogs could, you know, make so much.”

  The dog hadn’t. A witch’s own urine was supposed to be an effective protective spell. Not effective enough, apparently, because Birdie walked deeper into my kitchen, looking around.

  “Where’s the guilty party?” she asked.

  Poor dog. “Sleeping on my bed.” In the end, I’d had to send him to dreamland with a sleep spell, and I’d just finished my third can of coffee to compensate.