Once Blessed, Thrice Cursed: A Sister Witches Urban Fantasy #1

by Coralie Moss

  Putting myself in the mindset of a witch who wanted to help a powerful water mage find his mate, I began a list of what I would look for in a suitable match.

  Their magic had to be compatible. Which meant nothing too fiery, because with all the power Rémy wielded—and which he’d demonstrated by immobilizing Kostya and Beryl—he could drown out fire magic simply by exhaling. Air could play with the surface water. Air could also move water, if it came in the form of wind. But we’d seen last night that Rémy’s ability to manipulate water included a lot of moving air.

  Which felt a bit…redundant. Or more like something he’d look for in a business partner.

  That left earth. Earth could be molded into vessels that held water. Earth could be banked in order to help direct water. I tended to lump humans—and humans with trace amounts of magic—into the earth element category.

  I put earth at the top and noted we might be looking for a human. I followed earth with air, water, and fire, and glanced at the entry’s middle line where my mom had written F. C= yes. V= no. $= no. Land= no.

  Mom’s shorthand wasn’t blatantly obvious. I flipped through the ledger. An index card had been taped to the inside of the front cover. Rémy was looking for a female. He wanted children. The female did not have to be a virgin or come with a dowry or land holdings.

  How thoroughly modern of him. I scanned the paperwork for more abbreviations and added widower and octogenarian to what I knew. He was remarkably fit, physically and mentally, for a being in his eighties. But maybe mages lived longer than I knew.

  I wasn’t convinced I was getting anywhere. My cell phone lit up with a text from two floors below. I sent a smiley face emoji to Kostya in response to the question of how I was doing and went back to sorting and sifting.

  On the far right of the page Mom recorded the amount of the deposit and the money owed. I gave a low whistle. She’d quoted Rémy the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. With that kind of an income, Mom could have had our out-of-the-cardboard-box dinners catered.

  I sighed, shook my head, and reminded myself I’d had a very happy childhood and never felt I lacked for anything.

  I returned my attention to the ledger. In the final column was the number ninety-eight, written in green ink. I ran my fingertip up that column. Each client entry had a number, some written in green, some in red. I flipped forward to Kostya and his two brothers. The final columns in their three rows were blank.

  “Ninety-eight, ninety-eight…” I shivered, scanned the desktop, then lifted my gaze. Bolts and folded stacks of fabric lined those shelves. Nothing appeared to be labeled or numbered.

  Pushing back the chair, I tugged open the deep drawer on the left, rifled through the tabs, and read the label on each hanging file.

  Demon, Reformed Realm.

  Demon, Unallied.

  Fae, Seelie.

  Fae, Unseelie.

  Human.

  Huh. Mom had human clients? I stuck two fingers into that file and nudged the halves apart. Inside were a couple of pages of monogrammed writing stock and an envelope with a canceled stamp from a decade ago. I left that curiosity for later.

  Mage.

  Necromancer.

  Sorcerer.

  Vampire.

  Were-creature.

  Witch/Warlock.

  Uncategorized.

  The thinnest files belonged to the human and both realms of Fae, and the thickest went to the mages, and witches and warlocks. I jotted a note to go through the mage folders and see if we could locate a satisfied customer. If we did, and they were willing to talk to us, maybe we’d begin to get an idea of how our mother decided who fit with whom.

  What if her pairings were based on reading tea leaves, rune sticks, and tarot cards? What if there was a network of Magical matchmakers that she was part of that drew their matches from a vetted pool of candidates? And why—why—didn’t Mom just put everything into a computer, which would have made this whole search easier? Because she didn’t believe in databases? Because she didn’t imagine she would be leaving her business without having someone ready to take it over? Because she intended to tell us about her work eventually?

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs announced company. The scent of chocolate wafted into the room, followed by a smiling Beryl and a smiling, handsome devil of a demon. “We’ve brought sustenance,” she said. “Did you find anything?”

  I welcomed the marshmallow-topped, oversized mug into my grabby hands and explained what I’d found. “Though there’s a riddle in here I haven’t solved,” I said. “There’s a number at the end of most entries. Rémy’s is ninety-eight. Have either of you seen anything up here, or downstairs, with numbers on it?”

  “All of the information we’ve seen thus far relates to the client seeking a match. What if that number represents Moira’s suggested mate?”

  “That would make sense, but where did she keep her numbered list of candidates?” I sipped at the cocoa and let it soothe my nervous system. Chocolate was a gift from the gods, a certainty that had been drilled into us repeatedly by our Mexican grandmother. “Did you and Rosey find anything in the shop?”

  “Not yet. But we did discover that Mom didn’t sell the books downstairs, she loaned them out, like a library. She had her own numbering system and everything.”

  I choked on a glob of melting marshmallow. “Beryl, did you hear what you just said? Mom had a numbering system. Numbers.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” Beryl grinned at me over the top of her mug. “Let’s go. And bring the ledger with you.”

  Three rotating metal racks filled with paperback romances were jammed into one alcove at the front of the store. When I was a kid, the racks had been placed in easy reach of the padded chairs and overstuffed pillows clustered within the two alcoves at the front of the store. Most of the color had faded from the books’ once-glossy covers, washing them in uniform pale blues and pinks.

  I set my mug on the checkout counter, crouched by the nearest carousel, and picked out a book. A Hunger Like No Other, by Kresley Cole. Made sense Mom would have paranormal romances to loan. Near the bottom of its spine was a square sticker with the number seventy-four written in black marker. I straightened my legs and turned the spine to face Kostya and my sisters.

  “How much do you want to bet Mom used trope-filled romance books as a way to figure out what kind of matches would give her clients their happily-ever-afters?” I asked, cracking my biggest smile in days. I read the back cover of the book and added, “Tormented Lykae warrior anyone?”

  “Clementine, you’re brilliant!” Alderose gave me a high five. “I’ll clean off a couple of shelves so we can line up the books in numerical order. Leave a space for ones that are missing and stack any unnumbered ones on the cutting table.”

  By ten thirty—even with breaks to read over-the-top book blurbs aloud to one another in an effort to see who could get Kostya to blush the most—we had all of the paperbacks sorted, spines out. Fewer than ten were unaccounted for. I volunteered to skim through number ninety-eight—the story of a moody, brooding lighthouse keeper and the young woman he rescues during a storm—to see what kind of magical being Mom had chosen for Rémy. Perhaps she knew of a mermaid or a dolphin shifter in need of an able-bodied protector with a hero complex.

  “I’m going back upstairs.”

  “I’ll be up soon to look through whatever records Mom kept on clients she was finished with,” Beryl said. “Oh, I cleaned the bathroom. Leave your mug to soak in the sink.”

  I practically skipped on my way to the back of the store. The entire space looked and felt brighter, and the porcelain sink shone. Beryl had used elbow grease and Mom’s favorite cleanser to scrub off years of neglect. The rubber plug, though cracked, was usable. I filled the sink and gave the mug a few moments to soak.

  The last of the chocolate and sticky marshmallow came off easily. I removed the plug and watched the water spiral down the drain, taking bright green flecks of the cleanser with it.<
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  Mundane chores. Chocolate rewards. Moments of normalcy between my sisters and me smoothed the jagged edges off the anxiety triggered by Rémy’s attack. I rested my palm on the edge of the sink and leaned toward the mirror-fronted medicine cabinet attached to the wall. If I took a photo of the marking on my neck and ran it through an image search, maybe I’d come up with a clue as to its meaning or origin.

  The entire cabinet shifted when I went to open it, requiring me to stabilize it with both hands before I tried again. Inside, the stained, narrow shelves were bare but for a tube of mascara. In the middle of the metal backing was a slot for used razor blades.

  Curiosity got the better of me. I unscrewed the mascara. The wand was coated with usable product. I didn’t recognize the brand.

  Crumbling plaster fell from behind the mirror and dusted the back of the sink. I hastily recapped the mascara, tucked it into my back pocket, and closed the front of the cabinet. Taking hold of both sides, I wiggled the unit toward me. The pull chain dangling from the light fixture slid over the top as I freed the entire thing from the wall.

  I giggled. Now what was I supposed to do? Put it back? I turned in the tight space and set the cabinet faceup on the toilet seat. Thick ropes hung in the space between the bathroom’s horsehair-plaster-and-slat wall and the exterior brick wall of the building. I stuck my hand into the hole. Cool air flowed over my skin and carried the smell of the cellar upward.

  Curiosity continued to get the best of me. I tested the sink. Its connection to the wall felt sturdy, as did its two metal legs. I stacked the medicine cabinet atop the supply shelf on the opposite wall, rested my butt on the sink, and prayed for stability.

  Crap. I’d left my phone on the desk upstairs. I reached into the lightless maw, touched one of the manila ropes, and jerked my hand back. The thick twists of hemp—I was my mother’s daughter and could identify fibers blindfolded—vibrated with magic. I circled my hand around the same one and slowly squeezed until my skin made full contact with the rough surface. The current within flowed upward. I tested the other three and found one more with the same feel. The currents in the other two flowed downward.

  Working left to right, I tried tugging each rope. They didn’t budge. Next, I tried holding two, one in each hand, and released them both with a muffled squeal when my arms began to rise upward. I landed awkwardly on the edge of the sink and stared at my palms. Red lines imprinted with twisted strands stared back.

  I hopped off the sink, pressed my hand to the sides of the rectangular hole, and pushed. Maybe there was a hidden door here, like the one in Mom’s ground floor office.

  The walls didn’t budge. I put both hands on the bottom of the hole and pushed down. Nothing. I even reached my arms through and up and only made it halfway between my elbows and my shoulders. There was no way a normal-sized body could fit through the opening.

  “Beryl? Rosey? Could you guys come here?” I exited the bathroom as they approached. Kostya’s head popped out from the stairwell and he joined my sisters. “Have any of you seen a toolbox? I’ve got something to show you.”

  “There’s one behind the front counter,” Rosey said, spinning on her heel. “I’ll grab it.”

  We waited for her to join us. Kostya checked his phone and announced it was now after eleven. I assured him my discovery was worth a short delay.

  “We’re all going to have to get in here,” I said. “C’mon.”

  The demon pressed his back against the set of narrow shelves. Beryl squeezed in next. I ignored the suggestive wiggle she gave Kostya. Alderose placed the toolbox under the sink. I positioned myself next to her.

  “Doing some plumbing, Clemmie?”

  “Doing some magic-finding is more like it. See those ropes?” I shifted, pressing my shoulder against the door. I wanted to give them enough room to see into the squarish hole. “They’re imbued with magic. The current flows upward in two and downward in two, and you can feel it when you hold two ropes at once, as long as the ropes’ energies match. Watch.”

  I pressed the front of my pelvis against the sink, took hold of the two upward-flowing ropes, and was tugged forward. Alderose gasped, grasped my closest forearm, and pulled. “Don’t do that, Clementine! We have no idea where the ropes would take you.”

  “That’s why I wanted the toolbox,” I said, grinning. “We’re going to take this room apart, down to the stud walls.”

  “Clem, that’s horsehair plaster back there,” Kostya cautioned. “We’d need more face masks and bigger tools than what’re inside that little red box.”

  “Let me try the ring first,” Alderose suggested. “You guys scoot. Give me room to work.”

  Kostya convinced Alderose he should stay in the bathroom with her. Beryl and I crowded outside the doorway and watched as our sister centered herself. She turned the ring and slowly raised her arm, palm and emerald facing forward. She swept side to side and up and down. When a series of clicks sounded from behind the wall, she motioned me and Beryl to stay put.

  The bathroom began to shudder. I grabbed my sister’s arm and dragged her into the cramped space with me as the entire room began to sink. Everything rattled—porcelain, metal, the little shelf stocked with toilet paper. The medicine cabinet slid off the toilet and landed on the toes of Alderose’s boots. We watched the shop disappear above our heads as the top of another doorway appeared directly below the one to the shop.

  The bathroom shuddered to a stop in front of a door that was the twin of the one to the third-floor workroom. Alderose asked for our consent before she pressed the emerald into the keyhole and looked over her shoulder at Kostya. He nodded, fired up his hands, and assumed a ready stance.

  Alderose pushed. The door resisted, metal scraping and scree-ing against metal, then gave way when Kostya shoved the kick plate with his booted foot. An intensely musty smell wafted into the bathroom. I sneezed twice. The demon raised his arm, illuminating the closest portion of the room.

  Beryl slid between me and Kostya and flicked her wand. One candle lit, then another, followed by a couple more, all hovering at waist height. As my eyes adjusted, I made out the silhouette of an elaborate silver candelabra set on a narrow table, which was placed in the center of an equally narrow room.

  At the closest end of the room was an oval mirror on a pedestal stand, and beside it, a tall, silver julep cup loaded with tubes of mascara like the one sticking out of my back pocket.

  7

  The four of us stepped into the room as one. The only sound was our breathing. Kostya increased the intensity of the flames dancing along the surface of his palms.

  I was drawn to the mirror. I tugged at the bottom of the stretchy camisole under my sweater and swiped the surface of the glass with it. I bent at the waist, bringing my face close to the mirror. My breath left no trace on the reflective surface.

  Weird. I plucked a tube of mascara from the cup and applied the wand to my lashes. One coat. A second coat. I straightened. Though I could hear Kostya and my two sisters—their breathing, the shuffle of their boots—their bodies had disappeared. The light in the room was brighter, the entire space felt useful. Alive. If I turned my head carefully, I could continue to see this other reality.

  Or memory.

  Or something akin to how the world appeared when I was reading story threads.

  I wore a black cloak. No, it was a coat. Mom’s shop coat.

  I slid my hands down my front. They ended up in pockets lined with lint and crumbs. Tiny beads congregated in the corners. I leaned forward again, searching for the mirror. Metal clanked against the base of the stand.

  Scissors. Mom always had a pair of scissors on a heavy ribbon looped around her neck. I patted my belly. Located the handles. Secured my thumb and fingers in the handles and heard the familiar sound of metal blades meeting.

  Growing up, the sound of scissors cutting through fabric and snipping threads was ever-present background noise.

  Something was cooking atop the long, narrow table set i
n the middle of the rectangular room. A few somethings. Bunsen burners, flasks, and retorts. Beside those were tools—tongs, pipettes, and droppers. A set of graduated mortars and pestles, evaporating dishes, and a crucible. The rack suspended above the table held clumps of dried herbs and flowers tied in bundles and labeled with handwritten tags. The walls were too shadowed for me to see what might be shelved or hanging there.

  I cut a slip of paper. Rémy’s name was written at the top, followed by a list of ingredients. I held the paper close to my face and mouthed the words.

  Comfrey leaves. Blessed thistle.

  The floor beneath my feet lurched.

  The room spun and spun. I grabbed at the corners of the table. The spinning stopped.

  Now, I hummed as I gathered ingredients for a different project. Fresh rose petals. Beeswax candles. I sank three small, stuffed muslin dolls into a pink-tinged potion, pressing at the pliant bodies until they had absorbed all the liquid in the wide-mouthed beaker. Placed them side by side on a drying rack. Cut locks of my hair and draped them over the dolls.

  Humming became a murmured lullaby as I placed a sprig of alder catkins on the first doll, a two-inch rod of golden beryl on the middle one, and a fragrant dried orange spiked with cloves on the third.

  Alderose.

  Beryl.

  Clementine.

  “Mom,” I whispered. “Mom. What are you doing?”

  The arms floating in front of me hesitated. I spun again, startled by something in the room before returning to my task. The dolls had dried. I pricked the base of my thumb and drew a length of embroidery floss through fresh, red blood. Working with one doll at a time, I tacked down the lock of my hair, then cut a slit in the torso, inserted one of the objects, and stitched the cut closed. Reaching up, my fingers brushed another, thicker thread. This one was silk. I tugged, cut off a length, divided it into three, and tied one piece around the belly of each doll.