Null Witch: Secondhand Magic #1

by Lori Drake

  We ended up in a tangled heap on the couch, breathless from laughing but content as kittens. Say what you will about Matt, but he gives good snuggles. A hand stroked my back, and I sighed, relaxing deeper while the television droned on quietly in the background. I hadn’t even noticed what was on.

  Matt was quiet for a few moments, but I felt him lift his head and press his lips into my hair. “Give him a chance,” he said quietly, breath warm against my scalp. “Give someone a chance.” There was a plea in there, not far from the surface.

  “I’ll try. I mean, he’s nice. I had a good time. He’s just…”

  “Not me?”

  Silence was the only answer I could muster. Sometimes the truth is hard to hear.

  Chapter 4

  I’m not sure quite what time it was when I fell into bed, but I knew exactly what time it was when my alarm went off the next morning. 5:00 a.m. I am not a morning person. That’s why my alarm clock sat on my dresser across the room and not on my nightstand. After a minute or so of deciding that the pillow over my head wasn’t drowning it out sufficiently—and I had about thirty seconds before the neighbor started banging on the wall—I crawled out from under the covers and just about froze my niblets off on the way across the room. The heat was out again. Fortunately, the hot water wasn’t. I was soon showered, dressed, bundled up, and out the door, not even lingering for breakfast or coffee.

  More snow had fallen overnight, but the road crews had been at work, and the streets were drivable. I arrived at the hospital in time to change into my scrubs and duck into the break room in search of sustenance.

  “Ooooo… the breakfast gods shine upon me!” I exclaimed, upon catching sight of the box of bagels sitting on the table. I might have the occasional flair for the dramatic, especially on an empty stomach.

  “Nothing but carbs,” said the room’s only other occupant. It was Gracie, one of the night-shifters, but the only thing she was nursing at the moment was a cup of coffee.

  “Cream cheese isn’t a carb.” I grinned at her, then peeked inside and rummaged until I found an everything bagel near the bottom that had escaped the ravenous clutches of the carb-hungry horde. “Neither is lox, but that’s probably too much to ask for free eats.”

  Gracie laughed. “Yeah, probably.”

  Although it was sacrilege, I opted to skip the toaster and grabbed a plastic knife, slathering on some schmear. “Oh hey, a Jane Doe came in yesterday. Weird case, she was comatose. Did anyone figure out who she is?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder briefly. Long enough to catch the look on Gracie’s face. I knew the news wasn’t good before she opened her mouth.

  “Not that I know of, but… she coded. We couldn’t bring her back. It was the strangest thing, though. She was perfectly healthy. All the labs and scans were normal, no indications of trauma…”

  “Ugh, that sucks,” I said, trying to sound more surprised than I actually was—which was not at all. A witch would rather die than live life without magic. My aforementioned cousin was a weak exception to the rule. At some point, no amount of medical care can give someone back the will to go on living.

  Gracie carried her mug to the sink to rinse it out and departed, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my breakfast. I settled into a squishy chair and pretended to watch the television mounted on the wall.

  My thoughts weren’t on the news, or even the delicious bagel I was noshing. I kept thinking about Jane Doe. It was difficult to imagine losing something so important, so fundamental to your existence that you could simply die from losing the will to live without it. Sure, there are plenty of stories about old people who were married for decades, dying within days of each other. I’d seen it myself at a nursing home I did a clinical at during college. There wasn’t any magic—or lack thereof—in that. Love makes messes of us all. I knew that all too well, but I guess I’d never loved someone so much that losing them made me want to throw in the metaphorical towel. Not even Matt. But I guess I didn’t really lose him, did I?

  Was losing the connection to magic like losing your soulmate? I’d met plenty of witches that seemed to be in love with themselves, but I wouldn’t limit that trait to witch-kind.

  The bagel disappeared quickly, but in just enough time for me to start my shift. It seemed like reminders of the dead witch were everywhere. I’m no stranger to losing a patient. They almost always get to you in some way, but few really stick with you after the first year or so, especially given the volume at the ER. I saw dozens of patients on an average shift, and that day was no different. But every time I pulled that particular curtain aside, I half-expected to see her on the other side. Of course, she never was.

  Where I did catch a glimpse of her now and then was on the television. Apparently, the police weren’t having much luck figuring out who she was, which was actually kind of impressive given the size of Santa Fe. It’s not a one-stoplight town or anything, but tourists aside, it was hard to be completely anonymous in a city of seventy thousand. Heck, I’d recognized her, after all. However, if they were showing her photo on the news that meant that running her fingerprints didn’t turn up anything. This told me three key pieces of information: she didn’t have a driver’s license, she’d never been arrested, and she wasn’t a registered practitioner.

  In the years since the truth about witches’ existence came out, it’d been a rocky road. A lot of witches still kept their true nature hidden to avoid discrimination, prejudice, and other unpleasant consequences. The feds passed the buck on licensing to the states, which resulted in some pretty wide gaps in fees, requirements, and enforcement from state to state. In some states it was easier to buy a gun than get a license to practice magic. In New Mexico, all you had to do was register as a practitioner. There are plenty of witches here—and elsewhere—that don’t want to be tracked in a government database. I can’t say I blame them.

  Anyway, not only was the Santa Fe Police Department working with a Jane Doe’s mysterious death, they probably had no idea she had been a witch. They almost assuredly had no idea she had burned out before she died, and her witchy friends probably knew she was unregistered and didn’t want to get her in trouble—or themselves, if they were also unregistered—so who knew if they’d report her missing, much less respond to her picture plastered across the six o’clock news.

  I felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders, and I didn’t like it. Didn’t like owing anything to those people. Witches had only ever caused me heartache. But if I didn’t speak for the dead woman, who would? Resolved to seek out Jane Doe’s people and break the bad news, I dropped by the cafe after work.

  The Tin Whistle Cafe was a popular local haunt, and for good reason. Its decor was best described as “rustic chic,” spartan with long wood tables and metal chairs. But the work of local artists hung on the clean white walls and the food was amazing. It wasn’t the sort of cafe that limited itself to coffee and muffins, not by a long shot. It just had a great vibe in general. It had become kind of a home away from home for me, and since I didn’t really like to cook I was in there pretty regularly. Regularly enough that most of the employees knew me by name, anyway.

  The patio outside was empty when I pulled into the parking lot, but that wasn’t terribly surprising considering the tables under the folded umbrellas were covered in a good inch of snow. I loved sitting on the patio when the weather was nice, sipping java and people-watching or reading a book. But tonight wasn’t a night for any of those things. Well, maybe the java.

  I wasn’t even sure if the witches would be there, but I had seen them there often enough that I felt it was a pretty safe bet. Stepping inside, I glanced around the room as I made my way to the counter to place my order. I spotted them as I stepped in line, two witches that I recognized as Jane Doe’s friends—probably members of her coven—sitting at a table in the corner near the restrooms.

  At a glance, I thought they might be lovers. He was Hispanic, mid-to-late thirties with the barest peppering of silver starting t
o show in his short black hair. She was younger, maybe around my age, with a natural ginger’s pale complexion and a pixie-cut shock of light red hair. They sat across from one another, leaning across the table with fingers entwined. A faint glow of magic surrounded them, invisible to the mundane diners and staff around them. I didn’t know what they were doing, but there was definitely energy gathered around them for whatever reason. It stopped as a server came by to drop off their food. They straightened in their seats, and the glow vanished as their hands broke contact. I looked away, studying the menu board behind the counter unnecessarily. Better that than being caught staring, right?

  “Hey there, Emily, how’s your night going?” The woman behind the counter had a shiny silver name tag reading “Penny”. I always thought it was a little ironic, like they should have found her a copper one or something. I never mentioned it, because she probably got that a lot. I never claimed to be particularly original.

  “Pretty good, thanks. Got a couple days off ahead of me to look forward to. How about you?”

  “I’m good. Must be nice, Friday on Wednesday. What can I get you?”

  I ordered a large latte with cinnamon. Penny paused, uncertain when I didn’t order any food. “For here or to go?” she asked, with a slight tilt to her head. The downside of being a regular is that they start to notice your patterns, and while I might duck in during the day for a cup of coffee to go, if I came by in the evening it was usually for dinner.

  “To go would be great, thanks.” I smiled, hoping to convey it wasn’t personal or anything while I slipped a hand in my pocket for my wallet.

  Once the order was paid for, I moved on without making further social overtures. The evening rush was just getting started, as evidenced by the five or six people who had stepped into line behind me while I waited for my turn at the counter.

  Taking a deep breath, I started to make my way across the bustling restaurant toward where the two witches were having dinner. I distracted myself from the unpleasant conversation to come by studying their plates as I approached. The gent had ordered a burrito slathered in green chile and cheese, while his companion was working her way through a plate of spring rolls with peanut noodles over greens. Salivating, I questioned my decision not to order dinner, but I had really wanted to make this a quick in and out.

  From my angle of approach, it was the man who noticed me first. He paused in the act of cutting off another bite-sized chunk of burrito, brows lifting. I had no idea if he recognized me. I’d seen him plenty of times, but I had a good reason to notice him. He had no reason to notice me. I was just another mundie.

  “Hey there, sorry to interrupt your meal. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” I said. Straightforward and to the point. That was how I’d decided to approach the subject.

  “Um, sure,” he said. The woman sitting across from him twisted in her seat to look over at me curiously.

  “I’m Emily. Emily Davenport.” His brows went up again as soon as I said my last name. Shit. Remember how I said Davenport was a prestigious name? It’s also a bit notorious in occult circles as one of the allied covens of the Circle, the self-appointed overseers of magical activity in North America. In short, they like to stick their noses in everyone’s business, and they’re powerful enough that no one can do anything about it. I rushed on. “I’ve seen you here before… Wow, that sounds unnecessarily creepy. But I think I saw your friend’s picture on the news.”

  The man’s face went passive again. He was good at hiding his thoughts, but I’d already seen his reaction to my name. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What friend?”

  I’m not a lie detector, but sometimes it’s easier to see through bullshit than others. This time it was especially easy because I knew for a fact I had seen them together on more than one occasion.

  “I’m not a cop or anything,” I said. “I just thought maybe you’d like to know what happened to her.”

  His companion reached across the table and touched his arm. “Hector, she’s one of us.”

  I blinked. What? I mean, sure, the name causes confusion now and then but I obviously wasn’t a witch. Was she blind? Fortunately, Hector was looking across the table instead of at me. I darted a glance between them, catching a briefly uncomfortable look on Hector’s face before he stood and politely asked the table next to us if he could borrow one of their chairs.

  I should have corrected her. But if thinking I was a Davenport witch would get them to talk to me for a few minutes, well… I could fake it as long as they didn’t ask about the secret witch handshake. (There isn’t one. That I know of.)

  So, instead of clearing up that gross misconception, I ignored the vague probability that my mother would reach across the miles and metaphysically bitch slap me and instead politely thanked Hector for getting me a chair and parked my ass in it.

  “So,” Hector said, resuming his seat and picking up his knife and fork again. He motioned with his fork for me to continue.

  “Your friend—I’m sorry, I don’t know her name. She was found downtown yesterday afternoon. She was brought to St. Vincent’s because she was unresponsive, and she passed away late last night.” Straight and to the point, right?

  The female witch gasped, eyes widening. Hector set his knife and fork back down. I had a feeling they were going to end up taking their food to go, which was a shame because it looked really good.

  “I told you something bad had happened,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Why else would her picture be on TV?”

  Hector didn’t respond but to cover her hand with his while he stared me down.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “But I thought you might know her family or something. The police weren’t able to figure out who she was. She had no identification on her and she was,” I lowered my voice, “unregistered.”

  Hector stiffened predictably and glanced around to assure himself that no one had overheard. “You ought to be more careful about how you say things like that,” he replied, somewhat curtly.

  I looked at his companion for help, but she was weeping softly. I’m not sure she’d even heard anything past the tragic news of her friend’s passing.

  “Um, I was being careful. It’s not like I walked in here with a megaphone or something,” I tossed back, maybe a little too caustically.

  He grimaced but nodded slightly. “Victoria was a… very special woman.”

  “I’m sure she was. As I said, I’m sorry.” I sat there awkwardly for a moment, wishing my coffee would arrive so I had something to do with my hands.

  “You said she was unresponsive?” It was the woman who spoke this time, her voice soft, laced with fear or maybe just trepidation.

  “Yes. I was there when she was brought in. I’m a…” I caught the significant look that the teary-eyed woman gave Hector, and I knew something was up; I just didn’t know what. “…nurse.”

  Hector hesitated long enough that I broke the silence and awkward staring to ask, “What? What is it?”

  The man grimaced distastefully and pushed his plate away. I was totally right about the need for a doggie bag. “We need to talk, but not here.”

  It was a good thing I’d ordered my coffee to go.

  Chapter 5

  Ginger Witch’s name was Tracy. I learned this while they were trying to convince me to let them drive me wherever it was they wanted to go to see whatever it was they wanted me to see. I’m not an idiot. Well, not a total idiot. I drove myself out of town, then down that unlit dirt road to the double-wide trailer sitting on a snow-covered lot thick with brush. Letting the car idle for a moment, I fished my phone out of my pocket to send Matt a text and noticed I had several messages waiting for me. Apparently, I forgot to check my phone when I retrieved it from my locker at the end of my shift. Oops. Along with a few random messages from friends, I had a text from Barry.

  Barry: Had a great time. We should get together again. Friday?

  I couldn’t help but smile. I h
adn’t completely scared him off, and it was a nice feeling to hear from him again so soon. I mean, a text that very night might have seemed a little eager, but the next day? Totally appropriate. A reply was going to require a little thought, and I didn’t have time for that right then. Instead, I sent Matt a cryptic text that if he didn’t hear from me in an hour to call the cops. I left my phone tucked under the floor mat too, just in case. It meant I couldn’t call for help if I needed it, but Matt could use it to help the police find me if push came to shove. The “find phone” link between our phones was just one more tie we hadn’t bothered to sever when we split up. Hell, I’m pretty sure I was still getting some of his mail.

  I made a quick survey of my surroundings while I turned the car off and prepared to venture out into the cold once more. There were three other cars parked within eyesight. One was covered in snow and looked like it hadn’t moved in a long time. The others had relatively fresh tracks leading to them and were more lightly dusted. The air smelled heavily of wood smoke. Out in the sticks, people relied even more on wood stoves and fireplaces for heat in the winter. Wondering what the big damn mystery was, I trudged through the snow to join Hector and Tracy where they waited for me by their truck. He had his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, looking at the trailer with a worried expression. I began to get the feeling that while they might not have lured me out here for some sinister plot, whatever lay up the weathered front steps and behind that manufactured door wasn’t something I’d enjoy. How’d I get myself into this mess, anyway? Oh right, some misplaced sense of moral obligation. I should probably see someone about that.

  I approached them cautiously, hands in the pockets of my heavy winter coat. “Look, I feel like I’ve been a pretty good sport about this. What’s going on?”

  Hector didn’t answer, turning instead to go up the wooden steps with a motion of his head for me to join him. Tracy shot me an apologetic look and went with him. At least it was clear who was calling the shots.