“She shot him with her wand. I don’t think anyone saw it, though, but that just means he probably thinks I blasted him off myself in addition to killing his friend. Then the dozens of witches that heard the news and flooded out of Wicked Brew starting speculating about werewolves, poltergeists, curses, and of course, pixies. Right in front of the shocked, bereaved tourists, like it was nothing, because to them it isn’t. So, yeah, hopefully I won’t run into them tonight.”
“Maybe they left town.”
“I doubt it. They probably want to know who did it. Wouldn’t you want to know who killed your friend?”
“I’d probably assume it was pixies, too, but then again I’m from around here.”
“I just hope they’ve arrested the ex-girlfriend already, or will soon. Because…” I knew I had to tell him, but I really didn’t want to. “Well, don’t freak out but there was a cop from Woodshade following me around today. I overheard him talking to the official investigator and he thinks I killed him. To save you from being sacrificed to a Pagan goddess.”
Wesley’s jaw dropped open. “Tell me this is just a ploy to get me to come to Hettymoot.”
“I wish it was.” I cringed. “This cop, Gavin, apparently he’s obsessed with Dewdrop and thinks we’re a radical feminist cult that kills our sons for… who knows why. It sounds like his former partner was a Hetty descendant and died at 23, like his father did. He has all these files with coroner’s reports that he’s not supposed to have from all over and now he’s investigating more because of that stupid genealogy website that will probably haunt this town longer than Hetty’s ghost.”
“It was only a matter of time until the human world noticed us.”
“It seems like nobody takes him seriously, though. But you are on his radar for still being alive, so watch out for a silver Honda civic and a muscular guy with dark blond hair and maniacal green eyes.”
“A silver Honda civic?” Wes laughed nervously. “Great.”
“Oh, no…”
“One of those drove by last night. Twice actually. Right after Dot came home. Why didn’t you tell me any of this yesterday?”
“It only became relevant to your existence a few hours ago.”
“Gemma, I…” he trailed off.
I hesitated before telling him, “You told me not to get used to you being around, so I’m not.”
The silence between us quickly became awkward and I found it unbearable to be in the house with him, so I headed outside to find my dog.
The bundle of silver fur was sniffing out moles near the hyacinth, and based on how dirty her front legs were she’d done a lot of digging so far. I swear, my mutt caught more pests than all the cats my aunts and Dot kept combined.
Bliss lifted her head and saw me, dropping whatever unfortunate creature she had in her mouth. I crouched down as she ran toward me, her tail wagging wildly. This is what I loved about dogs. They weren’t just happy to see you, they were downright ecstatic. You were lucky to get a cat to look up at you when you came home, let alone lick your face. I sank my fingers into her thick husky fur.
“That dog of yours…” Aunt Maudrey had crept up behind me, making me jump.
“What about her?” I shot back, spinning around.
“You better give her a good wash if you plan on taking her to Hettymoot.”
Bliss whined and looked down at her legs, then turned her head toward the river as if she was considering taking a bath herself.
“If?” I laughed. Everybody brought their pets and familiars because the blessing Hetty cast wasn’t just for creatures that walked on two feet.
Aunt Maudrey pursed her lips as she feigned contempt, but then they spread into a wide smile as she dipped down to give my dog a treat from her pocket. She once confided in me that she’d always been a dog person herself, but never had the courage to actually get one. Bliss was the only canine in Dewdrop, aside from the occasional werewolf.
“Clea wants to know why there’s a full sack of potions on your porch.”
My lips curled into a grin. With all the commotion, I’d forgotten to tell them. “Because there’s a sidewalk sale on Sunday.”
“What? No one told us about a sidewalk sale.”
“Exactly.”
Finally, some normal family drama to focus on.
********
Later that evening as we were getting ready to leave for Hettymoot, my aunts were still livid about being kept out of the loop. Aunt Clea was determined to sell every single potion at the upcoming sale, even if it mean undercutting the wholesale price we got from Spark and Elements.
I told her that we wouldn’t have to because midterms at the local state university were coming up. Concentration potions were extra popular then. The fine citizens from Woodshade always made up half the afternoon traffic to the sidewalk sales once they heard about it. To them it was like a clearance sale.
Maudrey was standing at the flattened granite boulder that served as the kitchen counter, pouring a bit of a last minute batch of Concentration into a tiny bottle. Two of her granddaughters watched in amazement as the brown sludge turned into a glowing indigo liquid the moment it touched the enchanted glass vials.
Rebecca and Sloane were in town for Hettymoot and my aunt always used every spare minute of their visits to help them better understand their legacy. Sloane was confident enough to cast the occasional spell back in Ohio. Rebecca was far more timid, like Dot. They had the same blonde hair, too.
I’ve always loved my aunts’ kitchen. Dried herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling and they still cooked up potions in an heirloom cauldron on the huge fireplace. They lived in the original cottage that was built on this property by Merit. It was cob construction with a thatch roof like they did in England, which made it unique from other old buildings in Dewdrop which were mostly rustic log cabins or traditional clapboard houses.
Their home was always warm and inviting, steeped in history. The sink was a large chiseled out piece of corundum, better known as white sapphire, that one of our grandfather’s brought home from an expedition to the Carolinas in the late 1700’s. The room had a modern stove and dishwasher now, but we’d refinished the fronts with the old wood from the cabinets they’d replaced and swapped out the stove burners with gnarled, hand wrought iron versions so that everything blended with the ancient aesthetics.
Sometimes I wondered who would actually live in the place once my aunts were gone. Their grandchildren had lives in the human world and wouldn’t be happy here in a witchy town they only knew from visiting. According to our complex property inheritance code, the cottage would technically revert to me as the eldest of Merit’s female descendants. I was happy in my cabin and Dot loved her own home, but I often felt like I was looking into our futures when I stepped inside my aunts’ door.
“Well, the sun is starting to go down,” I said, looking out the window.
“We only have to bottle three more potions,” Maudrey replied. “Then we’ll get going.”
“Take your time. We can drive my van,” Dot suggested
“We most certainly cannot!” Aunt Clea piped in. “We’ll walk, just like everyone else. It’s tradition.”
I couldn’t help but sigh. I ‘traditionally’ walked to town three or four times a week. Did these women not understand that it was traditional for everyone to walk everywhere before we had cars? Whenever I brought that up, I was reminded that witches had horses, bikes, and brooms, but some things required your feet connected to the ground for spiritual reasons.
At least I had strong legs.
“How’s your back feeling, Aunt Maudrey?” I asked. A lot of older witches drove the town square and walked from there.
“Um, well…”
“Her back is just fine,” her sister answered for her. “Go fetch your brother.”
“Actually, Wesley said he wants to stay home this year.”
“What?” My aunts turned in unison so I could see the outrage on their faces.
“Nonsense!” Clea sa
id.
“He’ll be dead by next month if he doesn’t get the blessing!” Maudrey offered.
So much for optimism. “He’s made it this far…” I said.
“And hasn’t missed a Hettymoot since he was in your mother’s belly!”
“I actually remember that one quite well,” my brother’s voice answered as his shadow darkened the doorway. My aunt’s swarmed him with kisses and cheek pinches, which Wesley endured with a forced smile until he got a blast of enchanted protective dust in the face. “Ouch! Warn me next time. That got in my eyes.”
“It works best if it gets in your eyes,” Clea told him.
“You’re coming?” I wiped a bit of the glittery dust from his eyebrow.
He shrugged. “It’s tradition.”
Aunt Clea’s cell phone dinged. She’d gotten a text. She might have been 92 years old, but she was actually quite technologically adept. “Ooo, hurry up with that last bottle Maudrey. Ariel Pritchard wants us to introduce Wesley to her niece Vivienne. She thinks they might hit it off.”
“We won’t,” my brother grumbled.
“I still think he’s a better match for Samantha’s granddaughter.”
“I’m not,” he cut in, but they ignored him as usual.
“Which one?” Clea asked.
“Nicole.”
“Oh, I can see that.”
“I can’t,” Wesley said, but he was just shouting into the wind.
“Maybe he should meet them both,” Clea said, ignoring him. “But separately. Vivienne is only here for the weekend.”
“True, true. He can meet up with Nicole anytime.”
“Do either of you even care what I want?” my brother asked the women who raised him.
“You really only have to get along with them for a night or two, dear.” Clea pinched his already red cheek.
“All done,” Maudrey said, watching as Sloane delicately placed the last potion into the wooden stand for it to rest. Who knows what they thought of my aunts’ bizarre matchmaking talk. Their mother married a human. “Let’s go.”
“It’s about time,” Aunt Clea huffed. “I told you that you wouldn’t have time to finish.” She always had a shot of Cranky in her coffee.
“We’re walking out the door right now!” Maudrey shot her sister a look. It might have been a minor hex on another night. “Grab those flowers,” she told her granddaughters.
“All of them?” Rebecca asked, eyeing the two huge baskets overflowing with bouquets.
“Oh, that’s right. I put the others on the porch already. Good catch.” Maudrey interpreted her question to mean ‘Only these?’ instead of ‘All this, are you crazy?’ like my cousin had clearly meant.
Dot and our out of town cousins loaded themselves up with overflowing baskets of flowers. I had my own, mostly of single blossoms and a few bundles I made for ancestors that were significant to me. Wesley extended his arm to help Aunt Clea, who if anything was the frailer of the two sisters and needed a ride the most. Aunt Maudrey threaded her arm through mine and asked me three times if I’d brought the separate bouquet of hyacinth as we walked.
Bliss trotted beside us, flanked by the only cats that tolerated her, my aunts’ and Dot’s. All the pets were wearing adorable coordinated ribbons with a hollyhock blossom in the center. I knew from experience that only my dog would abide that through the night.
It was a long, slow walk, even with the Quickness spell Aunt Clea cast on herself and her sister. A 200% boost to their painfully slow pace only brought them up to ambling speed. If only Dot hadn’t spent the day in town looking for love. She was far better at convincing them to take care of themselves than I was.
But honestly, I didn’t mind. I usually took this walk alone in the early morning when the streets and porches was empty. That evening everyone was out and about. Little children wearing flower crowns and carrying reluctant kittens ran ahead of their mothers and grandmothers. Everywhere you looked, you saw reunited families arm in arm. My aunts’ proudly pointed out the flowers they’d skillfully grown through the winter in all the bouquets their many relations were carrying.
At that moment I wished that our immediate family was larger as I often did, or that more of our distant cousins came into town for the ceremony. That was one of the drawbacks with being descended from one of Hetty’s sons instead of her daughters. Other closer relatives like Feather, Luna, and Soleil would be walking with us if not for the richer heritage of their mothers.
Aunt Clea spotted two such cousins, her own great granddaughters Poppy and Rosemary, and called out to them to wait for her. Their maternal grandmother narrowed her eyes at the request, but the girls slowed and waved to her with smiles beaming on their faces. My aunt ran ahead of us, well it was more of a quick shamble, and kissed her progeny on the top of their little red heads. Actually, they weren’t so little anymore. They were shooting up like weeds.
Witches funneled onto the dirt road that lead to the cemetery as blue twilight backlit the gnarled oak trees lining the way. The road started directly across from town square, where the last of the most entrepreneurial witches were quickly closing up their shops. I paused for a moment to try and count the groups of tourists, but the streets were bustling with activity and everyone was carrying flowers, so it was hard to tell. I finally spotted the first group of selfie loving girls I’d seen yesterday morning as Aunt Maudrey poked me in the ribs to keep going.
We all dispersed when we walked through the cemetery gates. There was no wind and the ambiguous floral scent of thousands upon thousands of blooms mingling together hung so heavy in the air you could smell it from a mile away.
It was tradition to leave flowers on the graves of your ancestors and they were already piling up in front of the tombstones of Hetty’s daughters. The most recent graves had the fewest descendants and therefore the fewest offerings, but so many witches were descended from the older generations as proved by the mountains of blossoms that were always at those graves by the time the stars came out. Luna and Soleil had lines leading to two of Hetty’s daughters and both of her sons.
A lot of witches started at their oldest relatives and worked toward the newest. I did the opposite. That meant starting at the tombstone of my father, a man I had virtually no memories of aside from stories and pictures. Wesley grabbed two bouquets from our baskets, one of them for me because I’d forgotten it. We stood next to each other at the edge of the grave.
Chapter 12
“How’s it going, old man?” my brother murmured, brushing leaves off the top of the headstone.
“Oliver Q. Iren,” I read aloud.
Wesley glanced up at me curiously. “Yep, that was his name.”
“That’s about all I know.”
“You have his eyes.”
“Then so do you.” I bent down and placed the bouquet on grass that never grew higher than a few inches.
“You think he ever comes around, Gemma?” Wesley ran his fingers over the engraved name and dates.
“Like his ghost?”
“Yeah.”
I looked around the cemetery. There were lots of spirits here, especially tonight. They weren’t always stereotypically see-through or hovering above the ground. Honestly unless they were historically out of style, it was kind of hard to tell who was living and who was dead with so many people around. But none of them looked like any of the pictures I’d see of my father.
“Well, tonight would be the night, so…”
“I probably wouldn’t be able to see him anyway.” Wesley shrugged, his eyes momentarily falling to the empty grave next to him. All the graves in this row were the eldest son’s eldest son and so on, which meant that one day Wesley would be lying in that one. Eventually. Not necessarily soon, I told myself.
“Maybe he’s resting in peace,” I offered.
“Hopefully. He wasn’t a bright man, even for us.” Wes remembered our dad a little bit.
“Then maybe he forgot what night it was.”
We
both chuckled. Our amusement was cut off by the sound of a choked sob a few feet away. A witch I didn’t know well dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as she tried to pull it together.
“You’re not supposed to cry at Hettymoot,” the ghost of her son reminded her.
“I know, I know. It’s just so good to see you.” He died recently, maybe two or three years ago.
“How’s Polly?”
The mother’s nose wrinkled as her lips quivered. “She’s well. That cat you found her is getting fat. She’s around here somewhere. There.” She pointed to an excited little girl with blonde pigtails chasing a massive gray tomcat.
Resting Witch Face Page 12