Of Curses and Charms

by Nyx Halliwell

  By the goddess, how did I get so lucky? “I could use a cup of tea, Spring,” I say. “Hopper can you help me to the kitchen?”

  Autumn rushes in as Hopper is helping me to my feet. Winter’s still on the phone. “I got here as fast as I could.” She looks me over. “What happened?”

  “Lost my balance, hit my head.” Mentally, I send her the rest of the explanation. She glances between me and Hopper and nods.

  “Can you watch the store a moment,” Spring asks. “I’ll be right back to clean up the salt.”

  A customer comes in and Autumn greets her. Hopper gently guides me to the back, where I sit while Spring puts water onto boil and picks out tea. Hopper disappears and a moment later, he comes back with the kittens.

  “We can’t have animals in here,” Spring says. “The health department could shut me down.”

  Hopper glances around and gives an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t see anyone here from the health department, do you, Summer?”

  He grins and Spring rolls her eyes, caving far too easily.

  That’s an impressive feat—Spring is obsessive about keeping her kitchen clean and free of pet hair. Godfrey appears in the door, acting as if he’s going to walk right in.

  Sensing him, Spring whirls and pins him with a look. I hear her warn him she’ll singe his fur if he tries it. With a haughty look, he strolls on by.

  As if he’s an old pro at it now, Hopper retrieves formula from the refrigerator and warms it in a pan on the stove. While they’re both busy, I concentrate on what I’m going to tell him.

  The truth would be best, and it seems like the right thing to do. He’s a good man, and I want to be honest, especially if we’re going to have any kind of relationship, even just as friends.

  I dated a lot in high school but was never serious about anyone. I didn’t go to college, and most of the guys in Raven Falls aren’t open to magick. There are a few who practice natural living and embrace energy work, but actual magick and witchcraft? No way.

  Spring is luckier. She’s found a partner who has magick himself and can understand our world, even though he’s the chief of police. Tristan MacGregor is also a good guy, like Hopper, but he was forced to accept his own abilities. He had no choice. Hopper, on the other hand, is just a muggle. Not a drop of magick in him that I can sense.

  Spring sets out my favorite teapot, the one with the large honeybee on it. She pours tea for us, and I smell ginger—good for settling the stomach. She must’ve picked up on my nausea when she was sending magick into me.

  She also gets out a plate of her newest creation—crackers made from quinoa, seeds and nuts. I thank her as Hopper tests the formula and decides it’s the perfect temperature.

  He sets their box on a chair in a sunny spot and begins feeding them as Spring heads out once more.

  He picks up Mozart and coaxes the small kitten to suck on the end of the dropper. “You’re sure you’re okay?” Concern still creases his forehead.

  I sip the warm tea, feeling it go all the way to my belly. “I will be. This isn’t the first time I’ve had one of these spells.”

  “Spells?” he frowns. “Are you epileptic or something?”

  “More like psychometric.”

  He has to keep shifting his attention back and forth between Mozart, whom he’s trying to feed, and me. “Sorry, what?”

  I’m not even sure it’s a real word. “Psychometry, have you ever heard of it?”

  Once the kitten gets started, he sucks down the formula quickly. Hopper draws a second portion and works at getting the little guy to open his mouth again. “I think so. Isn’t that where…”

  He cuts his eyes back to me and I see understanding dawning on him. “Holy moly, seriously? You mean you get psychic hits from touching things?”

  There. It’s out. I sip more, and drop my gaze to the table. “The necklace you brought… when I touched it I saw… something. Felt what the last owner did when she wore it.”

  He sits back in mild shock, forgetting for a moment he’s feeding Mozart, and drops his hand to his lap. Formula leaks out onto his jeans and the kitten mews. “No way.”

  The words are said with a type of soft reverence, as if this is the coolest thing he’s ever heard. It gives me a small measure of hope.

  I’ve heard the same said before in a sarcastic, flippant manner, but there’s not a trace of any of that in his tone or his face when I look up.

  “The woman who owned the necklace was really sick, I think. Some of her spirit is connected to those garnets.”

  He’s still staring at me rather than Mozart. “You mean her ghost is attached to the necklace?”

  Spirit communication isn’t my strong suit, that’d be Winter’s ability. “Seems to be. There’s something unresolved about her death. She’s anchored herself to that piece of jewelry. Or at least has some strong memories associated with it.”

  Hopper resumes feeding, then switches to Vivaldi. He tucks the tiny female against his chest, and she stops crying. He reloads the dropper and she eagerly begins to suck when he brings it to her mouth. “That’s a good girl,” he murmurs to her.

  He needs time to process what I’ve just laid on him. At least he hasn’t jumped up and run screaming from the shop.

  I pick up a second dropper and start feeding St. Hildegard. We sit in silence, the sun warming us and the kittens as we feed them.

  Out of the blue, Hopper says, “I’m sorry.”

  Here it comes, I think. He’s about to tell me he can’t handle the fact I have the Touch, I’m really a witch, or some combination of I don’t believe in magick and you need to see a psychiatrist. I’ve heard all that and worse from those who consider themselves normal.

  That’s why I don’t talk about my gifts anymore. Sure, some folks like to visit the shop and dabble in love potions, tarot cards, astrology, and crystals, but when confronted with someone who has real magick powers, psychic abilities, or practices hands-on healing, they chalk it off as psychosis or the devil’s work.

  My heart breaks a little, and all I can do is nod. “It’s okay.”

  “I had no idea you’re sensitive like that,” he says. I feel his weighty stare on me. “I would never have brought it if I’d known Mrs. Fontaine’s spirit was still connected and it’d hurt you.”

  Wait. What? I meet his gaze and see that he actually does understand. He’s sorry for being the cause of what happened, not sorry as in, hey, you’re crazy and I’ll see later.

  “I should have told you,” I confess. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

  He finishes with Vivaldi, and she slides off to sleep in his big hand. He sets down the dropper and strokes her a couple times before setting her in the box next to the lavender scented teddy bear. He picks up Beethoven, whose cry is the loudest of them all.

  Settling the kitten against his belly, he begins feeding him. “Like I said, we all have our secrets, Summer. Granted, yours is a big one, but I’m glad you shared it with me.”

  Could he be any more perfect? I find myself smiling. “Me, too,” I admit.

  “So, you think there’s something hinky about the woman’s death?”

  In my gut, I know there is. Just thinking about it makes my stomach revolt again. “I’m not sure what, but yes. I’ve never experienced something quite like that before.”

  “Does it happen a lot? You touch them and you get some kind of psychic info?”

  “Not everything, nor all the time. It’s kind of random. That’s why I wear fingerless gloves a lot, even in the summer.”

  He grins. “I just thought that was part of your Stevie Nicks cool style.”

  I think I’m falling in love with this man. It feels good. “Thank you for not treating me like I’m some kind of freak.”

  “You are a freak.” Still grinning, there’s a teasing note in his voice. “But so am I. We can be freaks together, if you want.”

  Yes, I’m definitely falling in love with him.

  This is bad, so, so b
ad. The vision from Beltane swims in front of my eyes…Hopper pushing a young boy on a swing. Smiling at someone I can’t see, but who must be his wife.

  I ignore the voice in my head telling me not to lead him on. He’s not staying with me—the vision has shown me that. He’s going to fall in love and marry another. Have kids with her.

  Defiantly, I lift my chin and spurn fate. “I’d like that.”

  My stomach settles, and my heart fills with happiness. We finish feeding the kittens and then stare at them as they sleep, cuddled together.

  “When you touch them,” Hopper says quietly, “do you get a hit? Do you know what happened to their mother? Who brought them to the shop this morning?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter. They’re here. We have to take care of them.”

  He nods. “And Mrs. Fontaine’s death? Is that something we have to look into?”

  I like how he says we. It’s my turn to nod. “In my vision, she wasn’t much older than twenty-seven. Maybe thirty? Too young to die, that’s for sure. Did she have cancer or something?”

  He frowns. “Nah, she was older than that. I don’t remember exactly, but I’m pretty sure she was at least in her sixties.”

  This doesn’t jive with what I saw and felt, but perhaps the necklace was showing me something in the distant past, rather than recent. All I know is it had a taint of magick, and a whole lot of fear wrapped up in it.

  “I need to find out for sure if it’s her, and if there’s any way I can help her.”

  He rises from the chair, takes a sip of the tea, and makes a face. “What is that?”

  “Ginger.” I laugh at his expression. “It settles the stomach.”

  He’s still making a face as he asks, “What about your client this afternoon? Are we still taking water to her?”

  Right now, I just want to be with him. But if there’s a way to help Mrs. Sorensen relieve her arthritis pain, I’ll do it.

  Healing may not be my strongest gift, but I do what I can. “You bet we are.”

  4

  When we arrive with multiple five-gallon buckets from the hot spring, we’re met at the door by her live-in caretaker, Linda.

  Hopper insisted on driving his truck, and I know this is partially because he wants to take care of me and he’s a control freak when it comes to driving. He’s asked three times on the way to Mrs. Sorensen’s if I’m sure I’m okay and don’t need to go to the ER.

  Thanks to Spring’s magick, I feel fine. I brought a travel mug of her ginger iced tea and my stomach is completely normal, even hungry.

  A part of me wants to ask Hopper out to eat after we’re done here, but there’s also a part of me that’s scared to. I’m torn between wanting to pursue this relationship, and knowing no good can come of it.

  The house is in a ritzy upscale neighborhood. Our little town consists of eleven thousand people, and there are more in the poverty range than Mrs. Sorensen’s upper-class division.

  The entryway is two stories tall with a large chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Various antiques line the walls. There’s a room to the left and one to the right—the door to the former is closed and I can see a sitting room in the latter. A grand staircase leads upstairs, and I figure her bedroom is there, but she told me she had a temporary bedroom on the first floor, since her hips don’t like the climb.

  Linda is not surprised at our arrival—I called ahead to let them know we were coming. She does seem slightly annoyed, as if this is foolish. I suppose to her, it is.

  The hot spring on our land has healing water, and anyone who has experienced it knows it works. We don’t open it to the public, but we allow certain people who need healing assistance to make use of it. I wish I could share it with the whole world and heal everyone.

  The house is well air conditioned, but Linda appears to be sweating. “I’ll tell Mrs. Sorensen you’re here,” she tells us. She points to the sitting room. “Have a seat.”

  She goes to a door on the left, disappearing inside and closing it behind her.

  Hopper says in a low voice, “Fancy digs. You know, the Fontaine’s is just down the block.”

  “Really?” We walk toward the sitting room and I admire the expensive furniture, beautiful rugs and drapes, and the large fireplace with a marble mantle. “Do you think you could take me there after we’re done?”

  Hopper eyes an antique rocking chair and table near the window which looks over the drive. I see how he examines the delicate scroll work on it and checks out how it is put together. “Sure. The house is going up for sale, I heard. Guess her husband’s leaving town.”

  Linda returns to escort us to see Mrs. Sorensen. I’m shocked to see her in bed looking pale.

  She reaches out a hand to me and smiles. “I’m so glad you came, Summer. I’m sorry I’m not up and about.”

  She’s in her late sixties, but I swear she’s aged ten years overnight. Of course, I haven’t seen her in a couple weeks. “Is there something besides your arthritis keeping you in bed?”

  “The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She waves a thin, boney hand in the air, as if it’s nothing to worry about. “Who is this handsome young man with you?”

  I make introductions, and she flatters Hopper, making him smile. I swear I can see the lightest blush on his cheeks.

  “Where would you like me to haul the water?” he asks her.

  “There’s a bathroom with a tub just down the hall. Have Linda show you.”

  He takes off to get the buckets out of his truck. I hold Mrs. Sorensen’s hand. “I’ll heat it for you so it won’t be cold when you get in.”

  The older woman knows about my spellwork, and the fact my hands can be useful tools on occasion. Often times I warm them to place on her sore joints. She gives me another weak smile “You truly are full service, and I appreciate it.”

  Not long after, Linda has her soaking. Hopper and I wait again in the sitting room. His eye for antiques has him inventorying some of the more special pieces, telling me all about them.

  I’m examining a family picture on the mantle when the front door flies open and a well-dressed woman storms in. “Mother?” She heads to the left and the empty bedroom, returning when she realizes no one is in there. “Mother! Where are you?”

  She spots us and marches in. “Who are you?”

  I introduce myself and Hopper and explain about the water.

  She stares at me with a blank look on her face. “Spring water?”

  “It helps your mother’s arthritis. She regularly comes to our shop, Conjure, and takes a bath in the hot spring there.” The woman’s hair is pulled up in a severe bun. Her makeup is heavy, and she’s wearing expensive jewelry along with designer clothes.

  She shrugs off the couture handbag from her shoulder and laughs. “And just how much are you charging for this healing water?” The way she says it lets me know she thinks this is a joke. That I’m taking her mother for a ride, making her believe it can help her aching joints.

  “I’m not. She’s my friend, not just a client, and the minerals are well documented to reduce inflammation and increase blood flow. I know she’s having health issues, and I thought this might make her feel better.”

  Mrs. Sorensen is a generous client. I never charge her for dips and yet I always end up finding an extra hundred tucked somewhere in my treatment room after she’s been there. I know they come from her, even though I’ve never caught her slipping it there. She’s a strong believer in energy healing. Her crystal collection rivals mine, and that’s saying something.

  But obviously, her daughter does not share her belief in alternative medicine.

  Mrs. Sorensen has told me about both of her daughters, Roberta and Maxine. I’m guessing this is Roberta. She’s a lawyer in Eugene. “What my mother needs to feel better is none of your concern. She’s seen several qualified experts and has medication.”

  Linda appears in the doorway. “Oh, Mrs. Powell. We weren’t expecting you.”

  �
��This is my home. I don’t need to make an appointment, do I?”

  Linda pales slightly, taking a step back and wiping sweat from her brow. “Your mother is bathing. She’ll be out in a little bit.”

  “I need to speak to her now. I have to get back to the office.”

  I step forward, knowing better than to argue or intervene, but unable to stop myself. “It would be best if she soaks for another fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  Roberta whirls on me. “Linda, see these people to the door.”

  I can see Linda’s annoyance at being seen as nothing more than hired help. I assume she has some kind of nursing background, and bottom line, she’s a healer, too. But like Roberta, she believes traditional medicine is best.

  “Come on, Hopper,” I say. “Linda, please tell Mrs. Sorensen we said goodbye, and she’s to call me if she needs anything.”

  Hopper and I pass Roberta and Linda moves as we exit the sitting room. From behind us, Roberta calls, “My mother won’t be contacting you. If she needs anything, I’ll help her.”

  I grit my teeth. Hopper and I don’t say anything to each other until we’re in his truck.

  “You did a good thing, Summer.” He pats my arm. “Don’t let that woman get to you.”

  Inside, I’m furious, my inner fire blazing. Obviously traditional medicine is not helping Mrs. Sorensen. What can soaking in some spring water hurt?

  “I was hoping to do energy work on her before we left. I hate that she’s in such bad shape. She was doing fairly well a couple weeks ago. Today, she looks like death warmed over. If I could’ve checked her chakras, I might’ve figured out what’s going on.”

  He squeezes my arm. “You did what you could.”

  Did I? Maybe I should have insisted on sticking around until Mrs. Sorensen was out of the bath. That might have ended up in a fight with Roberta, maybe even Linda, but right now I’m kind of itching for one. “I’ll phone her later and see if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Still wanna drive by the Fontaine’s?”

  Since I can’t help Mrs. Sorensen any further at the moment, I might as well look into Mariel Fontaine and see if I can get more information about her. I probably should let it go, but I can’t. “Yes, let’s do it.”